20078	----	MERELY MARY ANN BY ISRAEL ZANGWILL AUTHOR OF "CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO," "THE MASTER," ETC. POPULAR EDITION LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN MCMXIII First Impression, September, 1904 New Impressions, September, 1904 (twice). POPULAR SHILLING CLOTH EDITION, 1913. The wrapper design is reproduced, by special permission, from a painting by Mr. Louis Loeb of Miss Eleanor Robson, the original "Mary Ann." MERELY MARY ANN I Sometimes Lancelot's bell rang up Mrs. Leadbatter herself, but far more often merely Mary Ann. The first time Lancelot saw Mary Ann she was cleaning the steps. He avoided treading upon her, being kind to animals. For the moment she was merely a quadruped, whose head was never lifted to the stars. Her faded print dress showed like the quivering hide of some crouching animal. There were strange irregular splashes of pink in the hide, standing out in bright contrast with the neutral background. These were scraps of the original material neatly patched in. The cold, damp steps gave Lancelot a shudder, for the air was raw. He passed by the prostrate figure as quickly as he could, and hastened to throw himself into the easy-chair before the red fire. There was a lamp-post before the door, so he knew the house from its neighbours. Baker's Terrace as a whole was a defeated aspiration after gentility. The more auspicious houses were marked by white stones, the steps being scrubbed and hearthstoned almost daily; the gloomier doorsteps were black, except on Sundays. Thus variety was achieved by houses otherwise as monotonous and prosaic as a batch of fourpenny loaves. This was not the reason why the little South London side-street was called Baker's Terrace, though it might well seem so; for Baker was the name of the builder, a worthy gentleman whose years and virtues may still be deciphered on a doddering, round-shouldered stone in a deceased cemetery not far from the scene of his triumphs. The second time Lancelot saw Mary Ann he did not remember having seen her before. This time she was a biped, and wore a white cap. Besides, he hardly glanced at her. He was in a bad temper, and Beethoven was barking terribly at the intruder who stood quaking in the doorway, so that the crockery clattered on the tea-tray she bore. With a smothered oath Lancelot caught up the fiery little spaniel and rammed him into the pocket of his dressing-gown, where he quivered into silence like a struck gong. While the girl was laying his breakfast, Lancelot, who was looking moodily at the pattern of the carpet as if anxious to improve upon it, was vaguely conscious of relief in being spared his landlady's conversation. For Mrs. Leadbatter was a garrulous body, who suffered from the delusion that small-talk is a form of politeness, and that her conversation was a part of the "all inclusive" her lodgers stipulated for. The disease was hereditary, her father having been a barber, and remarkable for the coolness with which, even as a small boy whose function was lathering and nothing more, he exchanged views about the weather with his victims. The third time Lancelot saw Mary Ann he noticed that she was rather pretty. She had a slight, well-built figure, not far from tall, small shapely features, and something of a complexion. This did not displease him: she was a little aesthetic touch amid the depressing furniture. "Don't be afraid, Polly," he said, more kindly. "The little devil won't bite. He's all bark. Call him Beethoven and throw him a bit of sugar." The girl threw Beethoven the piece of sugar, but did not venture on the name. It seemed to her a long name for such a little dog. As she timidly took the sugar from the basin by the aid of the tongs, Lancelot saw how coarse and red her hand was. It gave him the same sense of repugnance and refrigescence as the cold, damp steps. Something he was about to say froze on his lips. He did not look at Mary Ann for some days; by which time Beethoven had conquered his distrust of her, though she was still distrustful of Beethoven, drawing her skirts tightly about her as if he were a rat. What forced Mary Ann again upon Lancelot's morose consciousness was a glint of winter sunshine that settled on her light brown hair. He said: "By the way, Susan, tell your mistress--or is it your mother?" Mary Ann shook her head but did not speak. "Oh: you are not Miss Leadbatter?" "No; Mary Ann." She spoke humbly; her eyes were shy and would not meet his. He winced as he heard the name, though her voice was not unmusical. "Ah, Mary Ann! and I've been calling you Jane all along. Mary Ann what?" She seemed confused and flushed a little. "Mary Ann!" she murmured. "Merely Mary Ann?" "Yessir." He smiled. "Seems a sort of white Topsy," he was thinking. She stood still, holding in her hand the tablecloth she had just folded. Her eyes were downcast, and the glint of sunshine had leapt upon the long lashes. "Well, Mary Ann, tell your mistress there is a piano coming. It will stand over there--you'll have to move the sideboard somewhere else." "A piano!" Mary Ann opened her eyes, and Lancelot saw that they were large and pathetic. He could not see the colour for the glint of sunshine that touched them with false fire. "Yes; I suppose it will have to come up through the window, these staircases are so beastly narrow. Do you never have a stout person in the house, I wonder?" "Oh yes, sir. We had a lodger here last year as was quite a fat man." "And did he come up through the window by a pulley?" He smiled at the image, and expected to see Mary Ann smile in response. He was disappointed when she did not; it was not only that her stolidity made his humour seem feeble--he half wanted to see how she looked when she smiled. "Oh dear no," said Mary Ann; "he lived on the ground floor!" "Oh!" murmured Lancelot, feeling the last sparkle taken from his humour. He was damped to the skin by Mary Ann's platitudinarian style of conversation. Despite its prettiness, her face was dulness incarnate. "Anyhow, remember to take in the piano if I'm out," he said tartly. "I suppose you've seen a piano--you'll know it from a kangaroo?" "Yessir," breathed Mary Ann. "Oh, come, that's something. There is some civilisation in Baker's Terrace after all. But are you quite sure?" he went on, the teasing instinct getting the better of him. "Because, you know, you've never seen a kangaroo." Mary Ann's face lit up a little. "Oh, yes I have, sir; it came to the village fair when I was a girl." "Oh, indeed!" said Lancelot, a little staggered; "what did it come there for--to buy a new pouch?" "No, sir; in a circus." "Ah, in a circus. Then, perhaps, you can _play_ the piano, too." Mary Ann got very red. "No, sir; missus never showed me how to do that." Lancelot surrendered himself to a roar of laughter. "This is a real original," he said to himself, just a touch of pity blending with his amusement. "I suppose, though, you'd be willing to lend a hand occasionally?" he could not resist saying. "Missus says I must do anything I'm asked," she said, in distress, the tears welling to her eyes. And a merciless bell mercifully sounding from an upper room, she hurried out. How much Mary Ann did, Lancelot never rightly knew, any more than he knew the number of lodgers in the house, or who cooked his chops in the mysterious regions below stairs. Sometimes he trod on the toes of boots outside doors and vaguely connected them with human beings, peremptory and exacting as himself. To Mary Ann each of those pairs of boots was a personality, with individual hours of rising and retiring, breakfasting and supping, going out and coming in, and special idiosyncrasies of diet and disposition. The population of 5 Baker's Terrace was nine, mostly bell-ringers. Life was one ceaseless round of multifarious duties; with six hours of blessed unconsciousness, if sleep were punctual. All the week long Mary Ann was toiling up and down the stairs or sweeping them, making beds or puddings, polishing boots or fire-irons. Holidays were not in Mary Ann's calendar; and if Sunday ever found her on her knees, it was only when she was scrubbing out the kitchen. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy; it had not, apparently, made Mary Ann a bright girl. The piano duly came in through the window like a burglar. It was a good instrument, but hired. Under Lancelot's fingers it sang like a bird and growled like a beast. When the piano was done growling Lancelot usually started. He paced up and down the room, swearing audibly. Then he would sit down at the table and cover ruled paper with hieroglyphics for hours together. His movements were erratic to the verge of mystery. He had no fixed hours for anything; to Mary Ann he was hopeless. At any given moment he might be playing on the piano, or writing on the curiously ruled paper, or stamping about the room, or sitting limp with despair in the one easy-chair, or drinking whisky and water, or smoking a black meerschaum, or reading a book, or lying in bed, or driving away in a hansom, or walking about Heaven alone knew where or why. Even Mrs. Leadbatter, whose experience of life was wider than Mary Ann's, considered his vagaries almost unchristian, though to the highest degree gentlemanly. Sometimes, too, he sported the swallow-tail and the starched breast-plate, which was a wonder to Mary Ann, who knew that waiters were connected only with the most stylish establishments. Baker's Terrace did not wear evening dress. Mary Ann liked him best in black and white. She thought he looked like the pictures in the young ladies' novelettes, which sometimes caught her eye as she passed newsvendors' shops on errands. Not that she was read in this literature--she had no time for reading. But, even when clothed in rough tweeds, Lancelot had for Mary Ann an aristocratic halo; in his dressing-gown he savoured of the grand Turk. His hands were masterful: the fingers tapering, the nails pedantically polished. He had fair hair, with moustache to match; his brow was high and white, and his grey eyes could flash fire. When he drew himself up to his full height, he threatened the gas globes. Never had No. 5 Baker's Terrace boasted of such a tenant. Altogether, Lancelot loomed large to Mary Ann; she dazzled him with his own boots in humble response, and went about sad after a reprimand for putting his papers in order. Her whole theory of life oscillated in the presence of a being whose views could so run counter to her strongest instincts. And yet, though the universe seemed tumbling about her ears when he told her she must not move a scrap of manuscript, howsoever wildly it lay about the floor or under the bed, she did not for a moment question his sanity. She obeyed him like a dog; uncomprehending, but trustful. But, after all, this was only of a piece with the rest of her life. There was nothing she questioned. Life stood at her bedside every morning in the cold dawn, bearing a day heaped high with duties; and she jumped cheerfully out of her warm bed and took them up one by one, without question or murmur. They _were_ life. Life had no other meaning any more than it has for the omnibus hack, which cannot conceive existence outside shafts, and devoid of the intermittent flick of a whip point. The comparison is somewhat unjust; for Mary Ann did not fare nearly so well as the omnibus hack, having to make her meals off such scraps as even the lodgers sent back. Mrs. Leadbatter was extremely economical, as much so with the provisions in her charge as with those she bought for herself. She sedulously sent up remainders till they were expressly countermanded. Less economical by nature, and hungrier by habit, Mary Ann had much trouble in restraining herself from surreptitious pickings. Her conscience was rarely worsted; still there was a taint of dishonesty in her soul, else had the stairs been less of an ethical battleground for her. Lancelot's advent only made her hungrier; somehow the thought of nibbling at _his_ provisions was too sacrilegious to be entertained. And yet--so queerly are we and life compounded--she was probably less unhappy at this period than Lancelot, who would come home in the vilest of tempers, and tramp the room with thunder on his white brow. Sometimes he and the piano and Beethoven would all be growling together, at other times they would all three be mute; Lancelot crouching in the twilight with his head in his hands; and Beethoven moping in the corner, and the closed piano looming in the background like a coffin of dead music. One February evening--an evening of sleet and mist--Lancelot, who had gone out in evening dress, returned unexpectedly, bringing with him for the first time a visitor. He was so perturbed that he forgot to use his latchkey, and Mary Ann, who opened the door, heard him say angrily, "Well, I can't slam the door in your face, but I will tell you in your face I don't think it at all gentlemanly of you to force yourself upon me like this." "My dear Lancelot, when did I ever set up to be a gentleman? You know that was always your part of the contract." And a swarthy, thick-set young man with a big nose lowered the dripping umbrella he had been holding over Lancelot, and stepped from the gloom of the street into the fuscous cheerfulness of the ill-lit passage. By this time Beethoven, who had been left at home, was in full ebullition upstairs, and darted at the intruder the moment his calves appeared. Beethoven barked with short, sharp snaps, as became a bilious liver-coloured Blenheim spaniel. "Like master like dog," said the swarthy young man, defending himself at the point of the umbrella. "Really your animal is more intelligent than the overrated common or garden dog, which makes no distinction between people calling in the small hours and people calling in broad daylight under the obvious patronage of its own master. This beast of yours is evidently more in sympathy with its liege lord. Down, Fido, down! I wonder they allow you to keep such noisy creatures--but stay! I was forgetting you keep a piano. After that, I suppose, nothing matters." Lancelot made no reply, but surprised Beethoven into silence by kicking him out of the way. He lit the gas with a neatly written sheet of music which he rammed into the fire Mary Ann had been keeping up, then as silently he indicated the easy-chair. "Thank you," said the swarthy young man, taking it. "I would rather see you in it, but as there's only one, I know you wouldn't be feeling a gentleman; and that would make us both uncomfortable." "'Pon my word, Peter," Lancelot burst forth, "you're enough to provoke a saint." "'Pon my word, Lancelot," replied Peter imperturbably, "you're more than enough to provoke a sinner. Why, what have you to be ashamed of? You've got one of the cosiest dens in London and one of the comfortablest chairs. Why, it's twice as jolly as the garret we shared at Leipsic--up the ninety stairs." "We're not in Germany now. I don't want to receive visitors," answered Lancelot sulkily. "A visitor! you call me a visitor! Lancelot, it's plain you were not telling the truth when you said just now you had forgiven me." "I had forgiven--and forgotten you." "Come, that's unkind. It's scarcely three years since I threw up my career as a genius, and you know why I left you, old man. When the first fever of youthful revolt was over, I woke to see things in their true light. I saw how mean it was of me to help to eat up your wretched thousand pounds. Neither of us saw the situation nakedly at first--it was sicklied o'er with Quixotic foolishness. You see, you had the advantage of me. Your governor was a gentleman. He says, 'Very well, if you won't go to Cambridge, if you refuse to enter the Church as the younger son of a blue-blooded but impecunious baronet should, and to step into the living which is fattening for you, then I must refuse to take any further responsibility for your future. Here is a thousand pounds; it is the money I had set aside for your college course. Use it for your musical tomfoolery if you insist, and then--get what living you can.' Which was severe but dignified, unpaternal yet patrician. But what does my governor do? That cantankerous, pig-headed old Philistine--God bless him!--he's got no sense of the respect a father owes to his offspring. Not an atom. You're simply a branch to be run on the lines of the old business, or be shut up altogether. And, by the way, Lancelot, he hasn't altered a jot since those days when--as you remember--the City or starvation was his pleasant alternative. Of course, I preferred starvation--one usually does at nineteen; especially if one knows there's a scion of aristocracy waiting outside to elope with him to Leipsic." "But you told me you were going back to your dad, because you found you had mistaken your vocation." "Gospel truth also! My heavens, shall I ever forget the blank horror that grew upon me when I came to understand that music was a science more barbarous than the mathematics that floored me at school, that the life of a musical student, instead of being a delicious whirl of waltz tunes, was 'one dem'd grind,' that seemed to grind out all the soul of the divine art and leave nothing but horrid technicalities about consecutive fifths and suspensions on the dominant? I dare say most people still think of the musician as a being who lives in an enchanted world of sound, rather than as a person greatly occupied with tedious feats of penmanship; just as I myself still think of a _prima ballerina_ not as a hard-working gymnast, but as a fairy, whose existence is all bouquets and lime-light." "But you had a pretty talent for the piano," said Lancelot in milder accents. "No one forced you to learn composition. You could have learnt anything for the paltry fifteen pounds exacted by the Conservatoire--from the German flute to the grand organ; from singing to scoring band parts." "No, thank you. _Aut Caesar aut nihil_. You remember what I always used to say: 'Either Beethoven----' (The spaniel pricked up his ears.) --or bust.' If I could not be a great musician it was hardly worth while enduring the privations of one, especially at another man's expense. So I did the Prodigal Son dodge, as you know, and out of the proceeds sent you my year's exes in that cheque you with your damnable pride sent me back again. And now, old fellow, that I have you face to face at last, can you offer the faintest scintilla of a shadow of a reason for refusing to take that cheque? No, you can't! Nothing but simple beastly stuckuppishness. I saw through you at once; all your heroics were a fraud. I was not your friend, but your protégé--something to practise your chivalry on. You dropped your cloak, and I saw your feet of clay. Well, I tell you straight, I made up my mind at once to be bad friends with you for life; only when I saw your fiery old phiz at Brahmson's I felt a sort of something tugging inside my greatcoat like a thief after my pocket-book, and I kinder knew, as the Americans say, that in half an hour I should be sitting beneath your hospitable roof." "I beg your pardon--you will have some whisky." He rang the bell violently. "Don't be a fool--you know I didn't mean that. Well, don't let us quarrel. I have forgiven you for your youthful bounty, and you have forgiven me for chucking it up; and now we are going to drink to the _Vaterland_," he added, as Mary Ann appeared with a suspicious alacrity. "Do you know," he went on, when they had taken the first sip of renewed amity dissolved in whisky, "I think I showed more musical soul than you in refusing to trammel my inspiration with the dull rules invented by fools. I suppose you have mastered them all, eh?" He picked up some sheets of manuscript. "Great Scot! How you must have schooled yourself to scribble all this--you, with your restless nature--full scores, too! I hope you don't offer this sort of thing to Brahmson." "I certainly went there with that intention," admitted Lancelot. "I thought I'd catch Brahmson himself in the evening--he's never in when I call in the morning." Peter groaned. "Quixotic as ever! You can't have been long in London then?" "A year." "I suppose you'd jump down my throat if I were to ask you how much is left of that----" he hesitated, then turned the sentence facetiously--"of those twenty thousand shillings you were cut off with?" "Let this vile den answer." "Don't disparage the den; it's not so bad." "You are right--I may come to worse. I've been an awful ass. You know how lucky I was while at the Conservatoire--no, you don't. How should you? Well, I carried off some distinctions and a lot of conceit, and came over here thinking Europe would be at my feet in a month. I was only sorry my father died before I could twit him with my triumph. That's candid, isn't it?" "Yes; you're not such a prig after all," mused Peter; "I saw the old man's death in the paper--your brother Lionel became the bart." "Yes, poor beggar, I don't hate him half so much as I did. He reminds me of a man invited to dinner which is nothing but flowers and serviettes and silver plate." "I'd pawn the plate, anyhow," said Peter, with a little laugh. "He can't touch anything, I tell you; everything's tied up." "Ah well, he'll get tied up, too. He'll marry an American heiress." "Confound him! I'd rather see the house extinct first." "Hoity, toity! She'll be quite as good as any of you." "I can't discuss this with you, Peter," said Lancelot, gently but firmly. "If there is a word I hate more than the word heiress, it is the word American." "But why? They're both very good words and better things." "They both smack of the most vulgar thing in the world--money," said Lancelot, walking hotly about the room. "In America there's no other standard. To make your pile, to strike ile--oh, how I shudder to hear these idioms! And can any one hear the word heiress without immediately thinking of matrimony? Phaugh? It's a prostitution." "What is? You're not very coherent, my friend." "Very well, I am incoherent. If a great old family can only bolster up its greatness by alliances with the daughters of oil-strikers, then let the family perish with honour." "But the daughters of oil-strikers are sometimes very charming creatures. They are polished with their fathers' oil." "You are right. They reek of it. Pah! I pray to Heaven Lionel will either wed a lady or die a bachelor." "Yes; but what do you call a lady?" persisted Peter. Lancelot uttered an impatient snarl, and rang the bell violently. Peter stared in silence. Mary Ann appeared. "How often am I to tell you to leave my matches on the mantel-shelf?" snapped Lancelot. "You seem to delight to hide them away, as if I had time to play parlour games with you." Mary Ann silently went to the mantel-piece, handed him the matches, and left the room without a word. "I, say, Lancelot, adversity doesn't seem to have agreed with you," said Peter severely. "That poor girl's eyes were quite wet when she went out. Why didn't you speak? I could have given you heaps of lights, and you might even have sacrificed another scrap of that precious manuscript." "Well, she has got a knack of hiding my matches all the same," said Lancelot somewhat shamefacedly. "Besides, I hate her for being called Mary Ann. It's the last terror of cheap apartments. If she only had another name like a human being, I'd gladly call her Miss something. I went so far as to ask her, and she stared at me in a dazed, stupid, silly way, as if I'd asked her to marry me. I suppose the fact is, she's been called Mary Ann so long and so often that she's forgotten her father's name--if she ever had any. I must do her the justice, though, to say she answers to the name of Mary Ann in every sense of the phrase." "She didn't seem at all bad-looking, any way," said Peter. "Every man to his taste!" growled Lancelot. "She's as _platt_ and uninteresting as a wooden sabot." "There's many a pretty foot in a sabot," retorted Peter, with an air of philosophy. "You think that's clever, but it's simply silly. How does that fact affect this particular sabot?" "I've put my foot in it," groaned Peter comically. "Besides, she might be a houri from heaven," said Lancelot; "but a houri in a patched print-frock----" He shuddered, and struck a match. "I don't know exactly what houris from heaven are, but I have a kind of feeling any sort of frock would be out of harmony----!" Lancelot lit his pipe. "If you begin to say that sort of thing, we must smoke," he said, laughing between the puffs. "I can offer you lots of tobacco--I'm sorry I've got no cigars. Wait till you see Mrs. Leadbatter--my landlady--then you'll talk about houris. Poverty may not be a crime, but it seems to make people awful bores. Wonder if it'll have that effect on me? _Ach Himmel_! how that woman bores me. No, there's no denying it--there's my pouch, old man--I hate the poor; their virtues are only a shade more vulgar than their vices. This Leadbatter creature is honest after her lights--she sends me up the most ridiculous leavings--and I only hate her the more for it." "I suppose she works Mary Ann's fingers to the bone from the same mistaken sense of duty," said Peter acutely. "Thanks; think I'll try one of my cigars. I filled my case, I fancy, before I came out. Yes, here it is; won't _you_ try one?" "No, thanks, I prefer my pipe." "It's the same old meerschaum, I see," said Peter. "The same old meerschaum," repeated Lancelot, with a little sigh. Peter lit a cigar, and they sat and puffed in silence. "Dear me!" said Peter suddenly; "I can almost fancy we're back in our German garret, up the ninety stairs, can't you?" "No," said Lancelot sadly, looking round as if in search of something; "I miss the dreams." "And I," said Peter, striving to speak cheerfully, "I see a dog too much." "Yes," said Lancelot, with a melancholy laugh. "When you funked becoming a Beethoven, I got a dog and called him after you." "What? you called him Peter?" "No, Beethoven!" "Beethoven! Really?" "Really. Here, Beethoven!" The spaniel shook himself, and perked his wee nose up wistfully towards Lancelot's face. Peter laughed, with a little catch in his voice. He didn't know whether he was pleased, or touched, or angry. "You started to tell me about those twenty thousand shillings," he said. "Didn't I tell you? On the expectations of my triumph, I lived extravagantly, like a fool, joined a club, and took up my quarters there. When I began to realise the struggle that lay before me, I took chambers; then I took rooms; now I'm in lodgings. The more I realised it, the less rent I paid. I only go to the club for my letters now. I won't have them come here. I'm living incognito." "That's taking fame by the forelock, indeed! Then by what name must I ask for you next time? For I'm not to be shaken off." "Lancelot." "Lancelot what?" "Only Lancelot! Mr. Lancelot." "Why, that's like your Mary Ann!" "So it is!" he laughed, more bitterly than cordially; "it never struck me before. Yes, we are a pair." "How did you stumble on this place?" "I didn't stumble. Deliberate, intelligent selection. You see, it's the next best thing to Piccadilly. You just cross Waterloo Bridge, and there you are at the centre, five minutes from all the clubs. The natives have not yet risen to the idea." "You mean the rent," laughed Peter. "You're as canny and careful as a Scotch professor. I think it's simply grand the way you've beaten out those shillings, in defiance of your natural instincts. I should have melted them years ago. I believe you _have_ got some musical genius, after all." "You overrate my abilities," said Lancelot, with the whimsical expression that sometimes flashed across his face even in his most unamiable moments. "You must deduct the Thalers I made in exhibitions. As for living in cheap lodgings, I am not at all certain it's an economy, for every now and again it occurs to you that you are saving an awful lot, and you take a hansom on the strength of it." "Well, I haven't torn up that cheque yet----" "Peter!" said Lancelot, his flash of gaiety dying away, "I tell you these things as a friend, not as a beggar. If you look upon me as the second, I cease to be the first." "But, man, I owe you the money; and if it will enable you to hold out a little longer--why, in heaven's name, shouldn't you----?" "You don't owe me the money at all; I made no bargain with you; I am not a money-lender." "_Pack dich zum Henker_!" growled Peter, with a comical grimace. "_Was für_ a casuist! What a swindler you'd make! I wonder you have the face to deny the debt. Well, and how did you leave Frau Sauer-Kraut?" he said, deeming it prudent to sheer off the subject. "Fat as a Christmas turkey." "Of a German sausage. The extraordinary things that woman stuffed herself with. Chunks of fat, stewed apples, Kartoffel salad--all mixed up in one plate, as in a dustbin." "Don't! You make my gorge rise. _Ach Himmel_! to think that this nation should be musical! O Music, heavenly maid, how much garlic I have endured for thy sake!" "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Peter, putting down his whisky that he might throw himself freely back in the easy-chair and roar. "Oh that garlic!" he said, panting. "No wonder they smoked so much in Leipsic. Even so they couldn't keep the reek out of the staircases. Still, it's a great country is Germany. Our house does a tremendous business in German patents." "A great country? A land of barbarians rather. How can a people be civilised that eats jam with its meat?" "Bravo, Lancelot! You're in lovely form to-night. You seem to go a hundred miles out of your way to come the truly British. First it was oil--now it's jam. There was that aristocratic flash in your eye, too, that look of supreme disdain which brings on riots in Trafalgar Square. Behind the patriotic, the national note: 'How can a people be civilised that eats jam with its meat?' I heard the deeper, the oligarchic accent: 'How can a people be enfranchised that eats meat with its fingers?' Ah, you are right! How you do hate the poor! What bores they are! You aristocrats--the products of centuries of culture, comfort, and cocksureness--will never rid yourselves of your conviction that you are the backbone of England--no, not though that backbone were picked clean of every scrap of flesh by the rats of Radicalism." "What in the devil are you talking about now?" demanded Lancelot. "You seem to me to go a hundred miles out of _your_ way to twit me with my poverty and my breeding. One would almost think you were anxious to convince me of the poverty of _your_ breeding." "Oh, a thousand pardons!" ejaculated Peter, blushing violently. "But, good heavens, old chap! There's your hot temper again. You surely wouldn't suspect _me_, of all people in the world, of meaning anything personal? I'm talking of you as a class. Contempt is in your blood--and quite right! We're such snobs, we deserve it. Why d'ye think I ever took to you as a boy at school? Was it because you scribbled inaccurate sonatas and I had myself a talent for knocking tunes off the piano? Not a bit of it. I thought it was, perhaps, but that was only one of my many youthful errors. No, I liked you because your father was an old English baronet, and mine was a merchant who trafficked mainly in things Teutonic. And that's why I like you still. 'Pon my soul it is. You gratify my historic sense--like an old building. You are picturesque. You stand to me for all the good old ideals, including the pride which we are beginning to see is deuced unchristian. Mind you, it's a curious kind of pride when one looks into it. Apparently it's based on the fact that your family has lived on the nation for generations. And yet you won't take my cheque, which is your own. Now don't swear--I know one mustn't analyse things, or the world would come to pieces, so I always vote Tory." "Then I shall have to turn Radical," grumbled Lancelot. "Certainly you will, when you have had a little more experience of poverty," retorted Peter. "There, there, old man! forgive me. I only do it to annoy you. Fact is, your outbursts of temper attract me. They are pleasant to look back upon when the storm is over. Yes, my dear Lancelot, you are like the king you look--you can do no wrong. You are picturesque. Pass the whisky." Lancelot smiled, his handsome brow serene once more. He murmured, "Don't talk rot," but inwardly he was not displeased at Peter's allegiance, half mocking though he knew it. "Therefore, my dear chap," resumed Peter, sipping his whisky and water, "to return to our lambs, I bow to your patrician prejudices in favour of forks. But your patriotic prejudices are on a different level. There, I am on the same ground as you, and I vow I see nothing inherently superior in the British combination of beef and beetroot, to the German amalgam of lamb and jam." "Damn lamb and jam," burst forth Lancelot, adding, with his whimsical look: "There's rhyme, as well as reason. How on earth did we get on this tack?" "I don't know," said Peter, smiling. "We were talking about Frau Sauer-Kraut, I think. And did you board with her all the time?" "Yes, and I was always hungry. Till the last, I never learnt to stomach her mixtures. But it was really too much trouble to go down the ninety stairs to a restaurant. It was much easier to be hungry." "And did you ever get a reform in the hours of washing the floor?" "Ha! ha! ha! No, they always waited till I was going to bed. I suppose they thought I liked damp. They never got over my morning tub, you know. And that, too, sprang a leak after you left, and helped spontaneously to wash the floor." "Shows the fallacy of cleanliness," said Peter, "and the inferiority of British ideals. They never bathed in their lives, yet they looked the pink of health." "Yes--their complexion was high--like the fish." "Ha! ha! Yes, the fish! That was a great luxury, I remember. About once a month." "Of course, the town is so inland," said Lancelot. "I see--it took such a long time coming. Ha! ha! ha! And the Herr Professor--is he still a bachelor?" As the Herr Professor was a septuagenarian and a misogamist, even in Peter's time, his question tickled Lancelot. Altogether the two young men grew quite jolly, recalling a hundred oddities, and reknitting their friendship at the expense of the Fatherland. "But was there ever a more madcap expedition than ours?" exclaimed Peter. "Most boys start out to be pirates----" "And some do become music-publishers," Lancelot finished grimly, suddenly reminded of a grievance. "Ha! ha! ha! Poor fellow'" laughed Peter. "Then you _have_ found them out already." "Does anyone ever find them in?" flashed Lancelot. "I suppose they do exist and are occasionally seen of mortal eyes. I suppose wives and friends and mothers gaze on them with no sense of special privilege, unconscious of their invisibility to the profane eyes of mere musicians." "My dear fellow, the mere musicians are as plentiful as niggers on the sea-shore. A publisher might spend his whole day receiving regiments of unappreciated geniuses. Bond Street would be impassable. You look at the publisher too much from your own standpoint." "I tell you I don't look at him from any standpoint. That's what I complain of. He's encircled with a prickly hedge of clerks. 'You will hear from us.' 'It shall have our best consideration.' 'We have no knowledge of the MS. in question.' Yes, Peter, two valuable quartets have I lost, messing about with these villains." "I tell you what. I'll give you an introduction to Brahmson. I know him--privately." "No, thank you, Peter." "Why not?" "Because you know him." "I couldn't give you an introduction if I didn't. This is silly of you, Lancelot." "If Brahmson can't see any merits in my music, I don't want you to open his eyes. I'll stand on my own bottom. And what's more, Peter, I tell you once for all"--his voice was low and menacing--"if you try any anonymous _deus ex machinâ_ tricks on me in some sly, roundabout fashion, don't you flatter yourself I shan't recognise your hand. I shall, and, by God, it shall never grasp mine again." "I suppose you think that's very noble and sublime," said Peter coolly. "You don't suppose if I could do you a turn I'd hesitate for fear of excommunication? I know you're like Beethoven there--your bark is worse than your bite." "Very well; try. You'll find my teeth nastier than you bargain for." "I'm not going to try. If you want to go to the dogs--go. Why should I put out a hand to stop you?" These amenities having re-established them in their mutual esteem, they chatted lazily and spasmodically till past midnight, with more smoke than fire in their conversation. At last Peter began to go, and in course of time actually did take up his umbrella. Not long after, Lancelot conducted him softly down the dark, silent stairs, holding his bedroom candlestick in his hand, for Mrs. Leadbatter always turned out the hall lamp on her way to bed. The old phrases came to the young men's lips as their hands met in a last hearty grip. "_Lebt wohl_!" said Lancelot. "_Auf Wiedersehen_!" replied Peter threateningly. Lancelot stood at the hall door looking for a moment after his friend--the friend he had tried to cast out of his heart as a recreant. The mist had cleared--the stars glittered countless in the frosty heaven; a golden crescent moon hung low; the lights and shadows lay almost poetically upon the little street. A rush of tender thoughts whelmed the musician's soul. He saw again the dear old garret, up the ninety stairs, in the Hotel Cologne, where he had lived with his dreams; he heard the pianos and violins going in every room in happy incongruity, publishing to all the prowess of the players; dirty, picturesque old Leipsic rose before him; he was walking again in the _Hainstrasse_, in the shadow of the quaint, tall houses. Yes, life was sweet after all; he was a coward to lose heart so soon; fame would yet be his; fame and love--the love of a noble woman that fame earns; some gracious creature breathing sweet refinements, cradled in an ancient home, such as he had left for ever. The sentimentality of the Fatherland seemed to have crept into his soul; a divinely sweet, sad melody was throbbing in his brain. How glad he was he had met Peter again! From a neighbouring steeple came a harsh, resonant clang, "One." It roused him from his dream. He shivered a little, closed the door, bolted it and put up the chain, and turned, half sighing, to take up his bedroom candle again. Then his heart stood still for a moment. A figure--a girl's figure--was coming towards him from the kitchen stairs. As she came into the dim light he saw that it was merely Mary Ann. She looked half drowsed. Her cap was off, her hair tangled loosely over her forehead. In her disarray she looked prettier than he had ever remembered her. There was something provoking about the large dreamy eyes, the red lips that parted at the unexpected sight of him. "Good heavens!" he cried. "Not gone to bed yet?" "No, sir. I had to stay up to wash up a lot of crockery. The second-floor front had some friends to supper late. Missus says she won't stand it again." "Poor thing!" He patted her soft cheek--it grew hot and rosy under his fingers, but was not withdrawn. Mary Ann made no sign of resentment. In his mood of tenderness to all creation his rough words to her recurred to him. "You mustn't mind what I said about the matches," he murmured. "When I am in a bad temper I say anything. Remember now for the future, will you?" "Yessir." Her face--its blushes flickered over strangely by the candle-light--seemed to look up at him invitingly. "That's a good girl." And bending down he kissed her on the lips. "Good night," he murmured. Mary Ann made some startled, gurgling sound in reply. Five minutes afterwards Lancelot was in bed, denouncing himself as a vulgar beast. "I must have drunk too much whisky," he said to himself angrily. "Good heavens. Fancy sinking to Mary Ann. If Peter had only seen---- There was infinitely more poetry in that red-cheeked _Mädchen_, and yet I never---- It is true--there is something sordid about the atmosphere that subtly permeates you, that drags you down to it! Mary Ann! A transpontine drudge! whose lips are fresh from the coalman's and the butcher's. Phaugh!" The fancy seized hold of his imagination. He could not shake it off, he could not sleep till he had got out of bed and sponged his lips vigorously. Meanwhile Mary Ann was lying on her bed, dressed, doing her best to keep her meaningless, half-hysterical sobs from her mistress's keen ear. II It was a long time before Mary Ann came so prominently into the centre of Lancelot's consciousness again. She remained somewhere in the outer periphery of his thought--nowhere near the bull's-eye, so to speak--as a vague automaton that worked when he pulled a bell-rope. Infinitely more important things were troubling him; the visit of Peter had somehow put a keener edge on his blunted self-confidence; he had started a grand opera, and worked at it furiously in all the intervals left him by his engrossing pursuit after a publisher. Sometimes he would look up from his hieroglyphics and see Mary Ann at his side surveying him curiously, and then he would start, and remember he had rung her up, and try to remember what for. And Mary Ann would turn red, as if the fault was hers. But the publisher was the one thing that was never out of Lancelot's mind, though he drove Lancelot himself nearly out of it. He was like an arrow stuck in the aforesaid bull's-eye, and, the target being conscious, he rankled sorely. Lancelot discovered that the publisher kept a "musical adviser," whose advice appeared to consist of the famous monosyllable, "Don't." The publisher generally published all the musical adviser's own works, his advice having apparently been neglected when it was most worth taking; at least so Lancelot thought, when he had skimmed through a set of Lancers by one of these worthies. "I shall give up being a musician," he said to himself grimly. "I shall become a musical adviser." Once, half by accident, he actually saw a publisher. "My dear sir," said the great man, "what is the use of bringing quartets and full scores to me? You should have taken them to Brahmson; he's the man you want. You know his address, of course--just down the street." Lancelot did not like to say that it was Brahmson's clerks that had recommended him here; so he replied, "But you publish operas, oratorios, cantatas!" "Ah yes!--h'm--things that have been played at the big Festivals--composers of prestige--quite a different thing, sir, quite a different thing. There's no sale for these things--none at all, sir--public never heard of you. Now, if you were to write some songs--nice catchy tunes--high class, you know, with pretty words----" Now Lancelot by this time was aware of the publisher's wily ways; he could almost have constructed an Ollendorffian dialogue, entitled "Between a Music-Publisher and a Composer." So he opened his portfolio again and said, "I have brought some." "Well, send--send them in," stammered the publisher, almost disconcerted. "They shall have our best consideration." "Oh, but you might just as well look over them at once," said Lancelot firmly, uncoiling them. "It won't take you five minutes--just let me play one to you. The tunes are rather more original than the average, I can promise you; and yet I think they have a lilt that----" "I really can't spare the time now. If you leave them, we will do our best." "Listen to this bit!" said Lancelot desperately. And dashing at a piano that stood handy, he played a couple of bars. "That's quite a new modulation." "That's all very well," said the publisher; "but how do you suppose I'm going to sell a thing with an accompaniment like that? Look here, and here! Why it's all accidentals." "That's the best part of the song," explained Lancelot; "a sort of undercurrent of emotion that brings out the full pathos of the words. Note the elegant and novel harmonies." He played another bar or two, singing the words softly. "Yes; but if you think you'll get young ladies to play that, you've got a good deal to learn," said the publisher gruffly. "This is the sort of accompaniment that goes down," and seating himself at the piano for a moment (somewhat to Lancelot's astonishment, for he had gradually formed a theory that music-publishers did not really know the staff from a five-barred gate), he rattled off the melody with his right hand, pounding away monotonously with his left at a few elementary chords. Lancelot looked dismayed. "That's the kind of thing you'll have to produce, young man," said the publisher, feeling that he had at last resumed his natural supremacy, "if you want to get your songs published. Elegant harmonies are all very well, but who's to play them?" "And do you mean to say that a musician in this God-forsaken country must have no chords but tonics and dominants?" ejaculated Lancelot hotly. "The less he has of any other the better," said the great man drily. "I haven't said a word about the melody itself, which is quite out of the ordinary compass, and makes demands upon the singer's vocalisation which are not likely to make a demand for the song. What you have to remember, my dear sir, if you wish to achieve success, is that music, if it is to sell, must appeal to the average amateur young person. The average amateur young person is the main prop of music in this country." Lancelot snatched up his song and tied the strings of his portfolio very tightly, as if he were clenching his lips. "If I stay here any longer I shall swear," he said: "Good afternoon." He went out with a fire at his heart that made him insensitive to the frost without. He walked a mile out of his way mechanically, then, perceiving his stupidity, avenged it by jumping into a hansom. He dared not think how low his funds were running. When he got home he forgot to have his tea, crouching in dumb misery in his easy-chair, while the coals in the grate faded like the sunset from red to grey, and the dusk of twilight deepened into the gloom of night, relieved only by a gleam from the street-lamp. The noise of the door opening made him look up. "Beg pardon, sir, I didn't yer ye come in." It was Mary Ann's timid accents. Lancelot's head drooped again on his breast. He did not answer. "You've bin and let your fire go out, sir." "Don't bother!" he grumbled. He felt a morbid satisfaction in this aggravation of discomfort, almost symbolic as it was of his sunk fortunes. "Oh, but it'll freeze 'ard to-night, sir. Let me make it up." Taking his sullen silence for consent, she ran downstairs and reappeared with some sticks. Soon there were signs of life, which Mary Ann assiduously encouraged by blowing at the embers with her mouth. Lancelot looked on in dull apathy, but as the fire rekindled and the little flames leapt up and made Mary Ann's flushed face the one spot of colour and warmth in the cold, dark room, Lancelot's torpidity vanished suddenly. The sensuous fascination seized him afresh, and ere he was aware of it he was lifting the pretty face by the chin. "I'm so sorry to be so troublesome, Mary Ann. There, you shall give me a kiss to show you bear no malice." The warm lips obediently met his, and for a moment Lancelot forgot his worries while he held her soft cheek against his. This time the shock of returning recollection was not so violent as before. He sat up in his chair, but his right arm still twined negligently round her neck, the fingers patting the warm face. "A fellow must have something to divert his mind," he thought, "or he'd go mad. And there's no harm done--the poor thing takes it as a kindness, I'm sure. I suppose _her_ life's dull enough. We're a pair." He felt her shoulders heaving a little, as if she were gulping down something. At last she said, "You ain't troublesome. I ought to ha' yerd ye come in." He released her suddenly. Her words broke the spell. The vulgar accent gave him a shudder. "Don't you _hear_ a bell ringing?" he said, with dual significance. "Nosir," said Mary Ann ingenuously. "I'd yer it in a moment if there was. I yer it in my dreams, I'm so used to it. One night I dreamt the missus was boxin' my yers and askin' me if I was deaf and I said to 'er----" "Can't you say 'her'?" cried Lancelot, cutting her short impatiently. "Her," said Mary Ann. "Then why do you say ''er'?" "Missus told me to. She said my own way was all wrong." "Oh, indeed!" said Lancelot. "It's missus that has corrupted you, is it? And pray what used you to say?" "She," said Mary Ann. Lancelot was taken aback. "She!" he repeated. "Yessir," said Mary Ann, with a dawning suspicion that her own vocabulary was going to be vindicated; "whenever I said 'she' she made me say ''er,' and whenever I said 'her' she made me say 'she.' When I said 'her and me' she made me say 'me and she,' and when I said 'I got it from she,' she made me say 'I got it from 'er.'" "Bravo! A very lucid exposition," said Lancelot, laughing. "Did she set you right in any other particulars?" "Eessir--I mean yessir," replied Mary Ann, the forbidden words flying to her lips like prisoned skylarks suddenly set free. "I used to say, 'Gie I thek there broom, oo't?' 'Arten thee goin' to?' 'Her did say to I.' 'I be goin' on to bed.' 'Look at----'" "Enough! Enough! What a memory you've got! Now I understand. You're a country girl." "Eessir," said Mary Ann, her face lighting up. "I mean yessir." "Well, that redeems you a little," thought Lancelot, with his whimsical look. "So it's missus, is it, who's taught you Cockneyese? My instinct was not so unsound, after all. I dare say you'll turn out something nobler than a Cockney drudge." He finished aloud, "I hope you went a-milking." "Eessir, sometimes; and I drove back the milk-trunk in the cart, and I rode down on a pony to the second pasture to count the sheep and the heifers." "Then you are a farmer's daughter?" "Eessir. But my feyther--I mean my father--had only two little fields when he was alive, but we had a nice garden, with plum trees, and rose bushes and gillyflowers----" "Better and better," murmured Lancelot, smiling. And, indeed, the image of Mary Ann skimming the meads on a pony in the sunshine was more pleasant to contemplate than that of Mary Ann whitening the wintry steps. "What a complexion you must have had to start with!" he cried aloud, surveying the not unenviable remains of it. "Well, and what else did you do?" Mary Ann opened her lips. It was delightful to see how the dull veil, as of London fog, had been lifted from her face; her eyes sparkled. Then, "Oh, there's the ground-floor bell," she cried, moving instinctively towards the door. "Nonsense: I hear no bell," said Lancelot. "I told you I always _hear_ it," said Mary Ann, hesitating and blushing delicately before the critical word. "Oh well, run along then. Stop a moment--I must give you another kiss for talking so nicely. There! And--stop a moment--bring me up some coffee, please, when the ground floor is satisfied." "Eessir--I mean yessir. What must I say?" she added, pausing troubled on the threshold. "Say, 'Yes, Lancelot,'" he answered recklessly. "Yessir," and Mary Ann disappeared. It was ten endless minutes before she reappeared with the coffee. The whole of the second five minutes Lancelot paced his room feverishly, cursing the ground floor, and stamping as if to bring down its ceiling. He was curious to know more of Mary Ann's history. But it proved meagre enough. Her mother died when Mary Ann was a child; her father when she was still a mere girl. His affairs were found in hopeless confusion, and Mary Ann was considered lucky to be taken into the house of the well-to-do Mrs. Leadbatter, of London, the eldest sister of a young woman who had nursed the vicar's wife. Mrs. Leadbatter had promised the vicar to train up the girl in the way a domestic should go. "And when I am old enough she is going to pay me wages as well," concluded Mary Ann, with an air of importance. "Indeed--how old were you when you left the village?" "Fourteen." "And how old are you now?" Mary Ann looked confused. "I don't quite know," she murmured. "O come," said Lancelot laughingly; "is this your country simplicity? You're quite young enough to tell how old you are." The tears came into Mary Ann's eyes. "I can't, Mr. Lancelot," she protested earnestly; "I forgot to count--I'll ask missus." "And whatever she tells you, you'll be," he said, amused at her unshakable loyalty. "Yessir," said Mary Ann. "And so you are quite alone in the world?" "Yessir--but I've got my canary. They sold everything when my father died, but the vicar's wife she bought my canary back for me because I cried so. And I brought it to London and it hangs in my bedroom. And the vicar, he was so kind to me, he did give me a lot of advice, and Mrs. Amersham, who kept the chandler's shop, she did give me ninepence, all in three-penny bits." "And you never had any brothers or sisters?" "There was our Sally, but she died before mother." "Nobody else?" "There's my big brother Tom--but I mustn't tell you about him." "Mustn't tell me about him? Why not?" "He's so wicked." The answer was so unexpected that Lancelot, could not help laughing, and Mary Ann flushed to the roots of her hair. "Why, what has he done?" said Lancelot, composing his mouth to gravity. "I don't know; I was only six. Father told me it was something very dreadful, and Tom had to run away to America, and I mustn't mention him any more. And mother was crying, and I cried because Tom used to give me tickey-backs and go blackberrying with me and our little Sally; and everybody else in the village they seemed glad, because they had said so all along, because Tom would never go to church, even when a little boy." "I suppose then _you_ went to church regularly?" "Yessir. When I was at home, I mean." "Every Sunday?" Mary Ann hung her head. "Once I went meechin'," she said in low tones. "Some boys and girls they wanted me to go nutting, and I wanted to go too, but I didn't know how to get away, and they told me to cough very loud when the sermon began, so I did, and coughed on and on till at last the vicar glowed at father, and father had to send me out of church." Lancelot laughed heartily. "Then you didn't like the sermon." "It wasn't that, sir. The sun was shining that beautiful outside, and I never minded the sermon, only I did get tired of sitting still. But I never done it again--our little Sally, she died soon after." Lancelot checked his laughter. "Poor little fool!" he thought. Then to brighten her up again he asked cheerily, "And what else did you do on the farm?" "Oh, please sir, missus will be wanting me now." "Bother missus. I want some more milk," he said, emptying the milk-jug into the slop-basin. "Run down and get some." Mary Ann was startled by the splendour of the deed. She took the jug silently and disappeared. When she returned he said: "Well, you haven't told me half yet. I suppose you kept bees?" "Oh yes, and I fed the pigs." "Hang the pigs! Let's hear something more romantic." "There was the calves to suckle sometimes, when the mother died or was sold." "Calves! H'm! H'm! Well, but how could you do that?" "Dipped my fingers in milk, and let the calves suck 'em. The silly creatures thought it was their mothers' teats. Like this." With a happy inspiration she put her fingers into the slop-basin, and held them up dripping. Lancelot groaned. It was not only that his improved Mary Ann was again sinking to earth, unable to soar in the romantic aether where he would fain have seen her volant; it was not only that the coarseness of her nature had power to drag her down, it was the coarseness of her red, chapped hands that was thrust once again and violently upon his reluctant consciousness. Then, like Mary Ann, he had an inspiration. "How would you like a pair of gloves, Mary Ann?" He had struck the latent feminine. Her eyes gleamed. "Oh, sir!" was all she could say. Then a swift shade of disappointment darkened the eager little face. "But I never goes out," she cried. "I never _go_ out," he corrected, shuddering. "I never _go_ out," said Mary Ann, her lip twitching. "That doesn't matter. I want you to wear them indoors." "But there's nobody to see 'em indoors!" "I shall see them," he reminded her. "But they'll get dirty." "No they won't. You shall only wear them when you come to me. If I buy you a nice pair of gloves, will you promise to put them on every time I ring for you?" "But what'll missus say?" "Missus won't see them. The moment you come in, you'll put them on, and just before going out--you'll take them off! See!" "Yessir. Then nobody'll see me looking so grand but you." "That's it. And wouldn't you rather look grand for me than for anybody else?" "Of course I would, sir," said Mary Ann, earnestly, with a grateful little sigh. So Lancelot measured her wrist, feeling her pulse beat madly. She really had a very little hand, though to his sensitive vision the roughness of the skin seemed to swell it to a size demanding a boxing-glove. He bought her six pairs of tan kid, in a beautiful cardboard box. He could ill afford the gift, and made one of his whimsical grimaces when he got the bill. The young lady who served him looked infinitely more genteel than Mary Ann. He wondered what she would think if she knew for whom he was buying these dainty articles. Perhaps her feelings would be so outraged she would refuse to participate in the transaction. But the young lady was happily unconscious; she had her best smile for the handsome, aristocratic young gentleman, and mentioned his moustache later to her bosom-friend in the next department. And thus Mary Ann and Lancelot became the joint owners of a secret, and co-players in a little comedy. When Mary Ann came into the room, she would put whatever she was carrying on a chair, gravely extract her gloves from her pocket, and draw them on, Lancelot pretending not to know she was in the room, though he had just said, "Come in." After allowing her a minute he would look up. In the course of a week this became mechanical, so that he lost the semi-ludicrous sense of secrecy which he felt at first, as well as the little pathetic emotion inspired by her absolute unconsciousness that the performance was not intended for her own gratification. Nevertheless, though he could now endure to see Mary Ann handling the sugar-tongs, he remained cold to her for some weeks. He had kissed her again in the flush of her joy at the sight of the gloves, but after that there was a reaction. He rarely went to the club now (there was no one with whom he was in correspondence except music-publishers, and they didn't reply), but he dropped in there once soon after the glove episode, looked over the papers in the smoking-room, and chatted with a popular composer and one or two men he knew. It was while the waiter was holding out the coffee-tray to him that Mary Ann flashed upon his consciousness. The thought of her seemed so incongruous with the sober magnificence, the massive respectability that surrounded him, the cheerful, marble hearth reddened with leaping flame, the luxurious lounges, the well-groomed old gentlemen smoking eighteenpenny cheroots, the suave, noiseless satellites, that Lancelot felt a sudden pang of bewildered shame. Why, the very waiter who stood bent before him would disdain her. He took his coffee hastily, with a sense of personal unworthiness. This feeling soon evaporated, but it left lees of resentment against Mary Ann which made him inexplicable to her. Fortunately, her habit of acceptance saved her some tears, though she shed others. And there remained always the gloves. When she was putting them on she always felt she was slipping her hands in his. And then there was yet a further consolation. For the gloves had also a subtle effect on Lancelot. They gave him a sense of responsibility. Vaguely resentful as he felt against Mary Ann (in the intervals of his more definite resentment against publishers), he also felt that he could not stop at the gloves. He had started refining her, and he must go on till she was, so to speak, all gloves. He must cover up her coarse speech, as he had covered up her coarse hands. He owed that to the gloves; it was the least he could do for them. So, whenever Mary Ann made a mistake, Lancelot corrected her. He found these grammatical dialogues not uninteresting, and a vent for his ill-humour against publishers to boot. Very often his verbal corrections sounded astonishingly like reprimands. Here, again, Mary Ann was forearmed by her feeling that she deserved them. She would have been proud had she known how much Mr. Lancelot was satisfied with her aspirates, which came quite natural. She had only dropped her "h's" temporarily, as one drops country friends in coming to London. Curiously enough, Mary Ann did not regard the new locutions and pronunciations as superseding the old. They were a new language; she knew two others, her mother-tongue and her missus's tongue. She would as little have thought of using her new linguistic acquirements in the kitchen as of wearing her gloves there. They were for Lancelot's ears only, as her gloves were for his eyes. All this time Lancelot was displaying prodigious musical activity, so much so that the cost of ruled paper became a consideration. There was no form of composition he did not essay, none by which he made a shilling. Once he felt himself the prey of a splendid inspiration, and sat up all night writing at fever pitch, surrounded with celestial harmonies, audible to him alone; the little room resounded with the thunder of a mighty orchestra, in which every instrument sang to him individually--the piccolo, the flute, the oboes, the clarionets, filling the air with a silver spray of notes; the drums throbbing, the trumpets shrilling, the four horns pealing with long, stately notes, the trombones and bassoons vibrating, the violins and violas sobbing in linked sweetness, the 'cello and the contra-bass moaning their under-chant. And then, in the morning, when the first rough sketch was written, the glory faded. He threw down his pen, and called himself an ass for wasting his time on what nobody would ever look at. Then he laid his head on the table, overwrought, full of an infinite pity for himself. A sudden longing seized him for some one to love him, to caress his hair, to smooth his hot forehead. This mood passed too; he smoothed the slumbering Beethoven instead. After a while he went into his bedroom, and sluiced his face and hands in ice-cold water, and rang the bell for breakfast. There was a knock at the door in response. "Come in!" he said gently--his emotions had left him tired to the point of tenderness. And then he waited a minute while Mary Ann was drawing on her gloves. "Did you ring, sir?" said a wheezy voice at last. Mrs. Leadbatter had got tired of waiting. Lancelot started violently--Mrs. Leadbatter had latterly left him entirely to Mary Ann. "It's my hastmer," she had explained to him apologetically, meeting him casually in the passage. "I can't trollop up and down stairs as I used to when I fust took this house five-an'-twenty year ago, and pore Mr. Leadbatter----" and here followed reminiscences long since in their hundredth edition. "Yes; let me have some coffee--very hot--please," said Lancelot less gently. The woman's voice jarred upon him; and her features were not redeeming. "Lawd, sir, I 'ope that gas 'asn't been burnin' all night, sir," she said as she was going out. "It has," he said shortly. "You'll hexcoose me, sir, but I didn't bargen for that. I'm only a pore, honest, 'ard-workin' widder, and I noticed the last gas bill was 'eavier than hever since that black winter that took pore Mr. Leadbatter to 'is grave. Fair is fair, and I shall 'ave to reckon it a hextry, with the rate gone up sevenpence a thousand, and my Rosie leavin' a fine nursemaid's place in Bayswater at the end of the month to come 'ome and 'elp 'er mother, 'cos my hastmer----" "Will you please shut the door after you?" interrupted Lancelot, biting his lip with irritation. And Mrs. Leadbatter, who was standing in the aperture with no immediate intention of departing, could find no repartee beyond slamming the door as hard as she could. This little passage of arms strangely softened Lancelot to Mary Ann. It made him realise faintly what her life must be. "I should go mad and smash all the crockery!" he cried aloud. He felt quite tender again towards the uncomplaining girl. Presently there was another knock. Lancelot growled, half prepared to renew the battle, and to give Mrs. Leadbatter a piece of his mind on the subject. But it was merely Mary Ann. Shaken in his routine, he looked on steadily while Mary Ann drew on her gloves; and this in turn confused Mary Ann. Her hand trembled. "Let me help you," he said. And there was Lancelot buttoning Mary Ann's glove just as if her name were Guinevere! And neither saw the absurdity of wasting time upon an operation which would have to be undone in two minutes. Then Mary Ann, her eyes full of soft light, went to the sideboard and took out the prosaic elements of breakfast. When she returned, to put them back, Lancelot was astonished to see her carrying a cage--a plain square cage, made of white tin wire. "What's that?" he gasped. "Please, Mr. Lancelot, I want to ask you to do me a favour." She dropped her eyelashes timidly. "Yes, Mary Ann," he said briskly. "But what have you got there?" "It's only my canary, sir. Would you--please, sir, would you mind?"--then desperately: "I want to hang it up here, sir!" "Here?" he repeated in frank astonishment. "Why?" "Please, sir, I--I--it's sunnier here, sir, and I--I think it must be pining away. It hardly ever sings in my bedroom." "Well, but," he began--then seeing the tears gathering on her eyelids, he finished with laughing good-nature--"as long as Mrs. Leadbatter doesn't reckon it an extra." "Oh no, sir," said Mary Ann seriously. "I'll tell her. Besides, she will be glad, because she don't like the canary--she says its singing disturbs her. Her room is next to mine, you know, Mr. Lancelot." "But you said it doesn't sing much." "Please, sir, I--I mean in summer," exclaimed Mary Ann in rosy confusion; "and--and--it'll soon be summer, sir." "Sw--e-ê-t!" burst forth the canary suddenly, as if encouraged by Mary Ann's opinion. It was a pretty little bird--one golden yellow from beak to tail, as though it had been dipped in sunshine. "You see, sir," she cried eagerly, "it's beginning already." "Yes," said Lancelot grimly; "but so is Beethoven." "I'll hang it high up--in the window," said Mary Ann, "where the dog can't get at it." "Well, I won't take any responsibilities," murmured Lancelot resignedly. "No, sir, I'll attend to that," said Mary Ann vaguely. After the installation of the canary Lancelot found himself slipping more and more into a continuous matter-of-course flirtation; more and more forgetting the slavey in the candid young creature who had, at moments, strange dancing lights in her awakened eyes, strange flashes of witchery in her ingenuous expression. And yet he made a desultory struggle against what a secret voice was always whispering was a degradation. He knew she had no real place in his life; he scarce thought of her save when she came bodily before his eyes with her pretty face and her trustful glance. He felt no temptation to write sonatas on her eyebrow--to borrow Peter's variation, for the use of musicians, of Shakespeare's "write sonnets on his mistress's eyebrow"--and, indeed, he knew she could be no fit mistress for him--this starveling drudge, with passive passions, meek, accepting, with well-nigh every spark of spontaneity choked out of her. The women of his dreams were quite other--beautiful, voluptuous, full of the joy of life, tremulous with poetry and lofty thought, with dark, amorous orbs that flashed responsive to his magic melodies. They hovered about him as he wrote and played--Venuses rising from the seas of his music. And then--with his eyes full of the divine tears of youth, with his brain a hive of winged dreams--he would turn and kiss merely Mary Ann! Such is the pitiful breed of mortals. And after every such fall he thought more contemptuously of Mary Ann. Idealise her as he might, see all that was best in her as he tried to do, she remained common and commonplace enough. Her ingenuousness, while from one point of view it was charming, from another was but a pleasant synonym for silliness. And it might not be ingenuousness--or silliness--after all! For was Mary Ann as innocent as she looked? The guilelessness of the dove might very well cover the wisdom of the serpent. The instinct--the repugnance that made him sponge off her first kiss from his lips--was probably a true instinct. How was it possible a girl of that class should escape the sordid attentions of street swains? Even when she was in the country she was well-nigh of woo-able age, the likely cynosure of neighbouring ploughboys' eyes. And what of the other lodgers? A finer instinct--that of a gentleman--kept him from putting any questions to Mary Ann. Indeed, his own delicacy repudiated the images that strove to find entry in his brain, even as his fastidiousness shrank from realising the unlovely details of Mary Ann's daily duties--these things disgusted him more with himself than with her. And yet he found himself acquiring a new and illogical interest in the boots he met outside doors. Early one morning he went half-way up the second flight of stairs--a strange region where his own boots had never before trod--but came down ashamed and with fluttering heart as if he had gone up to steal boots instead of to survey them. He might have asked Mary Ann or her "missus" who the other tenants were, but he shrank from the topic. Their hours were not his, and he only once chanced on a fellow-man in the passage, and then he was not sure it was not the tax-collector. Besides, he was not really interested--it was only a flicker of idle curiosity as to the actual psychology of Mary Ann. That he did not really care he proved to himself by kissing her next time. He accepted her as she was--because she was there. She brightened his troubled life a little, and he was quite sure he brightened hers. So he drifted on, not worrying himself to mean any definite harm to her. He had quite enough worry with those music-publishers. The financial outlook was, indeed, becoming terrifying. He was glad there was nobody to question him, for he did not care to face the facts. Peter's threat of becoming a regular visitor had been nullified by his father despatching him to Germany to buy up some more Teutonic patents. "Wonderful are the ways of Providence!" he had written to Lancelot. "If I had not flown in the old man's face and picked up a little German here years ago, I should not be half so useful to him now. . . . I shall pay a flying visit to Leipsic--not on business." But at last Peter returned, Mrs. Leadbatter panting to the door to let him in one afternoon without troubling to ask Lancelot if he was "at home." He burst upon the musician, and found him in the most undisguisable dumps. "Why didn't you answer my letter, you impolite old bear?" Peter asked, warding off Beethoven with his umbrella. "I was busy," Lancelot replied pettishly. "Busy writing rubbish. Haven't you got 'Ops.' enough? I bet you haven't had anything published yet." "I'm working at a grand opera," he said in dry, mechanical tones. "I have hopes of getting it put on. Gasco, the _impresario_, is a member of my club, and he thinks of running a season in the autumn. I had a talk with him yesterday." "I hope I shall live to see it," said Peter sceptically. "I hope you will," said Lancelot sharply. "None of my family ever lived beyond ninety," said Peter, shaking his head dolefully; "and then, my heart is not so good as it might be." "It certainly isn't!" cried poor Lancelot. "But everybody hits a chap when he's down." He turned his head away, striving to swallow the lump that would rise to his throat. He had a sense of infinite wretchedness and loneliness. "Oh, poor old chap; is it so bad as all that?" Peter's somewhat strident voice had grown tender as a woman's. He laid his hand affectionately on Lancelot's tumbled hair. "You know I believe in you with all my soul. I never doubted your genius for a moment. Don't I know too well that's what keeps you back? Come, come, old fellow. Can't I persuade you to write rot? One must keep the pot boiling, you know. You turn out a dozen popular ballads, and the coin'll follow your music as the rats did the pied piper's. Then, if you have any ambition left, you kick away the ladder by which you mounted, and stand on the heights of art." "Never!" cried Lancelot. "It would degrade me in my own eyes. I'd rather starve; and you can't shake them off--the first impression is everything; they would always be remembered against me," he added, after a pause. "Motives mixed," reflected Peter. "That's a good sign." Aloud he said, "Well, you think it over. This is a practical world, old man; it wasn't made for dreamers. And one of the first dreams that you've got to wake from is the dream that anybody connected with the stage can be relied on from one day to the next. They gas for the sake of gassing, or they tell you pleasant lies out of mere goodwill, just as they call for your drinks. Their promises are beautiful bubbles, on a basis of soft soap and made to 'bust.'" "You grow quite eloquent," said Lancelot, with a wan smile. "Eloquent! There's more in me than you've yet found out. Now, then! Give us your hand that you'll chuck art, and we'll drink to your popular ballad--hundredth thousand edition, no drawing-room should be without it." Lancelot flushed. "I was just going to have some tea. I think it's five o'clock," he murmured. "The very thing I'm dying for," cried Peter energetically; "I'm as parched as a pea." Inwardly he was shocked to find the stream of whisky run dry. So Lancelot rang the bell, and Mary Ann came up with the tea-tray in the twilight. "We'll have a light," cried Peter, and struck one of his own with a shadowy underthought of saving Mary Ann from a possible scolding, in case Lancelot's matches should be again unapparent. Then he uttered a comic exclamation of astonishment. Mary Ann was putting on a pair of gloves! In his surprise he dropped the match. Mary Ann was equally startled by the unexpected sight of a stranger, but when he struck the second match her hands were bare and red. "What in heaven's name were you putting on gloves for, my girl?" said Peter, amused. Lancelot stared fixedly at the fire, trying to keep the blood from flooding his cheeks. He wondered that the ridiculousness of the whole thing had never struck him in its full force before. Was it possible he could have made such an ass of himself? "Please, sir, I've got to go out, and I'm in a hurry," said Mary Ann. Lancelot felt intense relief. An instant after his brow wrinkled itself. "Oho!" he thought. "So this is Miss Simpleton, is it?" "Then why did you take them off again?" retorted Peter. Mary Ann's repartee was to burst into tears and leave the room. "Now I've offended her," said Peter. "Did you see how she tossed her pretty head?" "Ingenious minx," thought Lancelot. "She's left the tray on a chair by the door," went on Peter. "What an odd girl! Does she always carry on like this?" "She's got such a lot to do. I suppose she sometimes gets a bit queer in her head," said Lancelot, conceiving he was somehow safe-guarding Mary Ann's honour by the explanation. "I don't think that," answered Peter. "She did seem dull and stupid when I was here last. But I had a good stare at her just now, and she seems rather bright. Why, her accent is quite refined--she must have picked it up from you." "Nonsense, nonsense!" exclaimed Lancelot testily. The little danger--or rather the great danger of being made to appear ridiculous--which he had just passed through, contributed to rouse him from his torpor. He exerted himself to turn the conversation, and was quite lively over tea. "Sw--eêt! Sw--w--w--w--eêt!" suddenly broke into the conversation. "More mysteries!" cried Peter. "What's that?" "Only a canary." "What, another musical instrument! Isn't Beethoven jealous? I wonder he doesn't consume his rival in his wrath. But I never knew you liked birds." "I don't particularly. It isn't mine." "Whose is it?" Lancelot answered briskly, "Mary Ann's. She asked to be allowed to keep it here. It seems it won't sing in her attic; it pines away." "And do you believe that?" "Why not? It doesn't sing much even here." "Let me look at it--ah, it's a plain Norwich yellow. If you wanted a singing canary you should have come to me, I'd have given you one 'made in Germany'--one of our patents--they train them to sing tunes, and that puts up the price." "Thank you, but this one disturbs me sufficiently." "Then why do you put up with it?" "Why do I put up with that Christmas number supplement over the mantel-piece? It's part of the furniture. I was asked to let it be here, and I couldn't be rude." "No, it's not in your nature. What a bore it must be to feed it! Let me see, I suppose you give it canary seed biscuits--I hope you don't give it butter." "Don't be an ass!" roared Lancelot. "You don't imagine I bother my head whether it eats butter or--or marmalade." "Who feeds it then?" "Mary Ann, of course." "She comes in and feeds it?" "Certainly." "Several times a day?" "I suppose so." "Lancelot," said Peter solemnly, "Mary Ann's mashed on you." Lancelot shrank before Peter's remark as a burglar from a policeman's bull's-eye. The bull's-eye seemed to cast a new light on Mary Ann, too, but he felt too unpleasantly dazzled to consider that for the moment; his whole thought was to get out of the line of light. "Nonsense!" he answered; "why I'm hardly ever in when she feeds it, and I believe it eats all day long--gets supplied in the morning like a coal-scuttle. Besides, she comes in to dust and all that when she pleases. And I do wish you wouldn't use that word 'mashed.' I loathe it." Indeed, he writhed under the thought of being coupled with Mary Ann. The thing sounded so ugly--so squalid. In the actual, it was not so unpleasant, but looked at from the outside--unsympathetically--it was hopelessly vulgar, incurably plebeian. He shuddered. "I don't know," said Peter. "It's a very expressive word, is 'mashed.' But I will make allowance for your poetical feelings and give up the word--except in its literal sense, of course. I'm sure you wouldn't object to mashing a music-publisher!" Lancelot laughed with false heartiness. "Oh, but if I'm to write those popular ballads, you say he'll become my best friend." "Of course he will," cried Peter, eagerly sniffing at the red herring Lancelot had thrown across the track. "You stand out for a royalty on every copy, so that if you strike ile--oh, I beg your pardon, that's another of the phrases you object to, isn't it?" "Don't be a fool," said Lancelot, laughing on. "You know I only object to that in connection with English peers marrying the daughters of men who have done it." "Oh, is that it? I wish you'd publish an expurgated dictionary with most of the words left out, and exact definitions of the conditions under which one may use the remainder. But I've got on a siding. What was I talking about?" "Royalty," muttered Lancelot languidly. "Royalty? No. You mentioned the aristocracy, I think." Then he burst into a hearty laugh. "Oh yes--on that ballad. Now, look here! I've brought a ballad with me just to show you--a thing that is going like wildfire." "'Not _Good-night and good-bye_, I hope," laughed Lancelot. "Yes--the very one!" cried Peter, astonished. "_Himmel_!" groaned Lancelot in comic despair. "You know it already?" inquired Peter eagerly. "No; only I can't open a paper without seeing the advertisement and the sickly-sentimental refrain." "You see how famous it is, anyway," said Peter. "And if you want to strike--er--to make a hit you'll just take that song and do a deliberate imitation of it." "Wha-a-a-t!" gasped Lancelot. "My dear chap, they all do it. When the public cotton to a thing they can't have enough of it." "But I can write my own rot, surely." "In the face of all this litter of 'Ops.' I daren't dispute that for a moment. But it isn't enough to write rot--the public want a particular kind of rot. Now just play that over--oblige me." He laid both hands on Lancelot's shoulders in amicable appeal. Lancelot shrugged them, but seated himself at the piano, played the introductory chords, and commenced singing the words in his pleasant baritone. Suddenly Beethoven ran towards the door, howling. Lancelot ceased playing and looked approvingly at the animal. "By Jove! He wants to go out. What an ear for music that animal's got!" Peter smiled grimly. "It's long enough. I suppose that's why you call him Beethoven." "Not at all. Beethoven had no ear--at least not in his latest period--he was deaf. Lucky devil! That is, if this sort of thing was brought round on barrel-organs." "Never mind, old man! Finish the thing." "But consider Beethoven's feelings!" "Hang Beethoven!" "Poor Beethoven. Come here, my poor maligned musical critic! Would they give you a bad name and hang you? Now you must be very quiet. Put your paws into those lovely long ears of yours if it gets too horrible. You have been used to high-class music, I know, but this is the sort of thing that England expects every man to do, so the sooner you get used to it the better." He ran his fingers along the keys. "There, Peter, he's growling already. I'm sure he'll start again, the moment I strike the theme." "Let him! We'll take it as a spaniel obligato." "Oh, but his accompaniments are too staccato. He has no sense of time." "Why don't you teach him, then, to wag his tail like the pendulum of a metronome? He'd be more use to you that way than setting up to be a musician, which Nature never meant him for--his hair's not long enough. But go ahead, old man, Beethoven's behaving himself now." Indeed, as if he were satisfied with his protest, the little beast remained quiet, while his lord and master went through the piece. He did not even interrupt at the refrain. "Kiss me, good-night, dear love, Dream of the old delight; My spirit is summoned above, Kiss me, dear love, good-night." "I must say it's not so awful as I expected," said Lancelot candidly; "it's not at all bad--for a waltz." "There, you see!" said Peter eagerly; "the public are not such fools after all." "Still, the words are the most maudlin twaddle!" said Lancelot, as if he found some consolation in the fact. "Yes, but I didn't write _them_!" replied Peter quickly. Then he grew red and laughed an embarrassed laugh. "I didn't mean to tell you, old man. But there--the cat's out. That's what took me to Brahmson's that afternoon we met! And I harmonised it myself, mind you, every crotchet. I picked up enough at the Conservatoire for that. You know lots of fellows only do the tune--they give out all the other work." "So you are the great Keeley Lesterre, eh?" said Lancelot in amused astonishment. "Yes; I have to do it under another name. I don't want to grieve the old man. You see, I promised him to reform, when he took me back to his heart and business." "Is that strictly honourable, Peter?" said Lancelot, shaking his head. "Oh well! I couldn't give it up altogether, but I do practically stick to the contract--it's all overtime, you know. It doesn't interfere a bit with business. Besides, as you'd say, it isn't music," he said slyly. "And just because I don't want it I make a heap of coin out of it--that's why I'm so vexed at your keeping me still in your debt." Lancelot frowned. "Then you had no difficulty in getting published?" he asked. "I don't say that. It was bribery and corruption so far as my first song was concerned. I tipped a professional to go down and tell Brahmson he was going to take it up. You know, of course, well-known singers get half a guinea from the publisher every time they sing a song." "No; do they?" said Lancelot. "How mean of them." "Business, my boy. It pays the publisher to give it them. Look at the advertisement!" "But suppose a really fine song was published and the publisher refused to pay this blood-money?" "Then I suppose they'd sing some other song, and let that moulder on the foolish publisher's shelves." "Great heavens!" said Lancelot, jumping up from the piano in wild excitement. "Then a musician's reputation is really at the mercy of a mercenary crew of singers, who respect neither art nor themselves. Oh yes, we are indeed a musical people!" "Easy there! Several of 'em are pals of mine, and I'll get them to take up those ballads of yours as soon as you write 'em." "Let them go to the devil with their ballads!" roared Lancelot, and with a sweep of his arm whirled _Good-night and good-bye_ into the air. Peter picked it up and wrote something on it with a stylographic pen which he produced from his waistcoat pocket. "There!" he said, "that'll make you remember it's your own property--and mine--that you are treating so disrespectfully." "I beg your pardon, old chap," said Lancelot, rebuked and remorseful. "Don't mention it," replied Peter. "And whenever you decide to become rich and famous--there's your model." "Never! never! never!" cried Lancelot, when Peter went at ten. "My poor Beethoven! What you must have suffered! Never mind, I'll play you your Moonlight sonata." He touched the keys gently, and his sorrows and his temptations faded from him. He glided into Bach, and then into Chopin and Mendelssohn, and at last drifted into dreamy improvisation, his fingers moving almost of themselves, his eyes, half closed, seeing only inward visions. And then, all at once, he awoke with a start, for Beethoven was barking towards the door, with pricked-up ears and rigid tail. "Sh! You little beggar," he murmured, becoming conscious that the hour was late, and that he himself had been noisy at unbeseeming hours. "What's the matter with you?" And, with a sudden thought, he threw open the door. It was merely Mary Ann. Her face--flashed so unexpectedly upon him--had the piquancy of a vision, but its expression was one of confusion and guilt; there were tears on her cheeks; in her hand was a bed-room candlestick. She turned quickly, and began to mount the stairs. Lancelot put his hand on her shoulder, and turned her face towards him, and said in an imperious whisper: "Now then, what's up? What are you crying about?" "I ain't--I mean I'm _not_ crying," said Mary Ann, with a sob in her breath. "Come, come, don't fib. What's the matter?" "I'm not crying; it's only the music," she murmured. "The music," he echoed, bewildered. "Yessir. The music always makes me cry--but you can't call it crying--it feels so nice." "Oh, then you've been listening!" "Yessir." Her eyes drooped in humiliation. "But you ought to have been in bed," he said. "You get little enough sleep as it is." "It's better than sleep," she answered. The simple phrase vibrated through him like a beautiful minor chord. He smoothed her hair tenderly. "Poor child!" he said. There was an instant's silence. It was past midnight, and the house was painfully still. They stood upon the dusky landing, across which a bar of light streamed from his half-open door, and only Beethoven's eyes were upon them. But Lancelot felt no impulse to fondle her; only just to lay his hand on her hair, as in benediction and pity. "So you liked what I was playing," he said, not without a pang of personal pleasure. "Yessir; I never heard you play that before." "So you often listen!" "I can hear you, even in the kitchen. Oh, it's just lovely! I don't care what I have to do then, if it's grates or plates or steps. The music goes and goes, and I feel back in the country again, and standing, as I used to love to stand of an evening, by the stile, under the big elm, and watch how the sunset did redden the white birches, and fade in the water. Oh, it was so nice in the springtime, with the hawthorn that grew on the other bank, and the bluebells----" The pretty face was full of dreamy tenderness, the eyes lit up witchingly. She pulled herself up suddenly, and stole a shy glance at her auditor. "Yes, yes, go on," he said; "tell me all you feel about the music." "And there's one song you sometimes play that makes me feel floating on and on like a great white swan." She hummed a few bars of the _Gondel-Lied_--flawlessly. "Dear me! you have an ear!" he said, pinching it. "And how did you like what I was playing just now?" he went on, growing curious to know how his own improvisations struck her. "Oh, I liked it so much," she whispered enthusiastically, "because it reminded me of my favourite one--every moment I did think--I thought--you were going to come into that." The whimsical sparkle leapt into his eyes. "And I thought I was so original," he murmured. "But what I liked best," she began, then checked herself, as if suddenly remembering she had never made a spontaneous remark before, and lacking courage to establish a precedent. "Yes--what you liked best?" he said encouragingly. "That song you sang this afternoon," she said shyly. "What song? I sang no song," he said, puzzled for a moment. "Oh yes! That one about-- 'Kiss me, dear love, good-night.' I was going upstairs, but it made me stop just here--and cry." He made his comic grimace. "So it was you Beethoven was barking at! And I thought he had an ear! And I thought you had an ear! But no! You're both Philistines, after all. Heigho!" She looked sad. "Oughtn't I to ha' liked it?" she asked anxiously. "Oh yes," he said reassuringly, "it's very popular. No drawing-room is without it." She detected the ironic ring in his voice. "It wasn't so much the music," she began apologetically. "Now--now you're going to spoil yourself," he said. "Be natural." "But it wasn't," she protested. "It was the words----" "That's worse," he murmured below his breath. "They reminded me of my mother as she laid dying." "Ah!" said Lancelot. "Yes, sir, mother was a long time dying--it was when I was a little girl, and I used to nurse her--I fancy it was our little Sally's death that killed her; she took to her bed after the funeral, and never left it till she went to her own," said Mary Ann, with unconscious flippancy. "She used to look up to the ceiling and say that she was going to little Sally, and I remember I was such a silly then, I brought mother flowers and apples and bits of cake to take to Sally with my love. I put them on her pillow, but the flowers faded and the cake got mouldy--mother was such a long time dying--and at last I ate the apples myself, I was so tired of waiting. Wasn't I silly?" And Mary Ann laughed a little laugh with tears in it. Then growing grave again, she added: "And at last, when mother was really on the point of death, she forgot all about little Sally, and said she was going to meet Tom. And I remember thinking she was going to America. I didn't know people talk nonsense before they die." "They do--a great deal of it, unfortunately," said Lancelot lightly, trying to disguise from himself that his eyes were moist. He seemed to realise now what she was--a child; a child who, simpler than most children to start with, had grown only in body, whose soul had been stunted by uncounted years of dull and monotonous drudgery. The blood burnt in his veins as he thought of the cruelty of circumstance and the heartless honesty of her mistress. He made up his mind for the second time to give Mrs. Leadbatter a piece of his mind in the morning. "Well, go to bed now, my poor child," he said, "or you'll get no rest at all." "Yessir." She went obediently up a couple of stairs, then turned her head appealingly towards him. The tears still glimmered on her eyelashes. For an instant he thought she was expecting her kiss, but she only wanted to explain anxiously once again, "That was why I liked that song, 'Kiss me, good-night, dear love.' It was what my mother----" "Yes, yes, I understand," he broke in, half amused, though somehow the words did not seem so full of maudlin pathos to him now. "And there----"--he drew her head towards him--"Kiss _me_, good-night----" He did not complete the quotation; indeed, her lips were already drawn too close to his. But, ere he released her, the long-repressed thought had found expression. "You don't kiss anybody but me?" he said half playfully. "Oh no, sir," said Mary Ann earnestly. "What!" more lightly still. "Haven't you got half a dozen young men?" Mary Ann shook her head, more regretfully than resentfully. "I told you I never go out--except for little errands." She had told him, but his attention had been so concentrated on the ungrammatical form in which she had conveyed the information, that the fact itself had made no impression. Now his anger against Mrs. Leadbatter dwindled. After all, she was wise in not giving Mary Ann the run of the London streets. "But"--he hesitated. "How about the--the milkman--and the--the other gentlemen." "Please, sir," said Mary Ann, "I don't like them." After that no man could help expressing his sense of her good taste. "Then you won't kiss anybody but me," he said, as he let her go for the last time. He had a Quixotic sub-consciousness that he was saving her from his kind by making her promise formally. "How could I, Mr. Lancelot?" And the brimming eyes shone with soft light. "I never shall--never." It sounded like a troth. He went back to the room and shut the door, but could not shut out her image. The picture she had unwittingly supplied of herself took possession of his imagination: he saw her almost as a dream-figure--the virginal figure he knew--standing by the stream in the sunset, amid the elms and silver birches, with daisies in her hands and bluebells at her feet, inhaling the delicate scent that wafted from the white hawthorn bushes, and watching the water glide along till it seemed gradually to wash away the fading colours of the sunset that glorified it. And as he dwelt on the vision he felt harmonies and phrases stirring and singing in his brain, like a choir of awakened birds. Quickly he seized paper and wrote down the theme that flowed out at the point of his pen--a reverie full of the haunting magic of quiet waters and woodland sunsets and the gracious innocence of maidenhood. When it was done he felt he must give it a distinctive name. He cast about for one, pondering and rejecting titles innumerable. Countless lines of poetry ran through his head, from which he sought to pick a word or two as one plucks a violet from a posy. At last a half-tender, half-whimsical look came into his face, and picking his pen out of his hair, he wrote merely--"Marianne." It was only natural that Mary Ann should be unable to maintain herself--or be maintained--at this idyllic level. But her fall was aggravated by two circumstances, neither of which had any particular business to occur. The first was an intimation from the misogamist German Professor that he had persuaded another of his old pupils to include a prize symphony by Lancelot in the programme of a Crystal Palace Concert. This was of itself sufficient to turn Lancelot's head away from all but thoughts of Fame, even if Mary Ann had not been luckless enough to be again discovered cleaning the steps--and without gloves. Against such a spectacle the veriest idealist is powerless. If Mary Ann did not immediately revert to the category of quadrupeds in which she had started, it was only because of Lancelot's supplementary knowledge of the creature. But as he passed her by, solicitous as before not to tread upon her, he felt as if all the cold water in her pail were pouring down the back of his neck. Nevertheless, the effect of both these turns of fortune was transient. The symphony was duly performed, and dismissed in the papers as promising, if over-ambitious; the only tangible result was a suggestion from the popular composer, who was a member of his club, that Lancelot should collaborate with him in a comic opera, for the production of which he had facilities. The composer confessed he had a fluent gift of tune, but had no liking for the drudgery of orchestration, and as Lancelot was well up in these tedious technicalities, the two might strike a partnership to mutual advantage. Lancelot felt insulted, but retained enough mastery of himself to reply that he would think it over. As he gave no signs of life or thought, the popular composer then wrote to him at length on the subject, offering him fifty pounds for the job, half of it on account. Lancelot was in sore straits when he got the letter, for his stock of money was dwindling to vanishing point, and he dallied with the temptation sufficiently to take the letter home with him. But his spirit was not yet broken, and the letter, crumpled like a rag, was picked up by Mary Ann and straightened out, and carefully placed upon the mantel-shelf. Time did something of a similar service for Mary Ann herself, picking her up from the crumpled attitude in which Lancelot had detected her on the doorstep, straightening her out again, and replacing her upon her semi-poetic pedestal. But, as with the cream-laid notepaper, the wrinklings could not be effaced entirely; which was more serious for Mary Ann. Not that Mary Ann was conscious of these diverse humours in Lancelot. Unconscious of changes in herself, she could not conceive herself related to his variations of mood; still less did she realise the inward struggle of which she was the cause. She was vaguely aware that he had external worries, for all his grandeur, and if he was by turns brusque, affectionate, indifferent, playful, brutal, charming, callous, demonstrative, she no more connected herself with these vicissitudes than with the caprices of the weather. If her sun smiled once a day it was enough. How should she know that his indifference was often a victory over himself, as his amativeness was a defeat? If any excuse could be found for Lancelot, it would be that which he administered to his conscience morning and evening like a soothing syrup. His position was grown so desperate that Mary Ann almost stood between him and suicide. Continued disappointment made his soul sick; his proud heart fed on itself. He would bite his lips till the blood came, vowing never to give in. And not only would he not move an inch from his ideal, he would rather die than gratify Peter by falling back on him; he would never even accept that cheque which was virtually his own. It was wonderful how, in his stoniest moments, the sight of Mary Ann's candid face, eloquent with dumb devotion, softened and melted him. He would take her gloved hand and press it silently. And Mary Ann never knew one iota of his inmost thought! He could not bring himself to that; indeed, she never for a moment appeared to him in the light of an intelligent being; at her best she was a sweet, simple, loving child. And he scarce spoke to her at all now--theirs was a silent communion--he had no heart to converse with her as he had done. The piano, too, was almost silent; the canary sang less and less, though spring was coming, and glints of sunshine stole between the wires of its cage; even Beethoven sometimes failed to bark when there was a knock at the street door. And at last there came a day when--for the first time in his life--Lancelot inspected his wardrobe, and hunted together his odds and ends of jewelry. From this significant task he was aroused by hearing Mrs. Leadbatter coughing in his sitting-room. He went in with an interrogative look. "Oh, my chest!" said Mrs. Leadbatter, patting it. "It's no use my denyin' of it, sir, I'm done up. It's as much as I can do to crawl up to the top to bed. I'm thinkin' I shall have to make up a bed in the kitchen. It only shows 'ow right I was to send for my Rosie, though quite the lady, and where will you find a nattier nursemaid in all Bayswater?" "Nowhere," assented Lancelot automatically. "Oh, I didn't know you'd noticed her running in to see 'er pore old mother of a Sunday arternoon," said Mrs. Leadbatter, highly gratified. "Well, sir, I won't say anything about the hextry gas, though a poor widder and sevenpence hextry on the thousand, but I'm thinkin' if you would give my Rosie a lesson once a week on that there pianner, it would be a kind of set-off, for you know, sir, the policeman tells me your winder is a landmark to 'im on the foggiest nights." Lancelot flushed, then wrinkled his brows. This was a new idea altogether. Mrs. Leadbatter stood waiting for his reply, with a deferential smile tempered by asthmatic contortions. "But have you got a piano of your own?" "Oh no, sir," cried Mrs. Leadbatter almost reproachfully. "Well; but how is your Rosie to practise? One lesson a week is of very little use anyway, but unless she practises a good deal it'll only be a waste of time." "Ah, you don't know my Rosie," said Mrs. Leadbatter, shaking her head with sceptical pride. "You mustn't judge by other gels--the way that gel picks up things is--well, I'll just tell you what 'er school-teacher, Miss Whiteman, said. She says----" "My good lady," interrupted Lancelot, "I practised six hours a day myself." "Yes, but it don't come so natural to a man," said Mrs. Leadbatter, unshaken. "And it don't look natural neither to see a man playin' the pianner--it's like seein' him knittin'." But Lancelot was knitting his brows in a way that was exceedingly natural. "I may as well tell you at once that what you propose is impossible. First of all, because I am doubtful whether I shall remain in these rooms; and secondly, because I am giving up the piano immediately. I only have it on hire, and I--I----" He felt himself blushing. "Oh, what a pity!" interrupted Mrs. Leadbatter. "You might as well let me go on payin' the hinstalments, instead of lettin' all you've paid go for nothing. Rosie ain't got much time, but I could allow 'er a 'our a day if it was my own pianner." Lancelot explained "hire" did not mean the "hire system." But the idea of acquiring the piano having once fired Mrs. Leadbatter's brain, could not be extinguished. The unexpected conclusion arrived at was that she was to purchase the piano on the hire system, allowing it to stand in Lancelot's room, and that five shillings a week should be taken off his rent in return for six lessons of an hour each, one of the hours counterbalancing the gas grievance. Reviewing the bargain, when Mrs. Leadbatter was gone, Lancelot did not think it at all bad for him. "Use of the piano. Gas," he murmured, with a pathetic smile, recalling the advertisements he had read before lighting on Mrs. Leadbatter's. "And five shillings a week--it's a considerable relief! There's no loss of dignity either--for nobody will know. But I wonder what the governor would have said!" The thought shook him with silent laughter; a spectator might have fancied he was sobbing. But, after the lessons began, it might almost be said it was only when a spectator was present that he was not sobbing. For Rosie, who was an awkward, ungraceful young person, proved to be the dullest and most butter-fingered pupil ever invented for the torture of teachers; at least, so Lancelot thought, but then he had never had any other pupils, and was not patient. It must be admitted, though, that Rosie giggled perpetually, apparently finding endless humour in her own mistakes. But the climax of the horror was the attendance of Mrs. Leadbatter at the lessons, for, to Lancelot's consternation, she took it for granted that her presence was part of the contract. She marched into the room in her best cap, and sat, smiling, in the easy-chair, wheezing complacently and beating time with her foot. Occasionally she would supplement Lancelot's critical observations. "It ain't as I fears to trust 'er with you, sir," she also remarked about three times a week, "for I knows, sir, you're a gentleman. But it's the neighbours; they never can mind their own business. I told 'em you was going to give my Rosie lessons, and you know, sir, that they _will_ talk of what don't concern 'em. And, after all, sir, it's an hour, and an hour is sixty minutes, ain't it, sir?" And Lancelot, groaning inwardly, and unable to deny this chronometry, felt that an ironic Providence was punishing him for his attentions to Mary Ann. And yet he only felt more tenderly towards Mary Ann. Contrasted with these two vulgar females, whom he came to conceive as her oppressors, sitting in gauds and finery, and taking lessons which had better befitted their Cinderella--the figure of Mary Ann definitely reassumed some of its antediluvian poetry, if we may apply the adjective to that catastrophic washing of the steps. And Mary Ann herself had grown gloomier--once or twice he thought she had been crying, though he was too numbed and apathetic to ask, and was incapable of suspecting that Rosie had anything to do with her tears. He hardly noticed that Rosie had taken to feeding the canary; the question of how he should feed himself was becoming every day more and more menacing. He saw starvation slowly closing in upon him like the walls of a torture-chamber. He had grown quite familiar with the pawnshop now, though he still slipped in as though his goods were stolen. And at last there came a moment when Lancelot felt he could bear it no longer. And then he suddenly saw daylight. Why should he teach only Rosie? Nay, why should he teach Rosie at all? If he _was_ reduced to giving lessons--and after all it was no degradation to do so, no abandonment of his artistic ideal, rather a solution of the difficulty so simple that he wondered it had not occurred to him before--why should he give them at so wretched a price? He would get another pupil, other pupils, who would enable him to dispense with the few shillings he made by Rosie. He would not ask anybody to recommend him pupils--there was no need for his acquaintances to know, and if he asked Peter, Peter would probably play him some philanthropic trick. No, he would advertise. After he had spent his last gold breast-pin in advertisements, he realised that to get piano-forte pupils in London was as easy as to get songs published. By the time he had quite realised it, it was May, and then he sat down to realise his future. The future was sublimely simple--as simple as his wardrobe had grown. All his clothes were on his back. In a week or two he would be on the streets; for a poor widow could not be expected to lodge, partially board (with use of the piano, gas), an absolutely penniless young gentleman, though he combined the blood of twenty county families with the genius of a pleiad of tone-poets. There was only one bright spot in the prospect. Rosie's lessons would come to an end. What he would do when he got on the streets was not so clear as the rest of this prophetic vision. He might take to a barrel-organ--but that would be a cruel waste of his artistic touch. Perhaps he would die on a doorstep, like the professor of many languages whose starvation was recorded in that very morning's paper. Thus, driven by the saturnine necessity that sneers at our puny resolutions, Lancelot began to meditate surrender. For surrender of some sort must be--either of life or ideal. After so steadfast and protracted a struggle--oh, it was cruel, it was terrible; how noble, how high-minded he had been; and this was how the fates dealt with him--but at that moment---- "Sw--eêt" went the canary, and filled the room with its rapturous demi-semi-quavers, its throat swelling, its little body throbbing with joy of the sunshine. And then Lancelot remembered--not the joy of the sunshine, not the joy of life--no, merely Mary Ann. Noble! high-minded! No, let Peter think that, let posterity think that. But he could not cozen himself thus! He had fallen--horribly, vulgarly. How absurd of him to set himself up as a saint, a martyr, an idealist! He could not divide himself into two compartments like that and pretend that only one counted in his character. Who was he, to talk of dying for art? No, he was but an everyday man. He wanted Mary Ann--yes, he might as well admit that to himself now. It was no use hum-bugging himself any longer. Why should he give her up? She was his discovery, his treasure-trove, his property. And if he could stoop to her, why should he not stoop to popular work, to devilling, to anything that would rid him of these sordid cares? Bah! away with all pretences? Was not this shamefaced pawning as vulgar, as wounding to the artist's soul, as the turning out of tawdry melodies? Yes, he would escape from Mrs. Leadbatter and her Rosie; he would write to that popular composer--he had noticed his letter lying on the mantel-piece the other day--and accept the fifty pounds, and whatever he did he could do anonymously, so that Peter wouldn't know, after all; he would escape from this wretched den and take a flat far away, somewhere where nobody knew him, and there he would sit and work, with Mary Ann for his housekeeper. Poor Mary Ann! How glad she would be when he told her! The tears came into his eyes as he thought of her naïve delight. He would rescue her from this horrid, monotonous slavery, and--happy thought--he would have her to give lessons to instead of Rosie. Yes, he would refine her; prune away all that reminded him of her wild growth, so that it might no longer humiliate him to think to what a companion he had sunk. How happy they would be! Of course the world would censure him if it knew, but the world was stupid and prosaic, and measured all things by its coarse rule of thumb. It was the best thing that could happen to Mary Ann--the best thing in the world. And then the world _wouldn't_ know. "Sw--eêt," went the canary. "Sw--eêt." This time the joy of the bird penetrated to his own soul--the joy of life, the joy of the sunshine. He rang the bell violently, as though he were sounding a clarion of defiance, the trumpet of youth. Mary Ann knocked at the door, came in, and began to draw on her gloves. He was in a mad mood--the incongruity struck him so that he burst out into a roar of laughter. Mary Ann paused, flushed, and bit her lip. The touch of resentment he had never noted before gave her a novel charm, spicing her simplicity. He came over to her and took her half-bare hands. No, they were not so terrible, after all. Perhaps she had awakened to her iniquities, and had been trying to wash them white. His last hesitation as to her worthiness to live with him vanished. "Mary Ann," he said, "I'm going to leave these rooms." The flush deepened, but the anger faded. She was a child again--her big eyes full of tears. He felt her hands tremble in his. "Mary Ann," he went on, "how would you like me to take you with me?" "Do you mean it, sir?" she asked eagerly. "Yes, dear." It was the first time he had used the word. The blood throbbed madly in her ears. "If you will come with me--and be my little housekeeper--we will go away to some nice spot, and be quite alone together--in the country if you like, amid the foxglove and the meadowsweet, or by the green waters, where you shall stand in the sunset and dream; and I will teach you music and the piano"--her eyes dilated--"and you shall not do any of this wretched nasty work any more. What do you say?" "Sw--eêt, sw--eêt," said the canary in thrilling jubilation. Her happiness was choking her--she could not speak. "And we will take the canary, too--unless I say good-bye to you as well." "Oh no, you mustn't leave us here!" "And then," he said slowly, "it will not be good-bye--nor good-night. Do you understand?" "Yes, yes," she breathed, and her face shone. "But think, think, Mary Ann," he said, a sudden pang of compunction shooting through his breast. He released her hands. "_Do_ you understand?" "I understand--I shall be with you, always." He replied uneasily: "I shall look after you--always." "Yes, yes," she breathed. Her bosom heaved. "Always." Then his very first impression of her as "a sort of white Topsy" recurred to him suddenly and flashed into speech. "Mary Ann, I don't believe you know how you came into the world. I dare say you 'specs you growed.'" "No, sir," said Mary Ann gravely; "God made me." That shook him strangely for a moment. But the canary sang on: "Sw-eêt. Sw-w-w-w-w-eêt." III And so it was settled. He wrote the long-delayed answer to the popular composer, found him still willing to give out his orchestration, and they met by appointment at the club. "I've got hold of a splendid book," said the popular composer. "Awfully clever; jolly original. Bound to go--from the French, you know. Haven't had time to set to work on it--old engagement to run over to Monte Carlo for a few days--but I'll leave you the book; you might care to look over it. And--I say--if any catchy tunes suggest themselves as you go along, you might just jot them down, you know. Not worth while losing an idea; eh, my boy! Ha! ha! ha! Well, good-bye. See you again when I come back; don't suppose I shall be away more than a month. Good-bye!" And, having shaken Lancelot's hand with tremendous cordiality, the popular composer rushed downstairs and into a hansom. Lancelot walked home with the libretto and the five five-pound notes. He asked for Mrs. Leadbatter, and gave her a week's notice. He wanted to drop Rosie immediately, on the plea of pressure of work, but her mother received the suggestion with ill-grace, and said that Rosie should come up and practise on her own piano all the same, so he yielded to the complexities of the situation, and found hope a wonderful sweetener of suffering. Despite Rosie and her giggling, and Mrs. Leadbatter and her best cap and her asthma, the week went by almost cheerfully. He worked regularly at the comic opera, nearly as happy as the canary which sang all day long, and, though scarcely a word more passed between him and Mary Ann, their eyes met ever and anon in the consciousness of a sweet secret. It was already Friday afternoon. He gathered together his few personal belongings--his books, his manuscripts, _opera_ innumerable. There was room in his portmanteau for everything--now he had no clothes. On the Monday the long nightmare would be over. He would go down to some obscure seaside nook and live very quietly for a few weeks, and gain strength and calm in the soft spring airs, and watch hand-in-hand with Mary Ann the rippling scarlet trail of the setting sun fade across the green waters. Life, no doubt, would be hard enough still. Struggles and trials enough were yet before him, but he would not think of that now--enough that for a month or two there would be bread and cheese and kisses. And then, in the midst of a tender reverie, with his hand on the lid of his portmanteau, he was awakened by ominous sounds of objurgation from the kitchen. His heart stood still. He went down a few stairs and listened. "Not another stroke of work do you do in my house, Mary Ann!" Then there was silence, save for the thumping of his own heart. What had happened? He heard Mrs. Leadbatter mounting the kitchen stairs, wheezing and grumbling: "Well, of all the sly little things!" Mary Ann had been discovered. His blood ran cold at the thought. The silly creature had been unable to keep the secret. "Not a word about 'im all this time. Oh, the sly little thing. Who would hever a-believed it?" And then, in the intervals of Mrs. Leadbatter's groanings, there came to him the unmistakable sound of Mary Ann sobbing--violently, hysterically. He turned from cold to hot in a fever of shame and humiliation. How had it all come about? Oh yes, he could guess. The gloves! What a fool he had been! Mrs. Leadbatter had unearthed the box. Why did he give her more than the pair that could always be kept hidden in her pocket? Yes, it was the gloves. And then there was the canary. Mrs. Leadbatter had suspected he was leaving her for a reason. She had put two and two together, she had questioned Mary Ann, and the ingenuous little idiot had naïvely told her he was going to take her with him. It didn't really matter, of course; he didn't suppose Mrs. Leadbatter could exercise any control over Mary Ann, but it was horrible to be discussed by her and Rosie; and then there was that meddlesome vicar, who might step in and make things nasty. Mrs. Leadbatter's steps and wheezes and grumblings had arrived in the passage, and Lancelot hastily stole back into his room, his heart continuing to flutter painfully. He heard the complex noises reach his landing, pass by, and move up higher. She wasn't coming in to him, then. He could endure the suspense no longer; he threw open his door and said, "Is there anything the matter?" Mrs. Leadbatter paused and turned her head. "His there anything the matter!" she echoed, looking down upon him. "A nice thing when a woman's troubled with hastmer, and brought 'ome 'er daughter to take 'er place, that she should 'ave to start 'untin' afresh!" "Why, is Rosie going away?" he said, immeasurably relieved. "My Rosie! She's the best girl breathing. It's that there Mary Ann!" "Wh-a-t!" he stammered. "Mary Ann leaving you?" "Well, you don't suppose," replied Mrs. Leadbatter angrily, "as I can keep a gel in my kitchen as is a-goin' to 'ave 'er own nors-end-kerridge!" "Her own horse and carriage!" repeated Lancelot, utterly dazed. "What ever are you talking about?" "Well--there's the letter!" exclaimed Mrs. Leadbatter indignantly. "See for yourself if you don't believe me. I don't know how much two and a 'arf million dollars is--but it sounds unkimmonly like a nors-end-kerridge--and never said a word about 'im the whole time, the sly little thing!" The universe seemed oscillating so that he grasped at the letter like a drunken man. It was from the vicar. He wrote: "I have much pleasure in informing you that our dear Mary Ann is the fortunate inheritress of two and a half million dollars by the death of her brother Tom, who, as I learn from the lawyers who have applied to me for news of the family, has just died in America, leaving his money to his surviving relatives. He was rather a wild young man, but it seems he became the lucky possessor of some petroleum wells, which made him wealthy in a few months. I pray God Mary Ann may make a better use of the money than he would have done, I want you to break the news to her, please, and to prepare her for my visit. As I have to preach on Sunday, I cannot come to town before, but on Monday (D.V.) I shall run up and shall probably take her back with me, as I desire to help her through the difficulties that will attend her entry into the new life. How pleased you will be to think of the care you took of the dear child during these last five years. I hope she is well and happy. I think you omitted to write to me last Christmas on the subject. Please give her my kindest regards and best wishes, and say I shall be with her (D.V.) on Monday." The words swam uncertainly before Lancelot's eyes, but he got through them all at last. He felt chilled and numbed. He averted his face as he handed the letter back to Mary Ann's "missus." "What a fortunate girl!" he said in a low, stony voice. "Fortunate ain't the word for it. The mean, sly little cat. Fancy never telling me a word about 'er brother all these years--me as 'as fed her, and clothed her, and lodged her, and kepper out of all mischief, as if she'd bin my own daughter, never let her go out Bankhollidayin' in loose company--as you can bear witness yourself, sir--and eddicated 'er out of 'er country talk and rough ways, and made 'er the smart young woman she is, fit to wait on the most troublesome of gentlemen. And now she'll go away and say I used 'er 'arsh, and overworked 'er, and Lord knows what, don't tell me. Oh, my poor chest!" "I think you may make your mind quite easy," said Lancelot grimly. "I'm sure Mary Ann is perfectly satisfied with your treatment." "But she ain't--there, listen! don't you hear her going on?" Poor Mary Ann's sobs were still audible, though exhaustion was making them momently weaker. "She's been going on like that ever since I broke the news to 'er and gave her a piece of my mind--the sly little cat! She wanted to go on scrubbing the kitchen, and I had to take the brush away by main force. A nice thing, indeed! A gel as can keep a nors-end-kerridge down on the cold kitchen stones! 'Twasn't likely I could allow that. 'No, Mary Ann,' says I firmly, 'you're a lady, and if you don't know what's proper for a lady, you'd best listen to them as does. You go and buy yourself a dress and a jacket to be ready for that vicar, who's been a real good kind friend to you. He's coming to take you away on Monday, he is, and how will you look in that dirty print? Here's a suvrin,' says I, 'out of my 'ard-earned savin's--and get a pair o' boots, too; you can git a sweet pair for 2s. 11d. at Rackstraw's afore the sale closes,' and with that I shoves the suvrin into 'er hand instead o' the scrubbin' brush, and what does she do? Why, busts out a-cryin', and sits on the damp stones, and sobs, and sulks, and stares at the suvrin in her hand as if I'd told her of a funeral instead of a fortune!" concluded Mrs. Leadbatter alliteratively. "But you did--her brother's death," said Lancelot. "That's what she's crying about." Mrs. Leadbatter was taken aback by this obverse view of the situation; but, recovering herself, she shook her head. "_I_ wouldn't cry for no brother that lef me to starve when he was rollin' in two and a 'arf million dollars," she said sceptically. "And I'm sure my Rosie wouldn't. But she never 'ad nobody to leave her money, poor dear child, except me, please Gaud. It's only the fools as 'as the luck in _this_ world." And having thus relieved her bosom, she resumed her panting progress upwards. The last words rang on in Lancelot's ears long after he had returned to his room. In the utter breakdown and confusion of his plans and his ideas it was the one definite thought he clung to, as a swimmer in a whirlpool clings to a rock. His brain refused to concentrate itself on any other aspect of the situation--he could not, would not, dared not, think of anything else. He knew vaguely he ought to rejoice with her over her wonderful stroke of luck, that savoured of the fairy-story, but everything was swamped by that one almost resentful reflection. Oh, the irony of fate! Blind fate showering torrents of gold upon this foolish, babyish household drudge, who was all emotion and animal devotion, without the intellectual outlook of a Hottentot, and leaving men of genius to starve, or sell their souls for a handful of it! How was the wisdom of the ages justified! Verily did fortune favour fools. And Tom--the wicked--he had flourished as the wicked always do, like the green bay tree, as the Psalmist discovered ever so many centuries ago. But gradually the wave of bitterness waned. He found himself listening placidly and attentively to the joyous trills and roulades of the canary, till the light faded and the grey dusk crept into the room and stilled the tiny winged lover of the sunshine. Then Beethoven came and rubbed himself against his master's leg, and Lancelot got up as one wakes from a dream, and stretched his cramped limbs dazedly, and rang the bell mechanically for tea. He was groping on the mantel-piece for the matches when the knock at the door came, and he did not turn round till he had found them. He struck a light, expecting to see Mrs. Leadbatter or Rosie. He started to find it was merely Mary Ann. But she was no longer merely Mary Ann, he remembered with another shock. She loomed large to him in the match-light--he seemed to see her through a golden haze. Tumultuous images of her glorified gilded future rose and mingled dizzily in his brain. And yet, was he dreaming? Surely it was the same Mary Ann, with the same winsome face and the same large pathetic eyes, ringed though they were with the shadow of tears. Mary Ann, in her neat white cap--yes--and in her tan kid gloves. He rubbed his eyes. Was he really awake? Or--a thought still more dizzying--had he been dreaming? Had he fallen asleep and reinless fancy had played him the fantastic trick, from which, cramped and dazed, he had just awakened to the old sweet reality. "Mary Ann," he cried wildly. The lighted match fell from his fingers and burnt itself out unheeded on the carpet. "Yessir." "Is it true"--his emotion choked him--"is it true you've come into two and a half million dollars?" "Yessir, and I've brought you some tea." The room was dark, but darkness seemed to fall on it as she spoke. "But why are you waiting on me, then?" he said slowly. "Don't you know that you--that you----" "Please, Mr. Lancelot, I wanted to come in and see you." He felt himself trembling. "But Mrs. Leadbatter told me she wouldn't let you do any more work." "I told missus that I must; I told her she couldn't get another girl before Monday, if then, and if she didn't let me I wouldn't buy a new dress and a pair of boots with her sovereign--it isn't suvrin, is it, sir?" "No," murmured Lancelot, smiling in spite of himself. "With her sovereign. And I said I would be all dirty on Monday." "But what can you get for a sovereign?" he asked irrelevantly. He felt his mind wandering away from him. "Oh, ever such a pretty dress!" The picture of Mary Ann in a pretty dress painted itself upon the darkness. How lovely the child would look in some creamy white evening dress with a rose in her hair. He wondered that in all his thoughts of their future he had never dressed her up thus in fancy, to feast his eyes on the vision. "And so the vicar will find you in a pretty dress," he said at last. "No, sir." "But you promised Mrs. Leadbatter to----" "I promised to buy a dress with her sovereign. But I shan't be here when the vicar comes. He can't come till the afternoon." "Why, where will you be?" he said, his heart beginning to beat fast. "With you," she replied, with a faint accent of surprise. He steadied himself against the mantel-piece. "But----" he began, and ended, "is that honest?" He dimly descried her lips pouting. "We can always send her another when we have one," she said. He stood there, dumb, glad of the darkness. "I must go down now," she said. "I mustn't stay long." "Why?" he articulated. "Rosie," she replied briefly. "What about Rosie?" "She watches me--ever since she came. Don't you understand?" This time he was the dullard. He felt an extra quiver of repugnance for Rosie, but said nothing, while Mary Ann briskly lit the gas and threw some coals on the decaying fire. He was pleased she was going down; he was suffocating; he did not know what to say to her. And yet, as she was disappearing through the doorway, he had a sudden feeling things couldn't be allowed to remain an instant in this impossible position. "Mary Ann," he cried. "Yessir." She turned back--her face wore merely the expectant expression of a summoned servant. The childishness of her behaviour confused him, irritated him. "Are you foolish?" he cried suddenly; half regretting the phrase the instant he had uttered it. Her lip twitched. "No, Mr. Lancelot!" she faltered. "But you talk as if you were," he said less roughly. "You mustn't run away from the vicar just when he is going to take you to the lawyer's to certify who you are, and see that you get your money." "But I don't want to go with the vicar--I want to go with you. You said you would take me with you." She was almost in tears now. "Yes--but don't you--don't you understand that--that," he stammered; then, temporising, "But I can wait." "Can't the vicar wait?" said Mary Ann. He had never known her show such initiative. He saw that it was hopeless--that the money had made no more dint upon her consciousness than some vague dream, that her whole being was set towards the new life with him, and shrank in horror from the menace of the vicar's withdrawal of her in the opposite direction. If joy and redemption had not already lain in the one quarter, the advantages of the other might have been more palpably alluring. As it was, her consciousness was "full up" in the matter, so to speak. He saw that he must tell her plain and plump, startle her out of her simple confidence. "Listen to me, Mary Ann." "Yessir." "You are a young woman--not a baby. Strive to grasp what I am going to tell you." "Yessir," in a half-sob, that vibrated with the obstinate resentment of a child that knows it is to be argued out of its instincts by adult sophistry. What had become of her passive personality? "You are now the owner of two and a half million dollars--that is about five hundred thousand pounds. Five--hundred thousand--pounds. Think of ten sovereigns--ten golden sovereigns like that Mrs. Leadbatter gave you. Then ten times as much as that, and ten times as much as all that"--he spread his arms wider and wider--"and ten times as much as all that, and then"--here his arms were prematurely horizontal, so he concluded hastily but impressively--"and then FIFTY times as much as all that. Do you understand how rich you are?" "Yessir." She was fumbling nervously at her gloves, half drawing them off. "Now all this money will last for ever. For you invest it--if only at three per cent.--never mind what that is--and then you get fifteen thousand a year--fifteen thousand golden sovereigns to spend every----" "Please, sir, I must go now. Rosie!" "Oh, but you can't go yet. I have lots more to tell you." "Yessir; but can't you ring for me again?" In the gravity of the crisis, the remark tickled him; he laughed with a strange ring in his laughter. "All right; run away, you sly little puss." He smiled on as he poured out his tea; finding a relief in prolonging his sense of the humour of the suggestion, but his heart was heavy, and his brain a whirl. He did not ring again till he had finished tea. She came in, and took her gloves out of her pocket. "No! no!" he cried, strangely exasperated: "An end to this farce! Put them away. You don't need gloves any more." She squeezed them into her pocket nervously, and began to clear away the things, with abrupt movements, looking askance every now and then at the overcast handsome face. At last he nerved himself to the task and said: "Well, as I was saying, Mary Ann, the first thing for you to think of is to make sure of all this money--this fifteen thousand pounds a year. You see you will be able to live in a fine manor house--such as the squire lived in in your village--surrounded by a lovely park with a lake in it for swans and boats----" Mary Ann had paused in her work, slop-basin in hand. The concrete details were beginning to take hold of her imagination. "Oh, but I should like a farm better," she said. "A large farm with great pastures and ever so many cows and pigs and outhouses, and a--oh, just like Atkinson's farm. And meat every day, with pudding on Sundays! Oh, if father was alive, wouldn't he be glad!" "Yes, you can have a farm--anything you like." "Oh, how lovely! A piano?" "Yes--six pianos." "And you will learn me?" He shuddered and hesitated. "Well--I can't say, Mary Ann." "Why not? Why won't you? You said you would! You learn Rosie." "I may not be there, you see," he said, trying to put a spice of playfulness into his tones. "Oh, but you will," she said feverishly. "You will take me there. We will go there instead of where you said--instead of the green waters." Her eyes were wild and witching. He groaned inwardly. "I cannot promise you now," he said slowly. "Don't you see that everything is altered?" "What's altered? You are here, and here am I." Her apprehension made her almost epigrammatic. "Ah, but you are quite different now, Mary Ann." "I'm not--I want to be with you just the same." He shook his head. "I can't take you with me," he said decisively. "Why not?" She caught hold of his arm entreatingly. "You are not the same Mary Ann--to other people. You are a somebody. Before you were a nobody. Nobody cared or bothered about you--you were no more than a dead leaf whirling in the street." "Yes, you cared and bothered about me," she cried, clinging to him. Her gratitude cut him like a knife. "The eyes of the world are on you now," he said. "People will talk about you if you go away with me now." "Why will they talk about me? What harm shall I do them?" Her phrases puzzled him. "I don't know that you will harm them," he said slowly, "but you will harm yourself." "How will I harm myself?" she persisted. "Well, one day you will want a--a husband. With all that money it is only right and proper you should marry----" "No, Mr. Lancelot, I don't want a husband. I don't want to marry. I should never want to go away from you." There was another painful silence. He sought refuge in a brusque playfulness. "I see you understand _I'm_ not going to marry you." "Yessir." He felt a slight relief. "Well, then," he said, more playfully still, "suppose I wanted to go away from _you_, Mary Ann?" "But you love me," she said, unaffrighted. He started back perceptibly. After a moment, he replied, still playfully, "I never said so." "No, sir; but--but----"--she lowered her eyes; a coquette could not have done it more artlessly--"but I--know it." The accusation of loving her set all his suppressed repugnances and prejudices bristling in contradiction. He cursed the weakness that had got him into this soul-racking situation. The silence clamoured for him to speak--to do something. "What--what were you crying about before?" he said abruptly. "I--I don't know, sir," she faltered. "Was it Tom's death?" "No, sir, not much. I did think of him blackberrying with me and our little Sally--but then he was so wicked! It must have been what missus said; and I was frightened because the vicar was coming to take me away--away from you; and then--oh, I don't know--I felt--I couldn't tell you--I felt I must cry and cry, like that night when----" She paused suddenly and looked away. "When----" he said encouragingly. "I must go--Rosie," she murmured, and took up the tea-tray. "That night when----" he repeated tenaciously. "When you first kissed me," she said. He blushed. "That--that made you cry!" he stammered. "Why?" "Please, sir, I don't know." "Mary Ann," he said gravely, "don't you see that when I did that I was--like your brother Tom?" "No, sir. Tom didn't kiss me like that." "I don't mean that, Mary Ann; I mean I was wicked." Mary Ann stared at him. "Don't you think so, Mary Ann?" "Oh no, sir. You were very good." "No, no, Mary Ann. Don't say good." "Ever since then I have been so happy," she persisted. "Oh, that was because you were wicked, too," he explained grimly. "We have both been very wicked, Mary Ann; and so we had better part now, before we get more wicked." She stared at him plaintively, suspecting a lurking irony, but not sure. "But you didn't mind being wicked before!" she protested. "I'm not so sure I mind now. It's for your sake, Mary Ann, believe me, my dear." He took her bare hand kindly, and felt it burning. "You're a very simple, foolish little thing--yes, you are. Don't cry. There's no harm in being simple. Why, you told me yourself how silly you were once when you brought your dying mother cakes and flowers to take to your dead little sister. Well, you're just as foolish and childish now, Mary Ann, though you don't know it any more than you did then. After all, you're only nineteen. I found it out from the vicar's letter. But a time will come--yes, I'll warrant in only a few months' time you'll see how wise I am and how sensible you have been to be guided by me. I never wished you any harm, Mary Ann, believe me, my dear, I never did. And I hope, I do hope so much that this money will make you happy. So, you see, you mustn't go away with me now. You don't want everybody to talk of you as they did of your brother Tom, do you, dear? Think what the vicar would say." But Mary Ann had broken down under the touch of his hand and the gentleness of his tones. "I was a dead leaf so long, I don't care!" she sobbed passionately. "Nobody never bothered to call me wicked then. Why should I bother now?" Beneath the mingled emotions her words caused him was a sense of surprise at her recollection of his metaphor. "Hush! You're a silly little child," he repeated sternly. "Hush! or Mrs. Leadbatter will hear you." He went to the door and closed it tightly. "Listen, Mary Ann! Let me tell you once for all, that even if you were fool enough to be willing to go with me, I wouldn't take you with me. It would be doing you a terrible wrong." She interrupted him quietly, "Why more now than before?" He dropped her hand as if stung, and turned away. He knew he could not answer that to his own satisfaction, much less to hers. "You're a silly little baby," he repeated resentfully. "I think you had better go down now. Missus will be wondering." Mary Ann's sobs grew more spasmodic. "You are going away without me," she cried hysterically. He went to the door again, as if apprehensive of an eavesdropper. The scene was becoming terrible. The passive personality had developed with a vengeance. "Hush, hush!" he cried imperatively. "You are going away without me. I shall never see you again." "Be sensible, Mary Ann. You will be----" "You won't take me with you." "How can I take you with me?" he cried brutally, losing every vestige of tenderness for this distressful vixen. "Don't you understand that it's impossible--unless I marry you?" he concluded contemptuously. Mary Ann's sobs ceased for a moment. "Can't you marry me, then?" she said plaintively. "You know it is impossible," he replied curtly. "Why is it impossible?" she breathed. "Because----" He saw her sobs were on the point of breaking out, and had not the courage to hear them afresh. He dared not wound her further by telling her straight out that, with all her money, she was ridiculously unfit to bear his name--that it was already a condescension for him to have offered her his companionship on any terms. He resolved to temporise again. "Go downstairs now, there's a good girl; and I'll tell you in the morning. I'll think it over. Go to bed early and have a long, nice sleep--missus will let you--now. It isn't Monday yet; we have plenty of time to talk it over." She looked up at him with large, appealing eyes, uncertain, but calming down. "Do, now, there's a dear." He stroked her wet cheek soothingly. "Yessir," and almost instinctively she put up her lips for a good-night kiss. He brushed them hastily with his. She went out softly, drying her eyes. His own grew moist--he was touched by the pathos of her implicit trust. The soft warmth of her lips still thrilled him. How sweet and loving she was! The little dialogue rang in his brain. "Can't you marry me, then?" "You know it is impossible." "Why is it impossible?" "Because----" "Because what?" an audacious voice whispered. Why should he not? He stilled the voice, but it refused to be silent--was obdurate, insistent, like Mary Ann herself. "Because--oh, because of a hundred things," he told it. "Because she is no fit mate for me--because she would degrade me, make me ridiculous--an unfortunate fortune-hunter, the butt of the witlings. How could I take her about as my wife? How could she receive my friends? For a housekeeper--a good, loving housekeeper--she is perfection, but for a wife--_my_ wife--the companion of my soul--impossible!" "Why is it impossible?" repeated the voice, catching up the cue. And then, from that point, the dialogue began afresh. "Because this, and because that, and because the other--in short, because I am Lancelot and she is merely Mary Ann." "But she is not merely Mary Ann any longer," urged the voice. "Yes, for all her money, she is merely Mary Ann. And am I to sell myself for her money--I who have stood out so nobly, so high-mindedly, through all these years of privation and struggle! And her money is all in dollars. Pah! I smell the oil. Struck ile! Of all things in the world, her brother should just go and strike ile!" A great shudder traversed his form. "Everything seems to have been arranged out of pure cussedness, just to spite me. She would have been happier without the money, poor child--without the money, but with me. What will she do with all her riches? She will only be wretched--like me." "Then why not be happy together?" "Impossible." "Why is it impossible?" "Because her dollars would stick in my throat--the oil would make me sick. And what would Peter say, and my brother (not that I care what _he_ says), and my acquaintances?" "What does that matter to you? While you were a dead leaf nobody bothered to talk about you; they let you starve--you, with your genius--now you can let them talk--you, with your heiress. Five hundred thousand pounds. More than you will make with all your operas if you live a century. Fifteen thousand a year. Why, you could have all your works performed at your own expense, and for your own sole pleasure if you chose, as the King of Bavaria listened to Wagner's operas. You could devote your life to the highest art--nay, is it not a duty you owe to the world? Would it not be a crime against the future to draggle your wings with sordid cares, to sink to lower aims by refusing this heaven-sent boon?" The thought clung to him. He rose and laid out heaps of muddled manuscript--_opera disjecta_--and turned their pages. "Yes--yes--give us life!" they seemed to cry to him. "We are dead drops of ink, wake us to life and beauty. How much longer are we to lie here, dusty in death? We have waited so patiently--have pity on us, raise us up from our silent tomb, and we will fly abroad through the whole earth, chanting your glory; yea, the world shall be filled to eternity with the echoes of our music and the splendour of your name." But he shook his head and sighed, and put them back in their niches, and placed the comic opera he had begun in the centre of the table. "There lie the only dollars that will ever come my way," he said aloud. And, humming the opening bars of a lively polka from the manuscript, he took up his pen and added a few notes. Then he paused; the polka would not come--the other voice was louder. "It would be a degradation," he repeated, to silence it. "It would be merely for her money. I don't love her." "Are you so sure of that?" "If I really loved her I shouldn't refuse to marry her." "Are you so sure of that?" "What's the use of all this wire-drawing?--the whole thing is impossible." "Why is it impossible?" He shrugged his shoulders impatiently, refusing to be drawn back into the eddy, and completed the bar of the polka. Then he threw down his pen, rose and paced the room in desperation. "Was ever any man in such a dilemma?" he cried aloud. "Did ever any man get such a chance?" retorted his silent tormentor. "Yes, but I mustn't seize the chance--it would be mean." "It would be meaner not to. You're not thinking of that poor girl--only of yourself. To leave her now would be more cowardly than to have left her when she was merely Mary Ann. She needs you even more now that she will be surrounded by sharks and adventurers. Poor, poor Mary Ann. It is you who have the right to protect her now; you were kind to her when the world forgot her. You owe it to yourself to continue to be good to her." "No, no, I won't humbug myself. If I married her it would only be for her money." "No, no, don't humbug yourself. You like her. You care for her very much. You are thrilling at this very moment with the remembrance of her lips to-night. Think of what life will be with her--life full of all that is sweet and fair--love and riches, and leisure for the highest art, and fame and the promise of immortality. You are irritable, sensitive, delicately organised; these sordid, carking cares, these wretched struggles, these perpetual abasements of your highest self--a few more years of them--they will wreck and ruin you, body and soul. How many men of genius have married their housekeepers even--good clumsy, homely bodies, who have kept their husbands' brain calm and his pillow smooth. And again, a man of genius is the one man who can marry anybody. The world expects him to be eccentric. And Mary Ann is no coarse city weed, but a sweet country bud. How splendid will be her blossoming under the sun! Do not fear that she will ever shame you; she will look beautiful, and men will not ask her to talk. Nor will you want her to talk. She will sit silent in the cosy room where you are working, and every now and again you will glance up from your work at her and draw inspiration from her sweet presence. So pull yourself together, man; your troubles are over, and life henceforth one long blissful dream. Come, burn me that tinkling, inglorious comic opera, and let the whole sordid past mingle with its ashes." So strong was the impulse--so alluring the picture--that he took up the comic opera and walked towards the fire, his fingers itching to throw it in. But he sat down again after a moment and went on with his work. It was imperative he should make progress with it; he could not afford to waste his time--which was money--because another person--Mary Ann to wit--had come into a superfluity of both. In spite of which the comic opera refused to advance; somehow he did not feel in the mood for gaiety; he threw down his pen in despair and disgust. But the idea of not being able to work rankled in him. Every hour seemed suddenly precious--now that he had resolved to make money in earnest--now that for a year or two he could have no other aim or interest in life. Perhaps it was that he wished to overpower the din of contending thoughts. Then a happy thought came to him. He rummaged out Peter's ballad. He would write a song on the model of that, as Peter had recommended--something tawdry and sentimental, with a cheap accompaniment. He placed the ballad on the rest and started going through it to get himself in the vein. But to-night the air seemed to breathe an ineffable melancholy, the words--no longer mawkish--had grown infinitely pathetic: "Kiss me, good-night, dear love, Dream of the old delight; My spirit is summoned above, Kiss me, dear love, good-night!" The hot tears ran down his cheeks, as he touched the keys softly and lingeringly. He could go no further than the refrain; he leant his elbows on the keyboard, and dropped his head upon his arms. The clashing notes jarred like a hoarse cry, then vibrated slowly away into a silence that was broken only by his sobs. He rose late the next day, after a sleep that was one prolonged nightmare, full of agonised, abortive striving after something that always eluded him, he knew not what. And when he woke--after a momentary breath of relief at the thought of the unreality of these vague horrors--he woke to the heavier nightmare of reality. Oh, those terrible dollars! He drew the blind, and saw with a dull acquiescence that the brightness of the May had fled. The wind was high--he heard it fly past, moaning. In the watery sky, the round sun loomed silver-pale and blurred. To his fevered eye it looked like a worn dollar. He turned away shivering, and began to dress. He opened the door a little, and pulled in his lace-up boots, which were polished in the highest style of art. But when he tried to put one on, his toes stuck fast in the opening and refused to advance. Annoyed, he put his hand in, and drew out a pair of tan gloves, perfectly new. Astonished, he inserted his hand again and drew out another pair, then another. Reddening uncomfortably, for he divined something of the meaning, he examined the left boot, and drew out three more pairs of gloves, two new and one slightly soiled. He sank down, half dressed, on the bed with his head on his breast, leaving his boots and Mary Ann's gloves scattered about the floor. He was angry, humiliated; he felt like laughing, and he felt like sobbing. At last he roused himself, finished dressing, and rang for breakfast. Rosie brought it up. "Hullo! Where's Mary Ann?" he said lightly. "She's above work now," said Rosie, with an unamiable laugh. "You know about her fortune." "Yes; but your mother told me she insisted on going about her work till Monday." "So she said yesterday--silly little thing! But to-day she says she'll only help mother in the kitchen--and do all the boots of a morning. She won't do any more waiting." "Ah!" said Lancelot, crumbling his toast. "I don't believe she knows what she wants," concluded Rosie, turning to go. "Then I suppose she's in the kitchen now?" he said, pouring out his coffee down the side of his cup. "No, she's gone out now, sir." "Gone out!" He put down the coffee-pot--his saucer was full. "Gone out where?" "Only to buy things. You know her vicar is coming to take her away the day after tomorrow, and mother wanted her to look tidy enough to travel with the vicar; so she gave her a sovereign." "Ah yes; your mother said something about it." "And yet she won't answer the bells," said Rosie, "and mother's asthma is worse, so I don't know whether I shall be able to take my lesson to-day, Mr. Lancelot. I'm so sorry, because it's the last." Rosie probably did not intend the ambiguity of the phrase. There was real regret in her voice. "Do you like learning, then?" said Lancelot, softened, for the first time, towards his pupil. His nerves seemed strangely flaccid to-day. He did not at all feel the relief he should have felt at foregoing his daily infliction. "Ever so much, sir. I know I laugh too much, sometimes; but I don't mean it, sir. I suppose I couldn't go on with the lessons after you leave here?" She looked at him wistfully. "Well"--he had crumbled the toast all to little pieces now--"I don't quite know. Perhaps I shan't go away after all." Rosie's face lit up. "Oh, I'll tell mother," she exclaimed joyously. "No, don't tell her yet; I haven't quite settled. But if I stay--of course the lessons can go on as before." "Oh, I _do_ hope you'll stay," said Rosie, and went out of the room with airy steps, evidently bent on disregarding his prohibition, if, indeed, it had penetrated to her consciousness. Lancelot made no pretence of eating breakfast; he had it removed, and then fished out his comic opera. But nothing would flow from his pen; he went over to the window, and stood thoughtfully drumming on the panes with it, and gazing at the little drab-coloured street, with its high roof of mist, along which the faded dollar continued to spin imperceptibly. Suddenly he saw Mary Ann turn the corner, and come along towards the house, carrying a big parcel and a paper bag in her ungloved hands. How buoyantly she walked! He had never before seen her move in free space, nor realised how much of the grace of a sylvan childhood remained with her still. What a pretty colour there was on her cheeks, too! He ran down to the street door and opened it before she could knock. The colour on her cheeks deepened at the sight of him, but now that she was near he saw her eyes were swollen with crying. "Why do you go out without gloves, Mary Ann?" he inquired sternly. "Remember you're a lady now." She started and looked down at his boots, then up at his face. "Oh yes, I found them, Mary Ann. A nice graceful way of returning me my presents, Mary Ann. You might at least have waited till Christmas, then I should have thought Santa Claus sent them." "Please, sir, I thought it was the surest way for me to send them back." "But what made you send them back at all?" Mary Ann's lip quivered, her eyes were cast down. "Oh--Mr. Lancelot--you know," she faltered. "But I don't know," he said sharply. "Please let me go downstairs, Mr. Lancelot. Missus must have heard me come in." "You shan't go downstairs till you've told me what's come over you. Come upstairs to my room." "Yessir." She followed him obediently. He turned round brusquely, "Here, give me your parcels." And almost snatching them from her, he carried them upstairs and deposited them on his table on top of the comic opera. "Now, then, sit down. You can take off your hat and jacket." "Yessir." He helped her to do so. "Now, Mary Ann, why did you return me those gloves?" "Please, sir, I remember in our village when--when"--she felt a diffidence in putting the situation into words, and wound up quickly--"something told me I ought to." "I don't understand you," he grumbled, comprehending only too well. "But why couldn't you come in and give them to me instead of behaving in that ridiculous way?" "I didn't want to see you again," she faltered. He saw her eyes were welling over with tears. "You were crying again last night," he said sharply. "Yessir." "But what did you have to cry about now? Aren't you the luckiest girl in the world?" "Yessir." As she spoke a flood of sunlight poured suddenly into the room; the sun had broken through the clouds, the worn dollar had become a dazzling gold-piece. The canary stirred in its cage. "Then what were you crying about?" "I didn't want to be lucky." "You silly girl--I have no patience with you. And why didn't you want to see me again?" "Please, Mr. Lancelot, I knew you wouldn't like it." "What ever put that into your head?" "I knew it, sir," said Mary Ann firmly. "It came to me when I was crying. I was thinking all sorts of things--of my mother and our Sally, and the old pig that used to get so savage, and about the way the organ used to play in church, and then all at once somehow I knew it would be best for me to do what you told me--to buy my dress and go back with the vicar, and be a good girl, and not bother you, because you were so good to me, and it was wrong for me to worry you and make you miserable." "Tw-oo! Tw-oo!" It was the canary starting on a preliminary carol. "So I thought it best," she concluded tremulously, "not to see you again. It would only be two days, and after that it would be easier. I could always be thinking of you just the same, Mr. Lancelot, always. That wouldn't annoy you, sir, would it? Because you know, sir, you wouldn't know it." Lancelot was struggling to find a voice. "But didn't you forget something you had to do, Mary Ann?" he said in hoarse accents. She raised her eyes swiftly a moment, then lowered them again. "I don't know; I didn't mean to," she said apologetically. "Didn't you forget that I told you to come to me and get my answer to your question?" "No, sir, I didn't forget. That was what I was thinking of all night." "About your asking me to marry you?" "Yessir." "And my saying it was impossible?" "Yessir; and I said, 'Why is it impossible?' and you said, 'Because----' and then you left off; but please, Mr. Lancelot, I didn't want to know the answer this morning." "But I want to tell you. Why don't you want to know?" "Because I found out for myself, Mr. Lancelot. That's what I found out when I was crying--but there was nothing to find out, sir. I knew it all along. It was silly of me to ask you--but you know I am silly sometimes, sir, like I was when my mother was dying. And that was why I made up my mind not to bother you any more, Mr. Lancelot, I knew you wouldn't like to tell me straight out." "And what was the answer you found out? Ah, you won't speak. It looks as if you don't like to tell me straight out. Come, come, Mary Ann, tell me why--why--it is impossible." She looked up at last and said slowly and simply, "Because I am not good enough for you, Mr. Lancelot." He put his hands suddenly to his eyes. He did not see the flood of sunlight--he did not hear the mad jubilance of the canary. "No, Mary Ann," his voice was low and trembling. "I will tell you why it is impossible. I didn't know last night, but I know now. It is impossible, because--you are right, I don't like to tell you straight out." She opened her eyes wide, and stared at him in puzzled expectation. "Mary Ann"--he bent his head--"it is impossible--because I am not good enough for you." Mary Ann grew scarlet. Then she broke into a little nervous laugh. "Oh, Mr. Lancelot, don't make fun of me." "Believe me, my dear," he said tenderly, raising his head, "I wouldn't make fun of you for two million million dollars. It is the truth--the bare, miserable, wretched truth. I am not worthy of you, Mary Ann." "I don't understand you, sir," she faltered. "Thank Heaven for that!" he said, with the old whimsical look. "If you did you would think meanly of me ever after. Yes, that is why, Mary Ann. I am a selfish brute--selfish to the last beat of my heart, to the inmost essence of my every thought. Beethoven is worth two of me, aren't you, Beethoven?" The spaniel, thinking himself called, trotted over. "He never calculates--he just comes and licks my hand--don't look at me as if I were mad, Mary Ann. You don't understand me--thank Heaven again. Come now! Does it never strike you that if I were to marry you, now, it would be only for your two and a half million dollars?" "No, sir," faltered Mary Ann. "I thought not," he said triumphantly. "No, you will always remain a fool, I am afraid, Mary Ann." She met his contempt with an audacious glance. "But I know it wouldn't be for that, Mr. Lancelot." "No, no, of course it wouldn't be, not now. But it ought to strike you just the same. It doesn't make you less a fool, Mary Ann. There! There! I don't mean to be unkind, and, as I think I told you once before, it's not so very dreadful to be a fool. A rogue is a worse thing, Mary Ann. All I want to do is to open your eyes. Two and a half million dollars are an awful lot of money--a terrible lot of money. Do you know how long it will be before I make two million dollars, Mary Ann?" "No, sir." She looked at him wonderingly. "Two million years. Yes, my child, I can tell you now. You thought I was rich and grand, I know, but all the while I was nearly a beggar. Perhaps you thought I was playing the piano--yes, and teaching Rosie--for my amusement; perhaps you thought I sat up writing half the night out of--sleeplessness," he smiled at the phrase, "or a wanton desire to burn Mrs. Leadbatter's gas. No, Mary Ann, I have to get my own living by hard work--by good work if I can, by bad work if I must--but always by hard work. While you will have fifteen thousand pounds a year, I shall be glad, overjoyed, to get fifteen hundred. And while I shall be grinding away body and soul for my fifteen hundred, your fifteen thousand will drop into your pockets, even if you keep your hands there all day. Don't look so sad, Mary Ann. I'm not blaming you. It's not your fault in the least. It's only one of the many jokes of existence. The only reason I want to drive this into your head is to put you on your guard. Though I don't think myself good enough to marry you, there are lots of men who will think they are . . . though they don't know you. It is you, not me, who are grand and rich, Mary Ann . . . beware of men like me--poor and selfish. And when you do marry----" "Oh, Mr. Lancelot!" cried Mary Ann, bursting into tears at last, "why do you talk like that? You know I shall never marry anybody else." "Hush, hush! Mary Ann! I thought you were going to be a good girl and never cry again. Dry your eyes now, will you?" "Yessir." "Here, take my handkerchief." "Yessir. . . but I won't marry anybody else." "You make me smile, Mary Ann. When you brought your mother that cake for Sally you didn't know a time would come when----" "Oh, please, sir, I know that. But you said yesterday I was a young woman now. And this is all different to that." "No, it isn't, Mary Ann. When they've put you to school, and made you a ward in Chancery, or something, and taught you airs and graces, and dressed you up"--a pang traversed his heart, as the picture of her in the future flashed for a moment upon his inner eye--"why, by that time, you'll be a different Mary Ann, outside and inside. Don't shake your head; I know better than you. We grow and become different. Life is full of chances, and human beings are full of changes, and nothing remains fixed." "Then, perhaps"--she flushed up, her eyes sparkled--"perhaps"--she grew dumb and sad again. "Perhaps what?" He waited for her thought. The rapturous trills of the canary alone possessed the silence. "Perhaps you'll change, too." She flashed a quick deprecatory glance at him--her eyes were full of soft light. This time he was dumb. "Sw--eêt!" trilled the canary, "Sw--eêt!" though Lancelot felt the throbbings of his heart must be drowning its song. "Acutely answered," he said at last. "You're not such a fool after all, Mary Ann. But I'm afraid it will never be, dear. Perhaps if I also made two million dollars, and if I felt I had grown worthy of you, I might come to you and say--two and two are four--let us go into partnership. But then, you see," he went on briskly, "the odds are I may never even have two thousand. Perhaps I'm as much a duffer in music as in other things. Perhaps you'll be the only person in the world who has ever heard my music, for no one will print it, Mary Ann. Perhaps I shall be that very common thing--a complete failure--and be worse off than even you ever were, Mary Ann." "Oh, Mr. Lancelot, I'm so sorry." And her eyes filled again with tears. "Oh, don't be sorry for me. I'm a man. I dare say I shall pull through. Just put me out of your mind, dear. Let all that happened at Baker's Terrace be only a bad dream--a very bad dream, I am afraid I must call it. Forget me, Mary Ann. Everything will help you to forget me, thank Heaven; it'll be the best thing for you. Promise me now." "Yessir . . . if you will promise me." "Promise you what?" "To do me a favour." "Certainly, dear, if I can." "You have the money, Mr. Lancelot, instead of me--I don't want it, and then you could----" "Now, now, Mary Ann," he interrupted, laughing nervously, "you're getting foolish again, after talking so sensibly." "Oh, but why not?" she said plaintively. "It is impossible," he said curtly. "Why is it impossible?" she persisted. "Because----" he began, and then he realised with a start that they had come back again to that same old mechanical series of questions--if only in form. "Because there is only one thing I could ever bring myself to ask you for in this world," he said slowly. "Yes; what is that?" she said flutteringly. He laid his hand tenderly on her hair. "Merely Mary Ann." She leapt up: "Oh, Mr. Lancelot, take me, take me! You do love me! You do love me!" He bit his lip. "I am a fool," he said roughly. "Forget me. I ought not to have said anything. I spoke only of what might be--in the dim future--if the--chances and changes of life bring us together again--as they never do. No! You were right, Mary Ann. It is best we should not meet again. Remember your resolution last night." "Yessir." Her submissive formula had a smack of sullenness, but she regained her calm, swallowing the lump in her throat that made her breathing difficult. "Good-bye, then, Mary Ann," he said, taking her hard red hands in his. "Good-bye, Mr. Lancelot." The tears she would not shed were in her voice. "Please, sir--could you--couldn't you do me a favour?--Nothing about money, sir." "Well, if I can," he said kindly. "Couldn't you just play _Good-night and Good-bye_, for the last time? You needn't sing it--only play it." "Why, what an odd girl you are!" he said, with a strange, spasmodic laugh. "Why, certainly! I'll do both, if it will give you any pleasure." And, releasing her hands, he sat down to the piano, and played the introduction softly. He felt a nervous thrill going down his spine as he plunged into the mawkish words. And when he came to the refrain, he had an uneasy sense that Mary Ann was crying--he dared not look at her. He sang on bravely: "Kiss me, good-night, dear love, Dream of the old delight; My spirit is summoned above, Kiss me, dear love, good-night." He couldn't go through another verse--he felt himself all a-quiver, every nerve shattered. He jumped up. Yes, his conjecture had been right. Mary Ann was crying. He laughed spasmodically again. The thought had occurred to him how vain Peter would be if he could know the effect of his commonplace ballad. "There, I'll kiss you too, dear!" he said huskily, still smiling. "That'll be for the last time." Their lips met, and then Mary Ann seemed to fade out of the room in a blur of mist. An instant after there was a knock at the door. "Forgot her parcels after a last good-bye," thought Lancelot, and continued to smile at the comicality of the new episode. He cleared his throat. "Come in," he cried, and then he saw that the parcels were gone, too, and it must be Rosie. But it was merely Mary Ann. "I forgot to tell you, Mr. Lancelot," she said--her accents were almost cheerful--"that I'm going to church to-morrow morning." "To church!" he echoed. "Yes, I haven't been since I left the village, but missus says I ought to go in case the vicar asks me what church I've been going to." "I see," he said, smiling on. She was closing the door when it opened again, just revealing Mary Ann's face. "Well?" he said, amused. "But I'll do your boots all the same, Mr. Lancelot." And the door closed with a bang. They did not meet again. On the Monday afternoon the vicar duly came and took Mary Ann away. All Baker's Terrace was on the watch, for her story had now had time to spread. The weather remained bright. It was cold, but the sky was blue. Mary Ann had borne up wonderfully, but she burst into tears as she got into the cab. "Sweet, sensitive little thing!" said Baker's Terrace. "What a good woman you must be, Mrs. Leadbatter," said the vicar, wiping his spectacles. As part of Baker's Terrace, Lancelot witnessed the departure from his window, for he had not left after all. Beethoven was barking his short, snappy bark the whole time at the unwonted noises and the unfamiliar footsteps; he almost extinguished the canary, though that was clamorous enough. "Shut up, you noisy little devils!" growled Lancelot. And taking the comic opera he threw it on the dull fire. The thick sheets grew slowly blacker and blacker, as if with rage; while Lancelot thrust the five five-pound notes into an envelope addressed to the popular composer, and scribbled a tiny note: "DEAR PETER,--If you have not torn up that cheque I shall be glad of it by return. "Yours, "LANCELOT. "P.S.--I send by this post a Reverie, called 'Marianne,' which is the best thing I have done, and should be glad if you could induce Brahmson to look at it." A big, sudden blaze, like a jubilant bonfire, shot up in the grate and startled Beethoven into silence. But the canary took it for an extra flood of sunshine, and trilled and demi-semi-quavered like mad. "Sw--eêt! Sweêt!" "By Jove!" said Lancelot, starting up, "Mary Ann's left her canary behind!" Then the old whimsical look came over his face. "I must keep it for her," he murmured. "What a responsibility! I suppose I oughtn't to let Rosie look after it any more. Let me see, what did Peter say? Canary seed biscuits . . . yes, I must be careful not to give it butter. . . . Curious I didn't think of her canary when I sent back all those gloves . . . but I doubt if I could have squeezed it in--my boots are only sevens after all--to say nothing of the cage." 
58239	----	the National Library of Australia (https://www.nla.gov.au) Note: Images of the original pages are available through the National Library of Australia. See http://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-358993523/view?partId=nla.obj-358994667 MEMORIES OF MY LIFE From My Early Days in Scotland Till the Present Day in Adelaide by MRS. J. S. O. ALLEN Adelaide J. L. Bonython & Co., "The Advertiser" Office King William Street 1906 DEDICATED TO THE LADIES OF SOUTH AUSTRALIA. In a sense I am no stranger to you. It may be asked why I should bring the names of people and the incidents of my life into book-form. Loneliness is the principal cause. What would become of me if I could not recall past years. I have written something of the history of what I have lived through. Many times over I have promised to write a cookery book from my colonial experience--I am talking about cookery all day. I try to live on recollection, although occasionally it hurts me. Many will discern in these pages some of the observations they have listened to while I have been giving lessons on cookery. It has been habitual to me to allude to by-gone days and customs. MRS. J. S. O. ALLEN. 77 TYNTE STREET, NORTH ADELAIDE. CONTENTS. Page My First Place 1 Life's Battle Begins 3 I Return Home 7 On the Coal Mines 9 I go to Glasgow 13 I Change my Occupation 16 The Country of Burns 19 I go to a New Place 20 I Leave Ayrshire 25 Dr. Dykes, Dr. Guthrie, and Dr. MacLeod 27 Another New Place 32 Abraham Lincoln 34 The Isle of Arran 35 Back in Glasgow again 41 I Decide to come to Adelaide 44 On an Emigrant Ship 46 I Arrive in Adelaide 52 My Father and Brother Arrive 60 I go to the South-East 65 I Leave the Station and Return to Adelaide 72 I go back to Sunnyside 80 Prince Alfred in Adelaide 82 I Leave Government House 86 I Get Married 91 A Parting of Ways 95 I Return to Scotland 98 I Arrive in London 104 I Return to my Old Home 109 I Reach Adelaide again 112 Housekeeper at Government House 115 I Return to my Husband 116 Yet Another Parting 118 Memories of My Life FROM MY EARLIEST DAYS IN SCOTLAND TILL THE PRESENT DAY IN ADELAIDE. MY FIRST PLACE. We did not talk of a "situation" in those days but of a place. My sister, who was a few years older than I, was out at a place five miles from where we lived. She came home, as she had not been well, and my father sent me to tell the people that Mary could not return for a few days. They asked me if I could stay in her stead till she was better. I was quite willing, provided that my father would allow me. They obtained my father's consent, as he said if I was any use they could keep me; so at the age of ten I began to be a house-servant. We had no mother. She died when I was six years of age. The name of the town was Denny, not far from Falkirk. The people with whom I went to live were bakers and confectioners in a large way. With their sons and journeymen and apprentices, in addition to the master, there were, all told, 12 men living on the establishment, and the mistress, with one daughter and myself, did all the work, except that a woman came to help with the washing. Some of the journeymen and two apprentices slept over the granary or store where the flour and other materials were kept. Every night at 10 o'clock those men and boys had to be in their room; one of my duties was to see that the door was locked and to bring the keys to the master. The mistress would bring them to me again in the morning at 4 o'clock, when I had to run up this long stone stair and open the door and tell the men it was time to get up. I always went back to bed again till 6 o'clock. It was a busy house. There was a large shop facing the front street, with two windows filled with beauteous cakes and confectionery. There were five carts to load up every morning, for the establishment served the locality for miles round with bread. Stirling town was not far off, and the neighborhood was full of historical events. The battlefield of Bannockburn was close by, and also an old castle; I was told that once it was the stronghold of Bruce and Wallace. I liked to wander through the old ruins on my way home from Sunday-school. I got to like the place, and they were kind to me. It was not displeasing to me when I learned that I could stop there for a time and that my sister would live at home. I used to go home about once a month. There were no tramcars or conveyance of any kind on that wild moorland. Nothing but heather met the eye all the way from Denny to Slamannan, which was the name of the village I came from. The Edinburgh and Glasgow railway ran through it, and we could see Stirling Castle from our door. I did not have much wages, but the mistress saw to my clothes and made some of them. I was taught to be careful and useful. One of the things I liked was to go into the shop window to hand out all the nice cake and confections. The work of bakers and confectioners has moved forward by great strides since then. For weeks and weeks the daughter of the house and myself had to help in the work-shop while some of the men and one of the apprentices were away ill with measles. I shall never forget the first morning I went to the bakehouse. There was a long trough, which stretched the full length of the bakehouse. Overhead there was a strong beam of timber, with ropes hanging down for a balance. In this big trough I saw six men with their trousers up to the knees, and they were tramping in the dough to make the bread. I put up my hands and gave a scream, and someone threw a flour bag at my head. I felt as if I did not want to eat any more bread. I did not like the way that they made bread, but I soon got interested in other beautiful work which was done, and I had to help. What I learned then I have never forgotten. The master told the mistress that she was not to give me any wages, as I was learning more than the apprentices. So he said I was to have no wages, but that I would have to pay him some "sil-ler" for what I was learning. When he said "sil-ler" he meant money. I knew the apprentices had to pay when they were bound for so long a period. Time went on and I was happy. There was one daughter who had a runaway marriage, sometime before I went there to live. The old folks had forgiven her and she and her husband came on a visit. It was the first since the elopement, and everyone seemed pleased to see her again. Even I, the little maid, was allowed to enjoy the gay times. They came from Glasgow, and had seen some style in city life. The gentleman brought with him an apparatus for taking photographs. It was the first ever seen in Denny. They fixed up a studio in the garden for him, but he did not take photographs to make money, but only as a pastime. It made quite a stir in the place. Ministers and doctors and all kinds of people came to see this wonderful thing. I will add here that this was 46 years ago. Things are different now. I had my photograph taken without my knowledge. I was sent with a cup of coffee on a tray in the morning as so many people were round that the gentleman could not come to breakfast. Just as I got to the gate I was told to stand still and look straight at what proved to be the camera. I was told to wait and get something to take back to give to Miss Isabel, and to ask her to put it in the shop window. I carefully carried back the parcel, never thinking it was my own photograph I had. It was taken on glass, and in some way it seemed to have a kind of tar put on. However, there I was, holding on to the tray, and on either side by the gate stood the doctor of the town and the Congregational minister. After I gave the picture to the young lady I could hear roars of laughing. All the bakers came running from the bakehouse to the shop, and I saw the people staring at the window. So I went to look, and when I saw my own picture was exhibited there I cried till they took it out of the window. That was my first photograph. I never saw it again. I was interested in all I saw. It was new to me after our poor home. I had one little brother three years younger than myself, and one sister four years older. Father became addicted to drink after mother's death. It was agreed that my sister and myself should go to service in alternate years. So I was to stop at my first place for two half years, or two terms of six months each. That was how you were engaged then. If you left your place before the term expired you were liable to be arrested, or at any rate, you would forfeit your wages. LIFE'S BATTLE BEGINS. To me life's battles began at the age of 10 years. I was known all about as Baker Miller's "wee maid." The family all attended the Congregational Church, and I had to go also. The minister's name was Dr. Jeffrey. The "Manse" was close by, and I was often sent there with messages. Dr. Jeffrey was a bachelor. I would find him sometimes digging in the garden, dressed up very queerly. He liked to tease me about having my photograph, which was taken with him that morning at the gate. What attracted my attention to him was his hair. It was in long ringlets, hanging down on his shoulders, and parted in the middle. When he was working in the garden or preaching his hair would hang down beautifully, like that of a lady. I went to his Sunday-school, and some words from him helped me, too, to face the future. I can truthfully say that I only knew the alphabet, and how to read from a little spelling book, some words to my mother who died a few days after I was six years old. My greatest misfortune has been the want of schooling. There was a school in Slamannan, but it was a mile from where we lived, and there was no one to care whether we went or not. People were not compelled to send their children to school in those days. I could read some easy words in the Bible and Testament. What I could not make out I would ask someone to tell me. There were family prayers every Sunday morning and evening, and all had to attend, or at least all who lived in the house. We had to read a verse each as it came to our turn all through the chapter, either in the Bible or the Testament, as the master gave it out. I did try to be able to read my verse, for fear that the apprentice boys would laugh at me--how I used to hope that my verse would be an easy one. I was fond of reading, and they gave me nice books, while there were so many old places about in connection with the "History of Scotland" that it was pleasant to read about the deeds that were done, and then to go and look at the ruins. As the time went on I grew strong and hardy, and there was plenty of good food. All had porridge and milk in the morning, with plenty of hot scones and butter, and relishes of some sort. There was no waste, and the mistress was a good cook. I was told that when she and her husband began business that she did all the fancy cooking. Even in my time she did a lot of things for the bakehouse. I used to help with the raisins and currants and lemon-peel, and the meat for the raised Scotch mutton pies and so on. Those Scotch pies produced more profit than any other item in their trade. When I come to think of it, even now, I remember that Saturday was the only day they made them. The large boards, on which the bakers used to carry the bread into the shop, would hold about eight or ten dozen raised mutton pies which were sold for two-pence each. Ever so many of the great boards were filled with pies and sent to meet orders all around. There was a fair in Denny every six months. Talk about pies! There were no clothing factories or shirt factories in Denny. There were, however, some cotton mills, to which I used to see so many poor-looking people going every morning when I was attending to the front of the shop and the private entrance. I often thought to myself that I was better off than them. The girls had no hats, and some of them had no boots, and they looked wistfully into the shop window. I know they were hungry. There were no sewing machines in those days. If a man wanted a suit made he would employ a tailor. The tailor would bring an apprentice boy and a large iron, called a "goose," and they would be there ever so long. Sometimes they worked on the kitchen table. Everything was made by hand; there was no machinery. I saw two dress suits made for the young gentlemen of the house. While I recollect how they made the outside clothing, it was evident to me that the tailors did not make the men's shirts and under-garments. These were made by women, and if a man's wife could not make his shirts, as well as wash and iron them, she would be the talk of the place. Quite wee "lassies" could knit their own and their father's or brothers' stockings. The wool was not dear. At a date more remote they used to spin their own wool. There was often to be seen in some lumber place the old discarded "spinning-wheel." Alloway was famed for its fingering wool. The women of to-day should be thankful to see how nicely they can dress their children and themselves. I often recall the apparel of the dim past. You could see well-to-do farmers' wives come to church, wearing a lilac or print gown in the summer, and in the winter it was replaced by a "linzewince," with a plaid or kind of woollen cloth or shawl. This was two yards long and two yards wide, and was folded to hang three-cornerwise down the back from the shoulders. And then the boys and the girls. I remember well seeing quite big boys with petticoats and pinafores when 6 or 7 years old. I do not mean the "kilt." It was just the same as that the girls wore. Of course the mother could make things like that when she could not do the needlework of tweed. There never was a time previously when dress was so becoming for all as it is at present. Think of the old grandfathers with knee-breeches and long stockings. I only saw my grandfather once, and that is how he was dressed. To say that I was always happy and had an easy life would not be true. I was often in tears and in disgrace. I would break some thing, or put things where they could not be found. I felt as if I belonged to nobody, and would have a cry to myself. Still, I must confess that I received kindly appreciation from all. The only daughter was about to be married, and I knew that neither myself nor my sister would be old enough to do the work when that time came. A healthy body makes a healthy mind whether happy or not, so I began to think of going home after Miss Isabel was married. What I had seen of my father did not comfort me. My heart cried out for someone to show me how to write. Miss Isabel was giving me lessons on a slate. From all I remember of our home life in looking back into the past, after all these years, I know that I did my best to gain instruction. I tried my hardest to find out for myself the way to do things. The months passed by, bringing the New Year. Christmas time was not much spoken of then. My master noticed how earnest I was, and must have thought that I should learn the baking. I could see that Miss Isabel could work in the bakehouse like the men. I got to like going there, too. What a time we had getting cakes ready for the new year. I remember that one bedroom had the carpet taken up and all the furniture removed and the floor cleaned, while the cakes were put in, and built on some framework nearly to the ceiling. It was the custom to give to the customers at New Year's time a fruit cake. They called it a currant bun, but sometimes it weighed from 2 to 4 lb. There were all sorts of fruit in them, with boxes and boxes full of raisins, candied peel, currants, and all sorts of spices. All of these were prepared in the kitchen, and I used to help often till late at night. I know that they were not iced like the Christmas cakes we see here. But those bakers could do some lovely work with sugar. What I saw then has been valuable and important to me all through my life to this date, which proves that a special interest in the usefulness of cooking may become a part of a young girl's training, as much as reading or writing. I have been teacher of cookery for many years now, and I teach without a textbook. Instead of giving pupils recipes, I teach that which I have tried and proved by experience. But I must keep to the bygone days. It was customary when there was a funeral in the neighborhood, and the people were not too poor, for them to send an order for a special kind of sponge biscuits, which had to be made at once. Sometimes such a large quantity was wanted that all hands had to help. If there were frost and snow about it was hard to whip up the eggs, so they used to get a good-sized cask, half fill it with hot water, and stand the mixing basin on that. The steam from the water helped in the whisking of the eggs. If there were no heat the eggs would be frozen while whisking. It was always my duty to whip the eggs. Then some skilled hand would come and put in some of the sugar, and keep on putting in more sugar time after time till the specific weight was used. Then the flour was added. At last I got so experienced that I could add the sugar myself by the appearance of the eggs, and, eventually, I could add the flour and take the basin of mixture to the bakehouse all ready to drop into the desired shape. I make sponge cakes in the same way yet, only here we require no hot water. I RETURN HOME. I may burn this some day, but still I will put down the story, or, at least, those parts that are most essential. I have no literary attainments fitting me to write a long book, though my memory would furnish me with plenty of material. I was in comfort and luxury in my first place, yet I longed to go back to my humble home and to my wee brother, who had not got into "pants" yet. Miss Isabel got married before I left, and as I continue my story I will have to tell some more about her. I got to like her so much that I would do anything she asked me. I knew she liked to see things look bright and clean, so I felt happy to be able to shine anything that I could. They gave me some wages, and the time came when I was to leave. I had on my best things, with the rest of my clothes tied up in a parcel, which was not very heavy. So I walked from Denny to Falkirk to spend my first money. It was not the only time I had been to that town. I used to visit it with father when he bought things for us, so I bought something for everyone at home, and my dear brother in particular. I can remember my thoughts yet. I was a good deal worried about my prospects. If I only had an oven I could make Scotch mutton pies to sell in the village. The face that I made some subsequently serves to show that knowledge and perception can be stamped on the mind of youth. And so I found myself at home. My sister went to a place close by at a farm. She had to help with cows and work in the field. I remember I used to go and see her. They had all sorts of things growing. Corn, wheat, and flax, which I liked to see. They pulled it up by the root and let it stand tied up in bundles. When it was dry it was thrown into a pond of water, formed by an inlet from the stream, and left there till it got soft and pulpy. Then it was drawn out and left on the bank to dry. The Scotch named the flax lint, and when the water in the lint hole was drained off the smell was something awful. I think I can smell it yet. What excited my imagination was that they told me that the beautiful fine white linen was made from flax, or otherwise "lint." It was taken in to the barn or hay house and thrashed by means of a "flail," an instrument used then for thrashing corn or wheat. There was no machinery for that purpose, at least in that district. This "flail" looked like two broom-handles, and was as long with a hinge in the middle. I never saw a woman doing the thrashing. It was always done by a strong man, but the women did a lot of work from the first. Quite young girls, from 12 years old upwards, were employed in pulling up the "lint." They got 4d. or 6d. a day. It seemed hard work. I never tried it, but I used to look on. Then, after it was thrashed, both old and young women would be employed tousing or pulling it out. After this "flailing" it was no longer a plant nor lint, but was called "tow." Then it had to be carded. I helped with the carding, which is slow work. Then I saw them spinning this tow into threads. It was no uncommon sight to see several women carry their spinning-wheels to a neighbor's house in the long winter evenings, and spin and laugh. I never got the length of trying to spin. I did love to sit and watch those that spun. There was the nice humming of the wheel, with no noise to distract the reason or the nerve. When I think of it I see the women sitting upright. It looked so easy, the wheel being very light, and made of wood for the most part. There was no bending over. I have compared the attitude since then with the attractive way a lady sits at the harp. It is so graceful, and just like the spinning-wheel. I may add here that a river in Scotland is always known as a "burn." The water is not hard, and the people did not have water taps in their wee houses, so we had to go to the burn for water. That would do for odd things and washing. Just think of it. This lint water went into the burn! Nobody wanted to wash clothes till that rolled off to the sea. In the summertime the housewives would bring their washing to the burnside and make a fire, and that was quite a picture. They would have a big tub, and they washed the blankets in this way. They had the water hot with soap melted in it. Then they put in the blankets, and a woman would take off her shoes and stockings (that is, if she had any on), and go in and tramp on the blankets. Young children were there as well as their elders, as the mothers could look after them, or they could be otherwise protected. We were not afraid of anybody with a camera taking snapshots, as such a machine was then unknown. I have also washed in that fashion. I would not have anyone think that the burn was the only water we had. Close by there were more than one beautiful well of spring water, but we had to carry it. Those who lived near the wells were best off. We had a yoke with a wooden frame shaped to rest on the shoulders. A portion of rope hung from each end with an iron hook to hold the vessel for water. The rope could be adjusted so as to make it suitable for a tall or short person. I have seen Chinamen carrying their wares as we once carried the water. It was the same in all the country places. But as if to make up for the water carrying we had no wood to chop, the coal being so plentiful and cheap. There were numerous coalpits all round and ironstone. We had not long lived there. I could just remember the nice home we had when my mother lived. Everything seemed so changed. The little house we lived in was at the end of a long row of houses all of the same size. The railway going through from Glasgow to Edinburgh passed close by. How I used to look out for the train, and particularly if the Queen was expected to pass. I only saw her once with Prince Albert. That was at the inauguration of the Loch Katrine water supply. Previously Glasgow had obtained its water from the River Clyde. ON THE COAL MINES. My father! How can I write of him. He descended from being a house-carpenter and having men working for him to the doing of rough carpenter's work about those awful-looking coal pits. I used to go there sometimes with his dinner if he did not come home. And then to see the men coming up and going down into the pits! Some of them were hundreds of fathoms deep. They descended in what they called a hutch, and the coals came up in it. It had wheels. When it reached the top someone pushed it off and wheeled it to where its contents were tipped out on a great heap of coals. There was an engine working all the time pumping water night and day. If it had stopped the works underground would have been flooded. No one could go down and no one could live underneath if the engine were not working all the time. I remember how I stared at the men entering the trucks in which the coals were brought up. How queerly they were dressed! On their heads they had a close-fitting cap made of leather, with a place in front to hold a small lamp that would hold half a gill of oil. It had a narrow projection at the side for a wick. Each man had to have his own lamp. I must say something about the manner in which those men and lads were dressed. Some were laddies from eight to nine years of age. Ah, and some were old men! In fact, there was nothing else for them to do, and they came from all parts of the country to work in the pits. They did not seem to mind it, but I had never seen pits before, and, while waiting for my father, in fear and alarm I watched them going up and down. They were the colliers, and rows of houses were built on purpose for them. Wherever you saw a coal pit there also were the houses, built on the same plan. Now about the clothing. I have mentioned the cap. Their shirts were of a dark, thick, woollen material, while their trousers and coat were of a warm material without any shape. They wore a leather belt round the waist, to which was attached a flagon of oil to fill up their lamps. If they had good, kind wives they would have on long knitted stockings and strong shoes with big nails in them. It looked horrible even to see them going down dry, but when they came up drenched with water or perspiration and all so black and grimy it was worse still. If there were frost and snow their clothes would be frozen on them ere they got to home. Frost and snow lasted many months in the winter in Slamannan. Each one had his own pick to take down with him and he had to bring it back again to get it made sharp for the next day. Some had more than one. They also took with them some food tied up in a handkerchief. When they were washed and clean I did not know them to be the same men and lads that previously I thought did not belong to the human race. The impression made on my mind then is as distinctly there now, even at this distance of time. I got the idea that they were different from ordinary men. Yet the children of the colliers took no notice of the things that filled me with fright. All the pits were not so deep as the particular one to which I had to go. There was a heartrending scene one day when a rumor spread that the "New Pit" was on fire. Thank heaven, all the men and boys had been drawn to the top. It was no uncommon thing to hear of a pit catching fire, through foul air or gas, which, if the miners were not careful, ignited and rushed through all the spaces whence the coals had been taken. Some of those pits had been working for years. But I never knew where coal came from till we came to Slamannan. There were many old pits all about that had been worked out. They were fenced around for protection. It made a lot of work to fill the long train of waggons every day with coal and ironstone, to be taken away to Glasgow and Edinburgh by rail. There were many other men and boys employed about the works beside the colliers. All the waggons and hutches for bringing up the coals were made there, and that gave work to rough carpenters. Then blacksmiths, engineers, clerks, timekeepers, and other men, many of whom never went down into the pits at all, were on the mines. I learned also that there were gangs of men who, under contract, cleared away the ironstone in the nighttime, after the colliers had left the pit. The stone had to be blasted out of its place with powder. It was as well, perhaps, that I did not know at that time, although I often wondered what was in some little barrels I saw stacked in the carpenters' shop. Years afterwards, when I was in South Australia, I had a newspaper sent to me containing an account of an awful explosion which happened in a carpenters' shop at Benny Hill, near Slamannan. Many lives were lost, including those of children who had come with their fathers' picks to get them sharpened. I knew the place so well, and I felt thankful that I was not there. How little do the people think as they sit at a bright fire what a risk to life and limb is needed in order to get this coal when it is so far down in the earth. I saw some very old women, who remembered when they were young having worked in the pits. I saw a young man that was born down in the pit. When the dear Queen Victoria came to the throne it was made illegal for women to work in coal pits. Here and there through Scotland a mine was found where they could dig in from a hillside and find coal, and get horse-power to haul the coal out, but never in such quantity as was produced when they dug hundreds of fathoms under ground. I am always grateful when I think how kind some of those colliers' wives were to us two "mitherless bairns," as they called my wee brother and me. In almost every house you would find a wood frame, on which the women did work called tamboring on muslin, in window-curtain lengths, or a hanging cloth for a bed. The pattern being stamped on, they tambored it over with a needle, very like a crotchet-needle. They also used a cotton made for the purpose. These women used to go to Ardria, a town eight miles away. They could go by train for a very few pence, but, to save that, I have known some of the dear creatures to walk there and back. You will say that they would wear out as much in shoe leather as they saved in money. But shall I tell you in a whisper that they would take off their shoes and stockings and walk bare-footed till they came near the town. They did the same on the way back. When the tamboring was finished anyone could take it back and get the money. Some would send their wee lassie on those messages. While I think of this long-ago time and the wives of the colliers, the memory of them is always dear to me. I found much kindness beneath what would appear a harsh surface. As a rule both men and women married very young. It was no uncommon thing to see a young girl of 16 or 17 with a cap, or what was known as a "mutch." When married, this strange-looking headdress was donned. It did not matter how beautiful the hair was, you could not see it for this mutch. It was made of muslin, white, of course, and with two and sometimes three rows of goffered frills all around, with long strings to tie under the chin. The old women wore them too, but not with so many frills. They were more plain, with a black band of ribbon around. Every now and then a strike would occur. It always involved a severe struggle between master and men, for a little more wages or some alteration in the work, but it was always about the pay. These strikes brought the workers to the lowest ebb. They never made complaints, but it was sad to see a battalion of over 500 or 600 men, young and old, marching about. They often suffered from hunger, for sometimes the strike would last for many weeks, so that they were reduced to an awful plight. On three different times a strike broke out while I was in that place. I am sure that no negro for whose liberty America was then in conflict was more miserable even in his bonds than those white slaves in the thrall of some of the uncharitable coal masters, who lived away in a grand place in great style in luxury. More than one of these poor women, with hungry children and a hungry husband, has said to me, "See, Annie, this is our last handful of oatmeal." There was some aid or relief organised from a fund that other miners would send, for if they were on strike their comrades in work would help to sustain them. There seemed to be a league with a kind of "help one another club," a kind of freemasonry. They would know if any were in distress, even so far away as England. So few of them knew how to write, but yet they were so kind to each other, were those colliers. There was a church in Slamannan, with a churchyard for the burial of all the dead. There were a few little shops here and there and a large store, which was also a public-house. You could buy drapery, china, wool, iron, or whisky. There, too, someone would bring his fiddle to a big room, and they would dance Scotch reels. They would gather from miles away, both the lads and their lassies. There were no law courts in Slamannan, so if anyone broke the law they were taken to Falkirk to be dealt with. There was only one policeman. He wore a tall hat and a queer kind of uniform, and he was well liked, for he did not take many to Falkirk if he could help it. There was a post-office, but such a thing as a telegram was then unknown. There was also a school, and the teacher was called the Dominie. He was not liked, as it was said he was cruel.. The schools were not so interesting in those days. Near those rows of houses known as "Benny Hill" there was a general store, where provisions of all sorts were sold, and whisky, too. Only to think of that maddening beverage--we had to suffer for it, my brother and I. All round the people were paid once a fortnight. How we dreaded the pay-day. Sometimes we would not see my father for two or three days after he was paid. He would go away with a lot of young fellows on what they said was a "spree." He would come back, but all his money gone. Sometimes with some more he would come into the house and bring a jar full of whisky. Then my brother and I had to run to some kind neighbor and stay there till they had drunk the whisky and got sober again. We dreaded my father when he took whisky, but he was nice to us when not in drink, and we loved him, and hoped he would soon get away from the coal pits. He did not drink when mother was alive, so I know now it was not habitual with him. I used to say then, and I have faithfully kept my word, that if I ever grew up to be a woman I would not have any whisky in my house. This was a strange, wild place. I wondered what brought my father to "Benny Hill." I was there only a little while before I went to Denny, and lost hold of the past. Almost a year had gone since the terrible experience of my mother's death, which had an effect on me as though I had been awakened from a dream. Some say that childhood's grief is short-lived, but what I suffered then will till the hour of death continue in my memory. Things got gradually worse. My father had a little place fitted up, where he did some carpentering work in the evenings, and people would come for odd jobs. All about there seemed so many who had "fiddles" and played, and many of them would get father to make a bridge for their fiddle. Then they would play cards and send for drink, and to get rid of the smell of whisky and tobacco we would drag the bedclothes over our heads and try to sleep. At last one night there was a fearful quarrel. We heard the things getting smashed, including all the crockery and furniture. I looked in and saw a man with his face bleeding.. I ran and picked up my little brother, and carried him to the house of a woman who had been a good Samaritan to us before. She made a shakedown for us in front of the fire, and that was my last night in Benny Hill for some years. I GO TO GLASGOW. I made up my mind that I would go to Glasgow to find Miss Miller, of Denny, so I watched till I saw my father go away in the morning. Then I went into the little place, which was awful to look at. Everything was thrown about, and my hat had been knocked off from behind the door and trodden on. So I had no hat. I knew where there were two shillings on a shelf. I took the shillings, and as I knew that when my father was all right he would look after my brother, I did not say anything to the kind woman, but went off to the railway-station and got a ticket for Glasgow, which cost one shilling and eightpence. When I landed in Glasgow I had not the slightest idea of how large a city it was. I only had the lady's address in my memory. Her husband was a wine and spirit merchant, Mr. George Stirling. I made enquiries, and found the street, but was mystified by the length of it. After wandering up and down for some time looking for Mr. Stirling's house he saw me, and, happily for me, he knew me as the little maid at the baker's. He said, "Little Susie, where are you going?" I told him I was looking for Miss Isabel. He stared at me, and asked me to come inside, while, sobbing, I told him all my trouble. While he came to the house at Denny he always called me Susie, and I did not mind. He said now, "Well, Susie, you cannot see Mrs. Stirling; she is very ill, and you must not call her Miss Isabel now, but I will see what can be done for you till my wife is better." So he sent some food for me, and wrote a note, and got a boy to take me to a friend of his in Argyle-street. This was a large place, known as the "Steak and Chop House." The proprietress was Mrs. Wilson, a widow with three daughters. In the note she was requested to find something for me to do till Mrs. Stirling could decide what was to happen to me. I was sent amongst the cooks downstairs, and I helped to do the vegetables and other things. This was in a very busy street, and it was a busy house. There seemed such a lot of people employed, both men and women. Everything was different to me, and the whole world was changed, and I did not care whether I was called Susie or Annie. I had to work underground in a room always lighted with gas. I did not see real daylight again for a long time. Through thick glass in the pavement some light entered a room where another girl and I slept. All night I could hear the people passing, and at first I could not sleep for the noise. I had a lot to do, and I did not like my surroundings. For instance, all the meat and similar food was brought direct from the slaughterhouse. A man cut it up in the different portions allotted for different purposes. He had the ox feet and the tripe for his perquisites. This was all done where I attended to the vegetables. How often I wished I were back again amongst the bakers. I liked that better. In my anguish I often gave vent to my feeling in sobs and moans when nobody could see. I could not write, but could only make symbols that had no meaning to me. They were only strokes and crooks. I saw nobody from Slamannan, and no one there knew where I was for the first six months. I got no wages, but the mistress obtained for me some little changes of garment, for which I was thankful. I did not see the mistress very often. She kept a woman as manager, and I thought she was the most awful woman I had ever seen. She used to take snuff. I never went to see Mrs. Stirling, being afraid of the thronged streets, but I learned that she was a little better, and had gone away for some months. So I thought the best thing I could do was to stop where I was till someone came whom I knew. There were always such a lot of people coming in and out, for although there was a framed card in the large window, stating that it was a "steak-house," there were all sorts of soups and roasts, with pies, and frequently gentlemen would order large suppers for their friends, sometimes on the premises, and at others to be sent to their flats or rooms, as the case might be. On a busy day I got to be helpful, and went into the rooms to assist the waiters. The day that Sir Colin Campbell was made Lord Clyde was the first time that I helped inside. That was a day never to be forgotten. We all tried to see him in an open carriage as he was driven to the Town Hall to receive the freedom of the city. I saw him going and coming back. The streets were something to remember. It was stated that many were carried out of their way, and did not get their feet to the ground for ever so far. I had been at this place for a year and some months when one day I was sent a message, I heard someone say, "That is Anna McDonald." To my joy, I saw two young men from Slamannan. I knew them at once. One was James Simson, and the other William Robinson. I could only ask them to come in and tell me if my father, sister, and brother were alive. They told me that I had been given up as lost or dead, and that all the old pit-shafts had been searched for my body. Still, through my disappearance and the shock it gave him, my father had become a sober man, and had entirely given up the drink. They never thought I had found my way to Glasgow. Both of them said together, "Your sister is in Glasgow to-day. We saw her." I just stood rigid and helpless till one of them set out to find her, and the other stopped with me until she was brought to me. Not a sound could pass my lips. We kissed and looked at each other. She had grown, and so had I. There was now no home, she told me. My father and brother were in lodgings and my sister still remained at farm service. I got permission for my sister to stay with me all night. She told me that she had been in Glasgow two or three times before to see if she could find me. The young men went back to Slamannan that night and told my father where I was, and a little while after my sister left, my father and my dear little brother arrived. That was the first time I saw my brother in pants. My father looked so different and so young-looking and well. I had no wish to go to Slamannan to live, so that was settled. I was still hoping to go and live with Mrs. Stirling when I would be a little bigger and stronger. I was very troubled about my throat, for I could hardly speak without an effort, it being very painful. I CHANGE MY OCCUPATION. A change came that I did not expect. One day a lady came in for some refreshments, and I was in attendance. She knew us, and she saw that I was not looking as well as my sister. She asked if I would come with her and help her with her children. Her husband was a contractor, and undertook railway works. With his partners he had a contract to build a railroad from Maybole to Wilmington, in Ayrshire. Wilmingtonn was close to "the banks and braes of bonny Doon." As some nice houses were on the route of the line, and would have to be pulled down, he lived at different places till the five and twenty miles of line was finished. I thought it would be nice to see once again the green fields and flowers, so I promised to go to Mrs. Scott. She had been a servant lass herself once, but she had a good husband and they were comfortable. She was then on her way to one of the houses near Maybole, which had to be pulled down. I had two more months of my time to serve, as I had agreed to stop for six months with Mrs. Wilson, and they did not like to part with me, but I would not agree to stop on after the term. I was to get as wages 30/ for the six months. We could not give a week's notice and leave. To give some idea of how this kind of business paid, I may say that Mrs. Wilson had a summer-house in a place at the seaside, "doon the water," as it was termed. The name of the place was "Killmunn." Another girl and myself were sent there to get some of the rooms in order, the youngest daughter, Miss Jane, being ill, and the doctor having recommended that she should be sent to the seaside. It was a good distance from Glasgow. We went in the steamboat "Iona," and saw Balmoral Castle as we passed. Mrs. Wilson's house had 40 rooms altogether. It was a beautiful place and very interesting with its house-boat and other conveniences. There was some lovely furniture, but it was all covered up with holland, and all the carpets had been taken up and carefully put away. The mistress and the young lady came two days after us, and they said that I would be able to do all that they would require for a week or two, so the other girl went back to Glasgow. Life was then brighter than it had been since I left Benny Hill. It was a new experience to me to see the ships passing. Many persons had their summer-houses there, and were beginning to arrive. I was sent up to Glasgow with some message all by myself, but it was pleasant, and I was not a bit afraid. A man and his wife acted as caretakers during the winter months. They were very old, but still useful. I used to go out with Miss Jane to carry her books and other things, and I watched the excursions or pleasure trips up and down to Killmunn. There were villas and what were called "self-contained" houses, let whole or in part, with sometimes "a but and a ben," which were filled to overflowing. All faced the sea and were close to the very water's edge, and so were nicely suited for summer visitors. What with the yachts and skiffs and the glad voices of the mothers and their children on the beach the place was very merry. There was nice shade from the trees. I did not think the five weeks we stayed there a long time. We returned to Glasgow a week or so before the end of my term. I saw Mrs. Scott again, and she told me that if I would stay with them till the railway was finished that they were going back to Slamannan, and I could go with them. So she gave me the address to put on my box and the money to pay my fare to Maybole. I went through to Slamannan to tell where I was going, and with whom. I had hoped when Mr. and Mrs. Scott came back that my father would have a house, and that I would live at home. He was still in lodgings, but I knew that I could stop there for a few days. It seemed like "auld lang syne" to me. And those dear kind women, how pleased they were to see me, and to tell me how I had grown! How different their speech, too, to the dialect of Glasgow! They said it was a long journey to Ayrshire, and tried to persuade me not to go. However, I liked the appearance of Mrs. Scott. She looked so motherly and kind. I was all excitement; I would have to go to Glasgow again, but I knew that I could get a train from the station at Glasgow right through to Kilmarnock, and change for Maybole, where they would be waiting for me. I went and saw my sister, who was still at the same place. I thought whatever I had to do I would never be a farm servant. It was rough and hard feeding and milking cows, attending fowls and horses and other animals. Sometimes she would harness a horse and go harrowing in the field after the men had ploughed it. I took my departure from Benny Hill, caught the train in the early morning, but had to wait till the afternoon, as I missed the train in the forenoon. I got a third-class ticket for 3/3 for 35 miles. I had a whole compartment to myself for the last part of the way, and went to sleep and did not hear them calling out to change at Kilmarnock for Maybole. I woke up and came out at the next station and asked where I was, when a guard told me I was in a train on its way to London. Then I cried, and asked for my box, and the man looked in the van, but there was no box of mine. He asked if it was addressed, and I said it was. He then remembered that it had been sent on to Maybole, and he said I should have had an address put on me too, as then I should be comfortably in my bed. It was then midnight. Some more men gathered round, and they were sorry, for me. They did not often see such a young girl so far away from home. They took me into the station, where a nice fire was burning, and obtained some rugs and brought me a cup of coffee and some bread and butter. Then they told me to go to sleep, as a train would be coming from London in the morning, and they would wake me up. I did not sleep, but cried all the time, for I thought I had lost all my clothes and my box. It was the first box I ever had, and I was so pleased with it. I did not look at the name of the station I had reached, as it was dark, but it must have been a long way, as I did not get to Maybole till about 8 o'clock in the morning. I found my box was there, and the people were anxious as to where I was. Mr. Scott made enquiries, and the railway men said that they saw a little girl asleep, but they thought I was with someone who was travelling by the train. They never thought of me as a lone passenger. I felt quite at home with Mrs. Scott and the dear children. It was my first experience amongst children, and I was delighted. We got into the trucks that were used on the line, and got pushed along as far as the line was made. Mr. Scott and Mrs. Scott also came sometimes. It was great fun. We nearly lived out of doors all the time. It was a grand house, but had to be pulled down, so there was not much trouble taken over it. I was very happy at changing from work by stifling gaslight to the light of day. A daily governess came a few hours to teach the children, and I also had lessons with them. It was a new life for me. I never heard Maybole called either a village or a town. It was only "Maybole." It was close to the house; it must have been very old. The buildings looked so gloomy and dark. There were no bright gardens or flowers, and, oh, the people were so poor! The only industry I saw was that of the weavers. The people all had looms in their houses--big, clumsy wooden structures. Men, women, and children all worked at the looms in such small places, and they lived and slept there. To me it seemed as bad as the collieries. There came a depression in the weaving trade, but I never knew the cause of it. It might have been that machinery was constructed to do away with hand-weaving. At any rate, I had once again the awful dread of seeing people perish with hunger. They broke out and took everything they could obtain in the way of eatables, while they tore off the palings and fencing, and armed themselves with sticks. They came to our place, and we could only stand and look at them divide the flour. I remember we had what was known as the American flour. It came in large barrels from the United States. Mr. Scott was up the line when they came, and they took everything in the way of food, but nothing else. They broke into the bakers' shops, and the grocery shops, and butchers', so we were told, and cleared away with all they could lay their hands on. I did not see much of Maybole, being afraid to go there. There were no tall chimneys to the mills or factories, or we could have seen them from the house. I saw the castle from which Sir James Fergusson brought his wife, Lady Edith Fergusson, who died in Adelaide, whence her body was taken back to the vault at the castle, near "Maybole." Meanwhile we tried to be ignorant of the excitement stirred up, as we knew we would not be long there, but the touch of melancholy was felt by all. THE COUNTRY OF BURNS. This was the land of Burns, and the district of Ayrshire. It seemed to be a large, plain, open country. The town of Ayr had a castle once, and the walks about Ayr were pleasant. I did like to go there. There were some old buildings, which people come from all parts to see. Churches are still preserved there as ruins traditionally famous. There was no smoke and dust in Ayr, as at Glasgow, and visitors could get easily to any of the places of attraction, either by train or steamboat. Ayr was nine miles from Maybole. Mrs. Scott was most ardent in every object about Burns, and she took us with her wherever she went. On one occasion, when at Ayr, we had luncheon at a tavern, the name of which I forget, but we were shown three such queer-looking old chairs, with high backs, and in the back of each were portraits. In the middle was Robert Burns, and on either side was Tam o' Shanter and Suter Johnnie. The chairs were only for show. They told us that those three jolly men used to meet in that room, and sit in the chairs. Girl-like, I did not pay much attention then, but in after years, as I grew older, it gave me joy to think I had seen them. The influences of those times entered into my being, and have grown up with me. For myself, I made it a rule to visit all the objects of interest, and I would go round and round them till I was tired. We all went another day to see Burns' monument. I gathered a few pebbles from the foot of the monument and had them for years. They are lost, but the journey lives in my recollection as if it was only yesterday. I saw a very old lady walking about and talking to the people. She had on what was known as a sow-backed mutch. Mrs. Scott told us that was the youngest sister of Robert Burns. Her name was Mrs. Back. I read the account of her death in the paper some years afterwards. Then we went to see the Burns' cottage. And, again, on my own account I visited it, and took all the children with me, from where they were building the railway. We were in the waggon with Mr. Scott and some other gentlemen. I heard them say, "That is Burns' cottage over there," and when they were not looking I started off for the cottage. It must have been quite three miles, and I had to carry the youngest child on my back all the way to and from the place. Mr. Scott was cross, and gave me a severe talking to, and told me if ever I did such a thing again I would not be allowed to come out in the waggon. It was cold weather. Little maids were dressed then in a print dress with short sleeves, low at the neck, and opened at the back. I was cold, and so were the children, and we kept them waiting so that they could not go back in the waggon without us. The gentlemen were either engineers or directors, for they had on tall hats. At least they were in position over Mr. Scott. They came from Glasgow to look at the new line. There were a lot of navvies working, and they had little tents all along the line. Anyhow, I saw the cottage where Burns was born on two different occasions. I saw both the outside and the inside. It was not a grand place to look at, but merely a whitewashed wee house. To think that a man born there would have a monument like what I saw made me think of my earlier years. I can yet remember the names of the places in passing to and from the place. Ayrshire has plenty of rivers, and on the Clyde years afterwards I saw where it began just a little burn. It was pointed out to me while I was in the train travelling from London to Glasgow. But I must keep to the far-away times. Ayrshire is divided into districts, and what always perplexed me was when a neighborhood was called a burgh. I liked the parts, such as the rough high hills and the Ailsa Craig, which you could see from a long way off. I GO TO A NEW PLACE. The winter came in and we had to keep in doors, but the line was getting near to an end. Mr. Scott got another contract on the Dumfries line, so I was to go back to Slamannan, but Mrs. Scott said she would be going through for a trip and I could go with her. Before the time came for us to go a friend of Mr. Scott's came on a visit from Grangemouth, near Falkirk. She was about to be married to a gentleman living at the railway terminus at Dalmellington. This was her second husband, although she was quite young. She and Mrs. Scott thought I would do nicely for her little maid. She had a little boy, whom she hoped to have with her. Mrs. Scott knew my home troubles. They asked me if I would go to Dalmellington with her when she got married. I liked the lady and I said I would go with her, or, at least, she was to come for me. It was agreed that when she went to Falkirk that I would go with her. So she came for me. The name of the gentleman she married was Mr. Macblean, and he kept the new Railway Tavern. It was all taverns, or inns, then, and seldom you saw a hotel. Neither Mrs. Macblean nor myself had anything to do with the drink traffic, for which I was thankful. Before I left Maybole we all went to have something woven by those poor weavers. I chose the colors I would like, and saw them put into the loom. I had that skirt in Adelaide as a reminiscence of that time of mixed feelings. Mrs. Scott also knew the housekeeper at the Earl of Cathcart's, on the banks of the Doon. I thought I would try any of the places rather than go to Slamannan, or stop at Maybole after Mr. and Mrs. Scott had gone. I did not seem to fear the people. I knew that I would have to go amongst strangers wherever I went. So it was all the same to me. I never regretted going with Mrs. Macblean, but, young as I was, I think I was right in my idea that she regretted having married a tavern-keeper. He was very unwilling to have her little son taken there, as he did not want the people to know that he had married a widow. I know she was not very happy, although he seemed a nice man. She had every comfort, but she did long to see her son. I was beginning to want to see my friends, and I missed the children, who were with me at Mrs. Scott's, and the out-of-doors life in the waggons. I had agreed to stay for six months, so I was made useful in the house. There was a big maid as well, but I kept with Mrs. Macblean for the most part. She was a stranger, and, as I knew no one there, we often went for long walks together. The place was delightful, and the absence of poverty a relief. I could see as the weeks went on that if her little boy was not allowed to come I would not be wanted there. The next week Mr. and Mrs. Scott and children came to stop at the tavern for a few weeks, and that was a great joy to me. They took me everywhere they went, while the children were affectionate and pleased to see me again. Then for the first time I saw that beautiful locality "the banks and braes o' bonnie Doon," which was about two miles or so from Dalmellington. The road was good, and there was pasture land, with plenty of cattle and sheep, and high knolls covered with grass and the sheep on top. The Loch Doon is said to be seven miles long and seven miles wide. It flows to the sea near to Ayr, and it is "banks and braes" all the way. I have often tried to tell my first impression. But this is the first time I have written about it. I know I cannot say much. There were two paths, one was close to the water and the other on top of the hills. The Earl of Cathcart's seat was most romantic. He was noted for his love of hounds and huntsmen. He kept stags and deer there. They would look at you and rush up the rugged height and get caught in the bushes with their wonderful horns. There were trees growing all the way up the side of the bank, so that on the top walk you could put up your hand and pull off nuts from such tall trees. I did not go to the top walk that day. But again and again I found myself on the braes of Doon. Mrs. Scott went to see the housekeeper at the earl's, and took the children and me. I thought it was the lady countess. She was dressed in black satin, with a lovely lace cap and white hair. She went to that family when she was a girl about my age. The place looked magnificent, and I learnt afterwards that 20 men were employed to look after the stags and horses and hounds. There was a page boy and ladies' maid, but no children. The ladies went also to the hunt, and I used to go and see them. The earl and countess only came there for the hunting season. It made me think of the colliers in Slamannan and the weavers in Maybole, and to wonder. There was a lot of queer talk about the earl. We had a peep into the kitchen, and never shall I forget it. There were men cooks and women cooks. The men always went wherever the earl went. Loch Doon was a favorite excursion, and for the fishing season some noblemen would come there and have tents erected with men-servants in attendance. The loch is famed for the trout and salmon, and is a good place for fishing for those who are allowed to catch them. Both coal and ironstone are found in many places in Ayrshire. At Dalmellington there was a large ironworks, where they smelted the ore into iron, and whence they sent it to all parts of Britain for making railway iron. They put the ore in a great blasting furnace. Then they made beds of sand all around to receive the melted iron in moulds while it was hot. It was generally well known when this iron would be let out of the furnace and the people would rush to see it and to watch the men gauging that red hot melted iron, so that it would run in to the moulds. It seemed awful. It was said those men never lived long, and no wonder, seeing how they worked amidst that fluid. I only went once, but we could hear when the iron was cast off. It always made me shudder. The tavern was not far from the railway-station, and on the road leading to Loch Doon. Mr. Macblean seemed to do well. Some refreshments were also obtainable, and there were a few rooms to let. After the Scotts went away I felt lonely. Sometimes I saw a drunken man, and on the Saturday nights such a lot would be about. Both Mrs. Macblean and I would shut ourselves in a dark room and cry. I knew that I was a long way from where my sister and brother were. If I could have seen them sometimes it would have been something to look forward to. Mrs. Macblean could not see her way to leave her husband and home for a week or so. We talked the matter over, and it was arranged I should go. I knew Grangemouth was close to Falkirk. I could go thence for a week's leave and see my friends and take some things to Mrs. Macblean's boy, she paying for my return ticket to Glasgow. I had some nice new clothing and was growing tall. I thought for 14 years of age I had seen the serious side of life and some of its vicissitudes, and had gained experience from my trials. I felt happy to go back, and I knew the places. I was not likely to get lost on the Caledonia and Glasgow line. I could write a little, but I did not let them know I was coming home. I thought I would take them by surprise. What wonderful possibilities lie in store for the young! I was glad to find that my father kept from the drink, and my dear brother, how he had grown! I did not see my sister for a day or two, as she had gone to a place further away. My brother came with me the next day, and we walked all the way to Grangemouth. It was a shipping port, with good-sized vessels lying at the quays. We had no trouble in finding the house of Mrs. Macblean's mother. Although close to the dock, it had a nice appearance. They knew by letter that I was coming, but they did not know on what day during my week's leave. I shall never forget the dear little son of my mistress. He was five years old. He wanted to be taken to his mamma. They were gracious and kind to my brother and me. I have seen many shipping places since then, but none so clean-looking as Grangemouth. They wished to keep us for the night, but we walked back to Slamannan that night. It was late, but we were not afraid. It was eight miles there and eight miles back. That made it sixteen to walk in one day, so we were tired the next day. I am quite sure that on some of the other days we walked just as far. I know that we went to Linlithgow to see someone we knew. We went all along the railway line and it was a long way, but we had no money to pay for train fare. It must have been more than nine miles there and nine miles back. From Slamannan the youngsters would think nothing of walking to Castle Carrey, a wood where a queer-looking berry grew wild. It was called a blea berry, and grew on short stems low down, not bunchy. The people used to send their children there in the season to pick those berries and make jam with them. They had to take a can or a jar to carry them. The juice of the berry was in itself a perfect dye, and it was amusing to see the hands and lips and teeth of those who picked or eat the berries. My brother and myself went, and our teeth were soon black like coals with juice. In Scotland we did not know anything about snakes. At that date I had never heard of them, so we could wander about without fear in the woods. My week soon came to an end, and I returned to Dalmellington. I did not like being so far away, so when I got to Glasgow I saw Mrs. Stirling. For her home she wanted someone who could do everything in a house. She thought I would be too young to be left when she went away. However, if I wanted to come to Glasgow she promised to do what she could for me, and then I would be nearer to my friends. It cheered me to know that. I had still three months to stop with Mrs. Macblean. I was taught to work and be handy and tidy, but I did not like the idea of being in a tavern. Mrs. Stirling advised me not to engage for another term, but to go to Colonel Cathcart's, if I wished to live in Ayrshire. I had no fault to find with Mr. or Mrs. Macblean. They were kind and good to me. The warm, bright weather continued nearly all the time. Mrs. Macblean and I had long walks all round in the evenings. If anyone was met whom she knew there was only a brief, respectful salutation and she passed on. I am quite sure she was a lady, and she was beautiful. We had no garden, not so much as a pot-plant about the place, but close to the end of the house a good, wide burn ran under an important looking bridge, or, as they were called, "brig." It was wide enough for two large vehicles to pass. The roads were splendid, but the buildings were strange. They must have been very old, and were built here and there along the roadside. Sometimes the end of the house would face the street, and often the side or back of the house would be next the road. Mrs. Macblean called my attention to them, or I would not have heeded them. The place had no pretence to the rank of a town, yet it was not called a village. There were two churches and a school. I took notice that, even if it were a tavern, the minister came and asked the lady to let me come to the Sunday-school, and I went to church with Mrs. Macblean. I never went to Sunday-school or Bible-class all the time I was in Glasgow. What with being healthy and strong, I began to take a bright and hopeful view of life from every point. I could write a little, and was fond of reading and knitting. It was merry and lively. There was a large room upstairs, where one evening every week meetings were held of some lodge. No women went to meetings of that kind in those days, but the men seemed to enjoy themselves. You could tell that by their laugh and song. There was always something to make one laugh. We had a gentleman up to stop for a few days. There was a gate which opened on some steps to go down to the water of the burn. We used it for some household purposes, but, as in Slamannan, the water for cooking had to be carried from the springs. One evening the gentleman opened the gate, thinking he was going into a garden, but he fell in the stream and was carried under the bridge. Luckily, some men saw the accident, and rushed after him and got him out of the water. He was nearly dead and the incident made a great stir. He was ill for some time. There was a heavy rain once while I was there, and it was something awful to see how the water swept along that burn. The cattle were carried away too. I saw some sheep rolling away under the bridge, and learned that cows were drowned also. The whole of Dalmellington lay nicely on a flat surrounded by a group of hills and valleys. After I had left I received a letter to say that a waterspout had burst over the place, and that people had left their houses and had taken their belongings to the tops of the mountains. A log of wood floated into the end window of the tavern and all the rooms downstairs were flooded. Some poor people, who lived in small houses, had their rooms full of water. The autumn was passing, and I thought I would not like to be at this place in the winter. I had really no one to care what I did with my life or where I lived. There were no Christian friendly societies for young girls at that time. I felt the want of sympathy and approval in what I did. I saw the housekeeper at Colonel Cathcart's, and hoped when I was a grown woman to return there. I was old enough to admire the lovely scenery, but not old enough to disbelieve in witches and warlocks and fairies. Ayrshire is so full of glens and caves that I expected to see natural wonders, and not the work of man, for the imagination runs riot at times. Gipsies I saw in plenty, and was afraid of them. They did not live in houses, but only in the wood; quite large numbers of them all together, and there were children, young girls, and youths who had never lived in a house. They came and went at will, and nobody seemed to take any notice of them. They were travelling tinkers. They made tinware, and sold it as they went through. The older women would come about to tell fortunes, and they would steal fowls or anything else they could lay hands on. The farmers always lost sheep and lambs when the gipsies were about, while one heard tales of them stealing away children of the high-class people. I LEAVE AYRSHIRE. It was the end of October when I left Ayrshire, and Mrs. Macblean's son had not come. I know she was grieving acutely about him. I promised that I would go and see him again when I returned to my own people. I found myself in Glasgow, and left my box at the station, and paid a penny for a ticket, for which they agreed to keep my box till I came for it. I saw Mrs. Stirling, and stopped there all night, and read the paper with a long column of advertisements for all sorts of working-girls. One, she thought, I might enquire about. It was from a lady and gentleman at No. 5, Florence-place, who wanted a young country girl, who must be useful. So I went. I found it was a furnished flat in a stylish part of the city. I told the lady that I had come from Dalmellington the day before, and that Mrs. Stirling would speak for me. I was engaged to come that evening. They only intended to stay in Glasgow for three months, but I thought I could get something else at the end of that time. They seemed rich people, but were in trouble. Their name was Skirven. They had one daughter at home. I was not long there before I learned that it was through another daughter that they came from their home in Fifeshire. The youngest daughter, while going to boarding-school, fell in love with a young medical student. She ran away with him and got married, and came to Glasgow. He was a Roman Catholic and an Irishman, while her parents were Scotch. As they were married by a Catholic priest, Mr. Skirven said it was no marriage. That is what brought him to Glasgow. He came to find those two runaways, and to make them get married again in their church. Mr. Skirven had his gun loaded to shoot the young doctor if he objected. His name was Dr. Reily. They found the young lady and took her to Florence-place, and the doctor was not allowed to come near her. It seemed so sad. She was a pretty little lady, and so young. A strict watch was kept on her, and she saw nobody. She soon found that she could trust me with a letter, and many times a letter came for her in my name from the husband. I even saw him, and brought messages to her from him. He was waiting for his diploma, and he had a good practice in view. Then he intended to show that they could not keep his wife from him. It was my first experience of the fact that love can destroy happiness. I never knew how matters were fixed up, but the old folks went back to Fife, and I got another place as under-nurse with Dr. Fargus, in Elmbank-street, off Sauchihall-street, Glasgow, close to where I had been living. Dr. Fargus was eminent in his profession as a medical man, and of great distinction. And his wife--How can I write about that gentle lady? It was a Christian home, and well appointed. The nurse had been with them ever since they had got married, and there were three children. It was a large, new house, four storeys high, with everything up to date, and so convenient. There was no carrying water, for both hot and cold water were in all the rooms, and there were bathrooms right up to the top, where the nurseries were. The lady's mother had died a week before I went there. There were other servants, and we all had mourning, a dressmaker being in the house. I had a black-and-white print, and a black stuff dress, with a cape and hat to match, because I had to go out so much with the children and the nurses. We were well looked after, both as regards our bedrooms and our food. And there was a whole pew for us in a church in Cudoging-street, not far from the Clyde. They had a summer residence, about seven miles from Glasgow, and a man and his wife to keep it always ready for them. The children were all small, and if the doctor thought they wanted a change, the nurse and I very often went to this old castle, some of which was in ruins, but there was plenty of room for us and lovely grounds for us to romp about in. The lady would come sometimes and stop for a few days. The locality was Eastkillbride. There was no railway. On the way we passed through the very old towns of Rutherglen and Hamilton. All along near at hand I could see the coal-pits, like Slamannan. But there were none at Eastkillbride. The doctor would sometimes bring his wife in his carriage, or in the omnibus, the only way of conveying passengers to that part. She was kind to the poor and the sick. There were no district nurses heard of then. Every day she took some broths and dainties to those who needed them. One poor woman appealed to me. She was in bed for seven years with rheumatism. She had the use partly of the right hand and that was all. I often went when I could, and tried to do something for Mrs. Kennedy. If Mrs. Fargus was not there the nurse looked after her poor pensioners all the same. The houses were spread about with quite a distance between. There was no interesting scenery, but only an old ruin. DR. DYKES, DR. GUTHRIE, AND DR. MACLEOD. Close by there was a church with a manse. It seemed out of keeping with all the rest of the place, for it looked new. It had an air of freshness about it, and belonged to the Free Church of Scotland. The minister was quite a young man and a friend of Mr. and Mrs. Fargus. He came much to the house, and the children knew him, so that we often found him rambling about with them. His housekeeper used to be his nurse when he was a child. We went to the manse often. The minister was the Rev. Dr. James Oswald Dykes, and he came out to Australia many years ago. The church in Eastkillbride was his first appointment. His fame as a preacher and a good man spread all about. The way he filled that church with the scattered people was wonderful. He would go miles and miles after parishioners. He had a persuasiveness in his preaching, although it was homely and plain. I went to the Bible-class, and he explained things to me of which I was formerly ignorant. After months of catechising I became a member of the Free Church of Scotland. It gave me thoughts which enabled me to resolve to do the common things I had to do well, and to be happy in doing what was right. I was in the manse one night with Mrs. Clark, his housekeeper, when he came in all wet and muddy. He had found a man and woman living together who were not married. The man was ill end likely to die, and he thought the children would be guarded from some threatening injury if the father and mother were married. The man, however, did not care what became of woman or children. He turned his face to the wall, and for a long time would not listen to the minister, but Dr. Dykes got him face-to-face with the woman and a witness, and married them while the man was still in bed. Dr. Dykes was very upset about this event. Happily, in Scotland such things are rare. One of the maids had not been well, and Mrs. Fargus thought I might do for the house in town for a week or so, so as to let Elsie come to Killbride. The climate there was mild and healthy. The doctor arranged to dine out, so I had only to get breakfast for him and take any messages and write them on a slate. By this time I knew how to do many things neatly. The lady would come and go to see how I got on. She had not been long in one afternoon when a fearful ring came at the door. I opened it, but could see nobody. I went away, but the bell rang again. I looked over the other side of the street and saw a tattered looking sailor. He came over and asked if Elsie was in. I answered in the negative. He could hardly speak. The lady came to see what was the matter; he told her who he was. She told me to take him downstairs and get him something to eat. Then she told me that he was Elsie's sweetheart, and that Elsie had heard that he was wrecked and drowned four years before. She went in mourning for him. The ship in which he had arrived within half an hour before had also been reported a wreck. There was such excitement. Mrs. Fargus wrote to Elsie to look out for her lost lover the next day. His ship was at the Broomilaw, whence they had sailed long ago. The man had come back well off, but he was brown and rough. The next day he had other clothes and his whiskers were trimmed. Elsie had been with Mrs. Fargus for a long time, so Mrs. Fargus said that she would like her to get married there. The date was settled, and the Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes was to perform the marriage ceremony. We had plenty to talk about, for it was the first wedding for me to see. Elsie came to town, and I went back to Eastkillbride. Mrs. Fargus was skilled in botany and the natural history of insects as well as plants. She had a museum full of all sorts of things. While at Killbride she would take me with her to carry her things, and talk to me so nicely all the time. We went down deep dells and to all the out-of-the-way places hunting for specimens. One day, in a deep dell, she found a gooseberry bush, with large gooseberries on it quite green, although the season for the berry was over. She sat down and explained why that berry was not ripe. She said the sun had not shed its rays on that bush, as it was far down in the dell. Some birds had dropped the berry, and it grew into a bush, but the fruit would always be green and sour. She compared this with some poor people whom we visited. They were hard and sour, and she thought if their environment were more bright they would not be so sour. She meant spiritually and temporarily. It was new to me to listen to so grand a lady. She would get us all in her beautiful room and kneel down and pray and read with us. God's best blessing rest on her if she is living, or on her memory if she is dead. It was drawing near time to go back to town, and there was Elsie's wedding to look forward to. It was a common occurrence to let the servants have a party two or three times a year. We had had one already, and the wedding was to be the next. We were to have games and dancing, and Elsie was to be married in the best drawing-room, upstairs. By this time I had seen the sailor many times and many of his relations. His home was in Dundee. The Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes had received a call to go to a grand church in Edinburgh, but he agreed to come for the wedding. I was passionately fond of dancing, and I knew that we were to have dancing, but I thought, being a member of the church, I must not dance any more. I met Dr. Dykes in the corridor and asked him if I could dance at Elsie's wedding. He said--"Yes; by all means. Those who can dance, let them dance, and those who want to play games, let them play." Then he showed me how dancing could be made both wrong and sinful, if we went to objectionable places to gratify the pleasure of dancing. How little did I think that in so short a time I would be out here all alone, without any of this moral directing power to act upon. So the wedding night came. Elsie looked lovely, and the sailor looked splendid. He had some trouble to get off his white kid gloves. Mr. and Mrs. Fargus, and also some of their friends, were present. The cake was cut in the drawing-room, and then brought down to the hall, where the supper was laid, and all the place was filled with plants and bunting. We kept the gaiety up all night. In the middle of the fun our master and mistress and the minister came to have a look at us. The minister said if he could dance he would have a dance with the bride, just to show that it was good recreation. Elsie had some lovely presents. The master gave her a kitchen range, while the mistress gave her a chest of drawers and a dressing-table and washstand. She had something from all. The servants from all round were kind, and we spent a good time. After Elsie went away the nurse took the children to her own home, which she often did. They were too young for instruction, and only childish books were read for them. There were two boys and one girl, the girl being the oldest. I shall say more about them later on. I found where the Dr. and Mrs. Reily lived, and saw them. They were well and happy. Mrs. Stirling was not in good health in Glasgow, so she was often away. I was happy anyhow, and hoped for courage to face the life that lay before me. I had a holiday, and went to Slamannan, and learned that my sister was to be married very soon, so the dresses I had for Elsie's wedding would just do. It was at New Year's time, and I was the bridesmaid. They were married at the Old Established Church of Scotland, and in the evening the snow was falling, and thick on the ground. I felt glad for my sister's sake. It was not much of a prospect, but they were young. My brother was my whole care; I did not know what my father was going to do with him. He was growing up and learning nothing. Father kept off the drink, and we all the time thought that some news would come to us from our relatives who had gone to "America." These were uncles and aunts; we had no grandparent living. For myself, I knew that I had to work hard for everything I got; but I could not see how to help my dear brother. I was afraid that my father would take him down into the pits to work. If only my mother had lived she would have put him to some useful pursuit. I suppose the mind seeks something upon which the emotions may grow as we get older. One thing I was nearer than if I had stopped in Ayrshire. I could do some things for him. There seemed no "self-help" for him. I got back to my work again, feeling inspired with the idea that I would try and get my brother to Glasgow also. At Dr. Fargus' the Sundays were properly observed. We set aside toil for that day and were not allowed to do anything that could be avoided. Our own clothing had to be laid all ready to put on. The dinner was cooked the day before. Such peaceful days I have never had since. We went to the Rev. A. N. Sommervil's Church. It was near to the shipping part of the city, and the church and congregation were large. Other ministers would come some times. Dr. Guthrie came from Edinburgh. He was a real friend to the servant girls, and pleaded with the mistresses to be kind to their handmaids and see to their general wellbeing and the cheerfulness of their surroundings. Dr. Thomas Guthrie was then a popular preacher. He started the ragged school movement in Edinburgh, and his efforts to suppress vice and to promote temperance made him a power on social questions. He used to hold services in the open air and in barns, or wherever people would come. While on his visits he found so many houses without a Bible or any book at all. He often stood in rooms bare of furniture, where father and mother and half-a-dozen children had to sleep, the destitution being all through drink. The stories he told were sad and true. Wherever he preached, there you would see the serving-maids and the persons of every rank in life. He had a good voice, and would sometimes describe in his sermon natural scenery, showing the wisdom of God, and that the earth is full of beauty. We had Dr. Norman Macleod, who preached to the Queen while she was at Balmoral. I could not follow his speeches like Dr. Guthrie's, although he wrote books and was the editor of "Good Words" and others, as well as a leading minister. The misery I suffered, by reason of seeing so much of human woe and want and sin, made an old woman of me at the age of 16. I shall never forget one Sunday after church I went with some other girls to see their "district," if it could be called a district. In some instances there were foul underground cellars, where the inmates never breathed the fresh air. The children were covered with rags, and hunger reigned everywhere. This afternoon a starved-looking boy had broken a street lamp, and the policeman was taking him to the lock-up. One of the girls knew him, and asked the man how much it would cost for the lamp. If 7/6 could be found he said he would let the boy go. I told them to wait and I would get the money. I went to my mistress and to my Bible-teacher and to some others that I knew, and got the 7/6, and the boy was released, or, at least, I thought so. We took the money to the boy's mother, and told her to go to the office and get the boy back. That was on Monday evening. I went to see on my own account if the boy had got back. It was so dark that I could not find my way to the cellar. I went to a shop to buy a candle to see the underground room. The man in the shop said, "Are you the youngster that found the 7/6 for that awful woman that lives down in that cellar?" I said, "Yes." "Well," he said, "that woman has been drunk ever since. She did not go for the boy, but has been quarrelsome and is making such a noise." To my view it was sad, but not singular. I went down to the cellar and saw the sweetest and prettiest little girl I ever saw in my life stretched on the floor sleeping. There was no mother or anyone else there. I learned that the father was a sailor, and that was why. The girl was eight years old. Oh, what a picture she was as she lay calm in sleep, forgetful of her sorrows! The daughters of well-to-do farmers and mechanics went to service to help themselves. There seemed no other way. Then through Elsie and the nurse I got to know a number of nice girls. We could come and go to each other. In different homes there were different rules. There was always plenty to be done. I know the sanitary part of the work was a study at the doctor's house. The furniture was mostly carved, and that meant some polishing. Then the wide halls and bannisters must be kept free from dust, while the fireplaces and the steel had to be kept bright. I was not old enough to have charge, but I learned how the work was done. In the winter it was hard, but I felt as if I were getting taught everything. My mind was full of hope the more I knew. Unaware of what had happened, we went to church on a Sunday morning and found it all draped in black. The news had come that very morning that Prince Albert, the Queen's Consort, was dead. It cast a sadness over all the place, as he had been in Glasgow not long before to lay the foundation-stone of some public building. ANOTHER NEW PLACE. I had nothing to grumble about, but still the array of so much sorrow among the people round me made me wonder what failure or success lay in the future for me. Independence is so fondly sought after. Reluctantly, and with a touch of uneasiness, I heard of a place that I thought I would like. The lady was a friend of Mrs. Fargus, and the house was close by, while a smaller girl than myself would do for Mrs. Fargus' children. Then, too, I would have a little more wages. It was spoken of between the two ladies, and I was engaged to go in six weeks, when my term ended. Mrs. Mouncey was the name of the lady, and there were three in family. Mr. Mouncey had been married twice, and had one grown-up daughter by the first wife, with a son and daughter by the second wife--a boy of eight and a girl of ten. It was not a large house, and was on Victoria-terrace, facing the West-End park. From the windows could be seen the pleasure ground of the city, with its shrubs and monuments; that was its beauty spot. The West-End looked like the country yet in a few minutes one could be in the Trongate or Buchanan-street. I thought those two streets seemed the most busy, at least, with fashionable folk. Mr. Mouncey was the editor of some publication, and also wrote for some magazine. He seemed a man of independent means. They did not live in a showy manner, but they travelled a good deal. "You will have plenty of hard work," my fellow mates used to say to me, but I thought I would extract some happiness by coming to see them, and I would be gaining fresh experience. Before I went to my new place I had an excursion to Slamannan. Glasgow, like all large cities, had its grievances and distresses in some of the dark and destitute parts. I had seen a little of both sides of the picture. I wondered at the goodness of those ladies, who went to the squalid and neglected. One had only to read the newspapers to learn that evil was not confined to the poor and degraded. Close to where I then lived the daughter of people in high rank was arrested for giving her lover poison. Her name was Madeliene Smith. So widespread was the interest felt that people chipped bits of the stone window-sill, where she passed the poison to him which caused his death. Her trial took place in Edinburgh. "Not proven," was the Scotch verdict returned. I saw a book with the whole account when I came to South Australia. I found comfort in going to see my own friends. A whole week before going to Mr. Mouncey's there was trouble in the air. A fresh gloom was over the place, as war in America was threatened, and people were rushing back from America as fast as the boats could bring them. In less than two weeks one could get to America. We made the most of my holiday at home. I went once more to work. It was a mixed kind of position to rely on, but I determined to do my best. I found no difficulty; the mistress said, "Come along, my lass, you are welcome." I had a comfortable bedroom, and everything was convenient. The mistress undertook the care of providing and attending to the cookery, that nothing should be lost by carelessness, and there was Miss Mouncey with me to help to keep the house beautiful, and in a state of cleanliness. I could go to the same church and see my friends at Dr. Fargus'. I soon learned that Miss Mouncey was looked on as a rich woman, and that her mother's money would come to her. She had a mind of her own, and did not intend to marry. I think the condition of the homeless and uncared-for children was her special care. She would come and sit with me and tell me about the wretched little urchins she found amid dirt and disease, while the parents of the poor creatures were drinking. I confess many things seemed to me hopeless. It was depressing to hear of evil about everywhere I went. Mind and memory in moments of solitude tell me still how much I owe to the impression and influence of that sad time. In after years, when one or another would say what happy times they had when they were young, I thought "no, I would not like to be young again if this is all." I could not shut out of mind the long years that lay before me in that far-away time. In the present, all the world is behind me, and what does it matter? Such a lot of people came to see Mr. Mouncey. Some wished to see Miss Mouncey particularly, and some she wanted to avoid. She only laughed. She was 22 years of age, fair, and accomplished, without a touch of vanity, and with the sweet name of Mary. The youngest child went to school. They liked to tell me of the good times we would have when we went to the Island of Arran, where they spent the summer months. We had family worship night and morning. By that time reading was no effort to me. I could read writing and write a little, with the aid of Miss Mouncey. I brought a canary songbird from Slamannan to Mrs. Reily. I had no cage, but I had a strong paper-bag, and cut some tiny holes in it for air. I knew she had a cage, so I went one evening to see her and to learn how the bird was getting on. The doctor opened the door, and did not speak. He led me into a room, and there, in a coffin, lay Mrs. Reily. I flung myself on my knees beside her and cried bitterly. The doctor stood by and said, "Weep, girl, weep, for that is the first tear I have seen shed for my wife." He told me that her father, mother, and sister had come only to see what of her jewellery they could take and then they went away. He sent for the nurse, and I saw a little baby girl, which he said was all he had left. He had a good practice, and was growing rich, and, as he stood there with bent head, he looked sad and cheerless, but young and handsome. Such is the inevitable! I saw the little bird that I gave her; it was hanging in the window of the same room. My heart was full of compassion, as I remembered the beautiful face of that young wife. She was only 20 years of age. All must have courage to submit to their own destiny. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Preparations for going away for the summer were hurried on, and there seemed more visitors than usual. I was pleased at the idea of going to the Island of Arran, which had many attractions for visitors, I longed to see the place, having heard so much about its hills and mountains. Miss Heslip, a young friend of Miss Mouncey's, was with them for the summer. From that day things were pleasing and mirthful. One evening, while I was passing the cake-basket in the drawing-room, I held the cake to a tall and dark gentleman. In place of taking some cake he took hold of my hand and shook it warmly. I was not used to shaking hands with people in the drawing-room. I felt so confused that I nearly let the basket and cake fall. I could see that the act was noticed by the smiles on the faces. I knew that Garibaldi was in the room, for I had seen him there before, but who could this be? When Miss Mouncey came out I asked her, and she told me I had shaken hands with a great man. He was the President of America, Abraham Lincoln. She told me then that there was going to be a civil war. I did not know what that was. THE ISLE OF ARRAN. It was so delightful to see Iona again. We left in the morning and called at so many places. There seemed quite a crowd, and such beautiful scenery. We arrived in the afternoon at Lamlash. There was someone to take the luggage, and we walked by the sea. The name of the house was Oakbank, and it was right on the top of a hill, with steps leading down to the boating-house, and there we could see the house-boat. The boat was called Oakbank, too. The house seemed small after Glasgow, with its little green gate, but the people only wanted somewhere to sleep. We lived outside, either on the water or on the mountains, there being plenty of caves as well. It was the month of June. The people who belonged to the house lived on the place in some way for the time. We could get milk and butter and eggs and poultry from them, but all the rest of the provisions came from the city, and the lovely fish they could get themselves in plenty. What a different life for the people who lived there when compared to that I had seen in the city. Whether they took me with them or not I had very little to do, there being a lot of people on the island known to each other. They would go off in the morning and take provisions with them, and I would not see them again till dark. Very often they took me as well. I could climb on my hands and feet, and did not trouble if I rolled down, so long as the sea was not immediately underneath me. How the people lived has often puzzled me more since than it did at the time. It seemed that the whole, or nearly all, the island belonged to the Duke of Hamilton, and he was said to be eccentric. He would not let people make any alteration, but wished every place to remain in its wild state. It was known that coal could be got there in any quantity, but they dare not dig to get it. Some of the old people, with whom I liked to talk, told me that they were born on the island, and had never been out of it, even to cross the Clyde, and they hoped to die there. Only in summertime, when visitors were there, they spoke in English. To each other they spoke in Gaelic. The language was very strange to listen to, and more so when they made blunders, for one must laugh. The church was at Brodic, and it was quite two miles and a half to walk there. The minister preached in the morning in Gaelic, and it was good to see the old men and women coming over the hills to hear this Gaelic. I went one Sunday with the people of the house to hear the preaching. The minister was Mr. Davis, and he did look so cross, and railed at the dear creatures, who had come six and seven miles to hear him. I used to like to hear some of the old stories about the place. It interested me when they told me that the deep valleys we were then passing would be filled up with snow in the winter months, and they showed me places here and there where some poor shepherd had perished in the snow, while he was looking for his sheep. They also said that for many months in the year they could not go to see anyone, and no one could come and see them because of the snow. There were no roads, but only footpaths on top of the hill or at the bottom. On seeing the place one could understand what it would be like after a heavy fall of snow. Then it would roll down from the mountains. The habits of those people were plain and without art. They let their houses in the summer, and that brought them a little money. They had little patches of land on which they grew flax and all sorts of things. It was rare to see a ploughed field between Lamlash and Brodic. The Duke of Hamilton's palace was at Brodic. It looked a grand place. He need not stop shut in it all the winter, however, for he had other places. Then the people had to make provision for the winter. They killed a sheep, and had it dried in some way. I saw some of it. They called it braxxie. Then there was the fish, also dried, in plenty. They made cheese and they had bacon. Those who were too far back from the sea had to have stores inside their homes. From Oakbank one could clear away the snow from the steps and get to the ships in a small boat, but none of the steamers could come near, although they would come as close as they dare in the rough weather. We counted as many as fourteen one morning, after a stormy night. There were all sorts, some being good-sized sailing vessels and yachts. One more thing I found, and that was that the people made the linen from the flax that grew on the place. The bed-linen that they had in use for the visitors they said was a hundred years old. I saw some that was newly made. It would be something to remember to sleep between sheets newly made. I ought to explain that these ships I saw came in for the shelter of the hills from the fearful gales. I think now that was the most enjoyable time I ever spent. One way and another I got to see a good deal, and was learning to know that there was both dignity and independence in the labors of a house-servant. The charm is to feel assured that your services are approved. I am quite sure that Mr. Mouncey could get plenty of inspiration for his magazine; he was always taking notes, and was not above calling my attention to things interesting or instructive if I were with them. Miss Heslip came from near Falkirk, and knew all about Denny. Both she and Miss Mouncey often took me with them. I rejoiced in a scamper, so one morning we took the two children and tracked off to climb a hill called Goat-Fell. We had some lunch with us. Mr. and Mrs. Mouncey had gone somewhere else; at any rate, we began to climb, and kept on climbing and resting for I do not know how long. Well on in the afternoon we had lunch, and started to come down. We did not go to the top. It was awful, perfectly awful to see the sheep browsing about on those hills. They looked like mere specks. My wonder was that they did not roll into the sea, which foamed at the foot in some places. We were to be there from June 1 till the last day in August. The beach was a picture, with the cliffs above and underfoot the Scotch pebbles and shells and the rocks and seaweed. I had only to sit and think. Many people came to the island on a Saturday afternoon and brought tents with them, and stopped till Monday. The caves were used as well. Some minister would come from the city and preach in the open air. We all went on the hilltop to hear him. It was like a fairyland. From there you could see the Ailsa Crag, which looked as if it were in the clouds. There were no public buildings, no fine arts, and yet few places have so much natural attraction for the holiday season as the Island of Arran. While bathing I made the acquaintance of a young girl, who, like myself was with some visitors from the city. She could swim and float on the water for ever so far. She told me that her father and brothers were fishermen, and that she had been often away with them for weeks at a time, and they had taught her to swim. I used to watch her in terror when she would go under water and come up in another place. Her name was Annie Smith, and she took me in hand to teach me to swim. I tried to do as she told me, but one morning I went too far. I could not see her, and I felt myself being carried out to sea. I was helpless, and the seawater was in my mouth and ears, and I was trying to catch hold of some seaweed. All at once Annie got sight of me. She gave a scream, and, coming out, pulled me to the shore. I did not know how I got there, but I found myself in bed with all the young people and the master and mistress in my room. I soon got alright, but never again went beyond my depth in the sea. It was a strange feeling, and for days I could hear the roaring of the water. I felt that I should always remember that girl who saved me from drowning. Annie could manage a boat and use the oars. The young ladies often went for a sail and took me with them. They had gentlemen friends, and sometimes we had the Scotch bagpipes on board. I thought what a pity it was that such glorious days should pass so quickly. Mrs. Pringle, from whom we rented the house, would let me come with her to the dairy, and I helped her sometimes with the churning. The butter was made differently then. She had fowls and plants and a vegetable garden. Everything was speckless and clean. All this gave me an insight into the ways of the world not to be regretted. She had three children, and her husband and her brother, who was an elderly man, worked about the place. They had some hay growing some distance from the house. Mrs. Pringle let the young couple and me go to see the haymaking. We would go off in the cart and come back on top of a load of hay, which was put in the loft for the winter. The fresh sea wind and the smell of the hay were beautiful. How one can enjoy life in the open air! I looked forward to coming again the next year. It looked such a short distance from where we bathed to cross over to The Holy Isle, which was once the burying-place. The dead were taken there in boats, and there was an old monastery where the monks lived, and where many of them were buried. It was much patronised by visitors. There was but one house there with people living in it, and that was a public-house. All our people with some friends went one afternoon. It was not convenient to take me, although it had been promised that I should go to The Holy Isle before we left. That memorable summer was nearly ended. Mr. Mouncey had gone to Glasgow. Mrs. Pringle's brother and his nephew got the boat. I made arrangements with Annie Smith to come with me to see the isle. The days were still long, so we got there in time to see the ruins of the abbey, and to try and read the indiscernible names on the tombs. There were no headstones, but all were lying flat, and were covered over with moss. Such were the graves of the monks. We rushed about to see all we could. The moss was more than a finger in length, and there were feathery-like ferns. The higher up the old building the more dainty they appeared. I asked the young man if he thought he could get some for me from the top, for I wanted some pulled up by the root to plant. At some risk he went, and, to my grief, he just pulled the ferns off. I brought different curios to keep in remembrance. We went into the house. I only saw one woman, and she did not look very bright. No wonder, either, surrounded by the sea and its deadliness. Mr. Cook, who was with us, spoke to her in Gaelic, and she brought in some scones and whisky. Neither Annie Smith nor I drank whisky, nor were we asked to, but the scones I shall never forget. They were made of flour, ground from green peas. I tested them, and I asked Mr. Cook afterwards what they were made of. He said they had a field of green peas, which, on being, gathered, they dried and ground after the Bible custom between two stones. They were as green as grass, but not bad to taste. Mr. Cook was well acquainted with the isle, and he showed all the places of antiquity. The people who lived there had boats, and some more than one, and ran to and fro from Lamlash and Brodic. They made a good living in that way in summertime. We went back to our boat, and the tide had gone and left it high and dry on the side, such a long way from the water. Mr. Cook stood and looked in despair. He forgot that the tide was receding, as we were in such haste to get ashore, and he told us afterwards that he had never been on the isle after dark. The men who lived there had gone either to Brodic or Lamlash. The young man who was with Mr. Cook was named Cooke also. The strength of the four of us could move the boat, but it could not be dragged down the side of the rocks for fear of damage. So three we had to wait till the tide came in. It was moonlight, and the mental visions that passed through my mind are there yet. The people were anxious about us. Mr. Cook had only one eye, and they thought that some mishap had occurred. We got home alright, and I was glad I had seen The Holy Isle. While it is fresh in my mind, I may add here that many years after I was telling a friend about my trip to The Holy Isle. A friend of hers came in and sat down. She begged me to finish the incident, and I went all through about the ferns, and so on. Someone called to the man that sat by me. I looked to see if he were going. He called out to the questioner that he would not move till I had told my experience of that night on the isle. He then said he was the young man that climbed up the ruins to get me the ferns. His name was Cook, and he was employed in a confectioner's shop in Adelaide. He had a wife and children. I hoped to see him again, but I was away from Adelaide for some time. When I returned I made enquiries, and was told that he bought a place near Blackwood. It was laughable that, not knowing the man, I should be telling a story in which he had a part. If he is alive and sees his name in print I hope he will pardon me. I still love the beautiful and the true. Nothing lasts, pleasure least of all. I knew the joy of living and of my freedom, with no one to make me afraid. My name was then Anna Macdonald. The name gave me an entrance amongst the people of Arran, as I was one of them. I understood that my by-gone relations had all drifted from Scotland through some religious matter, but that did not trouble me. But I must not linger over by-gones. I felt a sort of responsibility to myself and those I loved. I had only myself to depend on for my food and clothing and to help others. It seemed very well for the preachers to tell you of the lilies of the field that toiled not, neither did they spin, and so on. Scotland is not the place for that style of life. This is not meant ironically. The time for going back to town was drawing nearer, and we had only two more Sundays. I used often to go with some of the people to church in the morning, although I did not understand the Gaelic. They had Gaelic Bibles as well. The same minister would preach in English in the afternoon, and then we often saw people from Glasgow. I saw a young gentleman one Sunday from Mr. Somervill's church. His name was Malcolm White, and he was studying to be a minister, but was not yet ordained. I told the young ladies on the way home. I was so pleased to see him, although I was not near enough to speak to him, as I would like to have done, as he was my teacher at a Bible-class. Miss Heslip said she wished that she had seen him, as he had been one time tutor to her brothers. He had just published a book, of which he was the author. They asked me many things about him when they saw that I knew him. We all knew at the class that he was a young man from amongst the working people. It was he who helped me to gather the money to pay the fine for the little boy who broke the lamp-glass one Sunday. I had to tell him of the sad sequel at the time, and he told me to try and forget it. I had been thinking of all the questions I would ask him when I got back about Arran. One very old man told me that when the apostles were sent "far hence," that some of them landed at Arran. Soon the time of our stay concluded. We were getting some pebbles and shells and seaweed, and I dearly wanted some ferns with the root attached. There were a lot of large ferns growing near the bathing-place, so I got Master Robert and Miss Annie Mouncey to come and help me. Miss Annie and I held them back and Master Robert, in the hope of finding some tiny fronds, pushed right through till he entered a large cave. He ran and called his father, and then Mr. Cook came and made a clear way into a place that went ever so far in the rock. There was a strange-looking thing, like a lamp, hanging from the roof. Mr. Mouncey could stand upright in the place. Neither Mr. Pringle nor any of the others knew anything about it. How we wished we had found it in the early part of our stay, but we hoped to examine it the next year, and begged the people to let it remain hidden till we came back. No doubt something could be discovered about it to tell a tale. It seemed natural that we should think of all the countless cruel deeds of olden times wrought by a blind and brutal humanity. The thought of "home, sweet home," brought happiness to the young people. Annie Smith promised to come with me to Slamannan when I went, and to tell my relatives how she saved me from the deep sea. After many kind good-byes, we were once more on board the Iona, and the Isle of Arran was far away. As it was well towards the end of the season there was a scene of excitement coming and going between the shore and the boat. We had to go in small boats. How it has all clung to my memory. There was one laughable incident. Some economist had been saving or buying eggs till he had a hamperful. Because they were not packed well, or owing to the heedless way they were carried, they tumbled on the deck. The eggs began to roll about. Like that of some sudden explosion was the effect, and both ladies and gentlemen got up on the seats. Anyone who saw those sailors mopping up the decks and cleaning away the eggs would never forget the look on their faces. Every now and then, when they thought all was cleared, the lurching of the ship would send some more eggs rolling out from under the seats. The comic episode caused laughter to everyone but the sailors and the person to whom the eggs belonged. BACK IN GLASGOW AGAIN. I could not help being glad that I was back in Glasgow again. Everyone seemed so happy. Yet all was strange, and in the midst of my happy feelings I could not forget the uncertainty at home, or the trouble as to what we were going to do. My dearest ambition was to live at home with my father and brother and sister. But I had a dread of the pinch of poverty, and Glasgow was then in a fearful state. The war in America had broken out, and hundreds and thousands of people were thrown out of employment. All the cotton-mills were stopped, as the raw cotton came from America. Then all the commerce or trade from Glasgow to America was at a standstill. I thought it bad enough before we went to Arran, but it was worse then. Every day persons were coming to the door begging, and one could see tradesmen and mechanics digging in the West-End park for a shilling per day. How often I have found, too, in the morning sleeping in the archway some poor boys that had been there all night. They had no home. I was all the time in sadness, but what could I do? No efforts of mine could lessen the sorrow of even one human being. I should assist my own people first. And despair sometimes possessed me. Miss Heslip went to her home, and Mr. Mouncey went away to Italy, and when we had things straight I was to have a few days and go to Slamannan. I went and saw my friends at Dr. Fargus', and to the Bible-class, and told Mr. White that I had seen him at Brodic, and I told him about Miss Heslip being a visitor with Mr. Mouncey's people. Mr. White said he knew Mr. Mouncey, but he had never met Miss Mouncey. Before Miss Heslip went there was a concert at the Queen's Rooms, close to us. Jenny Lind was the singer. It was a guinea to go in to hear her. She gave all she got for that night and many other nights to the relief of the poor and the distressed. Our two young ladies were in evening-dress, and I was to bring wraps. While I was waiting, together with some other girls on the same errand, the man at the door asked us if we would like to see and hear the singer, there being a place on the ground-floor from which we could both see and hear her without being seen. We were glad, and thanked the man. There was only Jenny Lind's husband with her to play the accompaniment. She had just commenced to sing "John Anderson, my jo, John," and her husband was at the piano. He seemed older than she was, and his head was bald, but the singing and the playing were beautiful. She sang a Swiss song, too, and that was all I heard. Could anyone ever forget the voice of that woman? And it seemed no effort for her to get the Scotch words so nicely. The ladies were pleased that I saw and heard her, even ever so little. I thought that Miss Mouncey and Miss Heslip sang very well, but both said that they would never sing again after hearing Jenny Lind. Glasgow was a manufacturing city and crowded with human beings in the struggle to live. Edinburgh did not seem to me so bad, but I never lived there. There was some restless discontent going on in Italy. The world must move on. Life's destiny lay hidden from me. Mrs. Mouncey was good and kind. My sister came to see me. She had a baby girl! I was allowed to go out with her and show her some wonderful places about, and she stopped with me all night. My father and brother called to see me now and again, and my sensitive nature was keenly alive to every act of kindness shown to them. In conversation with Mr. Malcolm White I told him that Miss Mouncey was going to Miss Heslip's for a time. He said he wished that he was acquainted with Miss Mouncey, as he had something to send to Miss Heslip. It came out very unexpectedly that I heard Miss Mouncey express herself equally anxious for an introduction to him, so I said, "Why not come to-morrow afternoon, Miss Mouncey will be at home?" I went into her room when I got home that night, and told her that Mr. White was coming to see her the next day. She could not understand it, and questioned me a lot as to what I said. She was perplexed, but not angry. He came, and I opened the door to him, and led him to the drawing-room. I found Miss Mouncey and announced her and shut the door, and I learned that the Rev. M. White became Miss Mouncey's husband two years after I came to Adelaide. He was a gentleman, according to my standard, and in every sense of the word she was a lady. Everything came about as I hoped. She often said that if ever she married she would like to marry a minister. I knew that she was sought for by others. I did not forget to ask about the apostles landing at Arran. I asked Mr. Somervill, as well as Mr. White. I had some things made plain to me which need not be added here. The time came for me to go to Slamannan. All was turmoil there. I had not long been in the little house when my father came in and said, "Anna, why don't you go to Australia?" He had seen two young girls whom I knew, and they had only that day received a reply from London to tell them they were to sail for Queensland in two weeks' time. I sat and looked at him. I thought he was joking, and I said, "No, father, I will do all I can for you, but I will never cross the sea so far." Later on, when I went out with my brother, I said, "Well, Mac, what would you say if I went to Australia?" He told me how he wished he could go somewhere out of Slamannan. I learned for the first time that he was working down in the coal-pits. And the next day when I saw him come in I made up my mind to come to Australia if they would take me. No one but myself knew my thoughts. My brother was a little over 14 years of age, and I was not 17. When I returned to Glasgow I knew that there were bills all about in the streets notifying that free passages would be given to capable young women as domestic servants to three different colonies, Queensland, South Australia, and Victoria. The notice went on to say that a doctor and a matron would be on board, and that the ships were fitted up with sanitary and other arrangements according to rule. I had often seen the advertisement before, but I never read it. I went to the place in Hope-street, and saw the agent, and asked if I could get my brother to come with me. When I told him the age he said "No," but added that if I had some friends out in the colonies they could send a grant or get an assisted passage for my brother. I said I had no one out there. "Well," he said, "we will take you, and you can soon send for your brother." He talked to me for a long time, and gave me some papers to get filled in and to bring them back to him again. I took the papers, but I did not like to say anything to Mrs. Mouncey. That night I went to friends at Dr. Fargus', and they tried all they could to persuade me not to go to Australia. The Dr. and Mrs. Fargus were in London at the time, as there was a great exhibition there, and they had gone to see it. I had no wish to see the world, and doubted if I would have the courage at the end. I mistrusted myself, but still I had the papers filled up. Some said I had lost my senses. When I explained the facts to my master and mistress, and showed them the conditions of the voyage in a printed form, they added their names as to what they knew of my reputation. Then the minister's name and the doctor's name were put on in addition, and the forms were sent to London. I DECIDE TO COME TO ADELAIDE. Meanwhile I had gone to hear a man who was lecturing. He dealt with all the colonies in turn, and when he referred to South Australia and Adelaide, so pleasing were the pictures he drew of the country all round, that they made a deep impression on me. I knew no one in Adelaide, and I knew no one in that lecture-hall, but as I sat there my mind was made up to come to South Australia, having the choice between it and either Melbourne or Queensland. I told the Rev. A. N. Somervill, when I showed him the papers, that I would like to come to Adelaide, and he said that a college friend of his was in the city of Adelaide. His name was Dr. Gardner, and they wrote to each other. From Dr. Gardner's account he thought it would be a nice place to live, and when I left Glasgow Mr. Somervill gave me a letter to Dr. Gardner, who was minister of Chalmer's Church, North-terrace. I was healthful, sound of body, and free from disease, and I did not think so much of the trouble of the voyage. It seemed, such a short time after the papers were sent away till I had an answer back to say that I was to hold myself in readiness to sail from Liverpool or Birkenhead in a ship called the Morning Star. That was near the end of October. I had not told them at home what I had done in regard to applying for a passage, and I was to be at the place of embarkation not later than November 2. With a fluttering heart I went to Slamannan. They would not believe me. Then they did not want me to go. I was sorely tried. I wondered at the maze of difficulties; the only thing which determined me was that it was too late to draw back. I craved for their sympathy, and asked them to let me go. I overheard a man speaking to my father. He asked if it was true that I was going out to the colonies. My father said "Yes." He replied, "Surely you will not let your daughter go." My father said "Yes." The man had some family himself, and he then said, "If it were a daughter of mine that wanted to go to that wild, outlandish place I would take her to the plantation and take a gun and shoot her rather than let her go to such a place." I heard it all, and had a cry. I did not know enough to realise the distance or the time I would be on the sea. The Morning Star was a sailing vessel. In spite of my impulsive nature it was hard to give up all the humble joys of youth, and I thought I could face the future better in Scotland. What would a strange land hold for me? It is no use to tell how the colliers and their wives and friends crowded to see me, as they said to mix up the sour with the sweet. We were living in the main street of Slamannan then, and my sister and her husband, as well as the colliers and others, gathered together and got the large hall and arranged a concert on my behalf. I felt grateful to many whom I had never seen before. All round I was asked such strange questions, and was told I was rushing to destruction. Some thought I would get eaten when I got out here. The final morning came. It was dark and cold on November 2. All my own relations travelled with me to Glasgow, but at the railway-station at Slamannan there were the people again with their hearty farewells. I told them I would come back and see them some day, and I did so. The brave spirit which sustained me gave way, and I went in tears to say good-bye to my friends in Glasgow. Oh, the bitterness of that hour! To see the old scenes of my daily life and say the last word. I saw Dr. Reily, and he gave me some useful advice for ship life. In Scotland the days are short in November. The train left at 5 p.m. It was dark, and every familiar object grew dim. There was no one in the train whom I knew. I was told that it would be 7 o'clock the next morning before I would get to Liverpool. All night the train journeyed on, and at some of the stations we picked up some more weeping passengers. It seemed to console me when I saw others who I learned were going to Adelaide in the Morning Star. When we got to Liverpool we were taken to Birkenhead. There was a queer-looking building where we were taken. I soon found that plenty of people were there to the appointed time for the voyage, and they did not seem afraid to travel to the fair land beyond the sea. Such a mixed lot of strangers I saw. There were Welsh and English married couples with their families. There were Welsh and English single young men and Welsh and English single young woman. Then there were Scotch and Irish married couples, and also their families, and single young Scotch men, and single young Scotch women. I can still remember how many single women there were altogether. There were 105. We had nothing to complain of. There were separate divisions for all the young women in a department by themselves with the married couples next to us. Then the young men were at the other side, and in the ship the same plan was carried through all the way on the voyage. We did not sail till November 19, but there were no unreasonable restrictions. We went in and out at will. I went about with some of the married people, and clung to them all the way out and after. I go and see some of them at this date when I can find the time. The ship was brought alongside of the depot, as this place was called, and I thought it looked so splendid, so clean and nice; but, for all that, more than I thought it might be our last resting-place. The touch of kindness in it all was wonderful to me. One lady, also a free passenger, was elected as matron. She was an English lady, and she endeared herself to all. The doctor had all our names on a roll, and he called them over every evening and morning, and we had to answer to our names to see that none of us got lost. The doctor acted as chaplain. He was a bachelor, and had many years' experience of sea life. There was a punt that went to and fro from Birkenhead to Liverpool, and vehicles of all kinds with horses attached passed over on this punt. It cost a half-penny for each individual. We often went in companionship in that way, and we saw many things to surprise us in Liverpool. We were watching to see when the Morning Star would sail, and wondering why we were there so long and were provided for, without payment, with good as well as suitable food. The last afternoon before we sailed we had our tea on board the ship. Some were skilled in music amongst the men, and they formed in a harmonious way and marched on board in order playing some lively tunes with flute and fiddle. Only to think that we must gradually get settled and be pent up within the walls of a ship for three months and not see land in that time! We girls were arranged so many for each table, and the table had a number. We took it in turns to keep the utensils and vessels that we used clean. The sleeping convenience, too, was adjusted for sleeping only. There were comfortable hammock-like beds, and two shared a compartment together. A young English girl came to me and said her name was put with mine for sleeping in the same division. I had not seen her before, as she came on board only in time to sail, as her home was in Liverpool. She cried bitterly at leaving home and mother. She was about 20 years of age, and so beautiful and pleasing, and she could sing. We went to sleep, and in the morning when I awoke I found the ship moving gently. We were being towed out of the dock by a steamboat. ON AN EMIGRANT SHIP. It was a foggy morning. I could see the boat and I learned that we were in the River Mersey. How different it looked from the River Clyde! I was on the poop and a man was standing waving to a woman in the boat, who was also waving a handkerchief. He was a tall, strong-looking man, with such a tanned face. I looked up at him and saw the tears standing on his brown cheeks. That was our captain. When we got fairly out to sea a great many felt ill. Strange to say, I did not, and was able to be helpful and to go here and there and assist the others. Some were never on the deck for weeks, but rough or fine I never missed being in the open air for one day during the voyage. I loved to watch the wheel that controlled the helm and guided that great ship in a direct course to Adelaide. A few verses, written by one of the married men, will give some idea of the high opinion we all had of the captain. They are still in a legible state, although written so long ago. I will add them here. The author of them is dead, but in his lifetime in South Australia his name was popular and high in public favor. Here are the lines:-- ON THE MORNING STAR. Come, let us be cheerful, at last we are afloat Alone on the ocean, where battles were fought By England's true sons, to memory so dear, Whose cannons were never yet seen in the rear. Brave Captain Mathews, he is truly a hero, His barque is his pride on the wide, rolling sea. His voice through the tempest sounds strong and clear, And the deck is his cabin when danger is near. No favor yet asked has he ever refused, In the fair weather all the young girls are amused. Always so cheerful, with a sweet, pleasant smile; See him romp with the children, the time to beguile. Mr. Granger, the first mate, like the captain, is free, Always happy when he sees some amusement and glee. Amongst the young women he is nothing amiss-- I judge by the number that I've seen him kiss. Mr. Hudson, the second mate, has a fitness of mind, In his place he is ever upright and kind. Truth and sincerity you discern in his face, He will never the cause of old England disgrace. Then may success attend those three brave sons of the sea, May fortune befriend them wherever they be; When old age comes on may their pillow be soft, When called from below, God grant their souls go aloft! When scenes and places were pointed out to us I began to realise how far away I was. When the captain gave orders that we were to be kept below, as the ship would get a tossing in the Bay of Biscay a solemn silence fell on us all. The dear old Morning Star ploughed her way through that awful water, and I could see no bay, but only stormy billows. All our things swung to the other side of the ship, and the things from the other side came over to us. We soon regained confidence, and there were merry peals of laughter to see the plight of the passengers when their goods and chattels were rushing from side to side. Fancy us being afraid of sea or storm after that. If any other ship that flitted across the horizon was near enough the men got out some flags and signalled to her, and in that way found out who she was and where she was going. If she was close enough and was homeward bound we could send letters. An American warship came close by, but when the captain discovered that we were a ship full of people voyaging to Adelaide he let us go. I learned that they were bent on plunder. The warship was the famed Confederate privateer Alabama. I used to read about it and the desperate things Captain Semmes did on the high seas, not sparing either boats or schooners, but overhauling them in a most merciless manner. Our captain knew who they were, but we did not at the time. Although I saw the name I was not the least disturbed, and years afterwards, when reading a description of the Alabama, I knew that I had seen her. The doctor read the Anglican Church service every Sunday forenoon, and usually we all attended, sailors as well. How sweet the singing sounded on the sea. It was so solemn and so mysterious with only the sky for a roof. The ways and the saying and the doings of those on the Morning Star were very peaceful in that never-to-be-forgotten time. Health and contentment were unspoilt by contact with the world. I, for one, too often turned with regret to the old times in Scotland, although our days were full of excitement. If any isolated places could be seen as we travelled along the captain would let us have his telescope in turns, and would tell the name and the situation and all particulars. We learned that he had children at home, and that when I saw him first he was waving good-bye to his wife and children. He would come up in the afternoon with his pockets full of sweets and put them on a canvas to see us scramble for them. He was beloved by the sailors, and it was good to see how they would run when he called. He always said, "Come along, my boys, and let that go every inch." We were a long time at sea before he knew that I had no relatives on board, and when I told him I knew no one in Adelaide his voice trembled. "Oh, well, be brave," he said, "you are young, and you must take your part in labor and in life." The days seemed to pass so quickly, and as day followed day the companionship grew more strong, as we were grouped together with only the noise of the waves to listen to. How little did some think of the deep shadow of sorrow that would reach them through those bright, rolling waters. Scarlet fever had already seized some of the young children, and one by one they were lowered down into the bitter waters. They would be enjoying their hours of play in the sunshine on the deck one day and the next they would be gone. The trouble continued till twenty-seven had died. A man died also, and one family lost six children, some of them grown up. After seeing so much of the troubled horrors of the deep we were heavy-hearted, and no wonder. Everything passed like a mist, and we did not know who would go over next. Captain Mathews showed much sympathy for the grief and suffering. How we watched him as he sat with his telescope, and anxiously wondered how long it would be ere we got to Adelaide. Wild winds would toss the ship with such cruel force that we were very anxious. Once we saw icebergs floating about in the sea, and it required some skill to steer clear of them. They looked awful. There was a skylight just above where the other young girl and I slept, but it was always shut and made fast every night at 10 o'clock. One fearfully rough night when the wind was blowing strongly the water came rushing down the ladder. It was sea water. Our berth was getting full, and I could not go on deck for the hatchway was locked. I called, as loudly as I could, but could not get anyone to hear. So I thought of a plan, and I found a mopstick and tied my towel on it, and poked it up through the bars of the skylight, and rattled it to and fro with such vigor that the captain, who was at the wheel, came running and calling what was the matter. I said, "Please, captain, will you put the cover on the skylight to keep the water from coming down the steps?" He said I would have to appear before the doctor in the morning to answer for the fright I had given him, and I was sent for in the morning for the first time. Fever was in the captain's cabin; the doctor was there and the mates. The captain said he had been to sea for thirty-three years and had met all kinds of incidents, but that he had never before had such a fright as I gave him with that broomstick. He was horrified to see this white thing come up in the middle of the night. I promised never to offend again, but I received a good scolding. He said it looked like a goblin, and he pretended to be angry, but I could see the smile on his face. I could only look from one to the other, for if the ship had got wrecked they said I would have been to blame, for the captain was at the wheel himself, and he let it go when he saw this white object thrust out in the darkness, while the sound disturbed him as much as the sight of the thing. I shall never forget that time. Sometimes doubt and despair were at war. I felt that I could not undertake the journey again, for the task I had undertaken seemed harder than any I had learnt before. A lot of nonsense was talked about "crossing the line." What dreadful things some of us thought we would see! We feared the Equator and the Southern Cross, but there was, after all, only fun and merriment, there being nothing strange to see. The ship went on steadily just the same, but when they told me a certain constellation of stars was the Southern Cross, and I lost sight of some stars I was familiar with, I knew we were making our way to the new land. After crossing the great dividing of the seas we often had it very hot. This was new to me. Often in the tropics the ship would just roll to and fro, and sometimes make no headway. Then we would see the tar boiling in the seams on the deck. We had plenty of time for dreams and fancies, as we longed for the first glint of freedom, so as to start into life again. It was getting on towards the end of December, and we thought of the New Year on board ship, and set to work to form some plans for being joyous. Christmas and New Year's Day were festive times. Some of the young girls who had friends amongst the married people were allowed to go to their quarters to spend the day, and we had all sorts of enjoyment by direction of the captain. We were well content with the arrangements, and the whole time was restful and quiet, despite the monotony of the voyage. The share of joy and sorrow that comes to every life was not absent on sea. What troubled me was that I was growing tall, and I wondered what I should do for clothing. I grew in height and got broader. I could only with difficulty get on some of my garments that fitted me well before I left on the long voyage. Some actually laughed, and asked me why I came before I had stopped growing. I only had one hat, and that blew over the side of the ship. I stood and watched it as far as I could see it with tears in my eyes. That had fitted me alright. We got up our boxes every now and then to look through them. But I must not keep on about my discomfort, although what seemed droll to others was to me a matter for serious thought. I had a new pair or boots and would not wear them on board, but was saving them to go ashore with. I put them in what I thought a safe place in a corner where we slept, but when I went to get them the rats had eaten all the kid off them. There were only left the canvas or lining and the leather on the toes. I took them and showed them to the captain, and he said it was good to have rats on board ship, as it indicated that we would not get wrecked on the voyage. I had been so helpful to the matron all the way that the doctor told me I would be rewarded with some payment when we got to Adelaide. I was thankful for that, because I had no money. We were told that it would take to the middle of February, supposing everything went right, before Adelaide would be reached. Many on board were travelling to relations or friends, and there was no home-sickness amongst them. They counted the moments until their arrival. Neither the captain, the doctor, nor any of the mates had ever been to South Australia, nor had any of the passengers been either, so we had no one to tell us of anything encouraging about this new country. We could only have hope and courage. Everything was done for our comfort. When the weather was too hot awnings were spread to protect us from the sun, and we always seemed to have a reasonable supply of water. I never saw the least sign of whisky or grog, as it was called, in the case of any of the officers of the Morning Star. Cleanliness was universal, and every precaution was taken against infection by the use of carbolic. That South Australia was a place for men and women who believed in themselves was recognised, and the question was often discussed. There were men of culture and training on board the ship, and so they proved themselves afterwards. It made me proud to think of having come a sea-voyage with them. The same remark applied also to the women, with but few exceptions. We had all signed an agreement to stop in the colony for two years. The thoughts of a return to Great Britain were shared with many of us, and they gave me hope. The most painful experience I ever had on that deck was one Saturday morning. I was sitting in my usual place, when I saw a seaman going up in the rigging. All at once I heard a fearful cry, and I saw him fall into the sea. They shut down the skylight to keep the people from causing confusion. On either side of the ship a lifeboat was lowered in a moment, and before I had time to look round I could see the mates and the men in the boats, and the lifebuoys thrown over. The captain had the ship heaved to. It was awful. They did not rescue the sailor, and it was affirmed that a shark had pulled him under, as one had been seen that morning. Sharks were often seen. The sight of that man falling into the water has lived in my memory. I had not seen him before, except amongst the others, when they were all together pulling the ropes, but I could see his face so plainly as he fell that I would have known him again. This occurred on January 17. The sea was calm, and there was no breeze. We all felt sad, and the flags were dropped half-mast. All the man's chattels were given in charge to the steward. He was a young Scotchman, from the Orkney Islands, and a single man. How I shuddered at the sight of a shark after that! They followed us nearly all the way. Anyone who has heard the cry of the sailors when a man falls overboard will never forget it forever. Then there was the confused mingling of the people, with the murmurs of "hush, hush." I ARRIVE IN ADELAIDE. It was a glorious sight on February 14 when we came on deck to see the land of the south. There was such intense excitement, and the scene is beyond my description. Dr. Duncan and some other officials came on board soon after we reached the anchorage. They had puggarees on their hats and hanging down their backs. That was the only foreign sign in the clothing. It was a hot day. I, for one, quite expected to find that the people dressed differently, and that the houses were on some other plan from those at home, considering the long distance from Scotland. After the officials had convinced themselves that everything was satisfactory the gangway was let down for the people from the shore, who came in numbers to welcome the friends whom they had not seen for so long. Amongst the very first was the head-gardener from Sir William Milne's, at Glen Osmond. The gardener came to meet his sister and her husband with their family. He had instructions to employ a young girl to do laundry work at Sunnyside, Glen Osmond, and he pointed out the place from the side of the ship under the hills. It looked so nice, and he told me they were a Scotch family. I knew that I was strong, and that I could do laundry work nicely. He tried amongst the older girls, but came back to me, and I agreed to go to Sunnyside when we got to the shore. The captain, the doctor, and the matron were pleased, as there was a home found for me before I left the ship, and such a dear home it proved to be. The married people and the single men went off first, with such of the young women as had friends to receive them. The next day we were brought to Adelaide, where a few of the single girls had gone. We were all on deck next morning in good time. There was no railway from Port Adelaide to the Semaphore then, so everything was left in its place. All were making preparations to leave, with hearts full of gratitude to the captain. While he was sitting looking through his telescope, not thinking of what was going on behind his back, one of the girls slipped up quietly and cut off the tails from his old blue serge frock coat. She then cut it into little bits and gave it to us to remind us of that grand man. The look on his face when he saw what was done was good to see. The young woman who did the cutting became a captain's wife two years after we arrived, and she and I were friends all the time to her death, which occurred a short time ago. The doctor was very kind to us all, but not with the hearty interest that touched the captain for the forlorn condition of some of us. We saw four large omnibuses on the beach, and in a tempest of sobs we were brought ashore. The doctor had been to town in the morning. He and the captain came to see that we were all in the buses safely. We all came to Adelaide that way and got into King William-street, some inside, and some outside. I had no hat to wear, and the matron, who was with us, promised to get one for me that day. The air of cheerfulness amongst these girls was splendid, and some of them were singing on the way. We were taken to the home for servants, which stands yet. It was a little way from the railway-station in King William-street. When I pass it now the past all comes back to me just as it was as I was getting out of the omnibus. I could not go back from the thought of what my life and work would be. A new gladness came to me, for Adelaide seemed a wonderful place. We admired the brightness of the sky and the splendor of what we saw coming along, as well as the grape vines about the houses. We had plenty of fruit of all sorts sent to us on the Morning Star, with many grapes. I had never before seen a grape-vine growing. The very earth seemed new. We were kindly spoken to at this home, and everything was done for our comfort. A committee of ladies were appointed; one, I remember, who was so nice was Mrs. Henry Gawler. She was so sympathetic. I told her where I was going, and she knew the lady. Mrs. Gawler took a fancy to me, and for years afterwards I used to go to her if I was in any difficulty. It was on a Thursday afternoon that we arrived, and on the Saturday after tea the coachman was sent to take me to Sunnyside in a spring-cart. I was shown into the mistress' room, and the first words she said were, "Dear me, you are young!" It was the same complaint as I had heard in Scotland, and I wondered if I would ever get older. I showed the lady the letters and papers I had to give in proof that I could do what was likely to be required of me willingly. They were a large family, some were grown up, but there was a baby in arms. There were other servants. One I found in the kitchen had only been in the colony a month, but a housemaid who showed me to my room had been in South Australia all her life. She brought me some grapes, and was so anxious for my comfort. I am quite sure that thankfulness for the kindness of them all touched me with a sense of security. I was early astir in the morning. What a scene was spread out to view. As far all round as I could see there was nothing but grapes and fruit trees. I was told that two-and-two the girls went out on Sundays, and if I liked I could go to town with the cook, and that I should stay home the next Sunday with the cook. I knew where to find some of my shipmates if I could get into town. So it was settled that I should go that morning, because the other girl knew all about Adelaide. There were no tramcars then. There were two carriage-drives to the house at Sunnyside. One led to Glen Osmond and the other towards town. We got on a road and kept the town in view till we got there. I found my way to Wakefield-street just in time to see some of my friends getting ready to go to the Port and get on the Morning Star, which was not going away for some time. They asked me if I would like to go with them, and, having been so much with this lady and her children, I was pleased to go. I showed my fellow-servant where and when to come for me, so that we might go home together, and I went gladly once again on board the ship. They had got into Port Adelaide and everything looked so different. Most of the sailors had deserted, which was no unusual thing in those times. When the captain saw me he said he thought I had told him that I had a place to go to. I replied that it was my Sunday off. He could not understand, and the lady I was with tried to explain to him, but he merely laughed, and his face was a study. Such a lot of the people who came out with him went to see him again. The ship did not leave the Port till March 17. I never saw the captain again, but I liked to hear about his safety and that of the ship, as well as that of my shipmates, with whom I felt most at home. There were five brothers, three had wives and families. One was a widower and one a youth. They had a young Highlander always with them who wore the kilts, and when we got back from the Port the young man in kilts was there. I waited and waited, but the young girl from Sunnyside did not come at the promised time. I was distressed, not knowing my way to the Glen. We were all strangers. I went to the servants' home, and I met one of the young girls, and she said she would go with me to enquire the way to Sunnyside. We returned to tell my friends, and the young Highlander with one of the brothers said that they would see that I got safely home. So we all started off, and they made enquiries for the road to Glen Osmond. The young girl came as well. It must have been the first time for a man to have kilts on in the colony, for everyone stared so fixedly at him. I had been so used to see men dressed thus that I could not understand what the people were so rude for. We kept along till we got to the Vine Inn. They asked there for the house, and we had to pass into quite a plantation of trees, which did not look anything like what I saw when going to Sunnyside the previous night. It was bright moonlight, but never a body did we see. I caught sight of the house when we got to the top of a rise. Oh, the joy of the discovery! At one entrance was the coachman's house and at the other the house for the gardener. The coachman's house was overgrown with a lovely creeper, and the Highlander, wanting to know if this was the right place, tried to get to the door. We could see the light. He was tall. There was a woman sitting inside with a baby on her knee. She saw only the kilts as the Highlander had to stoop down to get in. She ran and screamed. It was the coachman's wife, and she had never seen anyone in kilts before. She made such a scene, and brought her husband out of bed. The gardener told me afterwards that his first thought was to lay hold of his gun; but when he saw me the matter was soon explained. I saw the mistress when I went in and told her that Lizzie, the cook, did not call for me, and how I got home. It appeared that Lizzie had a lover, and they thought that two was company and that three was none. Just a word about the dear friends that brought me home. There being no bright gaslight to show the road distinctly they got out of their way, and travelled on till they came to Glenelg, and did not reach home till near morning. There was a committee meeting about it and such a lot of talk, for the young girl was staying at the home in King William-street. But when they went into the details there was nothing to say, except that we were "new chums." Such were the events of my first Sunday in South Australia, which appear vividly among the strange happenings of the past and the planning for the future. I began to work the next day. Through the skill and kindness of some of my friends I got over the trouble about my working clothing. Only I had short sleeves and my arms were burnt by the sun. I did not mind that. I felt well and strong, and the look of the place was an inspiration. From where I worked I could see the sea over which I had come. How I watched the ships coming in and going out, and wondered when I would cross it again. But the people I was with, well, they were kindness and goodness itself, and the children--How I did love to scamper over the hills with some of them when I could get the chance, even if I had to carry them part of the way. It was a well-appointed and happy home. They entertained a lot, for there was a grown-up family with such gay and pleasant manners. They must have been welcome guests wherever they went. Sir William was in Parliament, and was Minister for Crown Lands and Emigration. Sir Dominic Daly was the Governor then. The Government House party came to Sunnyside on festivals and on other days. There was the Governor and Lady Daly, with two sons and two daughters, young ladies and gentlemen. The sons in stature and height were so unlike their father. He must have been brave enough, but he was neither tall nor stout. I was often in the room as an attendant. I liked to hear the Governor talk. I always helped in waiting on the assembled guests. How the times have changed since then! The young ladies from Sunnyside and the Miss Dalys and many others belonged to an archery club. Shooting with the bow and arrow was a favorite sport both for ladies and gentlemen. There were targets all about. One was at the Government farm, which is now called the National Park. More than once I have been sent to assist in spreading lunch there when they had their customary meetings. How exciting it all looked to me. The bright activity of the young people and the scenery were so entrancing that I was glad I came here. Lizzie and the cook got married. I used to go to town once in every three weeks, but soon found where to get the omnibus both in and out of town. I always went to the home to look for my young friends of the voyage, and we were so pleased to learn of each others' welfare. I found many who had not got such a nice home as I had. And I told my mistress of one young girl that I thought would do in Lizzie Ross' place. So the lady asked the master to call at the Servants' Home and ask this girl to come. He did so and told the matron to send her on my recommendation, and she came and stopped at Sunnyside till she also got married. That girl grew very attached to the family of Sunnyside and kept the respect all her life. Only to see some of them was a joy for Mary. She came from Scotland, and she and I got into the same train at Glasgow. So we went out on the same Sunday every other week and came to town together. All was well for a long time, but Mary had given her affection to a young man on board the Morning Star. He was the baker of the ship, and when we landed in Adelaide he went out with some exploring party. I received some letters from home and I sent some. I had good news to tell of what I had seen in Adelaide. Those were prosperous times. The gas was getting laid on in the streets, but in some streets they had only oil lamps. Four of the brothers already mentioned went to work as plumbers and gasfitters at first. They were all plumbers and painters except one, who was a mason. There were no unemployed in the streets in those days, and no poor children without boots. Everything, too, was so cheap. So many of the houses have been pulled down in all the streets and the place has so changed that if one had not seen the alterations he could not believe it to be the same place. All the time I was hoping to get my relatives here. I gave a full description to my master of the reason I had come out to the colony and had left all my friends. He told me to rely upon him to do what he could and showed much sympathy. I was anxious to get all the family out together, so as not to have any more partings. A great peace settled on my mind when I found that Sir William would use his influence in securing the dispatch of six persons with assisted passages to Adelaide. There was a lot for me to do, as it would at least cost £20 for me to send the land grants to them, and may I add here that I saved that in one year from 10/ a week. After subscribing for the voyagers, it amounted to just the same, as my wages in Glasgow, which were six pounds a year, so I had enough for my needs. It is hard to explain about the kindness of the people of Sunnyside. The gardener and his wife and family lived on the domain. As he was the very first man I had spoken to of the South Australians, I used to go to him and his wife, and tell them of my hopeful desires. I saw that man the other day in town, and he looked as upright as he did many years ago. And we talked of the long ago days. If it were not for the craving of the lone heart for love and for kindred, there would have seemed nothing but brightness, peace, and plenty at Sunnyside, Glen Osmond. Satisfaction being mutual, the year went by so quickly. If this should fall into the hands of any of this household, concerning which I have such happy reminiscences, I hope they will pardon me if I refer to a few of the incidents that appealed to me. It was good to see the fruit that grew there of every kind. Some I had never seen before. My chief wonder was at the grapes, and the making of wine. I had read about the wine-press, but I then saw a great number of people gathering in the grapes, and then watched them crushed and the juice put into a large vat. I was not long there before it was known that I had a terror concerning snakes. There were some about, even amongst the vines. The boy from the stable saw a dead one at Sir Thomas Elder's place and dragged it all the way to put in the laundry to give me a fright, but the coachman saw him and took it from him, and brought it to where I was, and told me not to be afraid. It was such a size when he put it down at its full length, and told me if I saw anything like that to get away from it. I was thankful I did not see it unawares. The boy thought it would be fun. A governess came daily on horseback to instruct the youngest child. The eldest son went to college. The young master and some other youths about his age would ask in a gentle way if they could melt some lead to form bullets for their guns. The laundry was not far from the carriage house. While working I could hear them tell of their playful merriment and of the birds' nests, just like the boys in Scotland. It may not be out of place here to add that some of those youths so full of frolic, are men of dignity to-day in this State. The young gentleman used to bring his trifling property and ask if I could let them stop there where he could find them, as the housemaids were always putting his trappings where he could not find them. All had horses who were old enough to ride, and so had the ladies also. If no man were there I would help the ladies to mount if they wanted help, and very pretty they looked. The eldest daughter married a gentleman who owned a farm, near Port Augusta. It was a gay time. The Parliamentary caterer and his waitresses were there for days, and there was a breakfast in great magnificence for a hundred guests, with a ball in the evening. Such wealth and beauty I never saw before. The wedding service was performed at the Scotch Church in Wakefield-street. How feeble it all looks in written words. Only in some way to show the experience gained in early years, I had taken the letter I brought from Glasgow to Dr. Gardner, on North-terrace, and I often went to Chalmers Church with the friends who were so kind to me on the voyage. One of the gentlemen took a leading part in the singing, and I went with his wife and family. All of those five brothers mentioned went there, and many others who came in what we called "our ship." On more than one occasion the master and mistress took me and left me at the Manse the night before a tea-meeting so that I could help. My work was always done at the end of the week, and I gladly helped the others, answering the door, bell, or otherwise, and amongst ourselves we had merriment in the home-time. One of the housemaids was married, and I got another of my fellow-passengers to come to Sunnyside. I knew by that time that some treaty was in hand to obtain the earliest passage for my people in the first ship that would come with assisted passengers. I began to be busy in preparation to meet my relatives. The time would be coming soon when I would want to go away, and the thought way disagreeable to me. I did leave Sunnyside, but went back years afterwards. One Saturday afternoon I was in attendance, and I was told to bring in the decanter and cake to the library. There were two or three men there looking so weary and dusty. I learned while in the room that one of the men was John Macdouall Stuart, the explorer. I hardly knew then what exploring meant. At any rate those men looked broken down, but the master was so pleased to see them. I had a letter to say that my people were coming by a ship name the Art Union when there were the number required. I cheered up, for although I had plenty of everything and friends included, when I saw other girls' eyes fairly shine when they talked about home, I hoped to begin life afresh and to forget about the past. I looked forward not the least discouraged. When I thought of what a sea of water divided us, I tried to be practical. I came to this distant land in the hope that they might better their fortunes and that happiness would be ours. But I must soon turn out of the home where I had been sheltered and happy, and where I led a new life in this new land which was still strange to me. Anyone who lived in the full safety of family ties could not understand the dread I had to leave Sunnyside. In all the years past I could yield to the wishes of others, I had so far cared but little for my own preference. Now I must decide for myself what I ought to do. Time passed on. The young master went for a long visit to his young married sister at Port Augusta. He brought back a good sized kangaroo. He asked if I was at Sunnyside yet, and being told I was he wished the man to take the kangaroo out of the hamper and let him loose in the laundry. It was late, and I did not know anything of this. But the young master was so used to putting his odds and ends in there that he thought I would not mind. I went in the morning and opened the door, and when I did so this kangaroo made one bound for the opening. I had never seen one, even in a picture before. The sudden spring it made for the door and the length of its tail frightened me, and I was insensible with terror. I ran shrieking to the house, and the kangaroo rushed through the vines down the gully. All the bedroom windows were thrown open, and everyone had seen "him." I leave anyone to guess what I thought I had seen. They had some trouble to find the kangaroo, but it was not put in the laundry again. On looking back from now I intend to say a few words to young serving maids. If any of the incidents which happened to me in my early life also happen to you, the fact that I got through them may convey some courage to you. I think you will see that pleasure is possible in life as a domestic servant. Only let our needs be natural, and let us lead a life without vain, empty show, not trying to appear richer than we really are, or to spend all our money on dress and amusements. I noticed the difference between this colony and Scotland. The pleasant evenings we passed would not be understood now. Pleasure with unrest has led and will lead our young girls to spend money they cannot afford to make a show. How did they manage before there were so many clubs and the so-called friendly societies? They all go to the club now, and the home is too dull. The hearth is solitary. Men and women are spoiled for home life. Many would have us believe how good it is to be seen smiling and talking on some platform, and to care no longer for home in the old sense of the word. In the rush for and the love of excitement very heavy demands are made on the endurance of the working woman. Perhaps I do not see the humorous side of life, but that no doubt is because it has been all so real to me. I often went to the coachman's house to see his wife and children, and more so when the carriage was out late. She was a nice, pleasant woman, and there were some pretty little children. We often laughed about the man with the kilts. My shipmate, Mary, the cook, was sought for in marriage by the baker of the ship. I was her bridesmaid. They had the goodwill of everyone. I sorely missed her. She was older than I, and so bright, and we went out a lot together. The man went to work at his trade at Unley, and I went to see them at Goodwood in their little home. Goodwood and Unley were then in their littleness. There were but few houses here and there, and no tramcars. How changed all is! One of the housemaids had her home in Glen Osmond, and kindly took me to see her parents and brothers and sisters. What pleasure they all gave me, and they wished to make me glad, because I was a lone girl, so far from all I knew. My fellow-servant belonged to the Anglican Church in the Glen. I went with her sometimes. Our lady mistress gave a tray in aid of something for the church, and had suitable provisions sent there. Then she graciously allowed the housemaid and myself to attend, as she could not go herself. The retention of the memory of those days is easy, seeing that only the other day I saw my helper at that tea-tray looking so well. She has been a happy wife for many years. Many others with whom I got acquainted at that time, and who were well satisfied with being house servants, could be named to-day. Letters came to say that my people were on the way out. I got restless and ill at ease, anxious to make some household arrangement for them. I thought Glen Osmond and the hills were beautiful, but I knew that they could not come there to live. I could get an afternoon to visit town now and then. I could have done so more often than I did if I had cared to. I came to town one afternoon, and went to the home in King William-street to learn about my ship friends. While I was speaking to the matron a gentleman came to ask if she knew of a young girl who would do for a house of business at No. 10, Rundle-street, in the city. She asked me if I knew of anyone. Impulsively I offered myself, as it would mean that I would be in town to look out for some place for my relatives when they landed. The gentleman, too, spoke with such a Scotch accent. As it would all be a possible help, there seemed to be nothing to do but to accept the offer, although anguish and indecision was there also. MY FATHER AND BROTHER ARRIVE. So I came to Rundle-street, No. 10. It was a butcher's shop then. My employer had been the shopman, and had bought the business from his employers, who had lived on the premises. Being a bachelor, he, too, lived there, and my duties were to attend to his needs and to those of his shopman, and some youths who slept on the premises, and to prepare plain meals for them. It was odd to me at first, for everything was upstairs, except the dining-room. The rooms were plainly furnished, and I had a lot of time to go out and in. There was no one to say an unkind word to me. My master had some brothers in a different business. They came frequently, and were so good to me that I claim them as friends to this day and will while I live. I had the hope that I would live with my father and brother when they arrived. I understood my own intentions, but what would I have done then if I had thought that men could be so cruel--cruel as I find what the spirit of bitter cruelty is now. All the world seemed to me so true then. Although I was thousands of miles from every one who knows me or cares for me, all the time I felt so guarded and so happy in my efforts, and I had everything necessary for a decent and comfortable existence. The lady from Sunnyside would come out in her carriage and see how I was getting along, and some of my fellow-servants would come and see me. We could go up to a room and look out into Rundle-street. I was not at all lonely. And as the time went on, how I watched for that ship to come. It was expected to arrive about the middle of August, and not in hot weather like we had. At last it was nearly due. I had engaged a house for them. It was small, and I had only taken it for a time. I had some of my shipmates to help me fix it up. I had to pay two weeks' rent before they landed, awaiting the arrival of the Art Union. I was there one morning, but the ship was a long way out in the bay. There being no railway from the Port, I walked along with my basket full of all sorts of things for them. It was so rough that no one would go out to where the ship was anchored, except the health officers. They went, and I waited until they came back, to learn if all was well on board. In the afternoon someone came with a boat, and told me if I did not think it too rough he would take me to the ship. It being decided that no one should be landed till the next day, I went out in the boat, and I never had such a rough time on the sea. When the boat got alongside the big ship it banged against the side and bounded out again ever so many times. I looked up and saw my dear brother. He was the first I saw. They let down the gangway, and my brother descended, and when the boat hove to again he caught me, and I got on the steps and soon found myself on the deck with all my kin once more. It was quite a year and a half since I saw them. My sister's little girl knew me, and held me by the skirts. I talked to my father. The dear man, how pleased I was to think that I had them all here, and I thought all my trouble was over, which, however, proved not to be the case. The boat that I went out in came and went two or three times between the ship and the shore. I waited on deck, hoping for a calmness, so I could get them all to come ashore. My sister had a little baby girl that I had not seen before. She would not run the risk of being wrecked so near the beach, but my father and brother landed with me. How delighted my dear father was when he felt his feet on land again. We had to walk to the Port, and it was dark and cold. When we got to the station the last train had gone, and we had to get lodgings in the Port all night. I knew that at No. 10 they would do the best they could till I came. They all knew where I had gone, and were sympathetic. So I brought my brother and father to Adelaide, and showed them where the house was that I had taken for them, and they did not go into a house without something being provided for them. My master sent a man with a butcher's tray with the choicest of meat on it for them. He said that the burden I had to carry was too heavy for my young shoulders. I was disappointed, and failed to see why my father would not settle in Adelaide. He wanted to go all over the place. My brother-in-law went to work at once in some blacksmith's shop, but my father and brother went up to Moonta. I had promised to go, and be their housekeeper when they got settled. But learning that Moonta was a mining place it got mixed in my mind with Slamannan. I could see that my father, at least, did not like South Australia. I thought that if I went from place to place with them I would be penniless and without a roof. Still, I felt sure that I must do what was right, even if I did not know where I was going. So I wrote and told them I would go to Moonta. Accordingly I went to the Port, and saw Captain Wells, of the steamship Eleanor. He went to Moonta regularly. I did not like leaving No. 10, Rundle-street. It was a very restless time. Captain Wells asked me a lot of questions, and told me he thought I would not like Moonta, if only because of the scattered thinness of the population. I got my trappings on board the Eleanor. I was the only girl passenger on board. In fact, there was no other woman at all. Captain Wells talked to me about bringing out the Eleanor all the way from England entirely, and fully under his own control. I then asked him if he knew Captain Matthews, who was the captain of the Morning Star, and he told me that he had known him in England. I thought Captain Wells just such another good man. He was kind to me, and saw that I was comfortable. He pointed out all the places, and told me the names. We saw Port Wallaroo and Port Wakefield. The Eleanor ran into Port Clinton, and there being no jetty, I got into a little boat. Then a horse and cart came into the sea a good long way, and I got out of the boat and into the cart, in which I got to land. I could not see any houses, but was told that there was one house at Port Clinton. A conveyance was there to take me to Kadina. It went no farther that day. I stopped at the Wombat Hotel, and how pleased I was to find one of my shipmates there as housemaid. I was covered with dust. It was my first experience of the country in Australia. In the morning some other kind of public vehicle carried me on to Moonta. I got there in the afternoon. My father and brother were waiting for me on the roadside. They did not live in Moonta township. Once more I was glad, realising that they had missed me, and were pleased to see me again. My father worked at a building in Moonta, some large hotel, as a carpenter, and my brother, with some of his shipmates, was again in the mines. Just fancy his coming to Australia only to go in the mines again. Alas, for my castles in the air. There were scarcely any women or girls about, and particularly where we lived they were all mining men, many of them waiting for their wives and families, who had been sent for. Ever so many seemed to live in one or two little houses like the one we had. And just think of it! Some men had places dug in the ground and covered in some rough way. I used to feel so troubled. There was nothing that I could do except cook and take father's dinner into Moonta every day. The wee house we had had no garden attached to it, or anything bright about it, and there were only earth floors. The same kind of houses and buildings were everywhere, set down anyhow. Some end to end and some sideways. For the most part they were whitewashed. There were a lot of trees and scrub, and the worst of it was that my father was so uncomfortable about the heat, and reproached me for bringing him out to South Australia. My brother was nice, but it was a hard time for me. Tears would come as I tried to realise what it all meant. At last when we had been there about six months, father came home before dinner and told me that he was not going to work any more at Moonta, but was going with someone to Angaston, and that we were all going to that town. I did not know before that he had partly bought the house, but he said that he had sold it again. I admit that I was glad beyond words. So father arranged for my brother and me to return to Adelaide, and to take his tool-chest and all the movables while he fixed up about the house. It was not smooth and bright for me, as everything had gone wrong, and I feared that what had begun badly would go on badly. The truth crossed my mind, and a keen disappointment ensued, for I feared they would upset all that I had arranged for their benefit. I was not twenty years old, and anyway I was used to fitting myself into a work-woman. I could see people were sorry when I went away, and glad to see me again and I had not been badly treated as a servant. We had to buy water and go and fetch it, and then it was condensed water. I felt glad when the time was fixed for leaving Moonta. I saw no evil. The people seemed frank and kindly, but the fewness of women made me miserable. I only saw three in the place where we were. Two elderly women and a younger woman. On the other hand, there were hundreds of men, and when I had to go anywhere it seemed as if I had to pass through a long procession of men. I was shy, but they were offenceless. How many times I have wished to see Moonta again, to see the progress that has been made. I thought my father so terribly foolish, and I was fond of him. He was comparatively a young man. Brother and I got on board the steamer and we arranged that we would stay with my sister till father came. We were both in doubt what we should do. Some mischance happened to our boxes, which left me in a state of hopelessness. We had a tool chest, which did not look large, but it was a great weight, and the man moving it did not know that, and somehow he let it fall into the little boat with such a force that it upset the boat, and the men and all our boxes were floating about in the sea. All our things were spoiled, and the tools as well. My mind was made up I could not live in such a fashion and comply with the request to go to whatever place the others chose. So when I got to Adelaide again I told some ladies I knew that I would go to service again. And at once I was engaged to go to the Government farm for a month or six weeks, to be the attendant of Sir R. D. Ross, who had just married, or was on the eve of getting married, to Miss Baker. It is called the National Park now. It was very lonely. I was there a few days and nights before they came. The house was a little way from the principal buildings, that being the caretaker's place. An elderly man and his wife lived there. She was so deaf that she had to have a horn to her ear all the time. It was a beautiful place. There were two houses, one being called the old farm, and the other the new. All that I had to do was to keep good fires in the rooms to make them warm. It was cold weather. At last the bridal party arrived, and the lady brought a lady's maid with her. What a gentleman Sir Robert Ross was, and the lady, how gentle of manner! The troopers' horses were left on the farm to run when they were not wanted. They told me that from east to west the distance was nine miles of extended wood. That was the length of the "farm." I slept in the old farmhouse all by myself for nearly a week. In the daytime I never went far from the house for fear I would not find it again. I was taken there in a waggonette with a lady and gentleman. And they were afraid they would never find the place. It was almost dark when we got there, and the roads were not very distinguishable. The lady and gentleman did not stop all night, but the caretaker's wife showed me where I was to sleep. I slept, but I did not then think that I was all by myself in that large building, with nothing having life except the troopers' horses, the opossums, and the wild cats. When I got older I could not do such a thing. Sir R. D. Ross and his lady were fond of horse-riding, and horses were brought for them. The Government farm was an ideal spot for a honeymoon then. It was just the sort of place to escape attention. During the rest of the time I enjoyed the friendship of the lady's maid, and we strolled together through the woods. She was a colonial, bright and full of adventure. Her name was Martha, and she fairly danced along like a wild bird. It was a great treat to me after my solitude at Moonta. Martha did not know whether her young mistress would settle here or not. For my part I hoped they would, and that they would think me likely to be serviceable to them. But such was not to be. Sir R. D. Ross had to go to Maoriland rather hastily. War was either in progress or some hostility with the Maories was contemplated, and he had some command in the military forces. He took his wife to New Zealand with him. The brightest is the fleetest. I was left alone at the Government farm. That would not matter, except that I shrank from going home. I was to stop for a week to put all the things in their place, and to leave it all tidy. Some goods were to be sent for from Morialta. One evening while I was sitting in the verandah listening to the opossums, I heard a footstep and a cough. I was preparing to run to the caretaker's, when I found that it was my brother. He had been all day trying to find the farm. I was pleased to see him, and he wrote home and told our people that he would stay with me till I had finished there. He helped me a lot. He told me that father had taken a little workshop in Leigh-street, off Hindley-street, where he was doing some carpentering work. They went to and fro to my sister's house for meals. My brother was still young, and he felt bitterly upset. He recognised what I must feel, and that I was not happy with father. What a failure I had made! My brother told me not to fret, as I had done the best I could ever since he could remember. In a few days I packed up, and in two or three weeks I was on my way to the South-East. I GO TO THE SOUTH-EAST. I had not been long out from Scotland before, after some experience in and around Adelaide, I found that I would get more wages in the country. So I made enquiry at a labor office, kept by Mr. Malcolm, in Hindley-street. About this time there was a great demand for good willing servant-girls. Mr. Malcolm told me that he wanted two young girls for a sheep-station in the South-East, near Bordertown. The station was called Wirrega, and was owned by a Mr. Binney. I was not well posted up in the geography of the country, and when I was told that we would go to our destination in a steamboat, the Penola, I took it for granted that it would be like going from Glasgow to the seaside. I was quite willing to go provided that he found another girl to go with me. In a day or two he sent for me to say that he had found a companion for me. She was to be the needlewoman, and I would be the laundress. Our employer paid our passage-money, and we signed an agreement to stop for a year. We got our little trunks ready, and Mr. Malcolm came to see us off at the railway-station. We found our way to the steamboat, hoping that we would reach our journey's end that night. But, to our disgust, we had to spend the night on board. Luckily it was in the month of November and was not cold. The next day we landed at Robe. The landlord of the Robe Hotel sent on board for us, as he had instructions to take charge of us until we were sent for. We were surprised, for we thought that our journey was over when we stepped off the boat. However, there was nothing to complain of at the hotel, and our employer was paying our expenses. But we were anxious to get to work, for we had but little money, and, of course, our wages would not begin till we reached the station. It was the shearing season, and the wool was brought to Robe from all the country round. We used to sit on the jetty and watch the loaded ships going out. We had been there for two weeks before a man called to say that he was instructed to take us girls back with him. We had been told that it would take us three or four weeks to get to the station from Robe, and that our way lay through a wilderness of sand. What we had seen of bullock-drivers made us shudder lest they should send for us to travel under their tender care. We came downstairs to interview the man. How vividly I can see him even now. He was ragged and covered with dust. His hair was projecting through the top of his hat, and he had a whip in his hand. We asked him what conveyance we were to travel by. He replied, "In a carriage and six," meaning the bullock-dray. At this information both of us began to cry bitterly. We refused to go, and thought of returning to Adelaide by the steamer, but my companion told me we would be put in prison if we did that. We made such a scene that the landlord and his wife came out to see what was the matter. When he learned the state of affairs he comforted us and told us he would write to Mr. Binney; so we awaited the result of his letter. A week later, on a Saturday evening, a strange-looking vehicle, drawn by wild horses, came into the yard. This was to be our conveyance. As the driver was a pleasant, respectable, married man, and promised to take as much care of us as he would of his own daughter we were much relieved in our minds, but the difficulties of the road and the savage aspect of our team still caused us dismay. Early on Sunday morning we started, for we were told that if the horses had a whole day's rest no power on earth would get them into harness again. They had never been stabled, and as they pranced, foaming at the mouth and making the sparks fly from the cobblestones, they attracted much attention from a large crowd of onlookers. As they bounded out of the yard we held tight to the seat and said our prayers, for we thought we had not many more minutes to live. Twelve miles of good road brought us to a small hotel called The Stone Hut. Here we halted for a few seconds, and then made a dive into a sea of wild ferns that extended as far as the eye could reach. Suddenly, without any warning, the vehicle stopped with a crash, and our driver disappeared from our astonished sight. We had struck the hidden root of an old tree. Presently he reappeared from under the feet of the horses, and congratulated us on having sufficient pluck and presence of mind to hold the reins. After this incident all went well, and at about 8 o'clock we arrived at a sheep station, where many men were shearing and where no white women had ever been before. The shearers took out the horses and brought us some tea in a pannikin. Our vehicle was turned upside down and covered over with rugs. Under that rude shelter we spent a sleepless night. The next day's journey took us through a wilderness of sand. Now and then a few blacks would appear from behind a hill and fly precipitately at the sight of us. About 9 o'clock that night we reached the home station, fatigued and dusty. Mr. Binney was in Melbourne, so Mrs. Binney met us and gave us a good scolding for the trouble we had caused in order to have us brought from Robe. But she was Scotch, and we were Scotch, and so our explanations were soon accepted. When the morning came I found myself in the Australian bush. Another young girl, who was housemaid, took me with her. Her father and mother were at the station as house cooks. They consoled me by telling me that I would like being there when I got used to it. Truth to tell, I was anxious to begin my year's service, and so was up betimes. Numerous wild birds, among which I distinguished the magpie, deafened me with a bewildering clamor. With very mingled feelings I went to the laundry. It was built of wood, but had many of the usual conveniences. The water I had to draw up from a well by a windlass. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Binney and five children--three sons and two daughters. In addition there were a sister of Mr. Binney, acting as governess to the children, and a Mr. John Binney, a cousin of the owner, who was manager or overseer of the station. The comfortable dwelling-house was one storey in height, and was built of stone. There were several outbuildings and a large store, where all sorts of things were kept for sale to the employes of the station. The place looked like a little village. It was a common sight to see a man with his wife and children living in a sort of gipsy van. The husband would be employed in "grubbing," or clearing timber off the land. When the contract was completed the family would pack up their goods in the van and journey to another station. At stated times the families of some permanent employes, who lived a few miles away, would come in on horseback for their rations. Our employers, and, in fact, everybody about us, were very gentle and considerate in their dealing with us. At first I was afraid of the blacks, of whom there were a great many about the house. They all had nicknames, and had been trained to be very useful. One morning I plucked up courage to venture near their "wurlies." I shall never forget the scene. A number of little black babies were crawling about in the wet, dewy grass, and the sunlight was glistening on their naked little backs. But the children were afraid of us, and would creep under the bushes when they saw us coming. We used all go to see their "corrobories." Sometimes they would be away for days fighting with another tribe, but no strange blacks ever came to attack them. They were fond of showing us their implements of war, of which they had a great variety. I was surprised to hear them talk in fairly good English, and sometimes with a broad Scotch accent. Even the children spoke English well. They were remarkably agile, too. They would mount perfectly wild horses that would have succeeded in killing a white man. As soon as they were fairly mounted they would fly in the air like rockets, but, like cats, they always landed on their feet. They were splendid mimics, and used their powers of imitation to play many tricks. Some of them would go off among the bushes and imitate the hens. This would bring out the old cook with her basket. When she found the trick that had been played on her she would be very cross, much to the delight of the blacks. But sometimes they would do her a good turn. If she wanted a wild turkey she had only to tell them so, and one of the blacks would dress himself up with boughs and lie down where the wild turkeys came to drink. When the unsuspecting bird came close to what he imagined was a bush a black hand would shoot out and grab him by the leg. So, after all, it paid the cook to be friendly with the blacks. This was an ideal place for a naturalist. The blacks used to bring in a wonderful variety of eggs, and the place was famed for its bird-life. We had many pets. In fact, what with tame kangaroos, opossums, and emus the place resembled a menagerie. I made a pet of an emu, which used to wait for me at the laundry door every morning. I dressed it up in an old pinafore, and it was so pleased that it followed me wherever I went. In the early days the wild dogs had been a great pest. Wild cats were numerous, but no one minded them much. At the end of the laundry there was a slab hut, where they kept the beef and mutton hanging. The cats would come here in dozens when all was dark and quiet. If a light was brought they would immediately scamper off. They were beautiful creatures, partly black and partly white. I marvelled at the bravery of the men who opened up the interior. Mr. John Binney, Mr. Clark, and Mr. McLeod were the first white men to form settlements on that great expanse of country. With so many hostile blacks around they must have had a fearful time. Mrs. Binney showed us a tree, in the trunk of which Mr. Binney used to hide from the blacks. Our nearest neighbors were ten miles away, and the Tatiara township was about sixteen miles from the station. The police had their quarters at Tatiara, which, in those days, was composed of huts. I went there once, and found only one substantial building. It was an hotel. Once in every three months a bush missionary held services in this hotel. We all went to these services, some on horseback and some driving. The months passed on, and I grew to like the life. Everybody was busy, for there was plenty to do. The lowing of the cattle, driven in for branding, became familiar music to my ears. But, isolated as we were, and simple and rough as the life was, I could not complain of any monotony. Sometimes a hawker would visit us with a large van drawn by a team of bullocks. He would camp for days, and do a brisk trade as a general provider of the wants of the little community. He found good customers among the blacks, for they earned a little money during shearing-time. Nor were we entirely devoid of the amusements of town-life. More than once a travelling Christy Minstrel Company came to the station. The performers would stay all night and give a theatrical show in the laundry, which I gave up to them for the purpose. From miles around the place station-hands would come to see the show. The young girl, who went up with me and myself got on nicely together. In the light of added years I can look back now and feel grateful for the hard training I went through then and the lessons those early days taught me. Sometimes we caught glimpses of the many mysteries of the silent bush. The presence of troopers and black-trackers about the station would tell us that something unusual had happened. It might be that the dead body of a man had been found a little way from the station. A consultation of all hands would be held, and the unknown would receive a decent burial, while efforts would be made to discover his identity. When any of the station-hands died they were buried in a little enclosure near the station. If they had lived far out on the boundary of the run they were buried near their huts. What the blacks did with their dead puzzled us. Mr. Binney insisted that they must be buried, and the dusky relatives would obey. But, shortly afterwards, the graves would be rifled, and the corpses would mysteriously disappear. I asked a very old lubra to tell me what was done with the dead, and she horrified me by replying, "Big one, cookem on sticks." While I was there Mr. Binney sent a mob of horses to Adelaide. Some of the blacks went with them to help the drovers. They came back by water. Then it was amusing to hear them describe what they had seen in Adelaide. They called the steamboat "Big one wheelbarrow." They said that something pulled them along with "tether ropes on the big one water." There was one old lubra called "Kitty, the postman." When Mr. Binney first came into that part of the country, Kitty showed him where to get water for his oxen, and on that spot he began his life as a sheep-farmer. Kitty would carry letters for him to his friends as far away as thirty miles. He could always depend on her honesty and efficiency, so she became a privileged character. She must have been of a great age when I saw her, for she remembered well the time when no white man could be seen in the land. She had free entry to any of the buildings, and loved to smoke her pipe in the men's hut, for all the aboriginies, both men and women, smoked. She told me that the blacks did not hate the white men so much as they did the blacks of other tribes. The cook at the men's hut was frequently visited by "sundowners." He told me that many of these stated that they were sons of doctors or clergymen, and were well educated men. I had a strange experience with a "traveller." One evening, when our candles were lit for the evening meal, a boundary rider brought in a woman whom he found wandering about by herself. There was a vacant place by me and she sat down. As she had a sunbonnet on I could not see her face well. Every visitor that came so late would stop all night, so the question arose "Where was she to sleep?" Not one of us was willing to share our room with her, so Mrs. Binney said she must sleep in the laundry. I took here there and she sat down while I prepared her bed. In order to see her face I put a lighted candle close to her, but she immediately blew it out. Then she took out a pipe and began to smoke. From a glimpse I caught of her features I thought she looked like a man. So I went to tell Mrs. Binney. As the laundry was full of valuable clothes I thought something might be stolen, or the place might be set fire to by the sparks from the stranger's pipe. I was really afraid of her; and so it was decided that she was not to sleep in the laundry. The needlewoman came with me, and we told her that she might sleep in an unused hut beyond the fence. In a voice like thunder she said, "Show me where I am to sleep." The hut had no door or glass in the window, so I pinned my apron over the window, and then we fled in terror. She did not wait for breakfast, but went away in the early morning with one of our teamsters--the man who had found her. When they had gone about six miles she jumped out of the dray, and ran into the bush. The driver went on to Tatiara and told the police. After that I was worried by troopers and blacktrackers. The questions they asked me would have filled a book. They picked up the tracks near Wellington, but lost them again. They all thought, as I did, that our strange visitor was a man dressed in woman's clothing. But there were pleasanter incidents than these. The arrival of "her Majesty's Royal Mail" was looked forward to with eagerness by all. The coach was a queer-looking vehicle, with a large "V.R." painted on it. The horses were changed at the station, and the coach went on to Tatiara township, calling at other stations both coming and going. How quickly "mail day" seemed to come round again. Bushranging had been prevalent, but the coach had always luckily escaped molestation. I like looking back after all this time. It seemed lonely, for we were far from the sight of anybody we knew, and visitors were scarce. The needlewoman and I used lo take the children out amongst the tall gum trees. We had no perambulator, but there was a little Scotch pony for the baby to sit on. The foliage of the trees was dense, and they were close together, but we could always find the tracks. One day we went a long way, and the little pony stepped into what seemed to be a circle of snakes. He stood still, and so did we, for we were too frightened to move. The snakes fairly leaped from the ground and bounded in amongst the young bushes. I never ventured so far into the woods again, but I saw more snakes after that. A dog was a very good protector, for by his barking he would always show us where the snakes were. The housemaid, whom I have alluded to, found a snake under her pillow one night when she was going to bed. We shared the same room, but I am happy to say I never saw a snake in the room. The bedroom was right outside the house, and there was nothing to hinder the snakes from entering it, so that it may easily be imagined that we were careful where we stepped. Our time was passing away. We could see by the preparations at the woolshed that the shearing season was near. The loneliness and silence of the bush gave place to the bustle and hum of human beings hurrying about. There were supposed to be altogether about a hundred men in and about the sheds, and where all the people came from was a mystery to me. What with woolclassing and woolwashing and woolsorting and the packing the wool into great bales ready to send to England there was a lot of work. In the middle of it all came the surveyors with a staff of men to cut up the land in allotments, as Mr. Binney's lease had nearly expired. Now the train to Melbourne runs through what were then desolate wilds. They wanted me to stop for another year, but I would not. Mrs. Binney said I was the only girl who had ever left the station without getting married. I told her I had a suitor somewhere else. The young girl who went up with me was married to a "cockatoo" farmer. I hope she has been happy, for she was a nice girl. I have been a wife now for 26 years. Life is full of changes. It was not stated in the agreement I made that Mr. Binney should pay our expenses back to Adelaide. I had not thought of that when I was engaged to go the South-East. I thought the journey was such a short one that we could come and go when we liked. It was settled that I would return by the mail coach and wait at the hotel for my trunk, which was to be sent by the wool-dray. There was no other choice for me. By this time I was well acquainted with the driver of the mail, as he used to have lunch with us sometimes. He was a middle-aged man with a wife and family, and was understood to be reliable. So far I had trusted everybody, for I was young and happy, and I did not feel the least afraid. I LEAVE THE STATION AND RETURN TO ADELAIDE. From this time the days flew by quickly till the last night I was to spend in the bush came round. Truly, I never knew till then that I had so many friends. People came from such a distance to say "Good-bye," for the coach started early in the morning. I had a cheque from Mr. Binney, and I had never had so much money before in all my life. I was told to get it cashed at Robetown, as Mr. Binney had no banking account in Adelaide. I had a nice present, too, from Mrs. Binney, and one from Miss Binney, which I have yet in my possession. In the morning they were all up to see me off, and there was a scene of great excitement. Amongst the rest there were blacks from all round, shouting at the top of their voices, "You white lubra, what for you go away from my country." I had a very kindly send-off, and with tears in my eyes, I bid adieu to all. All the way along the driver pointed out to me places of interest with such queer names, such as "Biscuit Flat," "Black Joe's Corner," "Binney's Lookout," and many others which I have forgotten. What interested me most was, however, the name of the place where I was to stop for the night. It was called "Mosquito Plains," and I wondered if any mosquitoes were there. That evening we reached the "Mosquito Plains." I forget the name of the hotel where we stayed for the night, but I remember that the old landlord was making way for a new one and that there was a great crowd in and about the bar. Mr. Sinclair, the mail-driver, took me to the woman of the house and asked her to find a room for me, as I was leaving by the mail in the morning. I never saw him again. I slept little that night, as the people were pacing about the hotel all night. The woman I had seen before told me that the coach would start about 3 o'clock in the morning. Daylight was just breaking as I wearily got ready for my unknown journey. The driver of the mail was a quiet young man. There seemed a lot of parcels and luggage, but I was the only woman among the passengers. I hoped to reach Kingston that night. I was not much interested in our stopping-places, as I was longing to be back in Adelaide. I had no one to talk to, so I stood by the coach while the horses were being got ready. I heard a gentleman say, "Has anybody thought of getting a cup of tea for this girl?" and the answer was "No." Then he said, "I will." In the bar they were all drinking by the lamplight, and he held a little saucepan over the lamp and made me a cup of tea. I watched him from where I was standing, with grateful thoughts that could not find expression. I often saw that gentleman afterwards in Adelaide. I was often tempted to go up to him and thank him for that cup of tea, but I did not like to do so, as I never learnt his name. At last we were off. The inside of the coach was filled with luggage, so the passengers all sat outside, and the arrangement was not very comfortable, as there was nothing to rest one's back against. Some of the men who mounted the coach that morning were the worse for drink. Still, no one said anything unpleasant to me. We went speeding along through desolate scrub. The road, or, rather, the mail track, was very uneven, and I expected every moment to be thrown out. I asked the driver what I was to hold on by. He laughed and answered, "Hold on by your eyebrows." There were places on the wayside for refreshments, and about 8 o'clock we had breakfast at one of these. I would have liked to stop at Mosquito Plains to have a look round, but on account of the change of landlords the hotel was topsy-turvy, and I did not care for the woman I saw there. I was disappointed, for I knew that I would have to wait at Robe till the wool-dray came with my things, and there are some very interesting caves near Mosquito Plains, which is now called "Narracoorte." We arrived at Kingston and drove at once to the Kingston Hotel, which was kept by an ex-trooper from Adelaide. To my astonishment a nicely-dressed little blackgirl met me at the door. She came to see what I wanted. She was about 12 or 13 years old, and was the only female attendant in the hotel. I was a little upset, but I thought that I must not be too particular for one night, so I told her I would like some tea. She brought me quite a nice cup of tea on a tray and told me that the master would come and see me soon. Presently the landlord came in. He was evidently in difficulties. He told me that his wife had been dead two months, and his sister had been keeping house for him; but that, owing to the sickness of his little son, she had to take the boy away to his grandmother. He said she would return on the following day. I asked if there was no other white woman about the place. He answered--"Yes, there is one; but she is ill in bed: and I am at my wit's end." I asked if I could see her, as, being a working-girl myself, I thought I might do something for her. The man was much agitated and replied--"Yes. She is a married woman and has been in my employ for six weeks. She had a baby this morning." He led me through a long billiard-room and a kitchen, where some black-gins were sitting round a fire smoking, into a little back-room in the yard. There lay the poor woman and her face lit up with joy to see another white woman. I soon learned her story, which was like that of many other wanderers. Her husband had gone away to look for work, and had forgotten to come back. I sympathised with her trouble and did what I could for her that night. On enquiry I learned that there was a doctor staying at the hotel. He was attending to several men, who were suffering from ophthalmia after shearing. But my sympathy was all with that weak woman and the dear, little baby. I learned, also, that there were only a few white women in Kingston. Two young men who had been shipmates with me in the Morning Star came into the hotel the next morning. Their name was Ring, and they were with their father, Mr. Herbert Ring, who had a contract to facilitate the shipping of goods at Kingston, as before that no ships could come in near the shore. I was pleased to see them. They are both in Adelaide now as sharebrokers. They brought their father to see me and it seemed like civilisation again. But I had not yet done with the mail-coach. As the coach left Kingston every day, I determined to stop with the sick woman till the landlord's sister came home. Meanwhile the people about were negotiating with the landlord to get up a supper as they wished to celebrate the opening of a branch of some lodge. I think that the Messrs. Ring were the principal officials in that lodge. So when the housekeeper came I set to work and helped her prepare this bush "banquet." I did not know very much, but every little was a help, and they all said the supper was splendid. Just in the middle of the preparations for supper a travelling dramatic company arrived and began to get ready to hold a performance that evening in the billiard-room. I never saw such a mixed lot of people together. I looked for the doctor, expecting to see a man in decent black clothes, but he was dressed in old, tattered garments, just like the poor shearers to whom he was attending. I understood the reason of this when I saw him staggering about. Be was a very clever man, but abandoned to drink. The little black girl was a great help. She could fetch and carry for these poor men, who, I am afraid, were very much neglected. I saw a little of the country about Kingston and liked the look of the whole place very much. My stay at the hotel lasted from a Tuesday to the following Saturday, when the landlord drove me into Robe in his own waggonette. I had no bills to pay and received some remuneration for being so helpful. For years afterwards, if anybody who knew me stayed at the hotel, they heard kind things of me and brought me nice messages. Neither my trunk nor the steamboat had arrived, so I had to wait till the next Saturday at the Robe Hotel. The same people were there as when I went to Mr. Binney's. I felt just as if I were at home with them, for they were so interested in my experiences all through that year in the bush. I had enjoyed good health all the time I was away, and I arrived in Adelaide safe and well. It was on a Sunday afternoon when I reached the Port, and my brother was on the dock waiting for me. Father and he were living at Hilton. They had a horse and trap, and my brother drove me to Hilton; but I was not many days at home, when I found that my father seemed in touch with some acquaintance I did not like; I felt outside of everything, and asked myself why I came back if there was nothing to come back for. I was out of sympathy with my surroundings, I learned that my father was about to get married again, and I felt as if I was not wanted. I could see that the old condition of things had changed. In any case, everything seemed hard for me, and I could not put matters right for other people. At best, there would be a muddle, and I thought if things came to an end quickly it would not be so hard to go. I had to go forward alone, I knew, and to face bitterness and desolation. When some one said, "I wonder you sent for your people," I thought that it did not matter whether or not I lived at home, for I could not skip out of their lives. Wherever they were they were my relations. Still, if there are no love-ties, that makes loneliness more solitary. There was no ill-will, but my brother said that he would not live with father and his new wife. So we had to do something. I told my brother that I must have some work to do, and then we might manage some little business. What else could we do? It was either that or we would have to go and live in a top-garret somewhere. So we took a house with a shop attached in Rundle-street. It stood this side of the Tavistock Hotel, but it was pulled down many years ago. There is now a saddler's business there. I had it fixed up as tearooms, and my brother made furniture. In any case I had to face a new kind of life, and I had no right to grumble. When we were children I remembered the happy comradeship which always existed between my brother and myself, and I was glad to be alone with him. It was a splendid time and we did fairly well, and had something to give thanks for. I could not expect that happiness to continue, and when we had been there for some time I had a strong belief that all the rest would come right in time. It was a joy to feel that I was working for my brother. Such trivial incidents may not seem worth recording, but that was my only experience in business on my own account. Youth is full of hope, but I did not know what I hoped for. There was the present and the future to think about. Just at that time a Scotch corps of volunteers were raised. It was the first in South Australia to wear the kilts. There was such merriment about this dressing every day. Mr. Buik had an ironmongers shop in Rundle-street, and he was the captain. My brother also became a kilted volunteer. The kilts were sent from Scotland partly made, and then altered so as to make a suitable fit. They looked nice, only the stockings were of some kind of checked tartan, with no shape or figure. I knew how to knit, so I knitted a pair of stockings for my brother, and set in the wool in different coloring and in diamond shape. They looked unlike the others, and they were made to fit. Mr. Buik came to me and asked me if I would do a hundred pairs. I was so surprised, that I thought I would not knit any more stockings which could be seen. In the Foot Police at that time there was a Scotchman who stood, so they said, over six feet in height; his name was Archie Dixon. He had his own kilts and knitted stockings, together with the bagpipes. He brought all the equipage with him from Scotland, and truly he did look a picture in the kilts. The past is, indeed, past, but it all comes back to me when I want it. The news spread about that in a few months the Queen's son, the Sailor Prince, would visit Australia. I can trust my memory for that time. It can never be forgotten. As for the people, it is no exaggeration to say they were full of joy, as in some sort of way it appeared that this visit was to be made a pleasure for all. I seemed to have no plans in life except to see the Prince. In a few weeks the warship Galatea came in to port. It was a fearfully hot day, and the Scotch Volunteers, with Mr. Archie Dixon in the front playing the bagpipes, went all the way to the Port, with other volunteers as well, to meet Prince Alfred. The town was all one "festival." They marched in procession and came to the city. In their route they marched around the spot where the new Post-Office now is. I had a nice seat on some of the old buildings in King William-street. The men who wore the kilts must have suffered from the heat. However, there was the Queen's son, bowing and looking so distinguished as he passed along to Government House. Sir Dominick Daly was there, too. There was no electricity then, but the splendor of the gaslight in the night-time will not easily be forgotten, nor the vast crowds who gathered there. The drawback all this gaiety had for us was that we had not much capital. I did not want anything in the way of stock, but my brother's work was different, for to make it he needed materials; worse still, he let furniture go on credit, not realising enough to meet his debts. On turning back to that time my thoughts were not glad. I could not be gay, for I could see no brightness in the future. It was said by some that my acts and life showed great self-denial, but if it did it did not bring me any of the inward satisfaction which is said to come from such deeds. I thought I must try and get a new place, for I could see that my brother was seriously in love with a young woman. Then came the final decision, and I went and saw Mr. J. N. Hines, at Parliament House, with the hope of getting some employment daily, as he had so much catering to do while the Prince was here and in other ways. I used to go to the Town Hall, and also help at Parliament House. My first employer, at No. 10, Rundle-street, had got married, or I should have liked to go back there. Having to be independent and to take care of myself for more than eleven years I had learnt to use my knowledge and be hopeful. I daresay there are plenty who will remember the stampede of that time. There was a sense of whirl during the whole time of that brilliant visit, and its influence was considerable with us so far as ways and means were concerned. We both made up our minds not to get into debt, and we did not, but as matters went it might have been better to have gone to a situation at once. I could not take any particular kind of work, but I could help with most things generally. I can easily recall how little attempt there was to understand anything regarding cooking, and there were no men cooks in Adelaide then. The foundations of the Club House on North-terrace were being dug out while I was at No. 10, Rundle-street, and it was occupied when I came back from Moonta. A married couple had the management of the Club, and I got to know the manager through being at the Town Hall banquets and other places, so I went to help at the Club. The cooking was very crude. The manager had been a steward on board ship, and was not well up as a caterer. The work was not at all delicately done, and I did not like either the manager or the manageress. I did not stop long at the only club that was then in Adelaide. Many years have rolled away since then. The affairs of myself and brother were disposed in such a way that I had many doubts as to what I should do; but youth is delightful while it lasts. One thing, I could not be idle. I secured a situation with a lady at New Glenelg, and was to undertake, with the lady's teaching, household duties. There were no children. The lady was Mrs. Brind, and another young girl was kept. It was a comfortable home. We had everything suitable, and I had a nice bedroom. For the first time since I left Scotland I found myself living close to the sea, and that suggesting the great joy of bathing in the ocean once again. How I loved that exercise, and the sea was only such a little way from the house. My sister had the care of my brother, and he used to come and see me occasionally. There was something kind and admirable about Mrs. Brind. She was a leader in society, there could be no doubt. She went everywhere, and did all sorts of things. She could sing and act and dance, and, with the number of guests always at the house, she made a charming hostess. In figure she was somewhat stout, but had such a nice face, with not a furrow of anxiety or care upon it. Mr. Brind was her second husband. She found time, despite her society arrangements, to do kindnesses amongst various persons, and more particularly to the children. She was whimsical and kindly, and one day she came and asked me if I would let her alter the cut of the skirt I wore on Sunday. Gored skirts were worn then, and I suppose mine must have been straight up and down. Anyhow, it did not please her. I let her have it, and with her own hands she altered it and made it look so different. This unexpected treatment of my clothing was done so pleasantly that I could not be angry. In respect of dress I was old-fashioned, and had but little choice. I shall never forget one particular day. It was the other girl's day out, and I had to attend to the bell. Mrs. Brind had also gone out. Cards or messages I was to see to. I learned that Sir R. D. Ross and Lady Ross and a baby girl were coming to stop for a few days. They had come back from the Mainland war, and I confess I was pleased to get everything in order for their arrival. It seemed so strange to think that I was at the Government Farm to receive them the day, they were married, and there I was again, two years afterwards, preparing for them again. What a difference I saw in Sir R. D. Ross. His eyesight had failed, and he could hardly see. But when he learned that I was in waiting he came and brought his dear little daughter to show me. He must have had exciting times in New Zealand, for he looked so worn and worried. He had seen the Prince, and showed me a ring given to him by the young Prince. I never saw Sir R. D. Ross again, but he was a thorough gentleman, according to my standard, and he was Scotch. I forget now where they had met the Prince first, but it was either in New Zealand or in some of the other colonies. Any way, when the Prince came back they were quite friendly. All this seems only the other day. I confess to feeling fatigue in those years, but I have never felt myself rusting, and even now I am hard at work, and, in apparent hopelessness, will not despair. I stayed on at Mrs. Brind's, and found comfort in my work by the seaside. The picture of what Glenelg looked like then is in my remembrance yet. There was no railway, and the only way you could get to Adelaide was by a kind of mail coach at stated times. You could book a passage beforehand, but if you lost this bus or coach you would have to walk to Glenelg or stop in town all night. The driver was Mr. George, or "Dick" George. He had a pleasing manner, which made him the friend of all. What with his teams of four or six horses and his cheerful voice ringing out he made the Bay-road very lively. His voice had a haunting ring never to be forgotten. There was a charm and quiet about the place which is not present in the much-altered Glenelg of to-day. I think of the mysterious and resistless disappearance of the people whom I knew then, and it gives a touch of seriousness to my thoughts. But what a trial it was to me to have to mix so much with strangers; still I managed to pull through. When we are very young we believe that everyone has a heart. I brought myself to such a state that I had no high aspirations except to live in a pure atmosphere. That remained, even when all was gone, and I was left where the last tide had stranded me. Many thoughts of the old time stir within me now. I can see a lady of lofty lineage, who used to come so much to Mrs. Brind's. Her name was Lady Charlotte Bacon. She looked dejected and laden with care. While she was wandering about by herself sometimes she would come and sit down by me on the sand, just as though she belonged to the disappointed and ill-used of this life. I saw her some years afterwards sitting on the steps of the Post-Office, in King William-street. She had a black bag in her hand. I did not make myself known to her, and I heard of her death not long after. Yes, there are noble sorrows on the high road. The lofty are beaten by the tempests, which are as oppressive to them as they would be to me, who am without defence. So life went onwards by pleasant dreams to a comfortable future. When I had been with Mrs. Brind for about a year she used to get me to come and read for her, as she was not well. She was very fond of Scotch stories, and I could read them easily. There were no trained nurses in those days, and Mrs. Brind grew so ill that she was advised to go for a voyage and change of air. So it was decided that the house would be closed for a time. We had plenty of time to find employment. I can at this moment recall that without any effort on my part I was sought for. I did not lack either energy or sincerity. I would fain have stopped with Mrs. Brind, but I could not. I GO BACK TO SUNNYSIDE. I was told that someone was wanted at Sunnyside who could do cooking. I knew enough for the place, as the family were growing up, and they kept a lot of company. I was sorry for Mrs. Brind. She told me that she would not live long. She had no relations in Adelaide, and her agitation frightened me. She gave me a key and told me to unlock a drawer, and showed me all her things ready for the last ordeal, if the worst should happen. I felt a very great coward, and very uncomfortable. What a relief I felt when the doctor said she was strong enough to go for a change, and that he hoped for good results. I went and saw Lady Milne, and I felt a sense of gladness I was to go to Sunnyside. It was a strange change for me, but only what might happen to anyone in ordinary everyday life and amid human influences, to look on those loved faces again. I was to have skilled help for all the large parties and balls, and I turned at once to the practical duties of a cook in a gentleman's house. I cannot help adding here that I have been able to get my living in that capacity ever since that time, and that I will give lessons this afternoon on cookery. It was like going back to the old home. I had a good, wise, generous mistress, who would tell me to put aside the past and trust to the future. I hardly knew what I expected in the future, but I was happy there. While in this position I soon recognised that cooking did not come by nature. Even the most simple things cannot be done till they are taught. I got a cookery book. I used to puzzle half the night over them, and then I did not get the rudiments from that. People do not always remain the same, but are continually changing. This can be said of everyone, and growing years make a great difference. While I was away from Sunnyside the family, from being children, now seemed to be men and women, most of them. This meant so much more company. As I thought I could not fulfil the duties required of me, I had many painful moments, although they had patience with me. I got to dread the two caterers, who came alternately or both together. The attention they wanted was more to me than all my other work. They took such pains that I should not see anything of their skill, and I had hard toil to learn even gradually. When I had been there more than a year I felt I had learnt scarcely anything. My brother had got married, and I knew that I had to give up all and expect nothing. For me loneliness never had any terror. No one could be less dependent on outward society than I was, yet I could enjoy it, only I never craved after it, nor was it necessary for my existence--I was one who have had always to stand alone. Perhaps the sharpest anguish is that which nobody knows of. I have been so unaccustomed, to sympathy that I can sit still and endure anything; I did everything at my own risk. I have had to work for all I have ever received, and some have done their best to hinder me, so that I hardly knew what to do, although I am sure I was most unselfish. The marriages of my father and brother altered things, and somebody else came in, so that the old relationships were changed. For a time I felt a soreness. Turning things over in my mind, I see that I could not have learned anything at Sunnyside, as matters stood. More than once I thought I would like to live in Adelaide again, and was tempted to take a post in some of the business places. Only homely cooking would then be required, and I could do that well. Then, again, sometimes I had to walk all the way to Glen Osmond by myself if I lost the bus. It was a lonely road, with scarcely a house where Parkside now is. All this was long ago. While I lived at No. 10, Rundle-street, I got to know other girls, who were also working housekeepers. One whom I used to see sometimes lived at Messrs. Wigg & Co.'s, in Rundle-street. She told me that she was going to be married, and asked whether she should speak for me. It would be nice for me and cheery, she said, but she did not think it would be for very long, as the place was to be rebuilt. My path appeared to be made plain, and I came and saw Mr. Wigg. He was satisfied, and I came to live at No. 12, Rundle-street. I had a comfortable room over the shop. None of the assistants lived there. I used to see to their meals during the day. Also under the heading of Messrs. Wigg and Co. there was a chemist's shop, with doctors' consulting-rooms, in King William-street, where the Beehive now stands. The chemists had their meals at No. 12. The evenings were lonely, but there were plenty of books, and I could either go out or sit and look into Rundle-street. I knew the engagement would be only temporary, but I had always faced my fate with courage, and faced it still. But there seemed nothing to face at Mr. Wigg's. Everyone was bright and pleasant. So I was content to bask in the present enjoyment, and I had given up troubling about what was to me a hopeless future. I had some shipmates at Government House, and went and saw them sometimes, and I found that if I left Mr. Wigg's I could go there. So I was happy, and what more could anyone desire? While performing my new duties I wondered how things would turn out. For some time I had a busy life, with no time for regrets. The meals were in three relays. The first was at 12.30 p.m., and so on. There was only one young lady among the assistants. The shop was full of men and youths, who served the customers. How different Rundle-street looked then. There were only little tumble-down shops, but prosperity reigned, and there were no poor-looking people or naked-footed children. A change has come now--a great change--that reaches to the core of things. We think we can endure anything, but every day the little things of life drive us nearly wild. Pleasures and trials seem both smaller when we have to face them each day. PRINCE ALFRED IN ADELAIDE. There were no model schools in South Australia then. I do not know who organised them, but the salesmen in Mr. Wigg's employ held classes for reading and writing gratuitously in a building which seemed partly a store, and was lit up with candles. The young gentlemen asked me if I would come and help. They said I could at least listen to the small girls reading. Having the evenings to myself I went gladly, and for a time I had a little class all to myself, and I learned something from the questions and answers that passed. The children all looked well-fed and well-clothed, and I could not help comparing their condition with that of the little ones receiving free teaching in Glasgow. Yet how the people in Glasgow would fear to come away such a distance, for at that time it was like dying to come to Australia. The people in the colony then had to keep on working and thinking with their own powers. There was not so much labor-saving machinery, and to succeed everyone had to work to the best of his capacity, and the boys and girls, too, had to help in making the most of their splendid inheritance. One gets interested in the people with whom one is brought in contact, even although temporarily. All was very real to me. I had been in the happiest state of mind for months. Mrs. Wigg would come sometimes and see if I wanted any comforts. She came with that good-natured sympathy, and I looked forward to the days when the children would come with, her when she was interesting herself with my department in such a kind way. Just about that time the Governor, Sir Dominic Daly, died at Government House. I do not remember whether a new Governor had been appointed, but it seemed to me such a little time afterwards that Sir James Fergusson arrived here. Then Prince Alfred was expected again, and the whole place was in a stir once more. Sir James was a wealthy man, and he sent a start of servants before him, so I thought it useless to think of the Government House employment for me. How pleasant it was, therefore, to be told I would be employed as an extra help between the kitchen and the still-room. I saw the housekeeper, Miss Anderson, and I engaged to come when they had all settled at Government House. In the meantime Mr. J. N. Hines, from Parliament House, had charge of the catering with the two caterers whom I did not like. If they had been there all the time I would not have gone there. Sir James brought with him a French chef. There has never since been such times at Government House. The house was altered, and some new places were built. In what grand style everything was kept up. The footmen, with their powdered hair, knee breeches, and silk stockings, were a sight to see when they went out in the beautiful carriage with the splendid horses, and all were brought out from the old home. It was a lasting benefit to me going there. I felt a little nervous amongst so many other servants, for they looked a splendid lot of men and women, who did not think service derogatory to them. They seemed happy and dignified, and went to work accordingly. Each had his or her own work. They were not all from the same country, but were different in tongue and manner as well. There was no false pride, nor did they think that any kind of work in a house was lowering, or that there was anything degrading in menial labor. My task was to help in the still-room. I might make a slight allusion to this still-room. It is a miniature "kitchen," where the housekeeper can make all the preserves and so on. The housekeeper's room is always close by, and there the linen and such like articles are kept. The still-room at Government House was an important place then. There were great preparations being made in view of the coming of the Prince, who was expected to arrive at any time. Then such a lot of things would have to be done in the still-room. Much of the fine cooking for breakfast was done there, and the dessert dishes were garnished there, and many of the ornamental biscuits and cakes for dessert were made in the still-room. Sir James Fergusson had all his own household silver and linen, as well as the dessert-stands. Some that seemed the most important were twelve in number; they had to be taken to the butler every night and locked up. Each one was in its own velvet casket, and was carefully put away. They had been given to Sir James as a presentation, and were said to be pure gold. One of the things I had to do when they were in use was to see that they were in safety. There was plenty of novelty in my surroundings at Government House. I was sent here and there. The housekeeper became ill in the wearisome days and nights, although there seemed nothing but pleasure to the favorites of fate. They got some responsible-looking person to fill her place, but she was not so clever as Miss Anderson. She was the wife of one of the orderlies who was in attendance on Colonel Hamley. For we had a regiment of soldiers here then, and Colonel Hamley was the commander. There was a row of little cottages on the banks of the Torrens, where they lived, but they have been all pulled down long ago. I could not attempt to record each day and night at Government House. The time flew by on golden wings. My ambition was to see to the cooking. I was in the right place, for I had to go in the kitchen and help with everything after the proper housekeeper left. I think Miss Anderson was sent home again to Scotland. I grew interested in everything. I remember now the two caterers, or cooks, came and asked me if I would ask the French chef if he would let them see him dish up the beautiful substances of his cooking. He seemed to work like magic. I asked him, and he muttered something in French, while there was a look in his eyes which said No. Every detail of that time is stamped on my memory. I suppose what made such, an impression was that I was, at any rate, where I had the chance of seeing a professional cook work, while the secret of that knowledge was not kept from me thus far. I remembered that the two cooks who came to Sunnyside always had large cookery books with, them, and in their exaltedness so acted that I could not get a glimpse of what they were engaged in. As things now transpired, they could see that my new life seemed to promise that eventually I would be able to give evidence that I had gained knowledge in the period, when something could be made out of my association with the French chef, and I felt glad that those two cooks could only gaze in longing wonder where I was gathering experience. Perhaps it gave me my revenge. But I must tell something more about Government House and the Prince. There was nothing but visitors; there were theatricals, with a real stage fixed up in the ballroom, with balls, and evenings at home, and garden parties, luncheons, and huntings. I grew interested in all that happened about me; I was not hindered in any way when time allowed me to have a look and see what was to be seen. How pleased I was to see Mrs. Brind amongst some of the cast of characters who were going to play on the stage. Truly, she looked well in her part. I took care to let her know that I was there, and to ask her if I could do anything for her. There were no professional actors, only "amateurs." It just seemed to me as if everybody was acting. The Prince had such a lot of other gentlemen with him, and amongst them there was a Highlander, dressed in kilts, who played the bagpipes. He used to play sometimes in the dining-room even while the dinner was in progress. He stood behind the Prince's chair. Whenever I could get a chance I liked to go and look in at the dining-room when the gas was alight. They could not see me. I thought it so nice to see whether the Prince ate his food in any way different from other people. He used to sit at one end of the table, and Sir James at the other. For most of the public functions Sir James wore his Court dress, as if in the presence of the Queen at some festivities at home. He did not look a weak amiability. How noble he was, I thought, and how his servants loved him. And how lovely was Lady Edith Fergusson, and their beautiful children. How nice they all were. I remember that if I saw her ladyship coming I used to dart off in another direction, and she told monsieur, the chef, to tell me not to do so, as she liked to speak to us all when she met us. I did not try to get out of her way afterwards. Such a strange custom the ladies all had. It was to limp in their walk as if they were halting and lame. To get that mode some had the heel of one shoe made shorter than that of the other. It was called the "Alexandra limp." I could not help wondering at this, and I learned that the Princess of Wales had a sore foot, and that in the midst of all gaiety and glitter the society ladies all tried to seem as if they had a sore foot. Where the tall palm tree stands on the banks of the Torrens was the vegetable garden for Government House. It was fenced all round with hedge and wire, with a door in the wall, by which we got to and fro if the gardener forgot to bring what was wanted. The door is still in the wall, but the garden has gone. I have good reason to remember one time, at least, when I was sent for something. It was dark, but I had a key and a lantern, and was told to lock the door and take the key with me to let myself in. I put the lantern down, as I did not require a light in the garden. A key was available to others, as there were more keys than one. While I was trying to open the door the Duke of Edinburgh came out. He smiled at me, and I let the things fall and stared at him. He had no attendant, but wore a soft felt hat. I stood and saw him pass out amongst the populace just like one of themselves. He locked the door and I unlocked it. I remember that as if it were only yesterday. At the time there was a war in Paris, and monsieur used to get letters that upset him fearfully. Some that were sent from his ruined home came out of Paris in a balloon. I may add that the French chef was designated as monsieur all through the house. He was a very young man to have such a position, and he could not speak English at all well. I taught him some Scotch words. He was lively, and would go on working sometimes till midnight, but would not let me stay if he could help it. The Prince and party went away inland somewhere for an outing. We had a period of quiet, and I got a day off to go and see the Galatea. All the kilted volunteers were going by special invitation, and in a kind way I was not forgotten. They had Mr. Archie Dixon, with his bagpipes. It was a nice day for an outing, and the whole ship was thrown open to us, and a happy time was spent there. All was wonderfully clean and orderly. All was explained to us, and we were told how the cannon and other instruments of destruction were fired, with the force of the ball, and the gunpowder, as well as what the sailors could do if they were attacked. We saw the Prince's room, which was being done up ready for the voyage home. One thing I noticed hanging up was a large portrait of Prince Albert and the Queen. The only thing I saw to make me sad was some men in chains made fast to the deck. They were white men. I can see the look on their faces yet. They were there for some misdeed, but I did hope that they would be released when they got out to sea. We went right down to where the stokers worked to keep the engines in action. We passed, I think, five decks to get there; I was glad to reach the top again. Human hearts must be made of strong material, or else how could those men live in chains, even for a day? The time came when I felt sadness. After the Prince went away what a change there was. Where life and merriment had reigned, amid the scene of all the late festivities, there was now only silence. For in that stately home Lady Ferguson was ill--seriously ill. She had not been feeling well for some time, and it was rumored that Sir James would take her back again to Scotland if she was strong enough to travel. She died at Government House. I had left a week or so before. I LEAVE GOVERNMENT HOUSE. I was only an extra one for the busy time, but I was told that if a vacancy should occur I would be sent for. Use, we are told, is second nature. I grew quite used to looking down the advertising columns of the newspaper, where I read, "Wanted, wanted, wanted." I saw one day a notice that there was wanted by a lady at Glenelg a young woman, who must have some knowledge of cooking and good references. The direction was to apply to Mrs. Wright, at "The Olives," Glenelg. Years afterwards I went back to Government House as housekeeper. I received a reply to my application to Mrs. Wright, stating that my reference proved satisfactory, and that she would be glad if I would come as soon as I could. As far as I can remember I was glad again to be near the sea. It was not exactly what I wanted; I was restless and dissatisfied. I had decided to seek a situation with some lady who travelled, as I would have liked to go back to Scotland again. But, still this would be something to do. On arriving at Mrs. Wright's I found one of my shipmates as housemaid. It was a large house, in pleasant, well-kept grounds. I was taken to my room, on the second floor. It was large and comfortable, with such a nice view from the window. I was, at any rate, pleasantly housed. Could I but live that time over again! Could I but close my mind to all, all that has happened since! Did I say happened? All that has taken place has been of my own doing. I felt very happy, for, as I now review my past, I know that I took the first step in the narrow path when I left the Olives! Delusion really came into my life, and I was wise only after the event. I am alone now with my ruined life and my lost happiness. The wearisome years creep by so slowly. I used to travel to Adelaide to attend Mr. Lyall's church every second Sunday. I do not know why I did not give the name of my first employer, of No. 10, Rundle-street. I think it was in my mind then not to mention any names in such reminiscences as that I wrote of mine. However, my first employer's name was Mr. T. Ballantyne. He died long ago, but his brothers are still in the land of the living I am happy to say. One of the Mr. Ballantyne's used to come to the same church in Flinders-street, with his wife and family. They were always friendly to me, and show friendship even now, after all these years. When I first made acquaintance with Mr. W. Ballantyne he was in his brother's shop at 38, Rundle-street, where Mr. Birks is now. He used to come to No. 10 sometimes. His was a merry face, with an almost perpetual smile. I used to like to see him come in. So when I met him at the church he always wished to know how I was, and whether I was comfortable. So one Sunday, when I came from the Bay, he asked me if I would not like to come and live in Adelaide again. He said that where he lived they wanted some one at the shop to get meals for the young people who worked there. I told him that when I left Mrs. Wright's I would see him, but I had no thoughts of leaving them. He must have made a mistake, for I received a letter from Messrs. Robin & Birks, asking me to come to them, as they understood that I was leaving Mrs. Wright's. I could not understand, so I called and saw Mr. Robin. How sweet is the memory of the innocent evenings I used to spend at Glenelg. I told Mr. Robin that Mr. Ballantyne had not understood me correctly, for I did not want to leave Mrs. Wright's. Mr. Ballantyne then came on the scene and talked to me, and I promised to go to 38, Rundle-street. When I got back to Glenelg I repented of what I had done, and sent a letter to say that I thought I could not take such a responsible position. Meanwhile they had made their own arrangements and they sent me a letter, in which they indicated that if I did not keep my agreement there would be trouble. A strange thought came in my mind. I told Mrs. Wright that if she would keep the place for me that I would go to Rundle-street and stop for a week or so till they could get someone else. I was so afraid of anything in the way of law that I was easily terrified. I only took a few things with me and reached the place at night. There was a small yard at the back of the premises. I found my way to the door, and as I put my hand on the knob an immense dog thrust his cold nose against my fingers. I gave a scream, which brought out the person whom I was to succeed. She was waiting for me to arrive. Then I laughed. Ah, me! could I but have seen my future at that juncture! It was quite early in the evening. The dear woman stopped with me all night and enlightened me on all the subjects of interest. She wished to constitute herself my guide and friend, and remarked that I was so young for such a position. I learned to like the dear, kind soul, and to go and see her. The next morning began the eventful day. Even at this moment, when I look back, there rises before my mind a picture of that period. There were only a few at breakfast, and that was soon over. Mr. Ballantyne called to see if I had come. He told me I could have a room over the shop, which looked into Rundle-street, and that anything that I wanted would be attended to if I mentioned it to him. There were 28 or 30 persons for dinner and tea, and some of the men in charge slept on the premises. I had their rooms to see to, so there was a lot of work, but I was strong, and I had the evenings, while I had more wages than I had with Mrs. Wright. I was old-fashioned enough to see to that; so I became quite reconciled. There seemed a happiness about the place which soothed me. I saw Mrs. Wright, and had the rest of my things sent to 38, Rundle-street, and for a time, at least, I was happy. The shop kept open then till 10 o'clock on Saturday night, when all had supper. On Sunday sometimes there was no one there. So I had every Sunday. Thus week by week, and month by month, I grew into a kind of home life amongst the people. My thoughts of going back to Scotland had passed away. There was no lack of kindness on the part of the firm or any of the partners. I remember there was a gas stove sent out to the old exhibition, to be exhibited. It was the first one to come in South Australia. Mr. Birks bought it and had it fixed up for me at 38. It was splendid and such a help. And the good, old dog that made me start the first night I came there would stretch his grand old self by the door. I felt content when he was there. I often took him with me when I went out. His name was Lion and he always seemed so pleased with the part he played. Such drollery was caused by this dog's sport. He would upset somebody by colliding with them. Perhaps a complaint would be made, and then you would hear his owner say that he would give Lion a talking to. That made everyone laugh. I never knew him to bite, but he was such a size. Sitting as I do now, so lonely and miserable, how I wish Lion was at the door; I would not feel the darkness so much. Music and singing have always been a pleasure to me. It interested me at favorable times when the young gentlemen who lived on the premises gave a musical evening, with dancing as well. How I enjoyed myself. Life was life to me then. There was a large room over the shop, and as in many other business places the owners of the shops lived on the premises. I was experienced enough to do a little catering for them, and, needless to add, they set value on my efforts. I talk of the dear old times yet when I see some of them. We often get fond of people with whom we associate even temporarily in this way. This happens in the everyday life, and some will influence us, although we know not how. We cannot help thinking of them just a little. So many different feelings one has to struggle against, one gets attracted to a person sometime through gratitude, or it might be either joy or grief felt in common. But if passion comes it leads to captivity, and we cannot get out, even if we try. In all that I have written so far there has not been one line about love. I do not like to touch on my lost daydreams. I had a suitor in Scotland, but did not take his attentions seriously, for while, intellectually, he was above me, being such a splendid scholar, love did not enter into my views at that time. But he used to come and give me lessons in writing and I accepted him. But when it was resolved that I should come to South Australia duty seemed to hold out strongly the resolution that I must give my lover up. He implored me not to do so, and wanted me not to come. He was manly and sincere enough in his love. I told him my intention to come, and that he must wait seven years for me, or come to South Australia after I had done what I wanted for my relatives. And I gave my promise that I would be true. I wrote to him all the time, and he also wrote to me till the year 1870. I had no letters and felt forlorn. At this time I came in kindly touch with John Allen at 38, Rundle-street. As we grew more friendly John Allen confided to me his past and the lonely history of his life. He helped to redeem the greyness of my life. I could not tell when it dawned upon me, but, like other women, I was capable of loving, and the knowledge came. It was pleasant to think I would share the ups and downs of life's struggles with the man I loved, and who had aroused this feeling and won my heart. It was the old, old story, and I managed to convince him that I was not the least afraid of poverty. I told him of my engagement and how it was ended. My heart had longed for practical sympathy, and it was some happiness to think that John Allen and myself had much in common. So far, I had not questioned my wisdom in thus allowing myself to be carried away by my feelings, even although he was a few years younger than I was. The thought came that, perhaps, I had been rather hasty as matters stood, but when John Allen went and brought his mother's Bible to show me that his father and mother were relatively of the same age as we were, wisely or unwisely, I pledged myself to John Allen. Their names and ages were written in the Bible. Of course, I loved him. I have always loved him, and from that time to this my mind has been filled with one individual--John Allen. It was natural; we were in the same house of business. I did not try to get out his way and he unmistakably did everything he could to get into my way. We were together morning, noon, and night for more than two years. So I resolved to cast in my lot with the man I loved. I looked to him. I did not consider it necessary to consult my people. They had all done the same, and did not hesitate or think of me. John Allen had no relations with whom he was on friendly terms in South Australia. He seemed then as if he thought only of me. I was very happy in a sense. There was a rest, and yet an unrest. I knew that he had told me he would like to go to England. You may picture my astonishment when John Allen came to me one day with a letter in his hand that had been at the bottom of the sea for two years. My name and address were only just legible, and the edges were open like a book. It was from my friend in Scotland, telling me that my seven years were up and that he wanted this point settled. I will not pretend that I did not suffer. It seemed a destiny. I wrote to him that it was useless to think of me, for I knew that my marriage with him would be loveless. I told him I was wiser now. The man I loved was perfect in my eyes. I had met other men, who had pleased my fancy, but John Allen had a charm of manner that won my heart. What I regretted most was to break my promise--a promise so marked and solemn, given far away in Scotland, while sitting on the side of heather hill. If I had been a designing woman I could have accepted for my husband the second mate of the Morning Star, who waited till the two years I had contracted to stop in South Australia were over. Then, what was so real on the ship, seemed only a dream, when he wrote and asked me if I would marry him and go back to England if he came for me. I knew then that I had my dream of honorable love and marriage. It was not to be. Upon what trifles events turn. If I had not gone to 38 everything would have been different. I GET MARRIED. In the year 1874 I became John Allen's wife. What has turned out so evil seemed to me as good. I thought all well lost for love, for it is so. He arranged it all; I left it to him. We were married very quietly at St. Paul's Church in the morning. Not a soul was to know, and there would be no fuss, or anything out of the way, but just our two selves. How all comes back to me, as I think of those simple details. I thought how happy I should make him; how hard I would try to be a good wife to him, for I loved him so. In a week or so my husband went to London and I was to work till he came back, which I hoped would be only a year afterwards. But he stopped away for three years. Long before John went to England new buildings had been put up for business purposes only, but the firm still found provisions for the assistants. I could have stopped on there, only there was no convenience for me to sleep, so I found a situation in a gentleman's house, where I could sleep at night. My mistress was Mrs. Arthur Blyth, of St. Margaret's, Childers-street, North Adelaide. She wanted a cook, and I applied. They were satisfied with my reference and I got the place. There was only Mr., Mrs., and Miss Blyth. It was a well-appointed home, and I had no washing to do or ironing. I was beginning to be a fairly good cook and they were pleased with me. I had a comfortable home. I knew I had married into poverty and I resolved to get as much as I could before John came back. I could put up with anything, as I hoped to have my rightful place with my husband some day. Mr. Blyth was knighted and soon after that they went to England, where Sir Arthur was Agent-General. Again for me were the shifting sands. Speedily I got another home with Mrs. Murray, whose husband was a member of the firm of D. & W. Murray's. Their house was at the corner of Wakefield and Hutt streets. I had a lot more to do there than I had at Mrs. Blyth's. I had all the washing and ironing to do. There was one other girl, a coachman, and myself. They kept a lot of company and they had only recently returned from London. Travel and voyages seemed to bring such a lot of visitors. It was a relief to be done. I used to get letters from my husband, but there was always delay after delay, and all this time I had not told anyone that I was John Allen's wife. Such was the beginning of my married life. Does anyone love on purpose I wonder? I could not help doing so. It did not bring me happiness. It made the whole difference when I had to tell an admirer that I was a wife with no husband. Nothing could undo the past. After all, I am John Allen's wife. I had any amount of pity and blame, but cared for none of this, and I am now beyond caring. But I must keep to that time. My brother was taken ill with rheumatism and he could not move. He had a furniture shop in Hindley-street. He had three little children, and, by the irony of fate, my sister-in-law met with an accident and was taken to the "hospital." I used to go from Hutt-street to Hindley-street, after attending a late dinner. There were no cars then in the streets and I had to walk. I would try to do something for those dear ones. And sometimes it would be nearly 11 o'clock before I could start back for Hutt-street. I may have many faults, but I am no coward. I could face what awaited me, but truly dismay would come if I saw a "group" of men or youths standing in the street on my way to Hutt-street. I would run past. Only once a man I tried to get pass stretched out his arms and caught me. He let me go as quickly. I felt I was able to take care of myself so long as I was not caught hold of. I felt lonely. I would sit and cry as if tears would do anything. I cried and cried. The firm at 38, Rundle-street had another shop in Hindley-street. Some changes were made and one of the firm went to the shop in Hindley-street. He was my employer before, and I learned that he wanted someone in the same capacity as in Rundle-street. I told Mrs. Murray my distress at having to come so far so late at night. She was very much put out. Still I think she realised my situation when I explained that I was going back to my late employer. All things considered, I had cause to be thankful. My quarters were not at all uncomfortable, and there were some of the young people from 38 there to work and to live on the premises. Hutt-street was a more pleasing-looking place to live, but how I dreaded to walk down there in the night-time. When I see the cars now travelling to that part of the city those dark and lone way-marks all come back. I was glad when my sister-in-law got to her home again. So the time went on. It certainly had a bright side, for I had more time, and could go and see my friends at favorable times and on the Sundays. The only drawback was some queer-looking old houses I had to pass at the back, as I came out and in, for I saw some vicious-looking people, which made me feel slightly nervous. I was often there all by myself on the holiday time; no one else being in the whole place. I have heard those people quarrelling at all hours of the night and making darkness horrible. There was only a small fence with a right-of-way to separate it from us. The shop was a drapery, clothing, and millinery establishment, and the proprietor of the shop was responsible for the rents of the old houses at the back. No one could have complained of the place as dull in the daytime. From early morning till closing time I was amused by some eventful excitement in what was taking place. The shop was opposite to what is now the Skating Rink, or Ice Palace. At that time there could be seen at the shop doors and on every available place the goods put out in rolls for show and they had price-tickets on. One Saturday afternoon I was looking out of the back window, when I saw a woman who lived in one of the old houses going into her house with a roll of tweed tartan over her shoulder and a ticket dangling loose to tell how much a yard it was. It being tea-time, I called some of the young men just in time to see it. They said it was taken from the front door. The police were sent for and her place was searched, and it was found she had enough stuff there to stock a shop. All the things were brought into our place. There were rolls upon rolls of all sorts of materials, with 27 suits of boys' clothing, and so on. It turned out that there were the trade marks of many other shops on goods there as well, and each one came and got his own. The woman was taken to prison, and on the Monday morning the owners had each to go and identify his own goods. All the things were taken to the station. I had to go, too. I was summoned in the name of Macdonald. It was then that I told my employer that I was John Allen's wife. I could not give a name that I had no right to. There was no end of trouble about those goods, and the case being more than could be settled in the Police Court the matter went on to the Supreme Court, for trial. We had to go to the Supreme Court when the time came. Day after day before John went to England, he told me of some relative of his who had married a second time in a very short interval. I only knew what he chose to tell me of this friend. I thought this friend was the cause of my husband staying away so long. I had a letter from him to say that he would like to bring this relative with him to Australia when he came back, and I was to send a telegram to say "Yes" or "No." I made enquiries about the cost of the telegram, and was told that, with the name and address, it would cost me over £6. The sending of telegrams was very new then. I would have said "No," I am quite sure. Although I would not wish to do an unkind action, behind this was my suffering. John knew my opinions on that subject, and calm reason could have told him I could not have acted differently. Again and again would arise in my mind instances I knew of both at 38, Rundle-street, and elsewhere, of marriages like mine, which had been apparently happy, and where promises had been loyally kept, and both were blessed. The objectless course my life was taking did not make matters any better. Who was I that I could not do as others had done without sin? Then I had to accept the unpalatable advice all round that I should not have married. With one thing and another fresh difficulties for ever seemed cropping up with regard to my husband. Has this sort of thing ever been sufficient to satisfy a woman's heart I wonder? All the forces of evil were arrayed against me at that time. Then he wrote and said that he was coming back, and I thought after what I had written to him that I had gained my point, and that he was returning to me. I had formed my own opinion of the man I had married, and I was impressed with the tone of his life when I first knew him. There was nothing foppish about John Allen. He was courteous toward women, and this contrasted well with the familiarity of some young men, whom we both knew. I wanted no unwarrantable interference between him and me. I knew I would do my best for him, but that if anything upset my confidence in him he would find my convictions were strong, and that strong they would remain, despite human affection, or soreness of heart. People do wise things and foolish things for the sake of love, which they would never think of doing at other times. So I brightened up, and set about my work with a sense of duty. I was happy; yes, a really happy girl once more. I had allowed myself to believe that at last, after my many disappointments, my husband would really come. He did not positively give the name of the steamer by which he was coming, or when he would arrive. I felt a nameless uneasiness, for I had bought over the goodwill of a boarding-house in Pirie-street, and paid £50 for it. Several of the gentlemen already there remained on. My reason for choosing this home was that I felt so full of energy, that the thought of doing nothing, and being a helpless creature, was one that did not suit me. I hoped John would see everything in the same light. To me life in all its aspects was so real. I had no false pride. One can never foretell events, and sometimes all things seem possible. An any rate, it was my own money I used. I never troubled my husband for any support. Perhaps that could not be helped, but I do know that I had not a shilling in the world when John went away. I have no choice but to speak the truth, and I think he will forgive me for doing so after all I have gone through. One day a business gentleman came to see if I could find room for a young clerk, who was coming to his warehouse in Rundle-street. He asked if I could have the room ready for that night, as the steamboat was hourly expected. When evening came I waited and watched for this young man. My anxiety made life a continual waiting for my husband. Day after day, and night after night, I thought of him. I can scarcely bear to think of that time. I felt that when he arrived he would go to some of his friends, who would tell him my address in Pirie-street. On that eventful night that the young man was to arrive I had gone to bed when a knock came to the door. I opened the door, thinking it was the man for whom the room had been made ready. In came my husband. He was but little changed. I thought him better looking. I will say nothing about this mad love of mine. John went always straight to his point, whatever it was, and before he was in my room five minutes he told me that his relative had come. It was the one we had quarrelled about in our letters. I never quite knew what I said, but whatever the words were he understood them. I lost all control of myself. All my hopes were quenched in a moment, and the future seemed most terrible to me. I saw everything, and it was not as I hoped it would be. It never dawned on me that his feelings for me could be any different from my own for him. A PARTING OF WAYS. The next day I realised how great was the gulf which lay between us. I hated concealment. After a few very unhappy weeks there came the parting of our ways. John said it was all my fault. Truly opinions differ. He told me his love was only boy's love. I don't dispute that, but still it was love, and how was I to know that it would die right away. In vain I tried to keep on as if nothing was the matter. Any hope of being able to bear my burden in silence, in such a place as a boarding-house, was not to be thought of. The rumor spread. I was ill for a time, and suffered a good deal. I knew all joy in life was over for me. I was subject to all kinds of comments as to the real reason why my husband left home. When I got better I knew I would have to face life's duty again. I could not bear my trouble on the spot; I thought to escape from the scene where I had failed so. As my brother had supplied some of the furniture for a consideration, I got him and his wife to come into the house. I thought I would find pain more easily borne if I passed swiftly from place to place, and I advertised for a housekeeper's position. Beyond that, I had no plan just then, but I had a fixed purpose to leave Adelaide. Bitter as had been my experience, now that my husband had left me, perhaps for ever, I nerved myself to the struggle. I resented the blight, which was on me while I was in Adelaide and breathing the same air as they; I had a wish to be free. Something prevented me from giving up altogether, or I might have been led into the depths, and have clouded my life for ever; I loathed the very sight of evil. I got a reply to my advertisement. It was a request to take charge as housekeeper at the Clarence Hotel in King William-street. I did not have far to go. I had commonsense enough to think that the excitement of hotel life would be a possible relief for my troubles. Still, I used to wend my way to the shipping company in the hope of getting a passage anywhere. I knew I could travel well by sea, and as stewardess--if such a post had been open--I would have gone without delay. The Clarence Hotel was a busy place then. Underground there were large dining-rooms, known as "The Shades," where hundreds came every day. There were very few places for that purpose in the city then. What is now the Tivoli Theatre, was then only "White's" Rooms. The proprietor of the hotel had charge of those "shades," or dining-rooms, which were for the public. I did not have any work to do there, but had only to see that it was carefully managed. I had to deal with the tradespeople and to give out the stores. I was employed there because the landlady was ill. There was no family, except a little adopted girl. There was, however, plenty to do, and existence had to be struggled for. It did seem a rush to get all that was wanted for so many. There were both men and women cooks, and men and women waitresses, with other employes about. Apart from the "Shades" downstairs, we had both public and private dining-rooms upstairs. I saw to the letting of the rooms, and also attended the people who hired the apartments there. For the most part they were either musical or theatrical people. I can well remember Nellie Stewart's father engaging rooms for himself and his two daughters. After all those bygone years I saw Nellie Stewart the other day looking so young. Maggie Moore was staying there, too. She was Mrs. Williamson then. There was plenty of delight and excitement everywhere, and no restrictions were placed on my movements. I came in contact with and was on speaking terms with many congenial people, and was removed from the miserable sufferings which had made up my life just previously. But all the amusements, to which I had a free "entree," could not make up for the human fellowship which was snatched from me. My courage would sink when I saw my husband and his friend coming along from the Post-Office in King William-street. They would be laughing and looking so gay. Then my mind would go back to the time, unspoiled by pain, which he and I had together. Surely when I married John S. O. Allen it never occurred to me that it would be a union with one who would in no way help me onward. He devoted himself to his relative, but this did not lessen the pain that such a factor should have come to another person's houses and sow discord. If I had found out in time I would not have been in South Australia when they came. I was deprived of all now, when I wanted companionship most; and from his point of view everything I did was simply detestable. I could do nothing to please him. He would tell me so with a sneer. My future was all a blank. I learned from a conversation between my master and mistress that they would like to sell over the goodwill of the Clarence Hotel. There was again the inevitable. I did not mind much, because I was brought up in the midst of real privations, such as affected myself only. But I could not ignore the scandal or forget that the world might imagine that I had been very busy weaving nets, and that I had caught myself in them, as was sometimes told me. It was no easy matter to go out and in, and to hear and see so much humiliation. I remained at the Clarence till my employer sold the business. I was sorry, for it was peopled with kindly human beings, whom I knew well and could mix with, even to the maids. When I went there first, as they told me afterwards, they had made up their minds not to like me. As I was the first housekeeper to take charge over them they looked on my coming with annoyance, but, anyhow, I felt confident that I would do what was right for all, and I had, in various ways, seen to their comfort, both in regard to their meals and their bedrooms. I was grateful to those waiting men and maids when I saw how pleased they were to help me in any emergency. The lady, when well, was very fond of going out. I could not object to that, although I had no time for much outing, but I had to go. I went everywhere with her. They had a private house at Norwood. A man and wife lived there as caretakers, and all the hotel washing was done there. I was always glad to go there, the garden being a consideration. We drove about, too, wherever the lady wished. I never before had such times. What with the theatre, and one thing and another no one would think that I was a discarded wife. I had tried hard not to be crushed, and faced my loss, only there was the discontent left, and, so far, all effort to forget was of no use at all. At last the valuation of the hotel was set about and the people who came in did not require a housekeeper. My employers went to their house at Norwood. I knew it would take all my courage to endure what was before me, with no scrap of human kindness to help me. My only desire was to find some hiding-place, where I would not hear the ceaseless "Poor Mrs. Allen" spoken, as I heard it that day. Forlorn in spirit, I went to Port Adelaide. A lady and gentleman whom I knew had taken the management of a new club there. I thought if I could get a place till I could find a ship that would take me away, I would be glad to do anything till then. Life seemed no worse than at other times. I did not sit down and pity myself. It was others with their pity that I did not want. My early experience gave me the possibility of bearing real pressure, and I knew what it was to be homeless. I am telling my story in my own way. I went with the people I mentioned. They were kindness itself. They were only newly married and did not understand housekeeping. I worked henceforward with but one object in view, though it was long before I realised it. At last the opportunity came to go as stewardess on a sailing vessel. I would have liked better if I could have had the chance to go on a steamboat. The ship I went in was the South Australian and she was under the command of Captain Bruce. I remembered who I was, and what I was, and why I was on board that ship. It was a conundrum. I was not on pleasure bent and did not know where I was going. The ship looked as if bound on an excursion, Captain Bruce being a favorite with those who went sea voyages. He had on board his wife and baby daughter, and a maid. The doctor was also a married man and was accompanied by his wife, a little baby, and a maid also. Such a number of people whom I knew were on board. All on one side of the "saloon" was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Goode and their family. Amongst the other pleasing people on board were the Rev. Charles Clark. He went as far as South Africa. Mr. R. S. Smythe was a traveller, too. It was January 8 when they started and a fine morning, but when a strong wind and a rough sea caught the sails I had plenty to do. I RETURN TO SCOTLAND. It was no hardship for me to be on the ocean, but for one thing there was not much scope for recollection of my troubles for the first few days. Little by little I began to feel the goodwill of the people on board. What pleasure Mr. and Mrs. Harris, from Prospect, showed in being kind to me who had so little to make life worth living. I got to know Mr. and Mrs. Harris very soon after I came to South Australia, when the future for me looked bright and sunny. I dared not cast a glance into the future at times. The ship was so crowded that I had to sleep in what was known as the deckhouse, and so did the doctor's maid. As the South Australian steadily surged along there were many notes of mirth and laughter, and they were loudest wherever the Rev. Charles Clark happened to be. When it was nice and calm all would be invited to the poop, where Mr. Clark would read and recite to us from Charles Dickens and others. Then there were other amusements, such as concerts and theatricals. I was under no restraint in the ship, but went about all over it. There was a tiny boy put on board just before we sailed. He was to be given to his relatives when the ship reached London, but nobody seemed to have any particular charge of the wee laddie, and I liked to know that he was in bed every night before I went myself. He would get away in the forecastle with the sailors, and I was frightened when I saw him up in the rigging ever so high. I made little caps for him and mended his clothes. Some of the ladies taught me some fancy work, and I taught them how to knit stockings. I was asked by one lady if I would go on to the Continent with them. This was opportune and the one thing I wished, while I had plenty of time to think the matter over before we got to London, if I could only decide what to do. Until then I did not know how much woman can bear and live through. On board the Morning Star I felt influenced by all that was best in me. We cannot sever right from wrong. I knew my marriage was a failure, and how I dreaded the by-and-bye. Was it to be like this, always empty of happiness? Gone for ever were the innocent days of girlhood. I have lived a lifetime since then. Although a sea rolled between my husband and me, and I hoped in that way to forget him, my thoughts would revert to him and his cousin. He consoled himself with her society for three years in England, and he was not necessarily without her society now. I sometimes wonder even now, in a dull dazed way, if this lonely wretched being is really I. "It was very imprudent and impulsive of me to go to sea," but calm reason told me I could not have acted differently. After what had been told me by credible witnesses the underhand ways seemed so intolerable. It was assumed that I had no right to resent it, and that there should have been no more consideration for me than if I had been an Indian squaw. To write about this is like living through that awful time again. I let myself go away, and yet I loved that man better than anything in the whole world. Life to me was hard and bitter and cruel, but on that blue sea I prayed that I would not be beaten. In a suppressed voice I declared "I won't be beaten in life so soon." It seemed as if I was as a leaf driven before the wind, and so how could I ask God to help me not to be weak and vanquished. It seemed to me as though I could never know what fear meant again; yet I wanted a little guidance just then. I am typewriting most of this with some of the old writings before me written on board the South Australian. That voyage nerved me to face life with renewed courage. I could see that it was clearly meant that I should live the rest of my life alone, with no human companionship. Having faced that fact, the greatest bitterness was over, but learning the lesson was hard. I was now strong once more. The good old South Australian went along so gently, but one began to long to see land again. The vessel called no where till she came to Cape Town. And it took six weeks to get there from Port Adelaide. Only one accident happened in all that time. One of the seamen fell overboard. It was a fine morning and he could swim, and there was great rejoicing when he was safely landed on the deck. I could just see his head such a long way out in the sea. Every one came on deck, and some suggested that a hot bath of sea water should be ready for him, but when he got on board he simply laughed, rushed to the forecastle, and was up the rigging again in quick time. "Going ashore at Cape Town" was the topic, and one heard nothing else till the time came. The South Australian was anchored nine miles out at sea. The passengers thought this was on account of the rocky nature of the coast, but the real reason was that the captain was afraid that the crew would desert the ship and go off to the diamond fields. We were surrounded by different kinds of boats. Our ship looked so high out of the water, with those little boats near tossing about in the rough sea. It seemed as if there were no means of getting into any of the vessels alongside. There was no gangway or passage to the ships. They had a chair constructed out of a cask and hoisted to the yard-arm. It was then drawn up to clear the ship and the passengers were dropped into one of the little boats. Some went ashore in that way the first day. There were better contrivances the next, as the sea was not so rough, and I got ashore with the rest and landed at Table Bay. I had often read about it, but when I saw it everything looked so foreign. The captain, his wife, and child, and maid took me with them to the George Hotel, where I lodged while ashore. Cape Town delighted everybody. The next morning some of the captain's friends came in a carriage and all went inland for a drive. I wandered about all alone; I saw where the market was and many beautiful buildings, and also the place where the ship's washing was done by men. The people were all so different to Europeans in their dress and manner, as well as in respect to the color of their skin. There were Hottentots and Kaffirs, Zulus, and many others of all nationalities. To me it was wonderland. And then there was Table Mountain, soaring to the sky. I found the way to "Oak-avenue," a grove of oak trees of such a size running on each side of this wide avenue which lead into the Botanical Gardens and the Zoological Gardens. There were seats all about, so nice to rest on during a hot day, and it was hot just then. From the description of the animals at the Zoological Gardens as being fierce and savage, I had decided not to go into the gardens alone. Mr. and Mrs. Harris and another gentleman came along, and they suggested that if I would lodge with them while we were ashore I would not be so lonely. I gladly consented, but we had to ask the captain in the evening, so I spent the whole day with Mr. and Mrs. Harris and their friend. We all went to the gardens, and I did not think them so fine as the Adelaide Gardens by a long way. But the sight of the animals struck me with awe. The gentleman said he would like to see some of them on the banks of the Torrens. I would not. The captain was willing, so I was free to go with Mr. and Mrs. Harris. But before doing that I went back to the ship again. They were lodging with a Boer lady. She was a widow. The place looked beautiful and clean. The house must have been built during the early Dutch settlement. It looked ancient, yet strong of structure. It was flat roofed, and the first thing that I noticed was that it had no ceilings, but only oaken rafters, in all the rooms. The windows were fairly large, but with such tiny panes of glass. The floors were bare, with only a mat here and there, and there were no ornaments, but only just things for use. The floors were dark to look like the rafters. The house was full of boarders, and the attendants were a mixture of Zulus and Kaffirs and Malays. Those women are trained for house work. The landlady's name was Mrs. Lund. She spoke English well, and seemed anxious to know how we did things in South Australia. I made it a point of interest to see the Dutch mode of domestic management, so the next day she showed me all over the place. It was considered a clean town, and the sanitary arrangements were good. There was no deep drainage, although the house was in the middle of the town. I saw the kitchen and other departments. No wonder that the Europeans do not work much there, for they could get a well-trained help for five shillings a month. They had tramcars in Cape Town, although not running through the streets. Many of the streets seemed all up hill. We got into a car drawn by horses. You could travel inside or out, and we went to Sea Point, about 10 miles along by the sea. There was a terrible mass of rocks standing here and there in the sea which made one feel solemn. There were grand looking houses, with large vineyards and strange trees all about. We passed a large tract of land used for a burying ground, and you could notice the difference between the graves. Each one had its own singularity. Where we saw the tomb with a cross on it we knew it was English. We could see this from the cars. There were houses being built in some of the places we passed, and Mr. Harris was interested in them as we saw natives working away at painting, carpentry, and masonry, and all sorts of trades, just like other men. Only each one was dressed according to his nationality. We passed a large ostrich farm, and saw numerous "birds." That evening in the verandah we heard joyful singing in Dutch voices. I asked Mrs. Lund's sister what it was all about, and she told me that it was the anniversary of the day when the slaves were freed from bondage. I asked her what she thought of the times when people could be bought and sold. She told me that as a child she had often gone with her father to the market, and she pointed to the market place, and had seen him buy the people he wanted. She herself would pick on some. All had something to say about slavery. It gave me something to think about when I learned that she did approve of the times when she could go and buy the slaves. I forget the lady's name, but her home was at Natal. I liked Mrs. Lund the best. I told her how I was journeying, I knew not where, and she was the kindest woman I have ever known. When I came ashore I thought it would be cold in Cape Town, and so I had very thick garments. Mrs. Lund gave me some of her outside garments, together with a sunshade, so that I could go about, and said if circumstances should bring me back to Cape Town again that I need not be afraid. I used to write to her, and I gave some of her cards to friends. The kindness of this Dutch lady made me grateful. Mr. and Mrs. Harris were also most kind, and took me with them everywhere. We all went to the market one morning. Everyone was calling out what he or she had to sell. To see how the way they dressed was something wonderful. The native women wore sandals and the native men also. I shall never forget going into a shop to buy some wool. Mrs. Harris and I entered, and a man came to us and said, in good English, that he knew that we would come for some wool. I asked him how he knew, and he said he heard me say when passing that morning, "What pretty wool." I remembered the remark. The man looked a picture. He had sandals on, his doublet was of rich crimson, with green and golden colors for the rest of his apparel. It did not matter what nationality they were, they could all speak Dutch. What lovely fruit we got there. The pineapples were very plentiful, while crayfish by the caskful were sent on board. The morning we were leaving Mrs. Lund sent some of her servants to gather wildflowers for us. The wildflowers of South Africa were showy and bright. We saw two camels, equipped for a journey in the desert, with their Arabian drivers. It was February 24 when we landed there, and the climate seemed very, like that of South Australia, only the tract of country I saw looked dark. The poor old jetty or landing-place was very primitive. The wood part of the jetty, from its appearance, must have been very old. It seemed worm-eaten, and long moss was growing on it. They have built a breakwater within the last few years, which comes out in the sea thousands of feet, and in the stormy weather it is a great protection. I scarcely knew what to take note of first. I saw any quantity of donkeys in harness, and all sorts of strange-looking conveyances. While ashore it was all spare time to me, for there was only sightseeing and writing to do. At every turn there was something to make one think, if it was only to see some sailors eagerly clutching in their arms some ostrich feathers as they made haste to get to their ships. Mr. H. M. Stanley, the African explorer, had been at Cape Town just a little while before, and from the many different photographs of him and his mixed troops one saw he must have been on a good many occasions in Cape Town while attempting to find Dr. Livingstone. I was ardent concerning every object about Dr. Livingstone. Ever since I could remember I had heard him spoken of in Scotland. I bought all the portraits of those two grand men that I could afford, and took them to my friends in Scotland. The buildings were most beautiful. But Table Mountain was the charm to me. I could not keep my eyes off it. There was open war going on at Natal, which brought such numbers of people to the Cape. That was why Mrs. Lund's sister was there. Table Bay looked as active as if the hostilities were there. One could constantly see the warships coming in or going out. One ship came in the day we left with, I forget how many, widows of the soldiers who had been slain at Natal. They were taking those poor women to St. Helena. It was a sad sight. I saw that the decks of the ship were crowded with women without any hats but only a handkerchief tied round their heads. Two things were stamped on my mind that day to remember for ever. One was to see those sad-looking women; and the other was when Mr. Harris went to pay Mrs. Lund for me. She would not charge anything for me. Truly I was one who ventured out without gold or scrip. The woman meant to be kind, but I realised the old motto, "Owe no man anything." It was a new experience to me. I always did like to be free from obligation. This unusual sympathy gave a human interest to the last glimpse of loveliness that stretched out and about as far as the eye could see as we got on board the old familiar ship again. I was back to active work once more, and I was glad to see the little tiny boy again. Now let come what may it was felt we would soon be in London. Things ran all in the same groove, and sometimes the quiet grew oppressive in a pause of the wind. We did not have the Rev. Charles Clark after leaving the Cape. It made such a difference. All were now talking about where they were going when they got to England. I was asked where I was going; I did not quite know. The only incident of any interest occurred when the ship anchored one Sunday morning at St. Helena. Only the captain and the first mate went ashore. We were so close that the people on shore could be seen. That was the place to which they were taking those women we had seen a week before. The island was a fortress in times of peace; the chief interest was Napoleon's tomb and the Jacob's Ladder, from the shore to the upper part of the island. How far away those times seem, and yet I saw by "The Advertiser" this morning (as I write) that Mr. R. S. Smythe still trips to and fro. He was the active manager for the Rev. Charles Clark in Cape Town at the time of the events with which I am dealing in this story. He has been there on the same kind of work since then. The captain began to have some cleaning and painting done to the ship before getting in to London. Some pots of white paint were left about on the deck. The steward had a live kangaroo, which he was taking home to exhibit, I suppose. It was in a place on the deck, and the little boy whom nobody owned thought he would make the kangaroo think that the white paint was milk. The animal sipped some and died. It was mischievous of the child and for him it was a rude awakening. He had to keep very quiet all the rest of the way. I had nothing to complain of all the way. I was healthy. I loved to use my strength and tired myself out, there being so much to think about and wonder at; but I know that I was not happy. I was hardly ever idle. Mr. and Mrs. Harris were the first to leave the ship when it reached Plymouth, or Falmouth, I do not remember which. The ship travelled along so gently and had the Isle of Wight in view so well. Then came the River Thames. How careful the captain was all through that wonderful river; we could hear his clear strong voice above the fog-horn as we passed through so many other ships into the London docks. I ARRIVE IN LONDON. And then? And then? I had never been in London before. Long ere the ship was steadied at the anchorage Mr. Charles Goode came on board to see his brother and his wife and family. He brought the letters that had come from the colony. For me there were five, all in black. My dear brother died soon after I had left Adelaide. There was one dictated by himself, wishing that I would come back, if only to see how his five little children would get along. The necessities of human existence had to be grasped. This suddenly put all thoughts of the Continent out of my head. I knew I would have to leave the ship. I was sorrowing; and everyone I knew was going out of the ship. I thought I was going to be ill. So much had gone wrong, and I was face to face with trouble. When I looked in my lap I found a good few sovereigns that one and another had left there while my eyes were filled with tears. Some of the ladies told me before we got into the dock that anything they left in their cabins would be for me either to sell or otherwise dispose of. When some people came to see if I had anything to sell I told the carpenter of the ship to do what he liked with them. I was in too much grief at my painful loss to care for them. My brother was only about 30 years of age when he died. I went and saw the Rev. Dr. Oswald Dykes, D.D., at Oakley-square. I had some mourning made at once and went from shipping office to shipping office to get a berth to return to South Australia any how I could manage it. I had a nice letter with the signature of Captain Bruce. And the passengers also subscribed their names to a testimonial as to my capability on the sea. Then I had a parchment, with writing on it, from the owners of the South Australian, from their head office in London. I have that yet. It was a terrible time. If I could have got a chance I would have returned at once. I did not care whether it was in a steamboat or not. After a few days waiting I saw Captain Alstone, of the City of Adelaide, who was taking his wife and a little child in his ship to Adelaide. I agreed to be the lady's maid for my passage back to South Australia. But they were not likely to start for a month or six weeks. It was a sailing vessel also, and I saw the captain's wife and her dear little boy. I adore children. And the lady was the most perfectly lovely woman I ever looked upon. So I had most of my things put on board the ship. The month of May had just began. I had some letters of introduction from some friends in Adelaide to their friends in Bradford, near Manchester. I had also with me some letters from friends in Adelaide to their relatives, with cordial wishes that I would go and see them if I went to Glasgow. Before I left South Australia I formed the resolution to go and see my husband's relations. I had their addresses through writing to John all the long three years he was there. Their place was in Cambridgeshire. I gave Captain Alstone the address that would find me if the ship went before the month. I have kept a record of that time by me ever since. I was close to the Tower of London; and there was no charge, so I went in about 11 o'clock and was there till 4 o'clock. I was on the move all the time, and then did not see half of that stronghold. Oh! the grandeur and the horrors of it. It was wonderful to think what strife and passion had done during the events of the dark ages of violence and torture. There were men dressed so queerly, with long staves in their hands--the Yeomen of the Guard--who showed the visitors where persons we read of in history were imprisoned. Then the various kinds of armor were arranged in distinctive collections, according to the various periods; while there were all sorts of weapon--swords, and daggers, and axes, with breast and back plates. I saw the torture-room and the awful block and the axe which cut off the heads. It was too grim an atmosphere in which to think of either honor or glory in that fortress of chapels, and vaults and recesses, with dungeons about and beneath the building. What scenes some must have gone through while in their prison lodging. I saw the Queen's crown and her sceptre, which is said to be made of pure gold, and ever so many more things of which I have forgotten the names. There was quite a fence all round them, and some of the guards were watchful all the time. There were kings and knights on horseback, just as if they were off to the war. It would have taken a week to see it all. One thing I will never forget. Just as I was coming out at the gate one of the officials in charge of the place came after me and touched me on the shoulder. He asked if I had lost my keys. I looked in my handbag and found that I had. He said if I would come back I could have them. I was thankful, for otherwise I should have had to have the locks of my trunks taken off. I asked him how he knew that I had lost the keys. He replied that he knew that I was a stranger, as he had never seen me there before. "But," I said, "the place was crowded." "Yes," he replied, "but most of those people come here every day." I only saw a few of the sights of London. I could not imagine being in London as everything seemed so uncertain there. What a place to be alone in London is. I decided to go to Cambridge, or, rather, a place a little out of Cambridge, called March. All my curiosity in that great city of London was lost amid my tangled affairs. I made enquiry and found out about the train service. I determined that anyway I would chance seeing the people, although I hardly expected that they would care to see me after what had occurred. I knew I had loved and suffered, but I had not sinned. Then why should I not see them? I arrived at what seemed a wayside station when it was a bit late. I asked where Mr. George Allen's house was, and was told that his farm was three miles distant. There was an hotel there, and I asked for a room for the night. I did not want to meet people who might show some aloofness till the following morning. In my portmanteaus there was some printed matter, showing that I had come from Australia. The hotelkeeper came into the sitting-room and made enquiries as to whether I had come from there, and alone, and we had a long talk. He knew Mr. George. All went very well, and he told me that either he or his wife would drive me over there next day. It was quite cold although only May 2, there being no fire in the room. Both ladies and gentlemen, when Australia was mentioned, became interested and the talk became general. I was asked all sorts of questions. It came unexpectedly to me to learn how much the people knew about the colony. I thought then that if the young girls and women in Australia could have only heard the manner in which those Englishmen spoke about them they would have realised that this is an age of chivalry. According to them the colonial girl can do anything. In the morning, after breakfast, there was the little pony carriage, with a boy, to take me to Mr. Allen's house. It had the queer name of Hook farm. It was a lovely morning and all the fields were white with daisies. The house was of two storeys and near to the road side. The people promised to wait with the carriage till I came out, if I could not stop there for a day or two. Mrs. Allen came to the door and I told her who I was. She sent for Mr. Allen, who was away on the farm. He soon arrived on horseback. The very clasp of his hand made me long to claim kinship with him. He went out and told the boy to bring my portmanteau and I was kindly treated. I found that they had a photograph of me and, as he said, I was no imposition. There was a large family. The lady was his second wife, and she was nice too. They brought their friends to see me and took me about. I only wanted to stop for a couple of days, as I was anxious to get to Scotland, where any letters would be waiting for me, but I stayed over the Sunday. All the curios I had brought from the Cape Mr. Allen had shown to the children at the Sunday-school, and altogether I had a pleasant time, so far as they could make it one, but still there was the thought as to why John had brought his cousin to Adelaide to me. It seems that she left her own husband in Oldham. Those relations did not think it was right. How faithful and true I could have been if life had only given me the chance. In three days after we were married he went to England and stayed there for three years. What was the use of my married life? I had hardly strength of purpose to carry anything through. I was sacrificed by ruthless hands, which took from me all that I held dear, and left me without any claim or right, except to submit to everything. Oh, the happy women who are sheltered by a husband's faithfulness! What woman could have had a more useful life than I? Mr. Allen drove me to the railway-station. The address I had was for some people in Bradford, near Manchester. In the train I had to keep showing my ticket every here and there. I told them I was going to Bradford, and settled myself to have a good view of that beautiful country. When asked where I was going, I said, "Bradford." Trains and carriages were changed en route, and at last I found myself in Bradford, in Yorkshire. Then I showed my ticket and had it explained that the Bradford I wanted was a continuation of Manchester. I learned when I got there it bore the same relation as North Adelaide to Adelaide. I had some tea in the town of Bradford, and got back to Manchester that night at about 11 o'clock. The people I was to go to were well known, as they kept the post and telegraph office. In this Bradford there was no break, so far as buildings went, and when I saw it afterwards it all seemed Manchester. Those kind folks had a letter from Adelaide to inform them that I would visit them, and expressing the hope that they would try and persuade the mother of the Adelaide lady to return with me to Adelaide. I got a cab to take me there, but they had gone to bed. How they did laugh when I told them I had gone to Yorkshire! I was interested in writing in my note-book all the names of the different places, but it was too much trouble to look at the ticket so many times. However, it was a lesson for me not to neglect the precaution again. Although the mistake was purely my own the railway company did not make any charge, and I got all that way back for the Manchester ticket. Mr. Allen got the ticket for me. Only for that incident I would not have seen so many places. The train stopped at Wakefield and Halifax. It was dark coming back, and I had been in the train all that day, so that I was weary. I had the best bedroom and some supper, and when I awoke in the morning there were all the little children in the room to see the woman that came from aunty's place over the sea. There was the grandma, too, that I was to take back. She shook her head and said--"Na, na, I am a true Briton; I will never cross the sea. Here I was born, and here I will die." There was plenty to be seen in Manchester. Mr. Ride, with whom I was staying, had a stationery and book shop, as well as the post-office, and the high reputation of Mr. and Mrs. Ride was acknowledged everywhere. They were well-known and respected. He seemed to have the "entree" to all the warehouses. In some of them I saw some busy-looking gentlemen from Adelaide hurrying about. They took me to see the Bluecoat Boys' School. I made no note of that. I can see those dear boys now. No one could forget them. Then we went to Oldham and I did not like it so well. It looked a poor place and gloomy, and the humble people wore wooden clogs on their feet. The noise they made was distracting. I stayed at Bradford with those people for a week. What with the people I was introduced to, the places visited, and the hospitality and amusement I received, it was enough to make me forget who I was. For the month of May it was not so warm as I had known it in Scotland at that time of the year. The eldest son had the charge of the telegraph-office, and I had the inner workings explained to me. I RETURN TO MY OLD HOME. It was easy to get a train from Manchester to Scotland. I went in the night train and had a nice sleeping compartment, through to Glasgow, which I reached about 7 o'clock in the morning. I had been away for ten years, but the place looked so familiar, except that they had tramcars running all over the place. I got in one and was soon at Dr. Fargus' house. A male attendant opened the door and told me that Mrs. Fargus was at their summer house at the seaside. I asked for the daughter, and was told that she was at home. She was a married lady now. I saw her and she remembered me. I brought some wild flowers and shells for her mother from the Cape. She was pleased and told me that they expected her mother back that night. She asked me to stay, and so the first night in Scotland I was in what seemed to me my old, old home. It was a rest indeed. Mrs. Fargus returned, and I had much to tell. My listeners looked appalled; I saw tears in that dear lady's eyes, because of the ungenerousness of my husband. They would have liked me to go back to them again for all time, but I could not, however much I wished to do so, and although it was indeed a home of gladness. I slept that night in my same old bed. And the next day I went to see Mr. White, whom I had letters for, at Mary Hill, with his sons. He was in a bank in Glasgow, and he had a daughter in Adelaide. They had but one word to say--Would I come there? They had no other daughter. How they came clinging close to hear every word I could tell about their girl. There were three sons, and they were in Scotch Volunteers and wore the kilts. In the evening they brought a lot more in with kilts on to see a woman from Australia. I had one letter sent there. It was from Captain Alstone not to let me forget. I went then through the Slamannan, and after travelling about so much it did not seem far. For a time the rush of memories was awful. I got into the old identical train with a ticket for Slamannan. I cried all the way. I got there early in the afternoon. I could see no one whom I knew when I got out at the station, and I walked to the village. I saw one man whom I knew, and I made myself known to him. He took me to his home. His daughters and I were playmates as children. In walking along with him I passed the house where we lived. The door was open, and I could see the gooseberry bush that I had planted. I was not in Mr. Boyd's house five minutes before there had gathered a crowd of the people whom I used to know. Certainly I was the object of so much eagerness and curiosity that it was a comedy. They said they came for "auld lang syne." They questioned me as to whether I had seen Mr. So-and-So, who had gone to Melbourne. And someone else who had gone to Queensland. My brother-in-law's sister came and brought a large photo of her brother's place near Geelong. I remembered the man before he went there. They thought it strange I had not been to see him, as he was a prosperous and a rich man. In a way I wondered where the young man was who had for seven years played so big a part in my life. So full of bitter memories was I that I was thankful to learn that he had gone to Wales. I was glad I did not see him. What would be the use? I shuddered at the thought. I was neither a wife nor a maid; I was nothing. It was a hard fate; yet I loved my own husband. He was so far from me and was lost for ever. My visit to Slamannan was almost too much for me. I found many kind friends to take me here and there till I was utterly weary. I spent nearly all my time out of doors. As I stood again amongst the wild heather for the time it seemed unreal and dreamlike. After two weeks had passed I received a telegram, telling me to be in London on a certain date. I knew where the ship was at anchor. So I only stopped one more day in Glasgow and got back by train to London. On board the City of Adelaide there were a good many passengers returning, but I did not in any way have to attend or do any act of waiting, except on the lady and her little boy. I had a nice cabin to myself and every comfort, beside a free passage for my services. The vessel was a few days in the London docks, and I stopped on the ship with the lady. I saw more of London than I had ever thought of seeing, with the captain and his wife. They took me with them, and they were very good to me. We all went to a market one afternoon; and, just think of it, I saw the tops of turnips sold at 4d. a pound. And as to the meat, I will leave that. I felt by the movement one morning while in bed that once again we were passing through the Thames. How gently those sailing vessels seem to go along if the wind is favorable, but the City of Adelaide began to roll about soon after leaving the river. There were more rough seas in her than when I was in the South Australian. There was no note of calling anywhere en route. The lady was a good sailor and they had a nice piano on board, which the lady played and the captain sang. The captain and his wife practised with firearms on the poop at night. She seemed to enjoy it; they asked me if I would like to use the gun and try, so that if a mutiny should rise amongst the seamen there would be us three with pistols. I would not, and I could not. Thanks be to goodness they were never wanted. I did not know what to think at the time, but afterwards I thought that they were merely joking with me and never thought any mutiny would rise. All went on so evenly with nothing but the glittering sea about that I loved so well. I had no time to write much. The little boy's name was Roland, and he and I were great friends. We went all over the ship, and knew all the sails by name. To hear Roland calling out to the men to "let go" this or that made everyone laugh. There was a family returning to Adelaide, and one of their sons died when about half-way through the voyage. It was very sorrowful, for it came so suddenly. I knew the people. There was a medical man on board, which made us feel grateful. So the days slipped by. The captain said we were rounding Cape Horn, and anyway the ship got into a regular shoal of whales. It was awful, for wherever you looked you would see those horrid monsters. It was a nice calm morning, and I had Roland in my arms. He was in high glee, and started to make a hissing noise like them as they sent up jets of water, and the ship shook. When the captain got his gun and began shooting at them we were afraid of what they might do after being shot at. So much of them was under the water that the shots might not have the desired effect of killing them. I never knew if any were killed or not, but how thankful I felt when they left off firing. The nearness of the whales dazed us. Everyone said it was out of the common to see so many. There was only the sky above and the waters around, while we were in what was like an island of whales. There was a sense of gratitude when I felt the ship glide gently away and leave those animals behind in a cluster. Roland kept the memory up all through the homeward journey. He never tired of showing what the whales did. The ship did not call in anywhere all the voyage, but from the birds we saw there must have been land near at the time. The young doctor's name was Clark. He was coming to Adelaide to practice. Someone told him I had been in South Australia, and he got chatting with me about the health of the people and the effect of the climate. I told him I had been in South Australia for ten years, and that it had cost me nothing for medicine in all that time, and that I had never to consult a doctor. He said he hoped that there were not many more like me in Adelaide, or he would have to go back. I learnt the name of the place he went to, but I have forgotten it. He shot a large bird and gave the skin to me. I had it made into a muff, and it is as good to-day as it was at first. All the talk was concerning the time when the ship would be in port. Needless to say I had nothing hopeful to remember, and I knew there would be little pleasure to have, as all had changed. Life had now no allurements for me, and the outside world no temptations. I could not help these feelings as the City of Adelaide was towed into Port Adelaide. I REACH ADELAIDE AGAIN. It was night, and I thought I would stop on board all night, but the friends who gave me the letters to Manchester came on the ship to see me and had my luggage taken to their place. I was glad, as Mrs. Alstone was going to some friends. I sent word to my people where they would find me in the morning. My few relatives were by my side when I awoke in the morning, and seeing how happy they were I forgot my own sorrow. I knew that life had once more its depths that not even the nearest could sound. It would not bear thinking about. It was only to be borne. I felt I must work, although I did not think I would begin that day, but I did. Before I got out of the train at the Adelaide station the gentleman who had the management of the club at the port where I lived up to the time I went as stewardess came to me and said he was in trouble for the want of someone to help at a banquet at the Semaphore. He had been to Adelaide and could not find any skilful help. Would I come back with him, he said; and I did; and let my friends take care of my belongings. I had really done no work of that kind all the time I was away, and after three months on the rolling ship it was so strange to find everything firm under my foot. Both this gentleman and his dear wife were friends to me through after years. So I began work the first day I came back, and I have had to stick to it ever since. Sometimes I have been in actual need of money. I had always lent a helping hand in the years gone by, and sometimes those I wanted to help did not seem to have the energy they might have had. What knowledge I had gained I have paid a high price for, and I must confess that the kindly appreciation that I have received from people of the highest culture has often given me joy. If I could not get the kind of place I wanted I determined to take anything to keep me going. A position as cook at the Adelaide Hospital was offered to me. A woman-cook could do the work then, and I went at good wages. I liked it all right, except that it was so depressing. I saw too much of sufferings, for I went all about the wards, and if anyone was brought in whom I knew, whether it was fever or anything else, when I could get the chance I would go and see them. If I was caught by the doctors I would be severely reproved. There were no indications that the broken pieces of my life as a wife would be mended. Still a castaway, I went and saw my husband. He did not want me. He lived with his aunt, and his cousin was there too. If a husband is one to protect you, to watch over and defend and love you; if such be a husband, then I have never known what it is to have one. For me there was only solitude and bitter anguish, and yet nobody must be made acquainted with the fact. I must put on a smiling face and go wherever I might so long as I did not come in where I was not wanted. I was not afraid of misery, but only of sin. I would not do anything wrong, and I wanted to know how to do right when others do me a wrong. I determined that I would try and get through life without reproach or any stain on my reputation, and make the most of what I knew. I had lessons on one thing and another. I liked to be dainty in my home and person and dress, as well as I could in every detail. I am fond, too, of being a good housekeeper. My employers spoilt me and often made a friend of me. Some are here still who remember that I had the kind regard both of the doctors and the nurses, as well as of the patients at the Adelaide Hospital. They liked the way I did their food. It looked a big thing for me to take in hand; but it was not so heavy as some would think, there being three men in the kitchen to do all the cleaning. I had not a heavy thing to lift. The only drawback was that the floor were stone and so hard to stand on. The place has been much built upon since then, and is so changed in the manner of employment in the office. When I pass the place now all comes back to me so plain. In particular one night stands out. I always left a jet of gas burning in my room. Once a woman patient came in with her clothing tied up in a bundle and asked me if I would come with her to catch the train. I could see that she was off her head, so I quietly dressed and got the night-nurse. How she got on afterwards I never knew. There are some things which I shall never forget. I became accustomed to the situation and stopped at the hospital for some time. It did not matter where I was in my tangled affairs. I wrote to my brother-in-law's brother in Geelong and told him about my visit to his relatives in Slamannan, and I made known to him that I would like to see his nice place in Geelong, and his wife and family, for they had twelve children. So he wrote and told me he would come to Adelaide and bring one of his daughters with him, and take me back with them to Geelong. Before they came I had got the position of housekeeper at Messrs. J. Miller Anderson & Co.'s in Hindley-street, and for more than two years everything went on smoothly. How delightful it would have been except for some things I saw and heard. The Theatre Royal was so close that I could see the cast of characters from my bedroom window at night. There were more than a hundred assistants to provide for, but only twelve for breakfast. I had a girl to help. The sweet memory of those times remains. How earnest everyone was to make me happy. My employers did not know that I was a discarded wife till I was there for over two years. It was more to my taste than the Adelaide Hospital, there being always something amusing to divert me. On more than one occasion people have come into my sitting-room to enquire the way back to the theatre. They got out in the right-of-way and got lost. My friend and his daughter came from Geelong. It was a break for me, and he was glad to learn something of the old home. I promised that I would go to his place when I left Hindley-street, for it was rumored that the place used as dining-rooms and for sleeping purposes would have to be taken into the business premises. Then, as in all the other business houses, the assistants would have to dine out. How I would like to give a full account of those times. I was sorry and reluctant to say a last good-bye. They all gathered together and gave me a generous present. Then I went to Mr. MacHarry's place at Lara, near Geelong. I thought if I liked it there I would try and get something to do. They were just building the railway to that part then. I went by steamer, and Mr. MacHarry came to Melbourne to meet me. His house looked a nest of comfort I could see as we drew near. It was part farmhouse, and I was perfectly at home with the hostess and her family at once. Both the daughters and the sons had horses, and could ride and drive. Not only that, but those girls could make their own bread and play the piano and sing. So I had entertainers, and such lovely home-made bread. The You Yangs Mountains were near. If I could have got to the top what a sight it would have been. I did not care much for Geelong. It was all so quiet, and I could see nothing to suit me, so that question was settled. Those friends showed to me all the places of interest, and, in particular, all the mills where blankets and other woollens and tweeds were made. Mr. MacHarry was one of the town councillors, and no stranger wherever he went. It was quite right about him being a rich man. He made money by lime-burning. I have been there since by rail, and it is a nice place. You can go fishing or shooting so close to Geelong and Melbourne. There was only one thing to be said, and that concerns the impossibility of breaking away from my relationships. The time came when I could not bear to think that John should think them beneath him. What was in himself that he was entitled to scorn my poor relations? Everyone may not have the marvellous gifts that some think they have, but, at least, we are human beings with our own necessities and demands no less important than those of such marvellous persons. That is why we must remember our obligations. HOUSEKEEPER AT GOVERNMENT HOUSE. Before I came back from Geelong I learned that they wanted a housekeeper at the Government House, Adelaide. I was advised to apply for the position. The Frenchman who was chef there when I was there told me that I knew enough for the position. It would be open for a month, and I put my name down amongst a long list of others, and sent in my testimonials even to that of being a stewardess and lady's maid. They sent for me, and I told them that I was there before, only as a young girl to do as I was told. I did not think I would be competent, but I promised to try for a month, and said that I would like to have some skilled help for all the large public functions. I knew so well what Government House was in festive times. We were at Marble Hill when my month was up. They were satisfied, and told me I could consider myself permanently employed if agreeable to me. It would not do for me to attempt to describe the sayings and doings of that big house. I had to be in evidence at all times both to see and to speak to distinguished visitors, and often eminent celebrities. I did not find the work hard, but there was plenty of brain worry. After I had been there a year and a half the Governor and the lady, too, thought I was capable to arrange for all the banquets and large parties by myself. It was overpowering sometimes because of the late nights and the want of sleep. To cater for a thousand at one time meant a lot of consideration. I have known a hundred for dinner. I had been at work all the time and seldom ever went out. Government House had none too many appliances for those big affairs. They have had both a duchess and also a countess there when they were staying on a visit. They would come and see the kitchen. One grand lady said that her cook could not do like that with such appliances. I could see by the way the lady spoke that someone wanted my position, and I thought it was like my fate. There was always someone wanted whatever I had. So I left Government House, but not in bad friends. I think they were doubtful whether the person would suit. They asked if I would come back if my successor did not do things rightly. I forget what I said, but I felt cross. I went to see a gentleman and lady who had the management of the Largs Pier Hotel. It was Mr. Hixon. I had lived with them at the Port Adelaide Club before I went to England. Mrs. Hixon was not very well, and they asked me if I would come as housekeeper. I admit that I rather liked the idea of going there. It was a large hotel, and I would have to see to a number of employes, to engage them or dismiss them, as the case may be. I had found Mr. and Mrs. Hixon in past years straight and upright and sincere. I felt at home with them. I was not long at my new duties before I received word from Government House that the person who succeeded me did not know enough for them there. I did not go back, as I was very comfortable where I was, and Mr. and Mrs. Hixon had the greatest confidence in me. It was a change and the sea was near, so that we often went out for a sail in one of the many boats available for us on the jetty. I RETURN TO MY HUSBAND. Two or three times while I was at Government House I had seen my husband, and had learned that the woman who rightly or wrongly had come between us had gone back to her own people. One day someone came and told me that John had gone to America. It upset all I was doing. It was nearly ten years since I had become his wife. I did not know what to think sometimes. It required some forgiving and forgetting, but if he were in any trouble I am quite sure I would go to him. Guess my astonishment when one evening a maid came to my room and said there was a gentleman who wanted to see me. It was an unusual incident for any gentleman to look for me in my own quarters, so I came and saw my husband coming towards me. I hurried forward to meet him as if we had never parted. He pleaded to let bygones be bygones, and come and live with him. A feeling of reassurance and content took possession of me, and I began to cherish hopes of happiness yet. I had often said to myself, "How can I live in this world alone?" In the morning I told Mr. Hixon that I was going home to my husband. They were too humane to say no to me, so in a week's time I was with John in a wee house in Childers-street, North Adelaide. The house had only two rooms, and was back from the street. I hoped we would be able to get something better some day. One of Professor Tate's daughters was about to be married, and came one day and asked me if I would prepare a wedding feast in Buxton-street. I did so. The ladies who saw me do that work then for the first time in my life enquired if I would give lessons on cookery. Mrs. Tate gave the use of her kitchen and stove, and my first students were there. Soon I found myself with more employment than I could manage in helping families in their own homes when they had company. There was still dissatisfaction with the person who went to my place at Government House, and I was sent for to see if I would come back. They had changed more than once since I left. I did not know what to do, but I promised her ladyship before she went back to England that I would go to the Government House in case of emergency while she was gone. The Governor was in the room at the time, and he must have thought that I said I would come back permanently. He went away to some of the other colonies and sent a telegram to me to say that he would expect me to take charge as housekeeper when he came back. I was to send an answer yes or no. I thought that I would go in and out daily, and that I could still keep on our little home, and that I could explain everything when I could see Sir William. I sent word, "Yes," and when he came back I was sent for. Nothing would do, however, except for me to come in the house. I asked him what was to happen to my husband, and he said, "Let him come here too. There are plenty of rooms." He added that my husband could live there because of my services, and it would make no difference in my payment. So I went to where my husband was working and told him. He did not seem over-pleased at the idea of living at Government House, but we both thought it would not be for long, so we put our things in some friend's place and we both went into the house. That was the third time I had been there to live, and it did not seem strange to me. There being no restraint on my husband we had nothing to complain of. He had a nice large room, where he had meetings in his capacity as secretary of the Rechabites, and he had his auditors there time after time just as if he were in his own home. We lived there for more than two years. My husband's work was in the city just close by. I never had any time to join any of those societies. No one could be less dependent on outward society than I was. I could enjoy it, but I never craved after it, as it was not necessary for my very existence. I had to give all and expect nothing. Still, I think that every individual has a right to some festivity, even if he does not belong to some sisterhood or brotherhood. The lady did not come back as soon as I had hoped she would, and Sir William was restless. He was no sooner at Marble Hill than he would take it in his head to be off to the Bay or somewhere else. I was all the time rushing about with maids and men. I got weary of it, and gave a month's intimation that I would like to leave if he could get someone in my place. So my husband and I set about to look for a house, and decided on the one in which I live. It was in a very unfinished state, and I helped my husband to put it in order. We worked hard to make it a comfortable home, which I thought was for both of us. I knew I could be helpful. I went out to work wherever I could as a professional cook, and had a ladies' class in the house. Then there was an advertisement for someone to teach cookery at the School of Mines. I got that office, and was there for 14 years as cookery instructress. In spite of the past I worked on with pleasure, looking forward to that future which has never come. Time went on peacefully for some years. Teaching brought me in contact with people superior to myself and with the nicest of ladies. I was pleased, for it was good for me, who had been tossed about from early girlhood, and I was thankful for my home. But even when youth is past life is still full of surprises. What a bitter thing is jealousy. If you have one taste all that comes after is poisoned. That is the worst of it. YET ANOTHER PARTING. My husband took care that I should not see or enjoy any of the pleasures in the many societies to which he belonged. And with curiosity I wondered why others who were not sisters of the order were going here and there. I was out of everything. Then I began to have anonymous letters, which I would not take any notice of for a long time. But when I saw things for myself all was at an end. One discovery led to another. About three years ago I let him go where his heart is. He was nice to me once. I am not the sort of woman to be satisfied with half-measures. We parted. I get my own living the best way I can. In all those trying years of my life I only once appealed to anyone to help me. I asked him if he could help, as I thought he was a good man. Some plan was hit upon, and he must have had a share in the scheme whereby I have been left to struggle in bitterness all alone. When people have come to me and told me to say nothing about what has been done to me, and that it is golden to be silent, how little they have known the pain that is in memory when all we prize has gone. Some have tried to console me by telling me that "they are glad they are not me." I need not say that all this sort of sympathy is madness. I am happy to say that I have the best balm for sorrow. I have a busy life. There is something sad in the kind of friendships that have to be watched by the inquisitive who sit down and write about their suspicions to destroy other people's lives. I could not bend to all without some resistance. I was baffled at every turn. This "sisterly and brotherly" may be very innocent, and if I had been allowed to go to some of the public gatherings I would not have been so jealous. We make environment and get blocked. Do not reproach me with ingratitude, but I am at war sometimes with my long life of toil now I am by myself alone. "Words, words, words." Some things are too hard either to write about or to speak of. J. L. Bonython & Co., Printers, "The Advertiser" Office, Adelaide. +---------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | |Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. | | | +---------------------------------------------------+ 
3016	----	WHAT DIANTHA DID By Charlotte Perkins Gilman CHAPTER I. HANDICAPPED One may use the Old Man of the Sea, For a partner or patron, But helpless and hapless is he Who is ridden, inextricably, By a fond old mer-matron. The Warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors. It had “grounds,” instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared porches and “galleries,” showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing ambitions of the builders. The stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with heavy mortgages. Mrs. Roscoe Warden and her four daughters reposed peacefully under the vines, while Roscoe Warden, Jr., struggled desperately under the mortgages. A slender, languid lady was Mrs. Warden, wearing her thin but still brown hair in “water-waves” over a pale high forehead. She was sitting on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing masses of vari-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase skein on skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. California does not call for afghans to any great extent, but “they make such acceptable presents,” Mrs. Warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work; and she continued to send them off, on Christmases, birthdays, and minor weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. As they were accepted, they must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on. Around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four daughters, variously intent. The mother, a poetic soul, had named them musically and with dulcet rhymes: Madeline and Adeline were the two eldest, Coraline and Doraline the two youngest. It had not occurred to her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible to call one daughter without calling two, and that “Lina” called them all. “Mis' Immerjin,” said a soft voice in the doorway, “dere pos'tively ain't no butter in de house fer supper.” “No butter?” said Mrs. Warden, incredulously. “Why, Sukey, I'm sure we had a tub sent up last--last Tuesday!” “A week ago Tuesday, more likely, mother,” suggested Dora. “Nonsense, Dora! It was this week, wasn't it, girls?” The mother appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save Dora had even a contradiction to offer. “You know I never notice things,” said the artistic Cora; and “the de-lines,” as their younger sisters called them, said nothing. “I might borrow some o' Mis' Bell?” suggested Sukey; “dat's nearer 'n' de sto'.” “Yes, do, Sukey,” her mistress agreed. “It is so hot. But what have you done with that tubful?” “Why, some I tuk back to Mis' Bell for what I borrered befo'--I'm always most careful to make return for what I borrers--and yo' know, Mis' Warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well--_an'_ de fried chicken, _an'_--” “Never mind, Sukey; you go and present my compliments to Mrs. Bell, and ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. Now, girls, don't let me forget to tell Ross to send up another tub.” “We can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother,” said Adeline, dreamily. “Those details are so utterly uninteresting.” “I should think it was Sukey's business to tell him,” said Madeline with decision; while the “a-lines” kept silence this time. “There! Sukey's gone!” Mrs. Warden suddenly remarked, watching the stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. “And I meant to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! Dora, dear, you run and get it for mother.” Dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off. “That child is the most practical of any of you,” said her mother; which statement was tacitly accepted. It was not extravagant praise. Dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. She had no idea of the high cost of ice in that region--it came from “the store,” like all their provisions. It did not occur to her that fish and milk and melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy, sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of refrigerators. Neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for a refrigerator. She couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received with grateful affection. “Thank you, my darling,” she said. “I wish you'd made a pitcherful.” “Why didn't you, Do?” her sisters demanded. “You're too late,” said Dora, hunting for her needle and then for her thimble, and then for her twist; “but there's more in the kitchen.” “I'd rather go without than go into the kitchen,” said Adeline; “I do despise a kitchen.” And this seemed to be the general sentiment; for no one moved. “My mother always liked raspberry shrub,” said Mrs. Warden; “and your Aunt Leicester, and your Raymond cousins.” Mrs. Warden had a wide family circle, many beloved relatives, “connections” of whom she was duly proud and “kin” in such widening ramifications that even her carefully reared daughters lost track of them. “You young people don't seem to care about your cousins at all!” pursued their mother, somewhat severely, setting her glass on the railing, from whence it was presently knocked off and broken. “That's the fifth!” remarked Dora, under breath. “Why should we, Ma?” inquired Cora. “We've never seen one of them--except Madam Weatherstone!” “We'll never forget _her!”_ said Madeline, with delicate decision, laying down the silk necktie she was knitting for Roscoe. “What _beautiful_ manners she had!” “How rich is she, mother? Do you know?” asked Dora. “Rich enough to do something for Roscoe, I'm sure, if she had a proper family spirit,” replied Mrs. Warden. “Her mother was own cousin to my grandmother--one of the Virginia Paddingtons. Or she might do something for you girls.” “I wish she would!” Adeline murmured, softly, her large eyes turned to the horizon, her hands in her lap over the handkerchief she was marking for Roscoe. “Don't be ungrateful, Adeline,” said her mother, firmly. “You have a good home and a good brother; no girl ever had a better.” “But there is never anything going on,” broke in Coraline, in a tone of complaint; “no parties, no going away for vacations, no anything.” “Now, Cora, don't be discontented! You must not add a straw to dear Roscoe's burdens,” said her mother. “Of course not, mother; I wouldn't for the world. I never saw her but that once; and she wasn't very cordial. But, as you say, she might do _something._ She might invite us to visit her.” “If she ever comes back again, I'm going to recite for her,” said, Dora, firmly. Her mother gazed fondly on her youngest. “I wish you could, dear,” she agreed. “I'm sure you have talent; and Madam Weatherstone would recognize it. And Adeline's music too. And Cora's art. I am very proud of my girls.” Cora sat where the light fell well upon her work. She was illuminating a volume of poems, painting flowers on the margins, in appropriate places--for Roscoe. “I wonder if he'll care for it?” she said, laying down her brush and holding the book at arm's length to get the effect. “Of course he will!” answered her mother, warmly. “It is not only the beauty of it, but the affection! How are you getting on, Dora?” Dora was laboring at a task almost beyond her fourteen years, consisting of a negligee shirt of outing flannel, upon the breast of which she was embroidering a large, intricate design--for Roscoe. She was an ambitious child, but apt to tire in the execution of her large projects. “I guess it'll be done,” she said, a little wearily. “What are you going to give him, mother?” “Another bath-robe; his old one is so worn. And nothing is too good for my boy.” “He's coming,” said Adeline, who was still looking down the road; and they all concealed their birthday work in haste. A tall, straight young fellow, with an air of suddenly-faced maturity upon him, opened the gate under the pepper trees and came toward them. He had the finely molded features we see in portraits of handsome ancestors, seeming to call for curling hair a little longish, and a rich profusion of ruffled shirt. But his hair was sternly short, his shirt severely plain, his proudly carried head spoke of effort rather than of ease in its attitude. Dora skipped to meet him, Cora descended a decorous step or two. Madeline and Adeline, arm in arm, met him at the piazza edge, his mother lifted her face. “Well, mother, dear!” Affectionately he stooped and kissed her, and she held his hand and stroked it lovingly. The sisters gathered about with teasing affection, Dora poking in his coat-pocket for the stick candy her father always used to bring her, and her brother still remembered. “Aren't you home early, dear?” asked Mrs. Warden. “Yes; I had a little headache”--he passed his hand over his forehead--“and Joe can run the store till after supper, anyhow.” They flew to get him camphor, cologne, a menthol-pencil. Dora dragged forth the wicker lounge. He was laid out carefully and fanned and fussed over till his mother drove them all away. “Now, just rest,” she said. “It's an hour to supper time yet!” And she covered him with her latest completed afghan, gathering up and carrying away the incomplete one and its tumultuous constituents. He was glad of the quiet, the fresh, sweet air, the smell of flowers instead of the smell of molasses and cheese, soap and sulphur matches. But the headache did not stop, nor the worry that caused it. He loved his mother, he loved his sisters, he loved their home, but he did not love the grocery business which had fallen so unexpectedly upon him at his father's death, nor the load of debt which fell with it. That they need never have had so large a “place” to “keep up” did not occur to him. He had lived there most of his life, and it was home. That the expenses of running the household were three times what they needed to be, he did not know. His father had not questioned their style of living, nor did he. That a family of five women might, between them, do the work of the house, he did not even consider. Mrs. Warden's health was never good, and since her husband's death she had made daily use of many afghans on the many lounges of the house. Madeline was “delicate,” and Adeline was “frail”; Cora was “nervous,” Dora was “only a child.” So black Sukey and her husband Jonah did the work of the place, so far as it was done; and Mrs. Warden held it a miracle of management that she could “do with one servant,” and the height of womanly devotion on her daughters' part that they dusted the parlor and arranged the flowers. Roscoe shut his eyes and tried to rest, but his problem beset him ruthlessly. There was the store--their one and only source of income. There was the house, a steady, large expense. There were five women to clothe and keep contented, beside himself. There was the unappeasable demand of the mortgage--and there was Diantha. When Mr. Warden died, some four years previously, Roscoe was a lad of about twenty, just home from college, full of dreams of great service to the world in science, expecting to go back for his doctor's degree next year. Instead of which the older man had suddenly dropped beneath the burden he had carried with such visible happiness and pride, such unknown anxiety and straining effort; and the younger one had to step into the harness on the spot. He was brave, capable, wholly loyal to his mother and sisters, reared in the traditions of older days as to a man's duty toward women. In his first grief for his father, and the ready pride with which he undertook to fill his place, he had not in the least estimated the weight of care he was to carry, nor the time that he must carry it. A year, a year or two, a few years, he told himself, as they passed, and he would make more money; the girls, of course, would marry; he could “retire” in time and take up his scientific work again. Then--there was Diantha. When he found he loved this young neighbor of theirs, and that she loved him, the first flush of happiness made all life look easier. They had been engaged six months--and it was beginning to dawn upon the young man that it might be six years--or sixteen years--before he could marry. He could not sell the business--and if he could, he knew of no better way to take care of his family. The girls did not marry, and even when they did, he had figured this out to a dreary certainty, he would still not be free. To pay the mortgages off, and keep up the house, even without his sisters, would require all the money the store would bring in for some six years ahead. The young man set his teeth hard and turned his head sharply toward the road. And there was Diantha. She stood at the gate and smiled at him. He sprang to his feet, headacheless for the moment, and joined her. Mrs. Warden, from the lounge by her bedroom window, saw them move off together, and sighed. “Poor Roscoe!” she said to herself. “It is very hard for him. But he carries his difficulties nobly. He is a son to be proud of.” And she wept a little. Diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm--he clasped it warmly with his, and they walked along together. “You won't come in and see mother and the girls?” “No, thank you; not this time. I must get home and get supper. Besides, I'd rather see just you.” He felt it a pity that there were so many houses along the road here, but squeezed her hand, anyhow. She looked at him keenly. “Headache?” she asked. “Yes; it's nothing; it's gone already.” “Worry?” she asked. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he answered. “But I ought not to worry. I've got a good home, a good mother, good sisters, and--you!” And he took advantage of a high hedge and an empty lot on either side of them. Diantha returned his kiss affectionately enough, but seemed preoccupied, and walked in silence till he asked her what she was thinking about. “About you, of course,” she answered, brightly. “There are things I want to say; and yet--I ought not to.” “You can say anything on earth to me,” he answered. “You are twenty-four,” she began, musingly. “Admitted at once.” “And I'm twenty-one and a half.” “That's no such awful revelation, surely!” “And we've been engaged ever since my birthday,” the girl pursued. “All these are facts, dearest.” “Now, Ross, will you be perfectly frank with me? May I ask you an--an impertinent question?” “You may ask me any question you like; it couldn't be impertinent.” “You'll be scandalised, I know--but--well, here goes. What would you think if Madeline--or any of the girls--should go away to work?” He looked at her lovingly, but with a little smile on his firm mouth. “I shouldn't allow it,” he said. “O--allow it? I asked you what you'd think.” “I should think it was a disgrace to the family, and a direct reproach to me,” he answered. “But it's no use talking about that. None of the girls have any such foolish notion. And I wouldn't permit it if they had.” Diantha smiled. “I suppose you never would permit your wife to work?” “My widow might have to--not my wife.” He held his fine head a trifle higher, and her hand ached for a moment. “Wouldn't you let me work--to help you, Ross?” “My dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for me, and that's wait.” His face darkened again, and he passed his hand over his forehead. “Sometimes I feel as if I ought not to hold you at all!” he burst out, bitterly. “You ought to be free to marry a better man.” “There aren't any!” said Diantha, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “And if there were--millions--I wouldn't marry any of 'em. I love _you,”_ she firmly concluded. “Then we'll just _wait,”_ said he, setting his teeth on the word, as if he would crush it. “It won't be hard with you to help. You're better worth it than Rachael and Leah together.” They walked a few steps silently. “But how about science?” she asked him. “I don't let myself think of it. I'll take that up later. We're young enough, both of us, to wait for our happiness.” “And have you any idea--we might as well face the worst--how many years do you think that will be, dearest?” He was a little annoyed at her persistence. Also, though he would not admit the thought, it did not seem quite the thing for her to ask. A woman should not seek too definite a period of waiting. She ought to trust--to just wait on general principles. “I can face a thing better if I know just what I'm facing,” said the girl, quietly, “and I'd wait for you, if I had to, all my life. Will it be twenty years, do you think?” He looked relieved. “Why, no, indeed, darling. It oughtn't to be at the outside more than five. Or six,” he added, honest though reluctant. “You see, father had no time to settle anything; there were outstanding accounts, and the funeral expenses, and the mortgages. But the business is good; and I can carry it; I can build it up.” He shook his broad shoulders determinedly. “I should think it might be within five, perhaps even less. Good things happen sometimes--such as you, my heart's delight.” They were at her gate now, and she stood a little while to say good-night. A step inside there was a seat, walled in by evergreen, roofed over by the wide acacia boughs. Many a long good-night had they exchanged there, under the large, brilliant California moon. They sat there, silent, now. Diantha's heart was full of love for him, and pride and confidence in him; but it was full of other feelings, too, which he could not fathom. His trouble was clearer to her than to him; as heavy to bear. To her mind, trained in all the minutiae of domestic economy, the Warden family lived in careless wastefulness. That five women--for Dora was older than she had been when she began to do housework--should require servants, seemed to this New England-born girl mere laziness and pride. That two voting women over twenty should prefer being supported by their brother to supporting themselves, she condemned even more sharply. Moreover, she felt well assured that with a different family to “support,” Mr. Warden would never have broken down so suddenly and irrecoverably. Even that funeral--her face hardened as she thought of the conspicuous “lot,” the continual flowers, the monument (not wholly paid for yet, that monument, though this she did not know)--all that expenditure to do honor to the man they had worked to death (thus brutally Diantha put it) was probably enough to put off their happiness for a whole year. She rose at last, her hand still held in his. “I'm sorry, but I've got to get supper, dear,” she said, “and you must go. Good-night for the present; you'll be round by and by?” “Yes, for a little while, after we close up,” said he, and took himself off, not too suddenly, walking straight and proud while her eyes were on him, throwing her a kiss from the corner; but his step lagging and his headache settling down upon him again as he neared the large house with the cupola. Diantha watched him out of sight, turned and marched up the path to her own door, her lips set tight, her well-shaped head as straightly held as his. “It's a shame, a cruel, burning shame!” she told herself rebelliously. “A man of his ability. Why, he could do anything, in his own work! And he loved it so! “To keep a grocery store!!!!! “And nothing to show for all that splendid effort!” “They don't do a thing? They just _live_--and 'keep house!' All those women! “Six years? Likely to be sixty! But I'm not going to wait!” CHAPTER II. AN UNNATURAL DAUGHTER The brooding bird fulfills her task, Or she-bear lean and brown; All parent beasts see duty true, All parent beasts their duty do, We are the only kind that asks For duty upside down. The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled, heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums. Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual shade to the house. It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. There was an attempt at a “lawn,” the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner; and a further attempt at “flower-beds,” which merely served as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products. The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are; minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living, and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing. There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere. But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and Duty--under restriction. In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!--Ee-errr!--came the faint whine of the windmill. To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California--hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile. To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it was California--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power--home! Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment. “Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these things.” “No--not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to do.” And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the “over and over seam” up the middle. “What _do_ you do it for anyway, Mother--I always hated this job--and you don't seem to like it.” “They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it--” She gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure. “What kind of work do you like best--really?” her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two. “Why--I don't know,” said her mother. “I never thought of it. I never tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther, but she's still teaching.” “Didn't you like any of it?” pursued Diantha. “I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to school--used to stand highest in that.” “And what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted. Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. “Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least!” she answered. Then with sudden heat--“O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one girl for you!” Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy,” she said. “But, Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got every bill since you were married.” “Yes--I do love accounts,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “And I can keep run of things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business.” Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love. She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.” She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking her mother's also. “Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down. Don't you stir till supper's ready.” And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit. Her mother watched her admiringly. “How easy you do it!” she said. “I never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't spill a speck!” Diantha smiled. “I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to have hot bread for supper--or thinks he has!--and I've made 'em--every night when I was at home for this ten years back!” “I guess you have,” said Mrs. Bell proudly. “You were only eleven when you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my bad headaches that night--and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And you could!--you did! They were bettern' mine that first time--and your Father praised 'em--and you've been at it ever since.” “Yes,” said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother caught, “I've been at it ever since!” “Except when you were teaching school,” pursued her mother. “Except when I taught school at Medville,” Diantha corrected. “When I taught here I made 'em just the same.” “So you did,” agreed her mother. “So you did! No matter how tired you were--you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!” “If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently, Mother.” She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what she wanted and started a fire. “Why _don't_ you get an oil stove? Or a gasoline? It would be a lot easier.” “Yes,” her mother agreed. “I've wanted one for twenty years; but you know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous. What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't quarrelled.” “No indeed we haven't, Mother. Ross is splendid. Only--” “Only what, Dinah?” “Only he's so tied up!” said the girl, brushing every chip from the hearth. “He's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his--and those four sisters.” “Ross is a good son,” said Mrs. Bell, “and a good brother. I never saw a better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet.” Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with light steps and no clatter of dishes. “I'm twenty-one,” she said. “Yes, you're twenty-one,” her mother allowed. “It don't seem possible, but you are. My first baby!” she looked at her proudly. “If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry--and to pay his father's debts--I'll be old enough,” said Diantha grimly. Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. “I know it's hard, dear child. You've only been engaged six months--and it looks as if it might be some years before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone.” “I should say he had!” Diantha burst forth. “Five helpless women!--or three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.” “They weren't brought up that way,” said Mrs. Bell. “Their mother don't approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman--and so does Ross--and so do I,” she added rather faintly. Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. “I don't agree with Mrs. Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother,” she said, “What I've got to tell you is this--I'm going away from home. To work.” Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes. “Why Diantha!” she said. “Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your Mother!” Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close--close. “It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's not because I don't love Ross either:--it's because I _do._ I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him--to help carry that awful load--and I'm going--to--do--it!” She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair. “I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren't they beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother! What's the matter? You're crying!” “Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way. “What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters. “Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!” She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding, “Come--what's the trouble?” “You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided to leave home, that's all.” “To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To leave home!--And Mother!” “Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother's eyes. “Well, why not? You left home--and Mother--before you were eighteen.” “That's different!” said her sister sharply. “I left to be married,--to have a home of my own. And besides I haven't gone far! I can see Mother every day.” “That's one reason I can go now better than later on,” Diantha said. “You are close by in case of any trouble.” “What on earth are you going for? Ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?” “No--nor likely to be for years. That's another reason I'm going.” “But what _for,_ for goodness sake.” “To earn money--for one thing.” “Can't you earn money enough by teaching?” the Mother broke in eagerly. “I know you haven't got the same place this fall--but you can get another easy enough.” Diantha shook her head. “No, Mother, I've had enough of that. I've taught for four years. I don't like it, I don't do well, and it exhausts me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime.” “Well, I declare!” said her sister. “What do you _expect_ to get? I should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!” Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around. “And you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?” “Why not?” said Diantha firmly. “Henderson did--when he was eighteen. None of you blamed him.” “I don't see what that's got to do with it,” her mother ventured. “Henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects that. But a girl--Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my health!” “I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!” said young Mrs. Peters. A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching, carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the door. “Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his youngest daughter laughingly. “And Mother will straighten it out after him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see him wait on me!” “A man should be master in his own household,” Mr. Bell proclaimed, raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the towel--which his wife handed him. “You won't have much household to be master of presently,” said Mrs. Peters provokingly. “Half of it's going to leave.” Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some explanation of this attempted joke, “What nonsense are you talking?” he demanded. “I think it's nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman--her hand on the doorknob. “But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you can--you won't get many more! There's Gerald--good night!” And off she ran. Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply crusted. “Supper's ready,” she said. “Do sit down, Mother,” and she held the chair for her. “Minnie's quite right, Father, though I meant not to tell you till you'd had supper. I am going away to work.” Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea. “You've got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he. “What are you talking about anyway?” Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing his delicate wife and three young children to California. Vain were her protests and objections. It would do her good--best place in the world for children--good for nervous complaints too. A wife's duty was to follow her husband, of course. She had followed, willy nilly; and it was good for the children--there was no doubt of that. Mr. Bell had profited little by his venture. They had the ranch, the flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in wealth-promising hens. But Mrs. Bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in the children. They had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome creatures, especially the two younger ones. Diantha was good-looking enough. Roscoe Warden thought her divinely beautiful. But her young strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process known as “helping mother.” As a little child she had been of constant service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. That he did not value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and mothers. Also as daughters. If they failed in it that was by illness or perversity. If they succeeded--that was a matter of course. He ate another of Diantha's excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. She said nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. Mrs. Bell also strove to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off into unnoticed silence. Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit his pipe. “When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha,” he said coldly, “I'll hear about this proposition of yours.” Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit table and sat still. Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind of work she specially disliked. “You'll have to get some new socks, Father,” she ventured, “these are pretty well gone.” “O they'll do a good while yet,” he replied, not looking at them. “I like your embroidery, my dear.” That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be praised. Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but silent yet. Her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over, and a tear or two slid down her cheeks. Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and said, “Now then. Out with it.” This was not a felicitious opening. It is really astonishing how little diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to introduce a proposition. There was nothing for it but a bald statement, so Diantha made it baldly. “I have decided to leave home and go to work,” she said. “Don't you have work enough to do at home?” he inquired, with the same air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely, even as a little child. She would cut short this form of discussion: “I am going away to earn my living. I have given up school-teaching--I don't like it, and, there isn't money enough in it. I have plans--which will speak for themselves later.” “So,” said Mr. Bell, “Plans all made, eh? I suppose you've considered your Mother in these plans?” “I have,” said his daughter. “It is largely on her account that I'm going.” “You think it'll be good for your Mother's health to lose your assistance, do you?” “I know she'll miss me; but I haven't left the work on her shoulders. I am going to pay for a girl--to do the work I've done. It won't cost you any more, Father; and you'll save some--for she'll do the washing too. You didn't object to Henderson's going--at eighteen. You didn't object to Minnie's going--at seventeen. Why should you object to my going--at twenty-one.” “I haven't objected--so far,” replied her father. “Have your plans also allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?” “I have done my duty--as well as I know how,” she answered. “Now I am twenty-one, and self-supporting--and have a right to go.” “O yes. You have a right--a legal right--if that's what you base your idea of a child's duty on! And while you're talking of rights--how about a parent's rights? How about common gratitude! How about what you owe to me--for all the care and pains and cost it's been to bring you up. A child's a rather expensive investment these days.” Diantha flushed, she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a blow. It was not the first time she had heard it--this claim of filial obligation. “I have considered that position, Father. I know you feel that way--you've often made me feel it. So I've been at some pains to work it out--on a money basis. Here is an account--as full as I could make it.” She handed him a paper covered with neat figures. The totals read as follows: Miss Diantha Bell, To Mr. Henderson R. Bell, Dr. To medical and dental expenses... $110.00 To school expenses... $76.00 To clothing, in full... $1,130.00 To board and lodging at $3.00 a week... $2,184.00 To incidentals... $100.00 -------- $3.600.00 He studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in anger, half in unavoidable amusement. Perhaps there was a tender feeling too, as he remembered that doctor's bill--the first he ever paid, with the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she magnanimously shouldered the whole expense. The clothing total was so large that it made him whistle--he knew he had never spent $1,130.00 on one girl's clothes. But the items explained it. Materials, three years at an average of $10 a year... $30.00 Five years averaging $20 each year... $100.00 Five years averaging $30 each year... $50.00 Five years averaging $50 each year... $250.00 ------- $530.00 The rest was “Mother's labor”, averaging twenty full days a year at $2 a day, $40 a year. For fifteen years, $600.00. Mother's labor--on one child's, clothes--footing up to $600.00. It looked strange to see cash value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage. The school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils--it brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying children, the “Say, Father, I've got to have a new slate--mine's broke!” “Broken, Dina,” her Mother would gently correct, while he demanded, “How did you break it?” and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways. Slates--three, $1.50--they were all down. And slates didn't cost so much come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she always wanted. Board and lodging was put low, at $3.00 per week, but the items had a footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm. Yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little bedroom they always had. “It's what Aunt Esther paid the winter she was here,” said Diantha. Circuses--three... $1.50 Share in melodeon... $50.00 Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it. Music lessons... $30.00 And quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in for that purpose as well as from generosity. “This board account looks kind of funny,” he said--“only fourteen years of it!” “I didn't take table-board--nor a room--the first year--nor much the second. I've allowed $1.00 a week for that, and $2.00 for the third--that takes out two, you see. Then it's $156 a year till I was fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $156--and I've paid since I was seventeen, you know.” “Well--I guess you did--I guess you did.” He grinned genially. “Yes,” he continued slowly, “I guess that's a fair enough account. 'Cording to this, you owe me $3,600.00, young woman! I didn't think it cost that much to raise a girl.” “I know it,” said she. “But here's the other side.” It was the other side. He had never once thought of such a side to the case. This account was as clear and honest as the first and full of exasperating detail. She laid before him the second sheet of figures and watched while he read, explaining hurriedly: “It was a clear expense for ten years--not counting help with the babies. Then I began to do housework regularly--when I was ten or eleven, two hours a day; three when I was twelve and thirteen--real work you'd have had to pay for, and I've only put it at ten cents an hour. When Mother was sick the year I was fourteen, and I did it all but the washing--all a servant would have done for $3.00 a week. Ever since then I have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at twenty cents an hour. That's what we have to pay here, you know.” Thus it mounted up: Mr. Henderson R. Bell, To Miss Diantha Bell, Dr. For labor and services!!!!! Two years, two hours a day at 10c. an hour... $146.00 Two years, three hours a day at 10c. an hour... $219.00 One year, full wages at $5.00 a week... $260.00 Six years and a half, three hours a day at 20c... $1423.50 -------- $2048.50 Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures. To think of that child's labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! It was lucky a man had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a family. Then came her school-teaching years. She had always been a fine scholar and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good school position in her eighteenth year. California salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only $300.00--and he was a man. This girl got $600, next year $700, $800, $900; why it made $3,000 she had earned in four years. Astonishing. Out of this she had a balance in the bank of $550.00. He was pleased to see that she had been so saving. And her clothing account--little enough he admitted for four years and six months, $300.00. All incidentals for the whole time, $50.00--this with her balance made just $900. That left $2,100.00. “Twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady!--besides this nest egg in the bank--I'd no idea you were so wealthy. What have you done with all that?” “Given it to you, Father,” said she quietly, and handed him the third sheet of figures. Board and lodging at $4.00 a week for 4 1/2 years made $936.00, that he could realize; but “cash advance” $1,164 more--he could not believe it. That time her mother was so sick and Diantha had paid both the doctor and the nurse--yes--he had been much cramped that year--and nurses come high. For Henderson, Jr.'s, expenses to San Francisco, and again for Henderson when he was out of a job--Mr. Bell remembered the boy's writing for the money, and his not having it, and Mrs. Bell saying she could arrange with Diantha. Arrange! And that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! For Minnie's trip to the Yosemite--and what was this?--for his raisin experiment--for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots--and for the spraying materials--yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered that $1,164.00 exactly. Then came the deadly balance, of the account between them: Her labor... $2,047.00 Her board... $936.00 Her “cash advanced”... $1,164.00 --------- $4,147.00 His expense for her... $3,600 --------- Due her from him... $547.00 Diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an occasional tear. She almost wished she had not kept accounts so well. Mr. Bell pushed the papers away and started to his feet. “This is the most shameful piece of calculation I ever saw in my life,” said he. “I never heard of such a thing! You go and count up in cold dollars the work that every decent girl does for her family and is glad to! I wonder you haven't charged your mother for nursing her?” “You notice I haven't,” said Diantha coldly. “And to think,” said he, gripping the back of a chair and looking down at her fiercely, “to think that a girl who can earn nine hundred dollars a year teaching school, and stay at home and do her duty by her family besides, should plan to desert her mother outright--now she's old and sick! Of course I can't stop you! You're of age, and children nowadays have no sense of natural obligation after they're grown up. You can go, of course, and disgrace the family as you propose--but you needn't expect to have me consent to it or approve of it--or of you. It's a shameful thing--and you are an unnatural daughter--that's all I've got to say!” Mr. Bell took his hat and went out--a conclusive form of punctuation much used by men in discussions of this sort. CHAPTER III. BREAKERS Duck! Dive! Here comes another one! Wait till the crest-ruffles show! Beyond is smooth water in beauty and wonder-- Shut your mouth! Hold your breath! Dip your head under! Dive through the weight and the wash, and the thunder-- Look out for the undertow! If Diantha imagined that her arithmetical victory over a too-sordid presentation of the parental claim was a final one, she soon found herself mistaken. It is easy to say--putting an epic in an epigram--“She seen her duty and she done it!” but the space and time covered are generally as far beyond our plans as the estimates of an amateur mountain climber exceed his achievements. Her determination was not concealed by her outraged family. Possibly they thought that if the matter was well aired, and generally discussed, the daring offender might reconsider. Well-aired it certainly was, and widely discussed by the parents of the little town before young people who sat in dumbness, or made faint defense. It was also discussed by the young people, but not before their parents. She had told Ross, first of all, meaning to have a quiet talk with him to clear the ground before arousing her own family; but he was suddenly away just as she opened the subject, by a man on a wheel--some wretched business about the store of course--and sent word that night that he could not come up again. Couldn't come up the next night either. Two long days--two long evenings without seeing him. Well--if she went away she'd have to get used to that. But she had so many things to explain, so much to say to make it right with him; she knew well what a blow it was. Now it was all over town--and she had had no chance to defend her position. The neighbors called. Tall bony Mrs. Delafield who lived nearest to them and had known Diantha for some years, felt it her duty to make a special appeal--or attack rather; and brought with her stout Mrs. Schlosster, whose ancestors and traditions were evidently of German extraction. Diantha retired to her room when she saw these two bearing down upon the house; but her mother called her to make a pitcher of lemonade for them--and having entered there was no escape. They harried her with questions, were increasingly offended by her reticence, and expressed disapproval with a fullness that overmastered the girl's self-control. “I have as much right to go into business as any other citizen, Mrs. Delafield,” she said with repressed intensity. “I am of age and live in a free country. What you say of children no longer applies to me.” “And what is this mysterious business you're goin' into--if one may inquire? Nothin you're ashamed to mention, I hope?” asked Mrs. Delafield. “If a woman refuses to mention her age is it because she's ashamed of it?” the girl retorted, and Mrs. Delafield flushed darkly. “Never have I heard such talk from a maiden to her elders,” said Mrs. Schlosster. “In my country the young have more respect, as is right.” Mrs. Bell objected inwardly to any reprimand of her child by others; but she agreed to the principle advanced and made no comment. Diantha listened to quite a volume of detailed criticism, inquiry and condemnation, and finally rose to her feet with the stiff courtesy of the young. “You must excuse me now,” she said with set lips. “I have some necessary work to do.” She marched upstairs, shut her bedroom door and locked it, raging inwardly. “Its none of their business! Not a shadow! Why should Mother sit there and let them talk to me like that! One would think childhood had no limit--unless it's matrimony!” This reminded her of her younger sister's airs of superior wisdom, and did not conduce to a pleasanter frame of mind. “With all their miserable little conventions and idiocies! And what 'they'll say,' and 'they'll think'! As if I cared! Minnie'll be just such another!” She heard the ladies going out, still talking continuously, a faint response from her mother now and then, a growing quiet as their steps receded toward the gate; and then another deeper voice took up the theme and heavily approached. It was the minister! Diantha dropped into her rocker and held the arms tight. “Now I'll have to take it again I suppose. But he ought to know me well enough to understand.” “Diantha!” called her mother, “Here's Dr. Major;” and the girl washed her face and came down again. Dr. Major was a heavy elderly man with a strong mouth and a warm hand clasp. “What's all this I hear about you, young lady?” he demanded, holding her hand and looking her straight in the eye. “Is this a new kind of Prodigal Daughter we're encountering?” He did not look nor sound condemnatory, and as she faced him she caught a twinkle in the wise old eyes. “You can call it that if you want to,” she said, “Only I thought the Prodigal Son just spent his money--I'm going to earn some.” “I want you to talk to Diantha, Doctor Major,” Mrs. Bell struck in. “I'm going to ask you to excuse me, and go and lie down for a little. I do believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody.” The mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now; and Diantha braced herself for the attack. It came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. But it was courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point with the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm of her years. They called a truce. “I can see that you _think_ its your duty, young, woman--that's the main thing. I think you're wrong. But what you believe to be right you have to do. That's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn! Well--you've been a good child ever since I've known you. A remarkably good child. If you have to sow this kind of wild oats--” they both smiled at this, “I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret--” “Its not a secret really,” the girl explained, “I'll tell them as soon as I'm settled. Then they can tell--if they want to.” And they both smiled again. “Well--I won't tell till I hear of it then. And--yes, I guess I can furnish that document with a clean conscience.” She gave him paper and pen and he wrote, with a grin, handing her the result. She read it, a girlish giggle lightening the atmosphere. “Thank you!” she said earnestly. “Thank you ever so much. I knew you would help me.” “If you get stuck anywhere just let me know,” he said rising. “This Proddy Gal may want a return ticket yet!” “I'll walk first!” said Diantha. “O Dr. Major,” cried her mother from the window, “Don't go! We want you to stay to supper of course!” But he had other calls to make, he said, and went away, his big hands clasped behind him; his head bent, smiling one minute and shaking his head the next. Diantha leaned against a pearly eucalyptus trunk and watched him. She would miss Dr. Major. But who was this approaching? Her heart sank miserably. Mrs. Warden--and _all_ the girls. She went to meet them--perforce. Mrs. Warden had always been kind and courteous to her; the girls she had not seen very much of, but they had the sweet Southern manner, were always polite. Ross's mother she must love. Ross's sisters too--if she could. Why did the bottom drop out of her courage at sight of them? “You dear child!” said Mrs. Warden, kissing her. “I know just how you feel! You want to help my boy! That's your secret! But this won't do it, my dear!” “You've no idea how badly Ross feels!” said Madeline. “Mrs. Delafield dropped in just now and told us. You ought to have seen him!” “He didn't believe it of course,” Adeline put in. “And he wouldn't say a thing--not a thing to blame you.” “We said we'd come over right off--and tried to bring him--but he said he'd got to go back to the store,” Coraline explained. “He was mad though!” said Dora--“_I_ know.” Diantha looked from one to the other helplessly. “Come in! Come in!” said Mrs. Bell hospitably. “Have this rocker, Mrs. Warden--wouldn't you like some cool drink? Diantha?” “No indeed!” Mrs. Warden protested. “Don't get a thing. We're going right back, it's near supper time. No, we can't think of staying, of course not, no indeed!--But we had to come over and hear about this dear child's idea!--Now tell us all about it, Diantha!” There they sat--five pairs of curious eyes--and her mother's sad ones--all kind--all utterly incapable of understanding. She moistened her lips and plunged desperately. “It is nothing dreadful, Mrs. Warden. Plenty of girls go away to earn their livings nowadays. That is all I'm doing.” “But why go away?” “I thought you were earning your living before!” “Isn't teaching earning your living?” “What _are_ you going to do?” the girls protested variously, and Mrs. Warden, with a motherly smile, suggested!!!!! “That doesn't explain your wanting to leave Ross, my dear--and your mother!” “I don't want to leave them,” protested Diantha, trying to keep her voice steady. “It is simply that I have made up my mind I can do better elsewhere.” “Do what better?” asked Mrs. Warden with sweet patience, which reduced Diantha to the bald statement, “Earn more money in less time.” “And is that better than staying with your mother and your lover?” pursued the gentle inquisitor; while the girls tried, “What do you want to earn more money for?” and “I thought you earned a lot before.” Now Diantha did not wish to state in so many words that she wanted more money in order to marry sooner--she had hardly put it to herself that way. She could not make them see in a few moments that her plan was to do far more for her mother than she would otherwise ever be able to. And as to making them understand the larger principles at stake--the range and depth of her full purpose--that would be physically impossible. “I am sorry!” she said with trembling lips. “I am extremely sorry. But--I cannot explain!” Mrs. Warden drew herself up a little. “Cannot explain to me?--Your mother, of course, knows?” “Diantha is naturally more frank with me than with--anyone,” said Mrs. Bell proudly, “But she does not wish her--business--plans--made public at present!” Her daughter looked at her with vivid gratitude, but the words “made public” were a little unfortunate perhaps. “Of course,” Mrs. Warden agreed, with her charming smile, “that we can quite understand. I'm sure I should always wish my girls to feel so. Madeline--just show Mrs. Bell that necktie you're making--she was asking about the stitch, you remember.” The necktie was produced and admired, while the other girls asked Diantha if she had her fall dressmaking done yet--and whether she found wash ribbon satisfactory. And presently the whole graceful family withdrew, only Dora holding her head with visible stiffness. Diantha sat on the floor by her mother, put her head in her lap and cried. “How splendid of you, Mother!” she sobbed. “How simply splendid! I will tell you now--if--if--you won't tell even Father--yet.” “Dear child” said her Mother, “I'd rather not know in that case. It is--easier.” “That's what I kept still for!” said the girl. “It's hard enough, goodness knows--as it is! Its nothing wicked, or even risky, Mother dear--and as far as I can see it is right!” Her mother smiled through her tears. “If you say that, my dear child, I know there's no stopping you. And I hate to argue with you--even for your own sake, because it is so much to my advantage to have you here. I--shall miss you--Diantha!” “Don't, Mother!” sobbed the girl. “Its natural for the young to go. We expect it--in time. But you are so young yet--and--well, I had hoped the teaching would satisfy you till Ross was ready.” Diantha sat up straight. “Mother! can't you see Ross'll never be ready! Look at that family! And the way they live! And those mortgages! I could wait and teach and save a little even with Father always losing money; but I can't see Ross wearing himself out for years and years--I just _can't_ bear it!” Her mother stroked her fair hair softly, not surprised that her own plea was so lost in thought of the brave young lover. “And besides,” the girl went on “If I waited--and saved--and married Ross--what becomes of _you,_ I'd like to know? What I can't stand is to have you grow older and sicker--and never have any good time in all your life!” Mrs. Bell smiled tenderly. “You dear child!” she said; as if an affectionate five-year old had offered to get her a rainbow, “I know you mean it all for the best. But, O my _dearest_! I'd rather have you--here--at home with me---than any other 'good time' you can imagine!” She could not see the suffering in her daughter's face; but she felt she had made an impression, and followed it up with heart-breaking sincerity. She caught the girl to her breast and held her like a little child. “O my baby! my baby! Don't leave your mother. I can't bear it!” A familiar step outside, heavy, yet uncertain, and they both looked at each other with frightened eyes. They had forgotten the biscuit. “Supper ready?” asked Mr. Bell, with grim humor. “It will be in a moment, Father,” cried Diantha springing to her feet. “At least--in a few moments.” “Don't fret the child, Father,” said Mrs. Henderson softly. “She's feeling bad enough.” “Sh'd think she would,” replied her husband. “Moreover--to my mind--she ought to.” He got out the small damp local paper and his pipe, and composed himself in obvious patience: yet somehow this patience seemed to fill the kitchen, and to act like a ball and chain to Diantha's feet. She got supper ready, at last, making griddle-cakes instead of biscuit, and no comment was made of the change: but the tension in the atmosphere was sharply felt by the two women; and possibly by the tall old man, who ate less than usual, and said absolutely nothing. “I'm going over to see Edwards about that new incubator,” he said when the meal was over, and departed; and Mrs. Bell, after trying in vain to do her mending, wiped her clouded glasses and went to bed. Diantha made all neat and tidy; washed her own wet eyes again, and went out under the moon. In that broad tender mellow light she drew a deep breath and stretched her strong young arms toward the sky in dumb appeal. “I knew it would be hard,” she murmured to herself, “That is I knew the facts--but I didn't know the feeling!” She stood at the gate between the cypresses, sat waiting under the acacia boughs, walked restlessly up and down the path outside, the dry pepper berries crush softly under foot; bracing herself for one more struggle--and the hardest of all. “He will understand!” he told herself, over and over, but at the bottom of her heart she knew he wouldn't. He came at last; a slower, wearier step than usual; came and took both her hands in his and stood holding them, looking at her questioningly. Then he held her face between his palms and made her look at him. Her eyes were brave and steady, but the mouth trembled in spite of her. He stilled it with a kiss, and drew her to a seat on the bench beside him. “My poor Little Girl! You haven't had a chance yet to really tell me about this thing, and I want you to right now. Then I'm going to kill about forty people in this town! _Somebody_ has been mighty foolish.” She squeezed his hand, but found it very difficult to speak. His love, his sympathy, his tenderness, were so delicious after this day's trials--and before those further ones she could so well anticipate. She didn't wish to cry any more, that would by no means strengthen her position, and she found she couldn't seem to speak without crying. “One would think to hear the good people of this town that you were about to leave home and mother for--well, for a trip to the moon!” he added. “There isn't any agreement as to what you're going to do, but they're unanimous as to its being entirely wrong. Now suppose you tell me about it.” “I will,” said Diantha. “I began to the other night, you know, you first of course--it was too bad! your having to go off at that exact moment. Then I had to tell mother--because--well you'll see presently. Now dear--just let me say it _all_--before you--do anything.” “Say away, my darling. I trust you perfectly.” She flashed a grateful look at him. “It is this way, my dear. I have two, three, yes four, things to consider:--My own personal problem--my family's--yours--and a social one.” “My family's?” he asked, with a faint shade of offence in his tone. “No no dear--your own,” she explained. “Better cut mine out, Little Girl,” he said. “I'll consider that myself.” “Well--I won't talk about it if you don't want me to. There are the other three.” “I won't question your second, nor your imposing third, but isn't the first one--your own personal problem--a good deal answered?” he suggested, holding her close for a moment. “Don't!” she said. “I can't talk straight when you put it that way.” She rose hurriedly and took a step or two up and down. “I don't suppose--in spite of your loving me, that I can make you see it as I do. But I'll be just as clear as I can. There are some years before us before we can be together. In that time I intend to go away and undertake a business I am interested in. My purpose is to--develop the work, to earn money, to help my family, and to--well, not to hinder you.” “I don't understand, I confess,” he said. “Don't you propose to tell me what this 'work' is?” “Yes--I will--certainly. But not yet dear! Let me try to show you how I feel about it.” “Wait,” said he. “One thing I want to be sure of. Are you doing this with any quixotic notion of helping me--in _my_ business? Helping me to take care of my family? Helping me to--” he stood up now, looking very tall and rather forbidding, “No, I won't say that to you.” “Would there be anything wrong in my meaning exactly that?” she asked, holding her own head a little higher; “both what you said and what you didn't?” “It would be absolutely wrong, all of it,” he answered. “I cannot believe that the woman I love would--could take such a position.” “Look here, Ross!” said the girl earnestly. “Suppose you knew where there was a gold mine--_knew it_--and by going away for a few years you could get a real fortune--wouldn't you do it?” “Naturally I should,” he agreed. “Well, suppose it wasn't a gold mine, but a business, a new system like those cigar stores--or--some patent amusement specialty--or _anything_--that you knew was better than what you're doing--wouldn't you have a right to try it?” “Of course I should--but what has that to do with this case?” “Why it's the same thing! Don't you see? I have plans that will be of real benefit to all of us, something worth while to _do_--and not only for us but for _everybody_--a real piece of progress--and I'm going to leave my people--and even you!--for a little while--to make us all happier later on.” He smiled lovingly at her but shook his head slowly. “You dear, brave, foolish child!” he said. “I don't for one moment doubt your noble purposes. But you don't get the man's point of view--naturally. What's more you don't seem to get the woman's.” “Can you see no other point of view than those?” she asked. “There are no others,” he answered. “Come! come! my darling, don't add this new difficulty to what we've got to carry! I know you have a hard time of it at home. Some day, please God, you shall have an easier one! And I'm having a hard time too--I don't deny it. But you are the greatest joy and comfort I have, dear--you know that. If you go away--it will be harder and slower and longer--that's all. I shall have you to worry about too. Let somebody else do the gold-mine, dear--you stay here and comfort your Mother as long as you can--and me. How can I get along without you?” He tried to put his arm around her again, but she drew back. “Dear,” she said. “If I deliberately do what I think is right--against your wishes--what will you do?” “Do?” The laughed bitterly. “What can I do? I'm tied by the leg here--I can't go after you. I've nothing to pull you out of a scrape with if you get in one. I couldn't do anything but--stand it.” “And if I go ahead, and do what you don't like--and make you--suffer--would you--would you rather be free?” Her voice was very low and shaken, but he heard her well enough. “Free of you? Free of _you_?” He caught her and held her and kissed her over and over. “You are mine!” he said. “You have given yourself to me! You cannot leave me. Neither of us is free--ever again.” But she struggled away from him. “Both of us are free--to do what we think right, _always_ Ross! I wouldn't try to stop you if you thought it was your duty to go to the North Pole!” She held him a little way off. “Let me tell you, dear. Sit down--let me tell you all about it.” But he wouldn't sit down. “I don't think I want to know the details,” he said. “It doesn't much matter what you're going to do--if you really go away. I can't stop you--I see that. If you think this thing is your 'duty' you'll do it if it kills us all--and you too! If you have to go--I shall do nothing--can do nothing--but wait till you come back to me! Whatever happens, darling--no matter how you fail--don't ever be afraid to come back to me.” He folded his arms now--did not attempt to hold her--gave her the freedom she asked and promised her the love she had almost feared to lose--and her whole carefully constructed plan seemed like a child's sand castle for a moment; her heroic decision the wildest folly. He was not even looking at her; she saw his strong, clean-cut profile dark against the moonlit house, a settled patience in its lines. Duty! Here was duty, surely, with tenderest happiness. She was leaning toward him--her hand was seeking his, when she heard through the fragrant silence a sound from her mother's room--the faint creak of her light rocking chair. She could not sleep--she was sitting up with her trouble, bearing it quietly as she had so many others. The quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life--the slow withering away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual submissive labor--not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands like her--it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart. Ross had turned to her--was holding out his arms to her. “You won't go, my darling!” he said. “I am going Wednesday on the 7.10,” said Diantha. CHAPTER IV. A CRYING NEED “Lovest thou me?” said the Fair Ladye; And the Lover he said, “Yea!” “Then climb this tree--for my sake,” said she, “And climb it every day!” So from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark And wore his clothes away; Till, “What has this tree to do with thee?” The Lover at last did say. It was a poor dinner. Cold in the first place, because Isabel would wait to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress. She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown, specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably. Isabel was never a cook. In the many servantless gaps of domestic life in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the Porne household. “Dear,” said Mr. Porne, “might I petition to have the steak less cooked? I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?” “I'm sorry,” she answered, “I always forget about the steak from one time to the next.” “Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.” “I thought you liked it better than anything,” she with marked gentleness. “I'll get you other things--oftener.” “It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel. I never meant you should cook for me. Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about it.” “And I never dreamed you cared so much about it,” she replied, still with repression. “I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should be disappointed in me.” “It's not _you,_ dear girl! You're all right! It's just this everlasting bother. Can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?” “I can't seem to get anybody on any terms, so far. I'm going again, to-morrow. Cheer up, dear--the baby keeps well--that's the main thing.” He sat on the rose-bowered porch and smoked while she cleared the table. At first he had tried to help her on these occasions, but their methods were dissimilar and she frankly told him she preferred to do it alone. So she slipped off the silk and put on the gingham again, washed the dishes with the labored accuracy of a trained mind doing unfamiliar work, made the bread, redressed at last, and joined him about nine o'clock. “It's too late to go anywhere, I suppose?” he ventured. “Yes--and I'm too tired. Besides--we can't leave Eddie alone.” “O yes--I forget. Of course we can't.” His hand stole out to take hers. “I _am_ sorry, dear. It's awfully rough on you women out here. How do they all stand it?” “Most of them stand it much better than I do, Ned. You see they don't want to be doing anything else.” “Yes. That's the mischief of it!” he agreed; and she looked at him in the clear moonlight, wondering exactly what he thought the mischief was. “Shall we go in and read a bit?” he offered; but she thought not. “I'm too tired, I'm afraid. And Eddie'll wake up as soon as we begin.” So they sat awhile enjoying the soft silence, and the rich flower scents about them, till Eddie did wake presently, and Isabel went upstairs. She slept little that night, lying quite still, listening to her husband's regular breathing so near her, and the lighter sound from the crib. “I am a very happy woman,” she told herself resolutely; but there was no outpouring sense of love and joy. She knew she was happy, but by no means felt it. So she stared at the moon shadows and thought it over. She had planned the little house herself, with such love, such hope, such tender happy care! Not her first work, which won high praise in the school in Paris, not the prize-winning plan for the library, now gracing Orchardina's prettiest square, was as dear to her as this most womanly task--the making of a home. It was the library success which brought her here, fresh from her foreign studies, and Orchardina accepted with western cordiality the youth and beauty of the young architect, though a bit surprised at first that “I. H. Wright” was an Isabel. In her further work of overseeing the construction of that library, she had met Edgar Porne, one of the numerous eager young real estate men of that region, who showed a liberal enthusiasm for the general capacity of women in the professions, and a much warmer feeling for the personal attractions of this one. Together they chose the lot on pepper-shaded Inez Avenue; together they watched the rising of the concrete walls and planned the garden walks and seats, and the tiny precious pool in the far corner. He was so sympathetic! so admiring! He took as much pride in the big “drawing room” on the third floor as she did herself. “Architecture is such fine work to do at home!” they had both agreed. “Here you have your north light--your big table--plenty of room for work! You will grow famouser and famouser,” he had lovingly insisted. And she had answered, “I fear I shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous.” That was only some year and a-half ago,--but Isabel, lying there by her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by assertion happy. She was thinking, persistently, of dust. She loved a delicate cleanliness. Her art was a precise one, her studio a workshop of white paper and fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the mechanical perfection of an even wash of color. And she saw, through the floors and walls and the darkness, the dust in the little shaded parlor--two days' dust at least, and Orchardina is very dusty!--dust in the dining-room gathered since yesterday--the dust in the kitchen--she would not count time there, and the dust--here she counted it inexorably--the dust of eight days in her great, light workroom upstairs. Eight days since she had found time to go up there. Lying there, wide-eyed and motionless, she stood outside in thought and looked at the house--as she used to look at it with him, before they were married. Then, it had roused every blessed hope and dream of wedded joy--it seemed a casket of uncounted treasures. Now, in this dreary mood, it seemed not only a mere workshop, but one of alien tasks, continuous, impossible, like those set for the Imprisoned Princess by bad fairies in the old tales. In thought she entered the well-proportioned door--the Gate of Happiness--and a musty smell greeted her--she had forgotten to throw out those flowers! She turned to the parlor--no, the piano keys were gritty, one had to clean them twice a day to keep that room as she liked it. From room to room she flitted, in her mind, trying to recall the exquisite things they meant to her when she had planned them; and each one now opened glaring and blank, as a place to work in--and the work undone. “If I were an abler woman!” she breathed. And then her common sense and common honesty made her reply to herself: “I am able enough--in my own work! Nobody can do everything. I don't believe Edgar'd do it any better than I do.--He don't have to!”--and then such a wave of bitterness rushed over her that she was afraid, and reached out one hand to touch the crib--the other to her husband. He awakened instantly. “What is it, Dear?” he asked. “Too tired to sleep, you poor darling? But you do love me a little, don't you?” “O _yes_!” she answered. “I do. Of _course_ I do! I'm just tired, I guess. Goodnight, Sweetheart.” She was late in getting to sleep and late in waking. When he finally sat down to the hurriedly spread breakfast-table, Mr. Porne, long coffeeless, found it a bit difficult to keep his temper. Isabel was a little stiff, bringing in dishes and cups, and paying no attention to the sounds of wailing from above. “Well if you won't I will!” burst forth the father at last, and ran upstairs, returning presently with a fine boy of some eleven months, who ceased to bawl in these familiar arms, and contented himself, for the moment, with a teaspoon. “Aren't you going to feed him?” asked Mr. Porne, with forced patience. “It isn't time yet,” she announced wearily. “He has to have his bath first.” “Well,” with a patience evidently forced farther, “isn't it time to feed me?” “I'm very sorry,” she said. “The oatmeal is burned again. You'll have to eat cornflakes. And--the cream is sour--the ice didn't come--or at least, perhaps I was out when it came--and then I forgot it..... I had to go to the employment agency in the morning!.... I'm sorry I'm so--so incompetent.” “So am I,” he commented drily. “Are there any crackers for instance? And how about coffee?” She brought the coffee, such as it was, and a can of condensed milk. Also crackers, and fruit. She took the baby and sat silent. “Shall I come home to lunch?” he asked. “Perhaps you'd better not,” she replied coldly. “Is there to be any dinner?” “Dinner will be ready at six-thirty, if I have to get it myself.” “If you have to get it yourself I'll allow for seven-thirty,” said he, trying to be cheerful, though she seemed little pleased by it. “Now don't take it so hard, Ellie. You are a first-class architect, anyhow--one can't be everything. We'll get another girl in time. This is just the common lot out here. All the women have the same trouble.” “Most women seem better able to meet it!” she burst forth. “It's not my trade! I'm willing to work, I like to work, but I can't _bear_ housework! I can't seem to learn it at all! And the servants will not do it properly!” “Perhaps they know your limitations, and take advantage of them! But cheer up, dear. It's no killing matter. Order by phone, don't forget the ice, and I'll try to get home early and help. Don't cry, dear girl, I love you, even if you aren't a good cook! And you love me, don't you?” He kissed her till she had to smile back at him and give him a loving hug; but after he had gone, the gloom settled upon her spirits once more. She bathed the baby, fed him, put him to sleep; and came back to the table. The screen door had been left ajar and the house was buzzing with flies, hot, with a week's accumulating disorder. The bread she made last night in fear and trembling, was hanging fatly over the pans; perhaps sour already. She clapped it into the oven and turned on the heat. Then she stood, undetermined, looking about that messy kitchen while the big flies bumped and buzzed on the windows, settled on every dish, and swung in giddy circles in the middle of the room. Turning swiftly she shut the door on them. The dining-room was nearly as bad. She began to put the cups and plates together for removal; but set her tray down suddenly and went into the comparative coolness of the parlor, closing the dining-room door behind her. She was quite tired enough to cry after several nights of broken rest and days of constant discomfort and irritation; but a sense of rising anger kept the tears back. “Of course I love him!” she said to herself aloud but softly, remembering the baby, “And no doubt he loves me! I'm glad to be his wife! I'm glad to be a mother to his child! I'm glad I married him! But--_this_ is not what he offered! And it's not what I undertook! He hasn't had to change his business!” She marched up and down the scant space, and then stopped short and laughed drily, continuing her smothered soliloquy. “'Do you love me?' they ask, and, 'I will make you happy!' they say; and you get married--and after that it's Housework!” “They don't say, 'Will you be my Cook?' 'Will you be my Chamber maid?' 'Will you give up a good clean well-paid business that you love--that has big hope and power and beauty in it--and come and keep house for me?'” “Love him? I'd be in Paris this minute if I didn't! What has 'love' to do with dust and grease and flies!” Then she did drop on the small sofa and cry tempestuously for a little while; but soon arose, fiercely ashamed of her weakness, and faced the day; thinking of the old lady who had so much to do she couldn't think what to first--so she sat down and made a pincushion. Then--where to begin! “Eddie will sleep till half-past ten--if I'm lucky. It's now nearly half-past nine,” she meditated aloud. “If I do the upstairs work I might wake him. I mustn't forget the bread, the dishes, the parlor--O those flies! Well--I'll clear the table first!” Stepping softly, and handling the dishes with slow care, she cleaned the breakfast table and darkened the dining-room, flapping out some of the flies with a towel. Then she essayed the parlor, dusting and arranging with undecided steps. “It _ought_ to be swept,” she admitted to herself; “I can't do it--there isn't time. I'll make it dark--” “I'd rather plan a dozen houses!” she fiercely muttered, as she fussed about. “Yes--I'd rather build 'em--than to keep one clean!” Then were her hopes dashed by a rising wail from above. She sat quite still awhile, hoping against hope that he would sleep again; but he wouldn't. So she brought him down in full cry. In her low chair by the window she held him and produced bright and jingling objects from the tall workbasket that stood near by, sighing again as she glanced at its accumulated mending. Master Eddy grew calm and happy in her arms, but showed a growing interest in the pleasing materials produced for his amusement, and a desire for closer acquaintance. Then a penetrating odor filled the air, and with a sudden “O dear!” she rose, put the baby on the sofa, and started toward the kitchen. At this moment the doorbell rang. Mrs. Porne stopped in her tracks and looked at the door. It remained opaque and immovable. She looked at the baby--who jiggled his spools and crowed. Then she flew to the oven and dragged forth the bread, not much burned after all. Then she opened the door. A nice looking young woman stood before her, in a plain travelling suit, holding a cheap dress-suit case in one hand and a denim “roll-bag” in the other, who met her with a cheerful inquiring smile. “Are you Mrs. Edgar Porne?” she asked. “I am,” answered that lady, somewhat shortly, her hand on the doorknob, her ear on the baby, her nose still remorsefully in the kitchen, her eyes fixed sternly on her visitor the while; as she wondered whether it was literature, cosmetics, or medicine. She was about to add that she didn't want anything, when the young lady produced a card from the Rev. Benjamin A. Miner, Mrs. Porne's particularly revered minister, and stated that she had heard there was a vacancy in her kitchen and she would like the place. “Introducing Mrs. D. Bell, well known to friends of mine.” “I don't know--” said Mrs. Porne, reading the card without in the least grasping what it said. “I--” Just then there was a dull falling sound followed by a sharp rising one, and she rushed into the parlor without more words. When she could hear and be heard again, she found Mrs. Bell seated in the shadowy little hall, serene and cool. “I called on Mr. Miner yesterday when I arrived,” said she, “with letters of introduction from my former minister, told him what I wanted to do, and asked him if he could suggest anyone in immediate need of help in this line. He said he had called here recently, and believed you were looking for someone. Here is the letter I showed him,” and she handed Mrs. Porne a most friendly and appreciative recommendation of Miss D. Bell by a minister in Jopalez, Inca Co., stating that the bearer was fully qualified to do all kinds of housework, experienced, honest, kind, had worked seven years in one place, and only left it hoping to do better in Southern California. Backed by her own pastor's approval this seemed to Mrs. Porne fully sufficient. The look of the girl pleased her, though suspiciously above her station in manner; service of any sort was scarce and high in Orchardina, and she had been an agelong week without any. “When can you come?” she asked. “I can stop now if you like,” said the stranger. “This is my baggage. But we must arrange terms first. If you like to try me I will come this week from noon to-day to noon next Friday, for seven dollars, and then if you are satisfied with my work we can make further arrangements. I do not do laundry work, of course, and don't undertake to have any care of the baby.” “I take care of my baby myself!” said Mrs. Porne, thinking the new girl was presuming, though her manner was most gently respectful. But a week was not long, she was well recommended, and the immediate pressure in that kitchen where the harvest was so ripe and the laborers so few--“Well--you may try the week,” she said. “I'll show you your room. And what is your name?” “Miss Bell.” CHAPTER V. When the fig growns on the thistle, And the silk purse on the sow; When one swallow brings the summer, And blue moons on her brow!!!!! Then we may look for strength and skill, Experience, good health, good will, Art and science well combined, Honest soul and able mind, Servants built upon this plan, One to wait on every man, Patiently from youth to age,-- For less than a street cleaner's wage! When the parson's gay on Mondays, When we meet a month of Sundays, We may look for them and find them-- But Not Now! When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed floors. Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and comfort as roused instant notice. “Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must be the new maid!” “That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!” The visitor looked puzzled. “Is she a--a friend?” she ventured, not sure of her ground. “I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window, Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes.” She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “She arrived at about quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!” “What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!” Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. “There was enough for ten women it seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. We have nine rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't touched that yet. But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!” She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and orderly. “She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general cleaning today and be more thorough later!” Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “I'm very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all is--don't you think so?” “Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least,” Mrs. Porne answered. “But I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all.” “Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and fussing. Their houses on their backs--like snails!” “Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.” “Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it awhile, that's all!” “Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!” answered Isabel promptly. “Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this business”--she swept a white hand wearily about--“it's not my work, that's all.” “But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?” asked her friend. “Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home, just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You're lucky, you have other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any farther?” Mrs. Porne flushed. “I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.” “That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?” “She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name.” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “Well--why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose.” “Exactly.” That's what she said. “If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a most superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that.” “I like her looks,” admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, “but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest.” And they went up to the big room on the third floor. In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women. She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. “And you say you're not domestic!” “I'm a domestic architect, if you like,” said Isabel; “but not a domestic servant.--I'll remember what you say about those windows--it's a good idea,” and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's suggestion. That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand. “Did you love him so much?” she asked softly. “Who?” was the surprising answer. “Why--Mr. Weatherstone,” said Mrs. Porne. “No--not very much. But he was something.” Isabel was puzzled. “I knew you so well in school,” she said, “and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing--but not like this. What's happened Viva?” “Nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! Then--when a real thing happens--there's all this!” and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. “And mourning notepaper and cards and servant's livery--and all the things you mustn't do!” Isabel put an arm around her. “Don't mind, dear--you'll get over this--you are young enough yet--the world is full of things to do!” But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “I loved another man, first,” she said. “A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else--nothing in life. That's why I married Martin Weatherstone--not for his old millions--but he really cared--and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing this--and still mourning for the other one.” Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek. “Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor. “Maybe if you took hold of the house--if you ran things yourself,”--ventured Mrs. Porne. Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “And turn out the old lady? You don't know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her--and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy--he's the only person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him--that was his father's constant grief. No, no--let her run the house--she thinks she owns it.” “She's fond of you, isn't she?” asked Mrs. Porne. “O I guess so--if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are--she said she'd stop for me.” At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man. ***** Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others. To leave home--to leave school-teaching, to leave love--and “go out to service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was. Three letters came back quickly. Her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding. Her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected. “The _idea!_” wrote Mrs. Susie. “A girl with a good home to live in and another to look forward to--and able to earn money _respectably!_ to go out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he can't face his friends--and I'm as ashamed as I can be! My own sister! You must be _crazy_--simply _crazy!_” It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found tears in her eyes over her mother's letter. Her sister's made her both sorry and angry--a most disagreeable feeling--as when you step on the cat on the stairs. Ross's letter she held some time without opening. She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept, scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The “hoo! hoo!” of the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it. “Dearest: I have your letter with its--somewhat surprising--news. It is a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger. “I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand. “I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear. “In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to me unutterably foolish and wrong. “I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to “develope” and “elevate” this housework business; and to make money. I should not love you any better if you made a million--and I would not take money from you--you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can marry, you are happier away from me--working in strange kitchens--or offices--that is your affair. “I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the shadow of the acacia boughs--in my arms! “Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear. “Yours, Ross.” “Any time she felt like coming back? Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the letter--her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and her shoulders shook from time to time. But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a Tibetan prayer mill: “It is right. It is right. It is right.” And then. “Help me--please! I need it.” Diantha was not “gifted in prayer.” When Mr. Porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. “O Edgar!” cried she in a triumphant whisper, “I've got such a nice girl! She's just as neat and quick; you've no idea the work she's done today--it looks like another place already. But if things look queer at dinner don't notice it--for I've just given her her head. I was so tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could manage all by herself if I was willing to risk it, so I took baby for a car-ride and have only just got back. And I _think_ the dinner's going to be lovely!” It was lovely. The dining-room was cool and flyless. The table was set with an assured touch. A few of Orchardina's ever ready roses in a glass bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs. Porne had had no time for. The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want them. Mrs. Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks. But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a multitude of sins. On this they rested, while the week went by. It was a full week, and a short one. Mrs. Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls. When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with information to give her husband. “Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she's nice too, and it's all reasonable enough, what she says. You know she's studied this thing all out, and she knows about it--statistics and things. I was astonished till I found she used to teach school. Just think of it! And to be willing to work out! She certainly does her work beautiful, but--it doesn't seem like having a servant at all. I feel as if I--boarded with her!” “Why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming,” put in Mr. Porne. “O yes, she never presumes. But I mean the capable way she manages--I don't have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. I spoke of it and she said, 'If I didn't understand the business I should have no right to undertake it.” “That's a new point of view, isn't it?” asked her husband. “Don't they usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?” “Yes, of course they do. But then she does have her disadvantages--as you said.” “Does she? What are they?” “Why she's so--rigid. I'll read you her--I don't know what to call it. She's written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and I want you to study it, it's the queerest thing I ever saw.” The document was somewhat novel. A clear statement of the hours of labor required in the position, the quality and amount of the different kinds of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and all prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which made Mr. Porne open his eyes. Thus Miss Bell; “The ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled labor of the ordinary sort, is $2.00 a day. This is in return for the simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer.” “Household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts, and, to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience. Its performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily entrusted with the care of the employer's goods and with knowledge of the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital importance. “In consideration of existing economic conditions, however, I am willing to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $1.50 a day.” “Good gracious, my dear!” said Mr. Porne, laying down the paper, “This young woman does appreciate her business! And we're to be let off easy at $45.00 a month, are we.” “And feel under obligations at that!” answered his wife. “But you read ahead. It is most instructive. We shall have to ask her to read a paper for the Club!” “'In further consideration of the conditions of the time, I am willing to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. Such accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at $17.00 a month.'” “O come now, don't we board her any better than that?” “That's what I thought, and I asked her about it, and she explained that she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week--she had actually made inquiries in this very town! And she could; really a better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. You know I've always meant to get the girl's room fixed more prettily, but usually they don't seem to mind. And as to food--you see she knows all about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. She even made some figures for me to prove it--see.” Mr. Porne had to laugh. “Breakfast. Coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent. Oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. Bread at five cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. Butter at forty cents per pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. Oranges at thirty cents per dozen, one, three cents. Milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one cent. Meat or fish or egg, average five cents. Total--thirteen cents.” “There! And she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. I had no idea food, just the material, cost so little. It's the labor, she says that makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant.” “I see,” said Mr. Porne. “And in the case of the domestic servant we furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. She cooks her own food and waits on herself--naturally it wouldn't come high. What does she make it?” 'Food, average per day.............$0.35 Room, $1.50 per w'k, ave. per day.....22 ----- .57 Total, per month... $17.10 $1.50 per day, per month... $45.00 “'Remaining payable in cash, $28.00.' Do I still live! But my dear Ellie, that's only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here, without all this fuss!” “I know it, Ned, but you know we think it's awful, and we're always telling about their getting their board and lodging clear--as if we gave'em that out of the goodness of our hearts!” “Exactly, my dear. And this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money--mere primitive barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services! How does she do her work--that's the main question.” “I never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. That is, I thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. Just read about her work, and you'll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary.” Mr. Porne read: “Labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: Preparation of food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal--breakfast two hours, dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour--six hours per day for food service. Daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours per day. Weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs, closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. Door service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. Total ten hours per day.” “That sounds well. Does it take that much time every day?” “Yes, indeed! It would take me twenty!” she answered. “You know the week I was here alone I never did half she does. Of course I had Baby, but then I didn't do the things. I guess when it doesn't take so long they just don't do what ought to be done. For she is quick, awfully quick about her work. And she's thorough. I suppose it ought to be done that way--but I never had one before.” “She keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean labors.” “Yes, but then she rests! Her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m., when she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like a--well it's as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it.” “Ten hours--that's fourteen.” “I know it, but she takes out four. She claims time to eat her meals.” “Preposterous!” “Half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest--and two in the afternoon. Anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding in the electric cars!” “That don't look like a very hard job. Her day laborer doesn't get two hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!” “No, I know that, but he doesn't begin so early, nor stop so late. She does her square ten hours work, and I suppose one has a right to time off.” “You seem dubious about that, my dear.” “Yes, that's just where it's awkward. I'm used to girls being in all the time, excepting their day out. You see I can't leave baby, nor always take him--and it interferes with my freedom afternoons.” “Well--can't you arrange with her somehow?” “See if you can. She says she will only give ten hours of time for a dollar and a half a day--tisn't but fifteen cents an hour--I have to pay a woman twenty that comes in. And if she is to give up her chance of sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra--by the hour. Or she says, if I prefer, she would take four hours every other day--and so be at home half the time. I said it was difficult to arrange--with baby, and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won't alter her plans.” “Let her go, and get a less exacting servant.” “But--she does her work so well! And it saves a lot, really. She knows all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things lap, and it's a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and sure everything will be done right.” “Well, it's your province, my dear. I don't profess to advise. But I assure you I appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!” She slipped her hand into his affectionately. “It does make a difference,” she said. “I _could_ get a girl for $20.00 and save nearly $2.60 a week--but you know what they are!” “I do indeed,” he admitted fervently. “It's worth the money to have this thing done so well. I think she's right about the wages. Better keep her.” “O--she'll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!” “Well--keep her six months and be thankful. I thought she was too good to last!” They looked over the offered contract again. It closed with: “This agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually satisfactory. In case of disagreement two weeks' notice is to be given on either side, or two weeks' wages if preferred by the employer.” It was dated, and signed “Miss D. C. Bell.” And with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added “Mrs. Isabel J. Porne,” and the contract was made. CHAPTER VI. THE CYNOSURE. It's a singular thing that the commonest place Is the hardest to properly fill; That the labor imposed on a full half the race Is so seldom performed with good will-- To say nothing of knowledge or skill! What we ask of all women, we stare at in one, And tribute of wonderment bring; If this task of the million is once fitly done We all hold our hands up and sing! It's really a singular thing! Isabel Porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new acquisition until its value was proven. Her husband also bided his time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could cook. To himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love--so cheerful and gay grew Mrs. Porne in the changed atmosphere of her home. “It is remarkable, Edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar quality of their good fortune. “It's not only good cooking, and good waiting, and a clean house--cleaner than I ever saw one before; and it's not only the quietness, and regularity and economy--why the bills have gone down more than a third!” “Yes--even I noticed that,” he agreed. “But what I enjoy the most is the _atmosphere,_” she continued. “When I have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” She leaned forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, and regarded him intently. “Edgar! You know I love you. And I love my baby--I'm no unfeeling monster! But I can tell you frankly that if I'd had any idea of what housework was like I'd never have given up architecture to try it.” “Lucky for me you hadn't!” said he fondly. “I know it's been hard for you, little girl. I never meant that you should give up architecture--that's a business a woman could carry on at home I thought, the designing part anyway. There's your 'drawing-room' and all your things--” “Yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are--and there they might have stayed, untouched--if Miss Bell hadn't come!” “Makes you call her “Miss Bell” all the time, does she?” Mrs. Porne laughed. “Yes. I hated it at first, but she asked if I could give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first name more than the seamstress or governess. I tried to say that it was shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer!--Her name is Diantha--I've seen it on letters. And it is one syllable longer. Anyhow I've got used to Miss Bell now.” “She gets letters often?” “Yes--very often--from Topolaya where she came from. I'm afraid she's engaged.” Mrs. Porne sighed ruefully. “I don't doubt it!” said Mr. Porne. “That would account for her six months' arrangement! Well, my dear--make hay while the sun shines!” “I do!” she boasted. “Whole stacks! I've had a seamstress in, and got all my clothes in order and the baby's. We've had lot of dinner-parties and teas as you know--all my “social obligations” are cleared off! We've had your mother for a visit, and mine's coming now--and I wasn't afraid to have either of them! There's no fault to be found with my housekeeping now! And there are two things better than that--yes, three.” “The best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy again,” said her husband, with a kiss. “Yes--that's one. Another is that now I feel so easy and lighthearted I can love you and baby--as--as I _do!_ Only when I'm tired and discouraged I can't put my hand on it somehow.” He nodded sympathetically. “I know, dear,” he said. “I feel that way myself--sometimes. What's the other?” “Why that's best of all!” she cried triumphantly. “I can Work again! When Baby's asleep I get hours at a time; and even when he's awake I've fixed a place where he can play--and I can draw and plan--just as I used to--_better_ than I used to!” “And that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet inquiring voice. “It's more because it means _both!_” She leaned to him, glowing, “Don't you see? First I had the work and loved it. Then you came--and I loved you--better! Then Baby came and I loved him--best? I don't know--you and baby are all one somehow.” There was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly. “Now stop--I want to explain. When the housework got to be such a nightmare--and I looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and _no_ improvement; then I just _ached_ for my work--and couldn't do it! And then--why sometimes dear, I just wanted to run away! Actually! From _both_ of you!--you see, I spent five years studying--I was a _real_ architect--and it did hurt to see it go. And now--O now I've got It and You too, darling! _And_ the Baby!--O I'm so happy!” “Thanks to the Providential Miss Bell,” said he. “If she'll stay I'll pay her anything!” The months went by. Peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the Porne household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time. Miss Bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter; rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the town; and visited continuously among the servants of the neighborhood, establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. If she wore rubber gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself--with the result that they stayed pretty for surprising periods. She wrote letters long and loving, to Ross daily; to her mother twice a week; and by the help of her sister's authority succeeded in maintaining a fairly competent servant in her deserted place. “Father was bound he wouldn't,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right up to him, I can now I'm married!--and Gerald too--that he'd no right to take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about your paying for the girl--but that was only showing off--_he_ couldn't pay for her just now--that's certain. And she does very well--a good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded furiously about her sister's “working out.” Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all sides of the question before deciding. “Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It's not just the work--she misses you. By the way--so do I.” He expressed his views on her new employment. Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim courage. “It's hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard on me--some. But we'll all be better off because of it, and not only us--but everybody!” Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in comment and grew green with envy. In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new friends among the servants. “Does she keep on just the same?” asked little Mrs. Ree of Mrs. Porne in an awed whisper. “Just the same if not better. I don't even order the meals now, unless I want something especial. She keeps a calendar of what we've had to eat, and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. When I used to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a variety!), she'd always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had had so and so two days before, till I asked her if she'd like to order, and she said she'd be willing to try, and now I just sit down to the table without knowing what's going to be there.” “But I should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,” said Mrs. Ellen A Dankshire, “A woman should be mistress of her own household.” “Why I am! I order whenever I specially want anything. But she really does it more--more scientifically. She has made a study of it. And the bills are very much lower.” “Well, I think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed Mrs. Ree. “I wish I had her!” Many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew Mrs. Porne was out, or descending into their own kitchens of an evening when the strange Miss Bell was visiting “the help,” made flattering propositions to her to come to them. She was perfectly polite and agreeable in manner, but refused all blandishments. “What are you getting at your present place--if I may ask?” loftily inquired the great Mrs. Thaddler, ponderous and beaded. “There is surely no objection to your asking, madam,” she replied politely. “Mrs. Porne will not mind telling you, I am sure.” “Hm!” said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her lorgnette. “Very good. Whatever it is I'll double it. When can you come?” “My engagement with Mrs. Porne is for six months,” Diantha answered, “and I do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up. Thank you for your offer just the same.” “Peculiarly offensive young person!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her husband. “Looks to me like one of these literary imposters. Mrs. Porne will probably appear in the magazines before long.” Mr. Thaddler instantly conceived a liking for the young person, “sight unseen.” Diantha acquired quite a list of offers; places open to her as soon as she was free; at prices from her present seven dollars up to the proposed doubling. “Fourteen dollars a week and found!--that's not so bad,” she meditated. “That would mean over $650 clear in a year! It's a wonder to me girls don't try it long enough to get a start at something else. With even two or three hundred ahead--and an outfit--it would be easier to make good in a store or any other way. Well--I have other fish to fry!” So she pursued her way; and, with Mrs. Porne's permission--held a sort of girl's club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the last three months of her engagement. It was a “Study and Amusement Club.” She gave them short and interesting lessons in arithmetic, in simple dressmaking, in easy and thorough methods of housework. She gave them lists of books, referred them to articles in magazines, insidiously taught them to use the Public Library. They played pleasant games in the second hour, and grew well acquainted. To the eye or ear of any casual visitor it was the simplest and most natural affair, calculated to “elevate labor” and to make home happy. Diantha studied and observed. They brought her their poor confidences, painfully similar. Always poverty--or they would not be there. Always ignorance, or they would not stay there. Then either incompetence in the work, or inability to hold their little earnings--or both; and further the Tale of the Other Side--the exactions and restrictions of the untrained mistresses they served; cases of withheld wages; cases of endless requirements; cases of most arbitrary interference with their receiving friends and “followers,” or going out; and cases, common enough to be horrible, of insult they could only escape by leaving. “It's no wages, of course--and no recommendation, when you leave like that--but what else can a girl do, if she's honest?” So Diantha learned, made friends and laid broad foundations. The excellence of her cocking was known to many, thanks to the weekly “entertainments.” No one refused. No one regretted acceptance. Never had Mrs. Porne enjoyed such a sense of social importance. All the people she ever knew called on her afresh, and people she never knew called on her even more freshly. Not that she was directly responsible for it. She had not triumphed cruelly over her less happy friends; nor had she cried aloud on the street corners concerning her good fortune. It was not her fault, nor, in truth anyone's. But in a community where the “servant question” is even more vexed than in the country at large, where the local product is quite unequal to the demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the fact of one woman's having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question, was enough to give her prominence. Mrs. Ellen A. Dankshire, President of the Orchardina Home and Culture Club, took up the matter seriously. “Now Mrs. Porne,” said she, settling herself vigorously into a comfortable chair, “I just want to talk the matter over with you, with a view to the club. We do not know how long this will last--” “Don't speak of it!” said Mrs. Porne. “--and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them.” “So much is involved!” said little Mrs. Ree, the Corresponding Secretary, lifting her pale earnest face with the perplexed fine lines in it. “We are all so truly convinced of the sacredness of the home duties!” “Well, what do you want me to do?” asked their hostess. “We must have that remarkable young woman address our club!” Mrs. Dankshire announced. “It is one case in a thousand, and must be studied!” “So noble of her!” said Mrs. Ree. “You say she was really a school-teacher? Mrs. Thaddler has put it about that she is one of these dreadful writing persons--in disguise!” “O no,” said Mrs. Porne. “She is perfectly straightforward about it, and had the best of recommendations. She was a teacher, but it didn't agree with her health, I believe.” “Perhaps there is a story to it!” Mrs. Ree advanced; but Mrs. Dankshire disagreed with her flatly. “The young woman has a theory, I believe, and she is working it out. I respect her for it. Now what we want to ask you, Mrs. Porne, is this: do you think it would make any trouble for you--in the household relations, you know--if we ask her to read a paper to the Club? Of course we do not wish to interfere, but it is a remarkable opportunity--very. You know the fine work Miss Lucy Salmon has done on this subject; and Miss Frances Kellor. You know how little data we have, and how great, how serious, a question it is daily becoming! Now here is a young woman of brains and culture who has apparently grappled with the question; her example and influence must not be lost! We must hear from her. The public must know of this.” “Such an ennobling example!” murmured Mrs. Ree. “It might lead numbers of other school-teachers to see the higher side of the home duties!” “Furthermore,” pursued Mrs. Dankshire, “this has occured to me. Would it not be well to have our ladies bring with them to the meeting the more intelligent of their servants; that they might hear and see the--the dignity of household labor--so ably set forth? “Isn't it--wouldn't that be a--an almost dangerous experiment?” urged Mrs. Ree; her high narrow forehead fairly creped with little wrinkles: “She might--say something, you know, that they might--take advantage of!” “Nonsense, my dear!” replied Mrs. Dankshire. She was very fond of Mrs. Ree, but had small respect for her judgment. “What could she say? Look at what she does! And how beautifully--how perfectly--she does it! I would wager now--_may_ I try an experiment Mrs. Porne?” and she stood up, taking out her handkerchief. “Certainly,” said Mrs. Porne, “with pleasure! You won't find any!” Mrs. Dankshire climbed heavily upon a carefully selected chair and passed her large clean plain-hemmed handkerchief across the top of a picture. “I knew it!” she proclaimed proudly from her eminence, and showed the cloth still white. “That,” she continued in ponderous descent, “that is Knowledge, Ability and Conscience!” “I don't see how she gets the time!” breathed Mrs. Ree, shaking her head in awed amazement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust Mrs. Dankshire's handkerchief on her picture tops. “We must have her address the Club,” the president repeated. “It will do worlds of good. Let me see--a paper on--we might say 'On the True Nature of Domestic Industry.' How does that strike you, Mrs. Ree?” “Admirable!” said Mrs. Ree. “So strong! so succinct.” “That certainly covers the subject,” said Mrs. Porne. “Why don't you ask her?” “We will. We have come for that purpose. But we felt it right to ask you about it first,” said Mrs. Dankshire. “Why I have no control over Miss Bell's movements, outside of working hours,” answered Mrs. Porne. “And I don't see that it would make any difference to our relations. She is a very self-poised young woman, but extremely easy to get along with. And I'm sure she could write a splendid paper. You'd better ask her, I think.” “Would you call her in?” asked Mrs. Dankshire, “or shall we go out to the kitchen?” “Come right out; I'd like you to see how beautifully she keeps everything.” The kitchen was as clean as the parlor; and as prettily arranged. Miss Bell was making her preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the visitors with a serenely civil air--as of a country store-keeper. “I am very glad to meet you, Miss Bell, very glad indeed,” said Mrs. Dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. “We have at heard so much of your beautiful work here, and we admire your attitude! Now would you be willing to give a paper--or a talk--to our club, the Home and Culture Club, some Wednesday, on The True Nature of Domestic Industry?” Mrs. Ree took Miss Bell's hand with something of the air of a Boston maiden accosting a saint from Hindoostan. “If you only would!” she said. “I am sure it would shed light on this great subject!” Miss Bell smiled at them both and looked at Mrs. Porne inquiringly. “I should be delighted to have you do it,” said her employer. “I know it would be very useful.” “Is there any date set?” asked Miss Bell. “Any Wednesday after February,” said Mrs. Dankshire. “Well--I will come on the first Wednesday in April. If anything should happen to prevent I will let you know in good season, and if you should wish to postpone or alter the program--should think better of the idea--just send me word. I shall not mind in the least.” They went away quite jubilant, Miss Bell's acceptance was announced officially at the next club-meeting, and the Home and Culture Club felt that it was fulfilling its mission. CHAPTER VII. HERESY AND SCHISM. You may talk about religion with a free and open mind, For ten dollars you may criticize a judge; You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, And open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind, But there's one place where the brain must never budge! CHORUS. Oh, the Home is Utterly Perfect! And all its works within! To say a word about it-- To criticize or doubt it-- To seek to mend or move it-- To venture to improve it-- Is The Unpardonable Sin! --“Old Song.” Mr. Porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their former housemaid lecture. As many other men as were able did the same. All the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests they had invited. So many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly among themselves. The platform recalled a “tournament of roses,” and, sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat Mrs. Dankshire in “the chair” flanked by Miss Torbus, the Recording Secretary, Miss Massing, the Treasurer, and Mrs. Ree, tremulous with importance in her official position. All these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss Torbus, who came as near it as she could. At the side, and somewhat in the rear of the President, on a chair quite different from “the chair,” discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly serene demeanor, sat Miss Bell. All eyes were upon her--even some opera glasses. “She's a good-looker anyhow,” was one masculine opinion. “She's a peach,” was another, “Tell you--the chap that gets her is well heeled!” said a third. The ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with giggles. On the small table before Mrs. Dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel; an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which she still approaches with respectful uncertainty. In spite of its large size and high social standing, the Orchardina Home and Culture Club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly election of officers came round there was always need for careful work in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of “the right people.” Mrs. Thaddler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madam Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston A. Marrow (“one of the Boston Marrows!” was awesomely whispered of her), were the heads of what might be called “the conservative party” in this small parliament; while Miss Miranda L. Eagerson, describing herself as 'a journalist,' who held her place in local society largely by virtue of the tacit dread of what she might do if offended--led the more radical element. Most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly established ladies of Orchard Avenue; especially as this leadership consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. When wealth and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as “conservatism” they exert a powerful influence in the great art of sitting still. Nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large membership, and when Miss Eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all Mrs. Dankshire's generalship to keep them content with marking time. On this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest and approval. Here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and every man but such few as merely “boarded”; even they had memories and hopes concerning this question. Solemnly rose Mrs. Dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and guttural murmurs. In the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements: “The meeting will please come to order,” “We will now hear the reading of the minutes of the last meeting,” and so on most conscientiously through officer's reports and committees reports to “new business.” Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentry usage. But these stately ceremonies were ended in course of time, and Mrs. Dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and came forward majestically. “Members---and guests,” she said impressively, “this is an occasion which brings pride to the heart of every member of the Home and Culture Club. As our name implies, this Club is formed to serve the interests of The Home--those interests which stand first, I trust, in every human heart.” A telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands. “Its second purpose,” pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to “first write and then commit,” “is to promote the cause of Culture in this community. Our aim is Culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study and research which tempts us on from height to height”--(“proof of arboreal ancestry that,” Miss Eagerson confided to a friend, whose choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)--“but in the more intimate fields of daily experience.” “Most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are still--and find in this our highest honor--wives and mothers.” These novel titles called forth another round of applause. “As such,” continued Mrs. Dankshire, “we all recognize the difficult--the well-nigh insuperable problems of the”--she glanced at the gallery now paying awed attention--“domestic question.” “We know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended”--(“I yawn while I'm attending--eh?” one gentleman in the rear suggested to his neighbor)--“while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are overcrowded. Why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often what is far more precious!--in the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter.” Madam Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thaddler also nodded; which meant a good deal from her. The applause was most gratifying to the speaker, who continued: “Fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the true values of life.” A faint blush crept slowly up the face of Diantha, but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a roomful of merciless children can easily face a woman's club. “We have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth and breeding,”--Madam Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the Boston Marrow; possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, “and whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great question--The True Nature of Domestic Service. In the interests of this problem she has consented to address us--I take pleasure in introducing Miss Diantha Bell.” Diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the President and officers, and to the audience. She stood quietly for a moment, regarding the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. It was clear, short, and to some minds convincing. She set forth that the term “domestic industry” did not define certain kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the manufactures--as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. That in service itself we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily above the level of the “general.” A growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the male head and the group of servile women. “The keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand celibacy of our domestic servants,” said Diantha. A murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly: “Since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls, apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the household cannot be fully mastered by such hands.” The audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed. She showed (Mrs. Porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part of this payment being primitive barter. Then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased, the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of much of the difficulty of the situation. “We speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,”--here Diantha grew solemn;--“So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and as to shelter and safety--the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the unfortunate.” A shocked silence met this statement. “In England shop-workers complain of the old custom of 'sleeping in'--their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment; this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. With us, only the domestic servant is held to this antiquated position.” Regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued: “Let us now consider the economic side of the question. 'Domestic economy' is a favorite phrase. As a matter of fact our method of domestic service is inordinately wasteful. Even where the wife does all the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent, requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. If the man hires one or more servants, the wastes increase. If one hundred men undertake some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having another man to serve him--fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks. Two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to waste 47 per cent. of the labor. “But our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings, twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages; in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our cooks--$200 a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about a hundred persons! “Three expert cooks, one at $20 a week and two at $15 would save to those twenty families $150 a week and give them better food. The cost of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing. What twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers, could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in wholesale quantities. Moreover, our whole food supply would rise in quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts. “To what does all this lead?” asked Diantha pleasantly. Nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to say that it led straight to perdition. “The solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure called 'co-operative housekeeping'.” At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. Hope was relit in darkened countenances. “The inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by combining them,” said Diantha. This was of dubious import. “Why should we expect a group of families to “keep house” expertly and economically together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none of them can do it alone.” Again an uncertain reception. “Every family is a distinct unit,” the girl continued. “Its needs are separate and should be met separately. The separate house and garden should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the premises than a blacksmith's shop or soap-factory. The necessary work of the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. This will give to the employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the servant question. That is the way to elevate--to enoble domestic service. It must cease to be domestic service--and become world service.” Suddenly and quietly she sat down. Miss Eagerson was on her feet. So were others. “Madam President! Madam President!” resounded from several points at once. Madam Weatherstone--Mrs. Thaddler--no! yes--they really were both on their feet. Applause was going on--irregularly--soon dropped. Only, from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent. Mrs. Dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with Mrs. Ree, and Miss Massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came forward. “Order, please! You will please keep order. You have heard the--we will now--the meeting is now open for discussion, Mrs. Thaddler!” And she sat down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, by Mrs. Thaddler was more aggressive. “I wish to say,” said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, “that I was against this--unfortunate experiment--from the first. And I trust it will never be repeated!” She sat down. Two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of Diantha's mouth. “Madam Weatherstone?” said the President, placatingly. Madam Weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. An agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each. “Order!” said Mrs. Dankshire, “ORDER, please!” and rapped three times with the gavel. “I have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states,” said Madam Weatherstone, “and have heard much that was foolish, and some things that were dangerous. But I will say that never in the course of all my experience have I heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as this. I trust that the--doubtless well meant--attempt to throw light on this subject--from the wrong quarter--has been a lesson to us all. No club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!” And she sat down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring Caesar. “Madam President!” broke forth Miss Eagerson. “I was up first--and have been standing ever since--” “One moment, Miss Eagerson,” said Mrs. Dankshire superbly, “The Rev. Dr. Eltwood.” If Mrs. Dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of condemnation she made a painful mistake. The cloth and the fine bearing of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to be “advanced” and was new to the place. “Will you come to the platform, Dr. Eltwood?” Dr. Eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right. “Ladies,” he began in tones of cordial good will, “both employer and employed!--and gentlemen--whom I am delighted to see here to-day! I am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me”--he bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshire--“by your honored President. “And I am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words I have ever heard on this subject. I trust there will be enough open-minded women--and men--in Orchardina to make possible among us that higher business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid before us. This club is deserving of all thanks from the community for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen--Miss Bell.” He bowed again--to Miss Bell--and to Mrs. Dankshire, and resumed his seat, Miss Eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the platform herself. “Mr. Eltwood is right!” she said. “Miss Bell is right! This is the true presentation of the subject, 'by one who knows.' Miss Bell has pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don't know where we're standing--but she knows! Housework is a business--like any other business--I've always said so, and it's got to be done in a business way. Now I for one--” but Miss Eagerson was rapped down by the Presidential gavel; as Mrs. Thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked forward. “It is not my habit to make public speeches,” she began, “nor my desire; but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken. This Club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard to-day. I move you, Madam President, that a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then dismissed!” She stalked back again, while Mrs. Marrow of Boston, in clear, cold tones seconded the motion. But another voice was heard--for the first time in that assembly--Mrs. Weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of Madam Weatherstone, was on her feet with “Madam President! I wish to speak to this motion.” “Won't you come to the platform, Mrs. Weatherstone?” asked Mrs. Dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but holding her head high. All sat silent, all expected--what was not forthcoming. “I wish to protest, as a member of the Club, and as a woman, against the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the day. In answer to our invitation Miss Bell has given us a scholarly and interesting paper, and I move that we extend her a vote of thanks.” “I second the motion,” came from all quarters. “There is another motion before the house,” from others. Cries of “Madam President” arose everywhere, many speakers were on their feet. Mrs. Dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but Miss Eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor. “I move that we take a vote on this question,” she cried in piercing tones. “Let every woman who knows enough to appreciate Miss Bell's paper--and has any sense of decency--stand up!” Quite a large proportion of the audience stood up--very informally. Those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of Miss Eagerson, Miss Bell and their views. “I move you, Madam President,” cried Mrs. Thaddler, at the top of her voice, “that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary conduct be hereby dropped from this Club!” “We hereby resign!” cried Miss Eagerson. “_We_ drop _you!_ We'll have a New Woman's Club in Orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some brains in its head--even if it hasn't as much money in its pocket!” Amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of “Order--order,” and frantic “Motions to adjourn” the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction. Great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt, though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not present, when they heard of it. Some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life altogether. Others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of Home and Culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the immediate formation of the New Woman's Club of Orchardina. CHAPTER VIII. Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box before them, Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home silently, a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened the door for them, and when Madam Weatherstone said, “We will have tea on the terrace,” it was brought them by a fourth. “I was astonished at your attitude, Viva,” began the old lady, at length. “Of course it was Mrs. Dankshire's fault in the first place, but to encourage that,--outrageous person! How could you do it!” Young Mrs. Weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down. “A sudden access of courage, I suppose,” she said. “I was astonished at myself.” “I wholly disagree with you!” replied her mother-in-law. “Never in my life have I heard such nonsense. Talk like that would be dangerous, if it were not absurd! It would destroy the home! It would strike at the roots of the family.” Viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition, the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted worship of household gods. “It doesn't seem so to me,” she said slowly, “I was much interested and impressed. She is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience, and put her case well. It has quite waked me up.” “It has quite upset you!” was the reply. “You'll be ill after this, I am sure. Hadn't you better go and lie down now? I'll have some dinner sent to you.” “Thank you,” said Viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad terrace. “You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I haven't felt so thoroughly awake in--” she drew a pink cluster of oleander against her cheek and thought a moment--“in several years.” There was a new look about her certainly. “Nervous excitement,” her mother-in-law replied. “You're not like yourself at all to-night. You'll certainly be ill to-morrow!” Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely kissing her. “Not at all!” she said gaily. “I'm going to be well to-morrow. You will see!” She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha's assured poise, her clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords in this woman's nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening, windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her. Orchardina Society, eagerly observing “young Mrs. Weatherstone” from her first appearance, had always classified her as “delicate.” Beside the firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin, though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist. She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. “I'm like that man in 'Phantastes',” she thought contemptuously, “who stayed so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door! Why don't I--?” she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands behind her. “I will!” she said at last. Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of Diantha's words. “Sleeping in, indeed!” she murmured to herself. “And nobody doing anything!” She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a crown. A clear red lit her checks. She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. “Have you been here long?” she asked. “What is your name?” “No, ma'am,” said the child--she was scarce more. “Only a week and two days. My name is Ilda.” “Who engaged you?” “Mrs. Halsey, ma'am.” “Ah,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, “and I engaged Mrs. Halsey!” “Do you like it here?” she continued kindly. “Oh yes, ma'am!” said Ilda. “That is--” she stopped, blushed, and continued bravely. “I like to work for you, ma'am.” “Thank you, Ilda. Will you ask Mrs. Halsey to come to me--at once, please.” Ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new place, and mistress. As she was about to pass the door of Mr. Matthew Weatherstone, that young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. “Whither away so fast, my dear?” he amiably inquired. “Please let one pass, sir! I'm on an errand. Please, sir?” “You must give me a kiss first!” said he--and since there seemed no escape and she was in haste, she submitted. He took six--and she ran away half crying. Mrs. Halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress, and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse. “I'm not dressed,” she said to the maid. “Well she is!” replied Ilda, “dressed splendid. She said 'at once, please.'” “A pretty time o' day!” said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before Mrs. Weatherstone. That lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter between the pages of a new magazine. “In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?” she inquired. “Pack, ma'am? I'm not accustomed to doing packing. I'll send one of the maids. Is it your things, ma'am?” “No,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “It is yours I refer to. I wish you to pack your things and leave the house--in an hour. One of the maids can help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you. Here is a check for the following month's wages.” Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye. This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution. “You've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!” she burst forth. “I'll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!” “If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified. Here are the wages--as to the warning, that has been given for some months past!” “By whom, Ma'am?” “By yourself, Mrs. Halsey--I think you understand me. Oscar will take your things as soon as they are ready.” Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment--saw more than she cared to face--and left the room. She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr. Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical. When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and then from the new excitement, until dinner time. This meal, in the mind of Madam Weatherstone, was the crowning factor of daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. In her cosmogony the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. To serve an endless series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes, the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home. Therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear before the purple footman who attended. “I understood you were out, Viva,” she said politely. “I was,” replied Viva, with equal decorum. “It is charming outside at this time in the evening--don't you think so?” Young Matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing room, he broke out, “What's this I hear about Mrs. Halsey being fired without notice?” “That is what I wish to know, Viva,” said the grandmother. “The poor woman is greatly distressed. Is there not some mistake?” “It's a damn shame,” said Matthew. The younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how little she minded it. “The door was there all the time!” she thought to herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, “Hardly drawing-room language, Matthew. Your grandmother is present!” He stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, “No, there is no mistake at all. I discharged Mrs. Halsey about an hour before dinner. The terms of the engagement were a month's warning or a month's wages. I gave her the wages.” “But! but!” Madam Weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in the nature of 'interference' and 'presumption.' “I have had no fault to find with her.” “I have, you see,” said her daughter-in-law smiling. “I found her unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently. How about a little music, Matthew? Won't you start the victrolla?” Matthew wouldn't. He was going out; went out with the word. Madam Weatherstone didn't wish to hear it--had a headache--must go to her room--went to her room forthwith. There was a tension in the atmosphere that would have wrung tears from Viva Weatherstone a week ago, yes, twenty-four hours ago. As it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height, and walked the length of the great empty room. She even laughed a little. “It's open!” said she, and ordered the car. While waiting for it she chatted with Mrs. Porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone. ***** Diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind the eucalyptus trees. After the close of the strenuous meeting, she had withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand and engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of the now smaller but far more united Home and Culture Club. She declined to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car. This proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. Two persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted on addressing her. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “I am not acquainted with you.” They eagerly produced their cards--and said they were “newspaper men.” “I see,” said Diantha, “But you are still men? And gentlemen, I suppose? I am a woman, and I do not wish to talk with you.” “Miss Bell Declines to Be Interviewed,” wrote the reporters, and spent themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed thereby. But Miss Bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the house where she had rented a room. Reporters were waiting there, two being women. Diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. The girl's blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the door after her. The reporters described her appearance--unfavorably this time; and they described the house--also unfavorably. They said that “A group of adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of the afternoon made her brusque entrance.” These adorers consisted of the landlady's Johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still younger. They _did_ look at Diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little hurried in her entrance--truth must be maintained. Too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two, lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to Ross and telling him all about it. That is, she told him most of it, all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. She wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and a sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so patiently. “Dearest,” her swift pen flew along, “I really feel much encouraged. An impression has been made. One or two men spoke to me afterward; the young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked prosperous and reliable. 'When you begin any such business as you have outlined, you may count on me, Miss Bell,' he said, and gave me his card. He's a lawyer--P. L. Wiscomb; nice man, I should think. Another big, sheepish-looking man said, 'And me, Miss Bell.' His name is Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence!'--but it don't.” She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone's remarks. “I liked her,” she wrote. “She's a nice woman--even if she is rich.” There was a knock at her door. “Lady to see you, Miss.” “I cannot see anyone,” said Diantha; “you must excuse me.” “Beg pardon, Miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--.” The landlady stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely, “It's young Mrs. Weatherstone!” Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. “I'll be right down,” she said. But a voice broke in from the hall, “I beg your pardon, Miss Bell, but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?” She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. “I was a schoolmate of Ellen Porne,” she told the girl. “We are dear friends still; and so I feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful work for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you.” “Won't you sit down?” said Diantha. “You, too,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Now I want you to come to me--right away. You have done me so much good already. I was just a New England bred school teacher myself at first, so we're even that far. Then you took a step up--and I took a step down.” Diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat overstrung, perhaps. Her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. “I gave up school teaching and married a fortune. You have given it up to do a more needed work. I think you are wonderful. Now, I know this seems queer to you, but I want to tell you about it. I feel sure you'll understand. At home, Madam Weatherstone has had everything in charge for years and years, and I've been too lazy or too weak, or too indifferent, to do anything. I didn't care, somehow. All the machinery of living, and no _living_--no good of it all! Yet there didn't seem to be anything else to do. Now you have waked me all up--your paper this afternoon--what Mr. Eltwood said--the way those poor, dull, blind women took it. And yet I was just as dull and blind myself! Well, I begin to see things now. I can't tell you all at once what a difference it has made; but I have a very definite proposition to make to you. Will you come and be my housekeeper, now--right away--at a hundred dollars a month?” Diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she suspected her nervous balance. “The other one got a thousand a year--you are worth more. Now, don't decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I can see that you have plans ahead, for this business; but it can't hurt you much to put them off six months, say. Meantime, you could be practicing. Our place at Santa Ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants and a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn't be bad practice for you--now, would it?” Diantha's troubled eyes lit up. “No--you are right there,” she said. “If I could do it!” “You'll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your business, won't you?” her visitor went on. “And the summer's not a good time to start a thing like that, is it?” Diantha meditated. “No, I wasn't going to. I was going to start somewhere--take a cottage, a dozen girls or so--and furnish labor by the day to the other cottages.” “Well, you might be able to run that on the side,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “And you could train my girls, get in new ones if you like; it doesn't seem to me it would conflict. But to speak to you quite frankly, Miss Bell, I want you in the house for my own sake. You do me good.” They discussed the matter for some time, Diantha objecting mainly to the suddenness of it all. “I'm a slow thinker,” she said, “and this is so--so attractive that I'm suspicious of it. I had the other thing all planned--the girls practically engaged.” “Where were you thinking of going?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone. “To Santa Ulrica.” “Exactly! Well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them part time. Or--how many have you arranged with?” “Only six have made definite engagements yet.” “What kind?” “Two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones.” “Excellent! Now, I tell you what to do. I will engage all those girls. I'm making a change at the house, for various reasons. You bring them to me as soon as you like; but you I want at once. I wish you'd come home with me to-night! Why don't you?” Diantha's scanty baggage was all in sight. She looked around for an excuse. Mrs. Weatherstone stood up laughing. “Put the new address in the letter,” she said, mischievously, “and come along!” ***** And the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the darkness, rolled them home. CHAPTER IX. “SLEEPING IN.” Men have marched in armies, fleets have borne them, Left their homes new countries to subdue; Young men seeking fortune wide have wandered-- We have something new. Armies of young maidens cross our oceans; Leave their mother's love, their father's care; Maidens, young and helpless, widely wander, Burdens new to bear. Strange the land and language, laws and customs; Ignorant and all alone they come; Maidens young and helpless, serving strangers, Thus we keep the Home. When on earth was safety for young maidens Far from mother's love and father's care? We preserve The Home, and call it sacred-- Burdens new they bear. The sun had gone down on Madam Weatherstone's wrath, and risen to find it unabated. With condensed disapprobation written on every well-cut feature, she came to the coldly gleaming breakfast table. That Mrs. Halsey was undoubtedly gone, she had to admit; yet so far failed to find the exact words of reproof for a woman of independent means discharging her own housekeeper when it pleased her. Young Mathew unexpectedly appeared at breakfast, perhaps in anticipation of a sort of Roman holiday in which his usually late and apologetic stepmother would furnish the amusement. They were both surprised to find her there before them, looking uncommonly fresh in crisp, sheer white, with deep-toned violets in her belt. She ate with every appearance of enjoyment, chatting amiably about the lovely morning--the flowers, the garden and the gardeners; her efforts ill seconded, however. “Shall I attend to the orders this morning?” asked Madam Weatherstone with an air of noble patience. “O no, thank you!” replied Viva. “I have engaged a new housekeeper.” “A new housekeeper! When?” The old lady was shaken by this inconceivable promptness. “Last night,” said her daughter-in-law, looking calmly across the table, her color rising a little. “And when is she coming, if I may ask?” “She has come. I have been with her an hour already this morning.” Young Mathew smiled. This was amusing, though not what he had expected. “How extremely alert and businesslike!” he said lazily. “It's becoming to you--to get up early!” “You can't have got much of a person--at a minute's notice,” said his grandmother. “Or perhaps you have been planning this for some time?” “No,” said Viva. “I have wanted to get rid of Mrs. Halsey for some time, but the new one I found yesterday.” “What's her name?” inquired Mathew. “Bell--Miss Diantha Bell,” she answered, looking as calm as if announcing the day of the week, but inwardly dreading the result somewhat. Like most of such terrors it was overestimated. There was a little pause--rather an intense little pause; and then--“Isn't that the girl who set 'em all by the ears yesterday?” asked the young man, pointing to the morning paper. “They say she's a good-looker.” Madam Weatherstone rose from the table in some agitation. “I must say I am very sorry, Viva, that you should have been so--precipitate! This young woman cannot be competent to manage a house like this--to say nothing of her scandalous ideas. Mrs. Halsey was--to my mind--perfectly satisfactory. I shall miss her very much.” She swept out with an unanswerable air. “So shall I,” muttered Mat, under his breath, as he strolled after her; “unless the new one's equally amiable.” Viva Weatherstone watched them go, and stood awhile looking after the well-built, well-dressed, well-mannered but far from well-behaved young man. “I don't _know_,” she said to herself, “but I do feel--think--imagine--a good deal. I'm sure I hope not! Anyway--it's new life to have that girl in the house.” That girl had undertaken what she described to Ross as “a large order--a very large order.” “It's the hardest thing I ever undertook,” she wrote him, “but I think I can do it; and it will be a tremendous help. Mrs. Weatherstone's a brick--a perfect brick! She seems to have been very unhappy--for ever so long--and to have submitted to her domineering old mother-in-law just because she didn't care enough to resist. Now she's got waked up all of a sudden--she says it was my paper at the club--more likely my awful example, I think! and she fired her old housekeeper--I don't know what for--and rushed me in. “So here I am. The salary is good, the work is excellent training, and I guess I can hold the place. But the old lady is a terror, and the young man--how you would despise that Johnny!” The home letters she now received were rather amusing. Ross, sternly patient, saw little difference in her position. “I hope you will enjoy your new work,” he wrote, “but personally I should prefer that you did not--so you might give it up and come home sooner. I miss you as you can well imagine. Even when you were here life was hard enough--but now!!!!!! “I had a half offer for the store the other day, but it fell through. If I could sell that incubus and put the money into a ranch--fruit, hens, anything--then we could all live on it; more cheaply, I think; and I could find time for some research work I have in mind. You remember that guinea-pig experiment I want so to try?” Diantha remembered and smiled sadly. She was not much interested in guinea-pigs and their potential capacities, but she was interested in her lover and his happiness. “Ranch,” she said thoughtfully; “that's not a bad idea.” Her mother wrote the same patient loving letters, perfunctorily hopeful. Her father wrote none--“A woman's business--this letter-writin',” he always held; and George, after one scornful upbraiding, had “washed his hands of her” with some sense of relief. He didn't like to write letters either. But Susie kept up a lively correspondence. She was attached to her sister, as to all her immediate relatives and surroundings; and while she utterly disapproved of Diantha's undertaking, a sense of sisterly duty, to say nothing of affection, prompted her to many letters. It did not, however, always make these agreeable reading. “Mother's pretty well, and the girl she's got now does nicely--that first one turned out to be a failure. Father's as cranky as ever. We are all well here and the baby (this was a brand new baby Diantha had not seen) is just a Darling! You ought to be here, you unnatural Aunt! Gerald doesn't ever speak of you--but I do just the same. You hear from the Wardens, of course. Mrs. Warden's got neuralgia or something; keeps them all busy. They are much excited over this new place of yours--you ought to hear them go on! It appears that Madam Weatherstone is a connection of theirs--one of the F. F. V's, I guess, and they think she's something wonderful. And to have _you_ working _there!_--well, you can just see how they'd feel; and I don't blame them. It's no use arguing with you--but I should think you'd have enough of this disgraceful foolishness by this time and come home!” Diantha tried to be very philosophic over her home letters; but they were far from stimulating. “It's no use arguing with poor Susie!” she decided. “Susie thinks the sun rises and sets between kitchen, nursery and parlor! “Mother can't see the good of it yet, but she will later--Mother's all right. “I'm awfully sorry the Wardens feel so--and make Ross unhappy--but of course I knew they would. It can't be helped. It's just a question of time and work.” And she went to work. ***** Mrs. Porne called on her friend most promptly, with a natural eagerness and curiosity. “How does it work? Do you like her as much as you thought? Do tell me about it, Viva. You look like another woman already!” “I certainly feel like one,” Viva answered. “I've seen slaves in housework, and I've seen what we fondly call 'Queens' in housework; but I never saw brains in it before.” Mrs. Porne sighed. “Isn't it just wonderful--the way she does things! Dear me! We do miss her! She trained that Swede for us--and she does pretty well--but not like 'Miss Bell'! I wish there were a hundred of her!” “If there were a hundred thousand she wouldn't go round!” answered Mrs. Weatherstone. “How selfish we are! _That_ is the kind of woman we all want in our homes--and fuss because we can't have them.” “Edgar says he quite agrees with her views,” Mrs. Porne went on. “Skilled labor by the day--food sent in--. He says if she cooked it he wouldn't care if it came all the way from Alaska! She certainly can cook! I wish she'd set up her business--the sooner the better.” Mrs. Weatherstone nodded her head firmly. “She will. She's planning. This was really an interruption--her coming here, but I think it will be a help--she's not had experience in large management before, but she takes hold splendidly. She's found a dozen 'leaks' in our household already.” “Mrs. Thaddler's simply furious, I hear,” said the visitor. “Mrs. Ree was in this morning and told me all about it. Poor Mrs. Ree! The home is church and state to her; that paper of Miss Bell's she regards as simple blasphemy.” They both laughed as that stormy meeting rose before them. “I was so proud of you, Viva, standing up for her as you did. How did you ever dare?” “Why I got my courage from the girl herself. She was--superb! Talk of blasphemy! Why I've committed _lese majeste_ and regicide and the Unpardonable Sin since that meeting!” And she told her friend of her brief passage at arms with Mrs. Halsey. “I never liked the woman,” she continued; “and some of the things Miss Bell said set me thinking. I don't believe we half know what's going on in our houses.” “Well, Mrs. Thaddler's so outraged by 'this scandalous attack upon the sanctities of the home' that she's going about saying all sorts of things about Miss Bell. O look--I do believe that's her car!” Even as they spoke a toneless voice announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler,” and Madam Weatherstone presently appeared to greet these visitors. “I think you are trying a dangerous experiment!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her young hostess. “A very dangerous experiment! Bringing that young iconoclast into your home!” Mr. Thaddler, stout and sulky, sat as far away as he could and talked to Mrs. Porne. “I'd like to try that same experiment myself,” said he to her. “You tried it some time, I understand?” “Indeed we did--and would still if we had the chance,” she replied. “We think her a very exceptional young woman.” Mr. Thaddler chuckled. “She is that!” he agreed. “Gad! How she did set things humming! They're humming yet--at our house!” He glanced rather rancorously at his wife, and Mrs. Porne wished, as she often had before, that Mr. Thaddler wore more clothing over his domestic afflictions. “Scandalous!” Mrs. Thaddler was saying to Madam Weatherstone. “Simply scandalous! Never in my life did I hear such absurd--such outrageous--charges against the sanctities of the home!” “There you have it!” said Mr. Thaddler, under his breath. “Sanctity of the fiddlesticks! There was a lot of truth in what that girl said!” Then he looked rather sheepish and flushed a little--which was needless; easing his collar with a fat finger. Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Thaddler were at one on this subject; but found it hard to agree even so, no love being lost between them; and the former gave evidence of more satisfaction than distress at this “dangerous experiment” in the house of her friends. Viva sat silent, but with a look of watchful intelligence that delighted Mrs. Porne. “It has done her good already,” she said to herself. “Bless that girl!” Mr. Thaddler went home disappointed in the real object of his call--he had hoped to see the Dangerous Experiment again. But his wife was well pleased. “They will rue it!” she announced. “Madam Weatherstone is ashamed of her daughter-in-law--I can see that! _She_ looks cool enough. I don't know what's got into her!” “Some of that young woman's good cooking,” her husband suggested. “That young woman is not there as cook!” she replied tartly. “What she _is_ there for we shall see later! Mark my words!” Mr. Thaddler chuckled softly. “I'll mark 'em!” he said. Diantha had her hands full. Needless to say her sudden entrance was resented by the corps of servants accustomed to the old regime. She had the keys; she explored, studied, inventoried, examined the accounts, worked out careful tables and estimates. “I wish Mother were here!” she said to herself. “She's a regular genius for accounts. I _can_ do it--but it's no joke.” She brought the results to her employer at the end of the week. “This is tentative,” she said, “and I've allowed margins because I'm new to a business of this size. But here's what this house ought to cost you--at the outside, and here's what it does cost you now.” Mrs. Weatherstone was impressed. “Aren't you a little--spectacular?” she suggested. Diantha went over it carefully; the number of rooms, the number of servants, the hours of labor, the amount of food and other supplies required. “This is only preparatory, of course,” she said. “I'll have to check it off each month. If I may do the ordering and keep all the accounts I can show you exactly in a month, or two at most.” “How about the servants?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone. There was much to say here, questions of competence, of impertinence, of personal excellence with “incompatibility of temper.” Diantha was given a free hand, with full liberty to experiment, and met the opportunity with her usual energy. She soon discharged the unsatisfactory ones, and substituted the girls she had selected for her summer's experiment, gradually adding others, till the household was fairly harmonious, and far more efficient and economical. A few changes were made among the men also. By the time the family moved down to Santa Ulrica, there was quite a new spirit in the household. Mrs. Weatherstone fully approved of the Girls' Club Diantha had started at Mrs. Porne's; and it went on merrily in the larger quarters of the great “cottage” on the cliff. “I'm very glad I came to you, Mrs. Weatherstone,” said the girl. “You were quite right about the experience; I did need it--and I'm getting it!” She was getting some of which she made no mention. As she won and held the confidence of her subordinates, and the growing list of club members, she learned their personal stories; what had befallen them in other families, and what they liked and disliked in their present places. “The men are not so bad,” explained Catharine Kelly, at a club meeting, meaning the men servants; “they respect an honest girl if she respects herself; but it's the young masters--and sometimes the old ones!” “It's all nonsense,” protested Mrs. James, widowed cook of long standing. “I've worked out for twenty-five years, and I never met no such goings on!” Little Ilda looked at Mrs. James' severe face and giggled. “I've heard of it,” said Molly Connors, “I've a cousin that's workin' in New York; and she's had to leave two good places on account of their misbehavin' theirselves. She's a fine girl, but too good-lookin'.” Diantha studied types, questioned them, drew them out, adjusted facts to theories and theories to facts. She found the weakness of the whole position to lie in the utter ignorance and helplessness of the individual servant. “If they were only organized,” she thought--“and knew their own power!--Well; there's plenty of time.” As her acquaintance increased, and as Mrs. Weatherstone's interest in her plans increased also, she started the small summer experiment she had planned, for furnishing labor by the day. Mrs. James was an excellent cook, though most unpleasant to work with. She was quite able to see that getting up frequent lunches at three dollars, and dinners at five dollars, made a better income than ten dollars a week even with several days unoccupied. A group of younger women, under Diantha's sympathetic encouragement, agreed to take a small cottage together, with Mrs. James as a species of chaperone; and to go out in twos and threes as chambermaids and waitresses at 25 cents an hour. Two of them could set in perfect order one of the small beach cottage in an hour's time; and the occupants, already crowded for room, were quite willing to pay a little more in cash “not to have a servant around.” Most of them took their meals out in any case. It was a modest attempt, elastic and easily alterable and based on the special conditions of a shore resort: Mrs. Weatherstone's known interest gave it social backing; and many ladies who heartily disapproved of Diantha's theories found themselves quite willing to profit by this very practical local solution of the “servant question.” The “club girls” became very popular. Across the deep hot sand they ploughed, and clattered along the warping boardwalks, in merry pairs and groups, finding the work far more varied and amusing than the endless repetition in one household. They had pleasant evenings too, with plenty of callers, albeit somewhat checked and chilled by rigorous Mrs. James. “It is both foolish and wicked!” said Madam Weatherstone to her daughter-in-law, “Exposing a group of silly girls to such danger and temptations! I understand there is singing and laughing going on at that house until half-past ten at night.” “Yes, there is,” Viva admitted. “Mrs. James insists that they shall all be in bed at eleven--which is very wise. I'm glad they have good times--there's safety in numbers, you know.” “There will be a scandal in this community before long!” said the old lady solemnly. “And it grieves me to think that this household will be responsible for it!” Diantha heard all this from the linen room while Madam Weatherstone buttonholed her daughter-in-law in the hall; and in truth the old lady meant that she should hear what she said. “She's right, I'm afraid!” said Diantha to herself--“there will be a scandal if I'm not mighty careful and this household will be responsible for it!” Even as she spoke she caught Ilda's childish giggle in the lower hall, and looking over the railing saw her airily dusting the big Chinese vases and coquetting with young Mr. Mathew. Later on, Diantha tried seriously to rouse her conscience and her common sense. “Don't you see, child, that it can't do you anything but harm? You can't carry on with a man like that as you can with one of your own friends. He is not to be trusted. One nice girl I had here simply left the place--he annoyed her so.” Ilda was a little sulky. She had been quite a queen in the small Norwegian village she was born in. Young men were young men--and they might even--perhaps! This severe young housekeeper didn't know everything. Maybe she was jealous! So Ilda was rather unconvinced, though apparently submissive, and Diantha kept a careful eye upon her. She saw to it that Ilda's room had a bolt as well as key in the door, and kept the room next to it empty; frequently using it herself, unknown to anyone. “I hate to turn the child off,” she said to herself, conscientiously revolving the matter. “She isn't doing a thing more than most girls do--she's only a little fool. And he's not doing anything I can complain of--yet.” But she worried over it a good deal, and Mrs. Weatherstone noticed it. “Doesn't your pet club house go well, 'Miss Bell?' You seem troubled about something.” “I am,” Diantha admitted. “I believe I'll have to tell you about it--but I hate to. Perhaps if you'll come and look I shan't have to say much.” She led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid, flower-crowded garden of Southern California by the sea. Little Ilda, in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw Mr. Mathew saunter out and join her. The girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been--that was evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction. As soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly even at that distance; and ran crying into the house. “She's foolish, I admit,” said Diantha,--“but she doesn't realize her danger at all. I've tried to make her. And now I'm more worried than ever. It seems rather hard to discharge her--she needs care.” “I'll speak to that young man myself,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “I'll speak to his grandmother too!” “O--would you?” urged Diantha. “She wouldn't believe anything except that the girl 'led him on'--you know that. But I have an idea that we could convince her--if you're willing to do something rather melodramatic--and I think we'd better do it to-night!” “What's that?” asked her employer; and Diantha explained. It was melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing. “Do you think he'd dare! under my roof?” hotly demanded Madam Weatherstone. “I'm very much afraid it wouldn't be the first time,” Diantha reluctantly assured her. “It's no use being horrified. But if we could only make _sure_--” “If we could only make his grandmother sure!” cried Madam Weatherstone. “That would save me a deal of trouble and misunderstanding. See here--I think I can manage it--what makes you think it's to-night?” “I can't be absolutely certain--” Diantha explained; and told her the reasons she had. “It does look so,” her employer admitted. “We'll try it at any rate.” Urging her mother-in-law's presence on the ground of needing her experienced advice, Mrs. Weatherstone brought the august lady to the room next to Ilda's late that evening, the housekeeper in attendance. “We mustn't wake the servants,” she said in an elaborate whisper. “They need sleep, poor things! But I want to consult you about these communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.--you see this opens from this side.” She turned the oiled key softly in the lock. “Now Miss Bell thinks they ought to be left so--so that the girls can visit one another if they like--what do you think?” “I think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time of night, for a thing like this!” said the old lady. “They should be permanently locked, to my mind! There's no question about it.” Viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded. A sound of muffled speech came from the next room--a man's voice dimly heard. Madam Weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse. “What's this! What's this!” she said in a fierce whisper. Viva laid a hand on her arm. “Sh!” said she. “Let us make sure!” and she softly unlatched the door. A brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. They could see little Ilda, huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had fallen. Another key was being inserted--turned--but the bolt held. “Come and open it, young lady!” said a careful voice outside. “Go away! Go away!” begged the girl, low and breathlessly. “Oh how _can_ you! Go away quick!” “Indeed, I won't!” said the voice. “You come and open it.” “Go away,” she cried, in a soft but frantic voice. “I--I'll scream!” “Scream away!” he answered. “I'll just say I came up to see what the screaming's about, that's all. You open the door--if you don't want anybody to know I'm here! I won't hurt you any--I just want to talk to you a minute.” Madam Weatherstone was speechless with horror, her daughter-in-law listened with set lips. Diantha looked from one to the other, and at the frightened child before them who was now close to the terrible door. “O please!--_please!_ go away!” she cried in desperation. “O what shall I do! What shall I do!” “You can't do anything,” he answered cheerfully. “And I'm coming in anyhow. You'd better keep still about this for your own sake. Stand from under!” Madam Weatherstone marched into the room. Ilda, with a little cry, fled out of it to Diantha. There was a jump, a scramble, two knuckly hands appeared, a long leg was put through the transom, two legs wildly wriggling, a descending body, and there stood before them, flushed, dishevelled, his coat up to his ears--Mat Weatherstone. He did not notice the stern rigidity of the figure which stood between him and the moonlight, but clasped it warmly to his heart.--“Now I've got you, Ducky!” cried he, pressing all too affectionate kisses upon the face of his grandmother. Young Mrs. Weatherstone turned on the light. It was an embarrassing position for the gentleman. He had expected to find a helpless cowering girl; afraid to cry out because her case would be lost if she did; begging piteously that he would leave her; wholly at his mercy. What he did find was so inexplicable as to reduce him to gibbering astonishment. There stood his imposing grandmother, so overwhelmed with amazement that her trenchant sentences failed her completely; his stepmother, wearing an expression that almost suggested delight in his discomfiture; and Diantha, as grim as Rhadamanthus. Poor little Ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging to Diantha's hand. “If I'd only listened to you!” she said. “You told me he was bad! I never thought he'd do such an awful thing!” Young Mathew fumbled at the door. He had locked it outside in his efforts with the pass-key. He was red, red to his ears--very red, but there was no escape. He faced them--there was no good in facing the door. They all stood aside and let him pass--a wordless gauntlet. Diantha took the weeping Ilda to her room for the night. Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone went down together. “She must have encouraged him!” the older lady finally burst forth. “She did not encourage him to enter her room, as you saw and heard,” said Viva with repressed intensity. “He's only a boy!” said his grandmother. “She is only a child, a helpless child, a foreigner, away from home, untaught, unprotected,” Viva answered swiftly; adding with quiet sarcasm--“Save for the shelter of the home!” They parted in silence. CHAPTER X. UNION HOUSE. “We are weak!” said the Sticks, and men broke them; “We are weak!” said the Threads, and were torn; Till new thoughts came and they spoke them; Till the Fagot and the Rope were born. For the Fagot men find is resistant, And they anchor on the Rope's taut length; Even grasshoppers combined, Are a force, the farmers find-- In union there is strength. Ross Warden endured his grocery business; strove with it, toiled at it, concentrated his scientific mind on alien tasks of financial calculation and practical psychology, but he liked it no better. He had no interest in business, no desire to make money, no skill in salesmanship. But there were five mouths at home; sweet affectionate feminine mouths no doubt, but requiring food. Also two in the kitchen, wider, and requiring more food. And there were five backs at home to be covered, to use the absurd metaphor--as if all one needed for clothing was a four foot patch. The amount and quality of the covering was an unceasing surprise to Ross, and he did not do justice to the fact that his womenfolk really saved a good deal by doing their own sewing. In his heart he longed always to be free of the whole hated load of tradesmanship. Continually his thoughts went back to the hope of selling out the business and buying a ranch. “I could make it keep us, anyhow,” he would plan to himself; “and I could get at that guinea pig idea. Or maybe hens would do.” He had a theory of his own, or a personal test of his own, rather, which he wished to apply to a well known theory. It would take some years to work it out, and a great many fine pigs, and be of no possible value financially. “I'll do it sometime,” he always concluded; which was cold comfort. His real grief at losing the companionship of the girl he loved, was made more bitter by a total lack of sympathy with her aims, even if she achieved them--in which he had no confidence. He had no power to change his course, and tried not to be unpleasant about it, but he had to express his feelings now and then. “Are you coming back to me?” he wrote. “How con you bear to give so much pain to everyone who loves you? Is your wonderful salary worth more to you than being here with your mother--with me? How can you say you love me--and ruin both our lives like this? I cannot come to see you--I _would_ not come to see you--calling at the back door! Finding the girl I love in a cap and apron! Can you not see it is wrong, utterly wrong, all this mad escapade of yours? Suppose you do make a thousand dollars a year--I shall never touch your money--you know that. I cannot even offer you a home, except with my family, and I know how you feel about that; I do not blame you. “But I am as stubborn as you are, dear girl; I will not live on my wife's money--you will not live in my mother's house--and we are drifting apart. It is not that I care less for you dear, or at all for anyone else, but this is slow death--that's all.” Mrs. Warden wrote now and then and expatiated on the sufferings of her son, and his failing strength under the unnatural strain, till Diantha grew to dread her letters more than any pain she knew. Fortunately they came seldom. Her own family was much impressed by the thousand dollars, and found the occupation of housekeeper a long way more tolerable than that of house-maid, a distinction which made Diantha smile rather bitterly. Even her father wrote to her once, suggesting that if she chose to invest her salary according to his advice he could double it for her in a year, maybe treble it, in Belgian hares. _“They'd_ double and treble fast enough!” she admitted to herself; but she wrote as pleasant a letter as she could, declining his proposition. Her mother seemed stronger, and became more sympathetic as the months passed. Large affairs always appealed to her more than small ones, and she offered valuable suggestions as to the account keeping of the big house. They all assumed that she was permanently settled in this well paid position, and she made no confidences. But all summer long she planned and read and studied out her progressive schemes, and strengthened her hold among the working women. Laundress after laundress she studied personally and tested professionally, finding a general level of mediocrity, till finally she hit upon a melancholy Dane--a big rawboned red-faced woman--whose husband had been a miller, but was hurt about the head so that he was no longer able to earn his living. The huge fellow was docile, quiet, and endlessly strong, but needed constant supervision. “He'll do anything you tell him, Miss, and do it well; but then he'll sit and dream about it--I can't leave him at all. But he'll take the clothes if I give him a paper with directions, and come right back.” Poor Mrs. Thorald wiped her eyes, and went on with her swift ironing. Diantha offered her the position of laundress at Union House, with two rooms for their own, over the laundry. “There'll be work for him, too,” she said. “We need a man there. He can do a deal of the heavier work--be porter you know. I can't offer him very much, but it will help some.” Mrs. Thorald accepted for both, and considered Diantha as a special providence. There was to be cook, and two capable second maids. The work of the house must be done thoroughly well, Diantha determined; “and the food's got to be good--or the girls wont stay.” After much consideration she selected one Julianna, a “person of color,” for her kitchen: not the jovial and sloppy personage usually figuring in this character, but a tall, angular, and somewhat cynical woman, a misanthrope in fact, with a small son. For men she had no respect whatever, but conceded a grudging admiration to Mr. Thorald as “the usefullest biddablest male person” she had ever seen. She also extended special sympathy to Mrs. Thorald on account of her peculiar burden, and the Swedish woman had no antipathy to her color, and seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in Julianna's caustic speeches. Diantha offered her the place, boy and all. “He can be 'bell boy' and help you in the kitchen, too. Can't you, Hector?” Hector rolled large adoring eyes at her, but said nothing. His mother accepted the proposition, but without enthusiasm. “I can't keep no eye on him, Miss, if I'm cookin' an less'n you keep your eye on him they's no work to be got out'n any kind o' boy.” “What is your last name, Julianna?” Diantha asked her. “I suppose, as a matter o' fac' its de name of de last nigger I married,” she replied. “Dere was several of 'em, all havin' different names, and to tell you de truf Mis' Bell, I got clean mixed amongst 'em. But Julianna's my name--world without end amen.” So Diantha had to waive her theories about the surnames of servants in this case. “Did they all die?” she asked with polite sympathy. “No'm, dey didn't none of 'em die--worse luck.” “I'm afraid you have seen much trouble, Julianna,” she continued sympathetically; “They deserted you, I suppose?” Julianna laid her long spoon upon the table and stood up with great gravity. “No'm,” she said again, “dey didn't none of 'em desert me on no occasion. I divorced 'em.” Marital difficulties in bulk were beyond Diantha's comprehension, and she dropped the subject. Union House opened in the autumn. The vanished pepper trees were dim with dust in Orchardina streets as the long rainless summer drew to a close; but the social atmosphere fairly sparkled with new interest. Those who had not been away chattered eagerly with those who had, and both with the incoming tide of winter visitors. “That girl of Mrs. Porne's has started her housekeeping shop!” “That 'Miss Bell' has got Mrs. Weatherstone fairly infatuated with her crazy schemes.” “Do you know that Bell girl has actually taken Union House? Going to make a Girl's Club of it!” “Did you ever _hear_ of such a thing! Diantha Bell's really going to try to run her absurd undertaking right here in Orchardina!” They did not know that the young captain of industry had deliberately chosen Orchardina as her starting point on account of the special conditions. The even climate was favorable to “going out by the day,” or the delivery of meals, the number of wealthy residents gave opportunity for catering on a large scale; the crowding tourists and health seekers made a market for all manner of transient service and cooked food, and the constant lack of sufficient or capable servants forced the people into an unwilling consideration of any plan of domestic assistance. In a year's deliberate effort Diantha had acquainted herself with the rank and file of the town's housemaids and day workers, and picked her assistants carefully. She had studied the local conditions thoroughly, and knew her ground. A big faded building that used to be “the Hotel” in Orchardina's infant days, standing, awkward and dingy on a site too valuable for a house lot and not yet saleable as a business block, was the working base. A half year with Mrs. Weatherstone gave her $500 in cash, besides the $100 she had saved at Mrs. Porne's; and Mrs. Weatherstone's cheerfully offered backing gave her credit. “I hate to let you,” said Diantha, “I want to do it all myself.” “You are a painfully perfect person, Miss Bell,” said her last employer, pleasantly, “but you have ceased to be my housekeeper and I hope you will continue to be my friend. As a friend I claim the privilege of being disagreeable. If you have a fault it is conceit. Immovable Colossal Conceit! And Obstinacy!” “Is that all?” asked Diantha. “It's all I've found--so far,” gaily retorted Mrs. Weatherstone. “Don't you see, child, that you can't afford to wait? You have reasons for hastening, you know. I don't doubt you could, in a series of years, work up this business all stark alone. I have every confidence in those qualities I have mentioned! But what's the use? You'll need credit for groceries and furniture. I am profoundly interested in this business. I am more than willing to advance a little capital, or to ensure your credit. A man would have sense enough to take me up at once.” “I believe you are right,” Diantha reluctantly agreed. “And you shan't lose by it!” Her friends were acutely interested in her progress, and showed it in practical ways. The New Woman's Club furnished five families of patrons for the regular service of cooked food, which soon grew, with satisfaction, to a dozen or so, varying from time to time. The many families with invalids, and lonely invalids without families, were glad to avail themselves of the special delicacies furnished at Union House. Picnickers found it easier to buy Diantha's marvelous sandwiches than to spend golden morning hours in putting up inferior ones at home; and many who cooked for themselves, or kept servants, were glad to profit by this outside source on Sunday evenings and “days out.” There was opposition too; both the natural resistance of inertia and prejudice, and the active malignity of Mrs. Thaddler. The Pornes were sympathetic and anxious. “That place'll cost her all of $10,000 a year, with those twenty-five to feed, and they only pay $4.50 a week--I know that!” said Mr. Porne. “It does look impossible,” his wife agreed, “but such is my faith in Diantha Bell I'd back her against Rockefeller!” Mrs. Weatherstone was not alarmed at all. “If she _should_ fail--which I don't for a moment expect--it wont ruin me,” she told Isabel. “And if she succeeds, as I firmly believe she will, why, I'd be willing to risk almost anything to prove Mrs. Thaddler in the wrong.” Mrs. Thaddler was making herself rather disagreeable. She used what power she had to cry down the undertaking, and was so actively malevolent that her husband was moved to covert opposition. He never argued with his wife--she was easily ahead of him in that art, and, if it came to recriminations, had certain controvertible charges to make against him, which mode him angrily silent. He was convinced in a dim way that her ruthless domineering spirit, and the sheer malice she often showed, were more evil things than his own bad habits; and that even in their domestic relation her behavior really caused him more pain and discomfort than he caused her; but he could not convince her of it, naturally. “That Diantha Bell is a fine girl,” he said to himself. “A damn fine girl, and as straight as a string!” There had crept out, through the quenchless leak of servants talk, a varicolored version of the incident of Mathew and the transom; and the town had grown so warm for that young gentleman that he had gone to Alaska suddenly, to cool off, as it were. His Grandmother, finding Mrs. Thaddler invincible with this new weapon, and what she had so long regarded as her home now visibly Mrs. Weatherstone's, had retired in regal dignity to her old Philadelphia establishment, where she upheld the standard of decorum against the weakening habits of a deteriorated world, for many years. As Mr. Thaddler thought of this sweeping victory, he chuckled for the hundredth time. “She ought to make good, and she will. Something's got to be done about it,” said he. Diantha had never liked Mr. Thaddler; she did not like that kind of man in general, nor his manner toward her in particular. Moreover he was the husband of Mrs. Thaddler. She did not know that he was still the largest owner in the town's best grocery store, and when that store offered her special terms for her exclusive trade, she accepted the proposition thankfully. She told Ross about it, as a matter well within his knowledge, if not his liking, and he was mildly interested. “I am much alarmed at this new venture,” he wrote, “but you must get your experience. I wish I could save you. As to the groceries, those are wholesale rates, nearly; they'll make enough on it. Yours is a large order you see, and steady.” When she opened her “Business Men's Lunch” Mr. Thaddler had a still better opportunity. He had a reputation as a high flyer, and had really intended to sacrifice himself on the altar of friendship by patronizing and praising this “undertaking” at any cost to his palate; but no sacrifice was needed. Diantha's group of day workers had their early breakfast and departed, taking each her neat lunch-pail,--they ate nothing of their employers;--and both kitchen and dining room would have stood idle till supper time. But the young manager knew she must work her plant for all it was worth, and speedily opened the dining room with the side entrance as a “Caffeteria,” with the larger one as a sort of meeting place; papers and magazines on the tables. From the counter you took what you liked, and seated yourself, and your friends, at one of the many small tables or in the flat-armed chairs in the big room, or on the broad piazza; and as this gave good food, cheapness, a chance for a comfortable seat and talk and a smoke, if one had time, it was largely patronized. Mr. Thaddler, as an experienced _bon vivant,_ despised sandwiches. “Picnicky makeshifts” he called them,--“railroad rations”--“bread and leavings,” and when he saw these piles on piles of sandwiches, listed only as “No. 1,” “No. 2” “No. 3,” and so on, his benevolent intention wavered. But he pulled himself together and took a plateful, assorted. “Come on, Porne,” he said, “we'll play it's a Sunday school picnic,” and he drew himself a cup of coffee, finding hot milk, cream and sugar crystals at hand. “I never saw a cheap joint where you could fix it yourself, before,” he said,--and suspiciously tasted the mixture. “By jing! That's coffee!” he cried in surprise. “There's no scum on the milk, and the cream's cream! Five cents! She won't get rich on this.” Then he applied himself to his “No. 1” sandwich, and his determined expression gave way to one of pleasure. “Why that's bread--real bread! I believe she made it herself!” She did in truth,--she and Julianna with Hector as general assistant. The big oven was filled several times every morning: the fresh rolls disappeared at breakfast and supper, the fresh bread was packed in the lunch pails, and the stale bread was even now melting away in large bites behind the smiling mouths and mustaches of many men. Perfect bread, excellent butter, and “What's the filling I'd like to know?” More than one inquiring-minded patron split his sandwich to add sight to taste, but few could be sure of the flavorsome contents, fatless, gritless, smooth and even, covering the entire surface, the last mouthful as perfect as the first. Some were familiar, some new, all were delicious. The six sandwiches were five cents, the cup of coffee five, and the little “drop cakes,” sweet and spicy, were two for five. Every man spent fifteen cents, some of them more; and many took away small cakes in paper bags, if there were any left. “I don't see how you can do it, and make a profit,” urged Mr. Eltwood, making a pastorial call. “They are so good you know!” Diantha smiled cheerfully. “That's because all your ideas are based on what we call 'domestic economy,' which is domestic waste. I buy in large quantities at wholesale rates, and my cook with her little helper, the two maids, and my own share of the work, of course, provides for the lot. Of course one has to know how.” “Whenever did you find--or did you create?--those heavenly sandwiches?” he asked. “I have to thank my laundress for part of that success,” she said. “She's a Dane, and it appears that the Danes are so fond of sandwiches that, in large establishments, they have a 'sandwich kitchen' to prepare them. It is quite a bit of work, but they are good and inexpensive. There is no limit to the variety.” As a matter of fact this lunch business paid well, and led to larger things. The girl's methods were simple and so organized as to make one hand wash the other. Her house had some twenty-odd bedrooms, full accommodations for kitchen and laundry work on a large scale, big dining, dancing, and reception rooms, and broad shady piazzas on the sides. Its position on a corner near the business part of the little city, and at the foot of the hill crowned with so many millionaires and near millionaires as could get land there, offered many advantages, and every one was taken. The main part of the undertaking was a House Worker's Union; a group of thirty girls, picked and trained. These, previously working out as servants, had received six dollars a week “and found.” They now worked an agreed number of hours, were paid on a basis by the hour or day, and “found” themselves. Each had her own room, and the broad porches and ball room were theirs, except when engaged for dances and meetings of one sort and another. It was a stirring year's work, hard but exciting, and the only difficulty which really worried Diantha was the same that worried the average housewife--the accounts. CHAPTER XI. THE POWER OF THE SCREW. Your car is too big for one person to stir-- Your chauffeur is a little man, too; Yet he lifts that machine, does the little chauffeur, By the power of a gentle jackscrew. Diantha worked. For all her employees she demanded a ten-hour day, she worked fourteen; rising at six and not getting to bed till eleven, when her charges were all safely in their rooms for the night. They were all up at five-thirty or thereabouts, breakfasting at six, and the girls off in time to reach their various places by seven. Their day was from 7 A. M. to 8.30 P. M., with half an hour out, from 11.30 to twelve, for their lunch; and three hours, between 2.20 and 5.30, for their own time, including their tea. Then they worked again from 5.30 to 8.30, on the dinner and the dishes, and then they came home to a pleasant nine o'clock supper, and had all hour to dance or rest before the 10.30 bell for bed time. Special friends and “cousins” often came home with them, and frequently shared the supper--for a quarter--and the dance for nothing. It was no light matter in the first place to keep twenty girls contented with such a regime, and working with the steady excellence required, and in the second place to keep twenty employers contented with them. There were failures on both sides; half a dozen families gave up the plan, and it took time to replace them; and three girls had to be asked to resign before the year was over. But most of them had been in training in the summer, and had listened for months to Diantha's earnest talks to the clubs, with good results. “Remember we are not doing this for ourselves alone,” she would say to them. “Our experiment is going to make this kind of work easier for all home workers everywhere. You may not like it at first, but neither did you like the old way. It will grow easier as we get used to it; and we _must_ keep the rules, because we made them!” She laboriously composed a neat little circular, distributed it widely, and kept a pile in her lunch room for people to take. It read thus: UNION HOUSE Food and Service. General Housework by the week..... $10.00 General Housework by the day....... $2.00 Ten hours work a day, and furnish their own food. Additional labor by the hour....... $.20 Special service for entertainments, maids and waitresses, by the hour..........$.25 Catering for entertainments. Delicacies for invalids. Lunches packed and delivered. Caffeteria... 12 to 2 What annoyed the young manager most was the uncertainty and irregularity involved in her work, the facts varying considerably from her calculations. In the house all ran smoothly. Solemn Mrs. Thorvald did the laundry work for thirty-five--by the aid of her husband and a big mangle for the “flat work.” The girls' washing was limited. “You have to be reasonable about it,” Diantha had explained to them. “Your fifty cents covers a dozen pieces--no more. If you want more you have to pay more, just as your employers do for your extra time.” This last often happened. No one on the face of it could ask more than ten hours of the swift, steady work given by the girls at but a fraction over 14 cents an hour. Yet many times the housekeeper was anxious for more labor on special days; and the girls, unaccustomed to the three free hours in the afternoon, were quite willing to furnish it, thus adding somewhat to their cash returns. They had a dressmaking class at the club afternoons, and as Union House boasted a good sewing machine, many of them spent the free hours in enlarging their wardrobes. Some amused themselves with light reading, a few studied, others met and walked outside. The sense of honest leisure grew upon them, with its broadening influence; and among her thirty Diantha found four or five who were able and ambitious, and willing to work heartily for the further development of the business. Her two housemaids were specially selected. When the girls were out of the house these two maids washed the breakfast dishes with marvelous speed, and then helped Diantha prepare for the lunch. This was a large undertaking, and all three of them, as well as Julianna and Hector worked at it until some six or eight hundred sandwiches were ready, and two or three hundred little cakes. Diantha had her own lunch, and then sat at the receipt of custom during the lunch hour, making change and ordering fresh supplies as fast as needed. The two housemaids had a long day, but so arranged that it made but ten hours work, and they had much available time of their own. They had to be at work at 5:30 to set the table for six o'clock breakfast, and then they were at it steadily, with the dining rooms to “do,” and the lunch to get ready, until 11:30, when they had an hour to eat and rest. From 12:30 to 4 o'clock they were busy with the lunch cups, the bed-rooms, and setting the table for dinner; but after that they had four hours to themselves, until the nine o'clock supper was over, and once more they washed dishes for half an hour. The caffeteria used only cups and spoons; the sandwiches and cakes were served on paper plates. In the hand-cart methods of small housekeeping it is impossible to exact the swift precision of such work, but not in the standardized tasks and regular hours of such an establishment as this. Diantha religiously kept her hour at noon, and tried to keep the three in the afternoon; but the employer and manager cannot take irresponsible rest as can the employee. She felt like a most inexperienced captain on a totally new species of ship, and her paper plans looked very weak sometimes, as bills turned out to be larger than she had allowed for, or her patronage unaccountably dwindled. But if the difficulties were great, the girl's courage was greater. “It is simply a big piece of work,” she assured herself, “and may be a long one, but there never was anything better worth doing. Every new business has difficulties, I mustn't think of them. I must just push and push and push--a little more every day.” And then she would draw on all her powers to reason with, laugh at, and persuade some dissatisfied girl; or, hardest of all, to bring in a new one to fill a vacancy. She enjoyed the details of her lunch business, and studied it carefully; planning for a restaurant a little later. Her bread was baked in long cylindrical closed pans, and cut by machinery into thin even slices, not a crust wasted; for they were ground into crumbs and used in the cooking. The filling for her sandwiches was made from fish, flesh, and fowl; from cheese and jelly and fruit and vegetables; and so named or numbered that the general favorites were gradually determined. Mr. Thaddler chatted with her over the counter, as far as she would allow it, and discoursed more fully with his friends on the verandah. “Porne,” he said, “where'd that girl come from anyway? She's a genius, that's what she is; a regular genius.” “She's all that,” said Mr. Porne, “and a benefactor to humanity thrown in. I wish she'd start her food delivery, though. I'm tired of those two Swedes already. O--come from? Up in Jopalez, Inca County, I believe.” “New England stock I bet,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Its a damn shame the way the women go on about her.” “Not all of them, surely,” protested Mr. Porne. “No, not all of 'em,--but enough of 'em to make mischief, you may be sure. Women are the devil, sometimes.” Mr. Porne smiled without answer, and Mr. Thaddler went sulking away--a bag of cakes bulging in his pocket. The little wooden hotel in Jopalez boasted an extra visitor a few days later. A big red faced man, who strolled about among the tradesmen, tried the barber's shop, loafed in the post office, hired a rig and traversed the length and breadth of the town, and who called on Mrs. Warden, talking real estate with her most politely in spite of her protestation and the scornful looks of the four daughters; who bought tobacco and matches in the grocery store, and sat on the piazza thereof to smoke, as did other gentlemen of leisure. Ross Warden occasionally leaned at the door jamb, with folded arms. He never could learn to be easily sociable with ranchmen and teamsters. Serve them he must, but chat with them he need not. The stout gentleman essayed some conversation, but did not get far. Ross was polite, but far from encouraging, and presently went home to supper, leaving a carrot-haired boy to wait upon his lingering customers. “Nice young feller enough,” said the stout gentleman to himself, “but raised on ramrods. Never got 'em from those women folks of his, either. He _has_ a row to hoe!” And he departed as he had come. Mr. Eltwood turned out an unexpectedly useful friend to Diantha. He steered club meetings and “sociables” into her large rooms, and as people found how cheap and easy it was to give parties that way, they continued the habit. He brought his doctor friends to sample the lunch, and they tested the value of Diantha's invalid cookery, and were more than pleased. Hungry tourists were wholly without prejudice, and prized her lunches for their own sake. They descended upon the caffeteria in chattering swarms, some days, robbing the regular patrons of their food, and sent sudden orders for picnic lunches that broke in upon the routine hours of the place unmercifully. But of all her patrons, the families of invalids appreciated Diantha's work the most. Where a little shack or tent was all they could afford to live in, or where the tiny cottage was more than filled with the patient, attending relative, and nurse, this depot of supplies was a relief indeed. A girl could be had for an hour or two; or two girls, together, with amazing speed, could put a small house in dainty order while the sick man lay in his hammock under the pepper trees; and be gone before he was fretting for his bed again. They lived upon her lunches; and from them, and other quarters, rose an increasing demand for regular cooked food. “Why don't you go into it at once?” urged Mrs. Weatherstone. “I want to establish the day service first,” said Diantha. “It is a pretty big business I find, and I do get tired sometimes. I can't afford to slip up, you know. I mean to take it up next fall, though.” “All right. And look here; see that you begin in first rate shape. I've got some ideas of my own about those food containers.” They discussed the matter more than once, Diantha most reluctant to take any assistance; Mrs. Weatherstone determined that she should. “I feel like a big investor already,” she said. “I don't think even you realize the _money_ there is in this thing! You are interested in establishing the working girls, and saving money and time for the housewives. I am interested in making money out of it--honestly! It would be such a triumph!” “You're very good--” Diantha hesitated. “I'm not good. I'm most eagerly and selfishly interested. I've taken a new lease of life since knowing you, Diantha Bell! You see my father was a business man, and his father before him--I _like it._ There I was, with lots of money, and not an interest in life! Now?--why, there's no end to this thing, Diantha! It's one of the biggest businesses on earth--if not _the_ biggest!” “Yes--I know,” the girl answered. “But its slow work. I feel the weight of it more than I expected. There's every reason to succeed, but there's the combined sentiment of the whole world to lift--it's as heavy as lead.” “Heavy! Of course it's heavy! The more fun to lift it! You'll do it, Diantha, I know you will, with that steady, relentless push of yours. But the cooked food is going to be your biggest power, and you must let me start it right. Now you listen to me, and make Mrs. Thaddler eat her words!” Mrs. Thaddler's words would have proved rather poisonous, if eaten. She grew more antagonistic as the year advanced. Every fault that could be found in the undertaking she pounced upon and enlarged; every doubt that could be cast upon it she heavily piled up; and her opposition grew more rancorous as Mr. Thaddler enlarged in her hearing upon the excellence of Diantha's lunches and the wonders of her management. “She's picked a bunch o' winners in those girls of hers,” he declared to his friends. “They set out in the morning looking like a flock of sweet peas--in their pinks and whites and greens and vi'lets,--and do more work in an hour than the average slavey can do in three, I'm told.” It was a pretty sight to see those girls start out. They had a sort of uniform, as far as a neat gingham dress went, with elbow sleeves, white ruffled, and a Dutch collar; a sort of cross between a nurses dress and that of “La Chocolataire;” but colors were left to taste. Each carried her apron and a cap that covered the hair while cooking and sweeping; but nothing that suggested the black and white livery of the regulation servant. “This is a new stage of labor,” their leader reminded them. “You are not servants--you are employees. You wear a cap as an English carpenter does--or a French cook,--and an apron because your work needs it. It is not a ruffled label,--it's a business necessity. And each one of us must do our best to make this new kind of work valued and respected.” It is no easy matter to overcome prejudices many centuries old, and meet the criticism of women who have nothing to do but criticize. Those who were “mistresses,” and wanted “servants,”--someone to do their will at any moment from early morning till late evening,--were not pleased with the new way if they tried it; but the women who had interests of their own to attend to; who merely wanted their homes kept clean, and the food well cooked and served, were pleased. The speed, the accuracy, the economy; the pleasant, quiet, assured manner of these skilled employees was a very different thing from the old slipshod methods of the ordinary general servant. So the work slowly prospered, while Diantha began to put in execution the new plan she had been forced into. While it matured, Mrs. Thaddler matured hers. With steady dropping she had let fall far and wide her suspicions as to the character of Union House. “It looks pretty queer to me!” she would say, confidentially, “All those girls together, and no person to have any authority over them! Not a married woman in the house but that washerwoman,--and her husband's a fool!” “And again; You don't see how she does it? Neither do I! The expenses must be tremendous--those girls pay next to nothing,--and all that broth and brown bread flying about town! Pretty queer doings, I think!” “The men seem to like that caffeteria, don't they?” urged one caller, perhaps not unwilling to nestle Mrs. Thaddler, who flushed darkly as she replied. “Yes, they do. Men usually like that sort of place.” “They like good food at low prices, if that's what you mean,” her visitor answered. “That's not all I mean--by a long way,” said Mrs. Thaddler. She said so much, and said it so ingeniously, that a dark rumor arose from nowhere, and grew rapidly. Several families discharged their Union House girls. Several girls complained that they were insultingly spoken to on the street. Even the lunch patronage began to fall off. Diantha was puzzled--a little alarmed. Her slow, steady lifting of the prejudice against her was checked. She could not put her finger on the enemy, yet felt one distinctly, and had her own suspicions. But she also had her new move well arranged by this time. Then a maliciously insinuating story of the place came out in a San Francisco paper, and a flock of local reporters buzzed in to sample the victim. They helped themselves to the luncheon, and liked it, but that did not soften their pens. They talked with such of the girls as they could get in touch with, and wrote such versions of these talks as suited them. They called repeatedly at Union House, but Diantha refused to see them. Finally she was visited by the Episcopalian clergyman. He had heard her talk at the Club, was favorably impressed by the girl herself, and honestly distressed by the dark stories he now heard about Union House. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I have called to see you in your own interests. I do not, as you perhaps know, approve of your schemes. I consider them--ah--subversive of the best interests of the home! But I think you mean well, though mistakenly. Now I fear you are not aware that this-ah--ill-considered undertaking of yours, is giving rise to considerable adverse comment in the community. There is--ah--there is a great deal being said about this business of yours which I am sure you would regret if you knew it. Do you think it is wise; do you think it is--ah--right, my dear Miss Bell, to attempt to carry on a--a place of this sort, without the presence of a--of a Matron of assured standing?” Diantha smiled rather coldly. “May I trouble you to step into the back parlor, Dr. Aberthwaite,” she said; and then; “May I have the pleasure of presenting to you Mrs. Henderson Bell--my mother?” ***** “Wasn't it great!” said Mrs. Weatherstone; “I was there you see,--I'd come to call on Mrs. Bell--she's a dear,--and in came Mrs. Thaddler--” “Mrs. Thaddler?” “O I know it was old Aberthwaite, but he represented Mrs. Thaddler and her clique, and had come there to preach to Diantha about propriety--I heard him,--and she brought him in and very politely introduced him to her mother!--it was rich, Isabel.” “How did Diantha manage it?” asked her friend. “She's been trying to arrange it for ever so long. Of course her father objected--you'd know that. But there's a sister--not a bad sort, only very limited; she's taken the old man to board, as it were, and I guess the mother really set her foot down for once--said she had a right to visit her own daughter!” “It would seem so,” Mrs. Porne agreed. “I _am_ so glad! It will be so much easier for that brave little woman now.” It was. Diantha held her mother in her arms the night she came, and cried tike a baby. “O mother _dear!_” she sobbed, “I'd no idea I should miss you so much. O you blessed comfort!” Her mother cried a bit too; she enjoyed this daughter more than either of her older children, and missed her more. A mother loves all her children, naturally; but a mother is also a person--and may, without sin, have personal preferences. She took hold of Diantha's tangled mass of papers with the eagerness of a questing hound. “You've got all the bills, of course,” she demanded, with her anxious rising inflection. “Every one,” said the girl. “You taught me that much. What puzzles me is to make things balance. I'm making more than I thought in some lines, and less in others, and I can't make it come out straight.” “It won't, altogether, till the end of the year I dare say,” said Mrs. Bell, “but let's get clear as far as we can. In the first place we must separate your business,--see how much each one pays.” “The first one I want to establish,” said her daughter, “is the girl's club. Not just this one, with me to run it. But to show that any group of twenty or thirty girls could do this thing in any city. Of course where rents and provisions were high they'd have to charge more. I want to make an average showing somehow. Now can you disentangle the girl part front the lunch part and the food part, mother dear, and make it all straight?” Mrs. Bell could and did; it gave her absolute delight to do it. She set down the total of Diantha's expenses so far in the Service Department, as follows: Rent of Union House $1,500 Rent of furniture................... $300 One payment on furniture............ $400 Fuel and lights, etc................ $352 Service of 5 at $10 a week each... $2,600 Food for thirty-seven............. $3,848 ----- Total............................. $9,000 “That covers everything but my board,” said Mrs. Bell. “Now your income is easy--35 x $4.50 equals $8,190. Take that from your $9,000 and you are $810 behind.” “Yes, I know,” said Diantha, eagerly, “but if it was merely a girl's club home, the rent and fixtures would be much less. A home could be built, with thirty bedrooms--and all necessary conveniences--for $7,000. I've asked Mr. and Mrs. Porne about it; and the furnishing needn't cost over $2,000 if it was very plain. Ten per cent. of that is a rent of $900 you see.” “I see,” said her mother. “Better say a thousand. I guess it could be done for that.” So they set down rent, $1,000. “There have to be five paid helpers in the house,” Diantha went on, “the cook, the laundress, the two maids, and the matron. She must buy and manage. She could be one of their mothers or aunts.” Mrs. Bell smiled. “Do you really imagine, Diantha, that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy or Mrs. Yon Yonson can manage a house like this as you can?” Diantha flushed a little. “No, mother, of course not. But I am keeping very full reports of all the work. Just the schedule of labor--the hours--the exact things done. One laundress, with machinery, can wash for thirty-five, (its only six a day you see), and the amount is regulated; about six dozen a day, and all the flat work mangled. “In a Girl's Club alone the cook has all day off, as it were; she can do the down stairs cleaning. And the two maids have only table service and bedrooms.” “Thirty-five bedrooms?” “Yes. But two girls together, who know how, can do a room in 8 minutes--easily. They are small and simple you see. Make the bed, shake the mats, wipe the floors and windows,--you watch them!” “I have watched them,” the mother admitted. “They are as quick as--as mill-workers!” “Well,” pursued Diantha, “they spend three hours on dishes and tables, and seven on cleaning. The bedrooms take 280 minutes; that's nearly five hours. The other two are for the bath rooms, halls, stairs, downstairs windows, and so on. That's all right. Then I'm keeping the menus--just what I furnish and what it costs. Anybody could order and manage when it was all set down for her. And you see--as you have figured it--they'd have over $500 leeway to buy the furniture if they were allowed to.” “Yes,” Mrs. Bell admitted, “_if_ the rent was what you allow, and _if_ they all work all the time!” “That's the hitch, of course. But mother; the girls who don't have steady jobs do work by the hour, and that brings in more, on the whole. If they are the right kind they can make good. If they find anyone who don't keep her job--for good reasons--they can drop her.” “M'm!” said Mrs. Bell. “Well, it's an interesting experiment. But how about you? So far you are $410 behind.” “Yes, because my rent's so big. But I cover that by letting the rooms, you see.” Mrs. Bell considered the orders of this sort. “So far it averages about $25.00 a week; that's doing well.” “It will be less in summer--much less,” Diantha suggested. “Suppose you call it an average of $15.00.” “Call it $10.00,” said her mother ruthlessly. “At that it covers your deficit and $110 over.” “Which isn't much to live on,” Diantha agreed, “but then comes my special catering, and the lunches.” Here they were quite at sea for a while. But as the months passed, and the work steadily grew on their hands, Mrs. Bell became more and more cheerful. She was up with the earliest, took entire charge of the financial part of the concern, and at last Diantha was able to rest fully in her afternoon hours. What delighted her most was to see her mother thrive in the work. Her thin shoulders lifted a little as small dragging tasks were forgotten and a large growing business substituted. Her eyes grew bright again, she held her head as she did in her keen girlhood, and her daughter felt fresh hope and power as she saw already the benefit of the new method as affecting her nearest and dearest. All Diantha's friends watched the spread of the work with keenly sympathetic intent; but to Mrs. Weatherstone it became almost as fascinating as to the girl herself. “It's going to be one of the finest businesses in the world!” she said, “And one of the largest and best paying. Now I'll have a surprise ready for that girl in the spring, and another next year, if I'm not mistaken!” There were long and vivid discussions of the matter between her and her friends the Pornes, and Mrs. Porne spent more hours in her “drawing room” than she had for years. But while these unmentioned surprises were pending, Mrs. Weatherstone departed to New York--to Europe; and was gone some months. In the spring she returned, in April--which is late June in Orchardina. She called upon Diantha and her mother at once, and opened her attack. “I do hope, Mrs. Bell, that you'll back me up,” she said. “You have the better business head I think, in the financial line.” “She has,” Diantha admitted. “She's ten times as good as I am at that; but she's no more willing to carry obligation than I am, Mrs. Weatherstone.” “Obligation is one thing--investment is another,” said her guest. “I live on my money--that is, on other people's work. I am a base capitalist, and you seem to me good material to invest in. So--take it or leave it--I've brought you an offer.” She then produced from her hand bag some papers, and, from her car outside, a large object carefully boxed, about the size and shape of a plate warmer. This being placed on the table before them, was uncovered, and proved to be a food container of a new model. “I had one made in Paris,” she explained, “and the rest copied here to save paying duty. Lift it!” They lifted it in amazement--it was so light. “Aluminum,” she said, proudly, “Silver plated--new process! And bamboo at the corners you see. All lined and interlined with asbestos, rubber fittings for silver ware, plate racks, food compartments--see?” She pulled out drawers, opened little doors, and rapidly laid out a table service for five. “It will hold food for five--the average family, you know. For larger orders you'll have to send more. I had to make _some_ estimate.” “What lovely dishes!” said Diantha. “Aren't they! Aluminum, silvered! If your washers are careful they won't get dented, and you can't break 'em.” Mrs. Bell examined the case and all its fittings with eager attention. “It's the prettiest thing I ever saw,” she said. “Look, Diantha; here's for soup, here's for water--or wine if you want, all your knives and forks at the side, Japanese napkins up here. Its lovely, but--I should think--expensive!” Mrs. Weatherstone smiled. “I've had twenty-five of them made. They cost, with the fittings, $100 apiece, $2,500. I will rent them to you, Miss Bell, at a rate of 10 per cent. interest; only $250 a year!” “It ought to take more,” said Mrs. Bell, “there'll be breakage and waste.” “You can't break them, I tell you,” said the cheerful visitor, “and dents can be smoothed out in any tin shop--you'll have to pay for it;--will that satisfy you?” Diantha was looking at her, her eyes deep with gratitude. “I--you know what I think of you!” she said. Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “I'm not through yet,” she said. “Look at my next piece of impudence!” This was only on paper, but the pictures were amply illuminating. “I went to several factories,” she gleefully explained, “here and abroad. A Yankee firm built it. It's in my garage now!” It was a light gasolene motor wagon, the body built like those old-fashioned moving wagons which were also used for excursions, wherein the floor of the vehicle was rather narrow, and set low, and the seats ran lengthwise, widening out over the wheels; only here the wheels were lower, and in the space under the seats ran a row of lockers opening outside. Mrs. Weatherstone smiled triumphantly. “Now, Diantha Bell,” she said, “here's something you haven't thought of, I do believe! This estimable vehicle will carry thirty people inside easily,” and she showed them how each side held twelve, and turn-up seats accommodated six more; “and outside,”--she showed the lengthwise picture--“it carries twenty-four containers. If you want to send all your twenty-five at once, one can go here by the driver. “Now then. This is not an obligation, Miss Bell, it is another valuable investment. I'm having more made. I expect to have use for them in a good many places. This cost pretty near $3,000, and you get it at the same good interest, for $300 a year. What's more, if you are smart enough--and I don't doubt you are,--you can buy the whole thing on installments, same as you mean to with your furniture.” Diantha was dumb, but her mother wasn't. She thanked Mrs. Weatherstone with a hearty appreciation of her opportune help, but no less of her excellent investment. “Don't be a goose, Diantha,” she said. “You will set up your food business in first class style, and I think you can carry it successfully. But Mrs. Weatherstone's right; she's got a new investment here that'll pay her better than most others--and be a growing thing I do believe.” And still Diantha found it difficult to express her feelings. She had lived under a good deal of strain for many months now, and this sudden opening out of her plans was a heavenly help indeed. Mrs. Weatherstone went around the table and sat by her. “Child,” said she, “you don't begin to realize what you've done for me--and for Isobel--and for ever so many in this town, and all over the world. And besides, don't you think anybody else can see your dream? We can't _do_ it as you can, but we can see what it's going to mean,--and we'll help if we can. You wouldn't grudge us that, would you?” As a result of all this the cooked food delivery service was opened at once. “It is true that the tourists are gone, mostly,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, as she urged it, “but you see there are ever so many residents who have more trouble with servants in summer than they do in winter, and hate to have a fire in the house, too.” So Diantha's circulars had an addition, forthwith. These were distributed among the Orchardinians, setting their tongues wagging anew, as a fresh breeze stirs the eaves of the forest. The stealthy inroads of lunches and evening refreshments had been deprecated already; this new kind of servant who wasn't a servant, but held her head up like anyone else (“They are as independent as--as--'salesladies,'” said one critic), was also viewed with alarm; but when even this domestic assistant was to be removed, and a square case of food and dishes substituted, all Archaic Orchardina was horrified. There were plenty of new minds in the place, however; enough to start Diantha with seven full orders and five partial ones. Her work at the club was now much easier, thanks to her mother's assistance, to the smoother running of all the machinery with the passing of time, and further to the fact that most of her girls were now working at summer resorts, for shorter hours and higher wages. They paid for their rooms at the club still, but the work of the house was so much lightened that each of the employees was given two weeks of vacation--on full pay. The lunch department kept on a pretty regular basis from the patronage of resident business men, and the young manager--in her ambitious moments--planned for enlarging it in the winter. But during the summer her whole energies went to perfecting the _menus_ and the service of her food delivery. Mrs. Porne was the very first to order. She had been waiting impatiently for a chance to try the plan, and, with her husband, had the firmest faith in Diantha's capacity to carry it through. “We don't save much in money,” she explained to the eager Mrs. Ree, who hovered, fascinated, over the dangerous topic, “but we do in comfort, I can tell you. You see I had two girls, paid them $12 a week; now I keep just the one, for $6. My food and fuel for the four of us (I don't count the babies either time--they remain as before), was all of $16, often more. That made $28 a week. Now I pay for three meals a day, delivered, for three of us, $15 a week--with the nurse's wages, $21. Then I pay a laundress one day, $2, and her two meals, $.50, making $23.50. Then I have two maids, for an hour a day, to clean; $.50 a day for six days, $3, and one maid Sunday, $.25. $26.75 in all. So we only make $1.25. _But!_ there's another room! We have the cook's room for an extra guest; I use it most for a sewing room, though and the kitchen is a sort of day nursery now. The house seems as big again!” “But the food?” eagerly inquired Mrs. Ree. “Is it as good as your own? Is it hot and tempting?” Mrs. Ree was fascinated by the new heresy. As a staunch adherent of the old Home and Culture Club, and its older ideals, she disapproved of the undertaking, but her curiosity was keen about it. Mrs. Porne smiled patiently. “You remember Diantha Bell's cooking I am sure, Mrs. Ree,” she said. “And Julianna used to cook for dinner parties--when one could get her. My Swede was a very ordinary cook, as most of these untrained girls are. Do take off your hat and have dinner with us,--I'll show you,” urged Mrs. Porne. “I--O I mustn't,” fluttered the little woman. “They'll expect me at home--and--surely your--supply--doesn't allow for guests?” “We'll arrange all that by 'phone,” her hostess explained; and she promptly sent word to the Ree household, then called up Union House and ordered one extra dinner. “Is it--I'm dreadfully rude I know, but I'm _so_ interested! Is it--expensive?” Mrs. Porne smiled. “Haven't you seen the little circular? Here's one, 'Extra meals to regular patrons 25 cents.' And no more trouble to order than to tell a maid.” Mrs. Ree had a lively sense of paltering with Satan as she sat down to the Porne's dinner table. She had seen the delivery wagon drive to the door, had heard the man deposit something heavy on the back porch, and was now confronted by a butler's tray at Mrs. Porne's left, whereon stood a neat square shining object with silvery panels and bamboo trimmings. “It's not at all bad looking, is it?” she ventured. “Not bad enough to spoil one's appetite,” Mr. Porne cheerily agreed. “Open, Sesame! Now you know the worst.” Mrs. Porne opened it, and an inner front was shown, with various small doors and drawers. “Do you know what is in it?” asked the guest. “No, thank goodness, I don't,” replied her hostess. “If there's anything tiresome it is to order meals and always know what's coming! That's what men get so tired of at restaurants; what they hate so when their wives ask them what they want for dinner. Now I can enjoy my dinner at my own table, just as if I was a guest.” “It is--a tax--sometimes,” Mrs. Ree admitted, adding hastily, “But one is glad to do it--to make home attractive.” Mr. Porne's eyes sought his wife's, and love and contentment flashed between them, as she quietly set upon the table three silvery plates. “Not silver, surely!” said Mrs. Ree, lifting hers, “Oh, aluminum.” “Aluminum, silver plated,” said Mr. Porne. “They've learned how to do it at last. It's a problem of weight, you see, and breakage. Aluminum isn't pretty, glass and silver are heavy, but we all love silver, and there's a pleasant sense of gorgeousness in this outfit.” It did look rather impressive; silver tumblers, silver dishes, the whole dainty service--and so surprisingly light. “You see she knows that it is very important to please the eye as well as the palate,” said Mr. Porne. “Now speaking of palates, let us all keep silent and taste this soup.” They did keep silent in supreme contentment while the soup lasted. Mrs. Ree laid down her spoon with the air of one roused from a lovely dream. “Why--why--it's like Paris,” she said in an awed tone. “Isn't it?” Mr. Porne agreed, “and not twice alike in a month, I think.” “Why, there aren't thirty kinds of soup, are there?” she urged. “I never thought there were when we kept servants,” said he. “Three was about their limit, and greasy, at that.” Mrs. Porne slipped the soup plates back in their place and served the meat. “She does not give a fish course, does she?” Mrs. Ree observed. “Not at the table d'hote price,” Mrs. Porne answered. “We never pretended to have a fish course ourselves--do you?” Mrs. Ree did not, and eagerly disclaimed any desire for fish. The meat was roast beef, thinly sliced, hot and juicy. “Don't you miss the carving, Mr. Porne?” asked the visitor. “I do so love to see a man at the head of his own table, carving.” “I do miss it, Mrs. Ree. I miss it every day of my life with devout thankfulness. I never was a good carver, so it was no pleasure to me to show off; and to tell you the truth, when I come to the table, I like to eat--not saw wood.” And Mr. Porne ate with every appearance of satisfaction. “We never get roast beef like this I'm sure,” Mrs. Ree admitted, “we can't get it small enough for our family.” “And a little roast is always spoiled in the cooking. Yes this is far better than we used to have,” agreed her hostess. Mrs. Ree enjoyed every mouthful of her meal. The soup was hot. The salad was crisp and the ice cream hard. There was sponge cake, thick, light, with sugar freckles on the dark crust. The coffee was perfect and almost burned the tongue. “I don't understand about the heat and cold,” she said; and they showed her the asbestos-lined compartments and perfectly fitting places for each dish and plate. Everything went back out of sight; small leavings in a special drawer, knives and forks held firmly by rubber fittings, nothing that shook or rattled. And the case was set back by the door where the man called for it at eight o'clock. “She doesn't furnish table linen?” “No, there are Japanese napkins at the top here. We like our own napkins, and we didn't use a cloth, anyway.” “And how about silver?” “We put ours away. This plated ware they furnish is perfectly good. We could use ours of course if we wanted to wash it. Some do that and some have their own case marked, and their own silver in it, but it's a good deal of risk, I think, though they are extremely careful.” Mrs. Ree experienced peculiarly mixed feelings. As far as food went, she had never eaten a better dinner. But her sense of Domestic Aesthetics was jarred. “It certainly tastes good,” she said. “Delicious, in fact. I am extremely obliged to you, Mrs. Porne, I'd no idea it could be sent so far and be so good. And only five dollars a week, you say?” “For each person, yes.” “I don't see how she does it. All those cases and dishes, and the delivery wagon!” That was the universal comment in Orchardina circles as the months passed and Union House continued in existence--“I don't see how she does it!” CHAPTER XII. LIKE A BANYAN TREE The Earth-Plants spring up from beneath, The Air-Plants swing down from above, But the Banyan trees grow Both above and below, And one makes a prosperous grove. In the fleeting opportunities offered by the Caffeteria, and in longer moments, rather neatly planned for, with some remnants of an earlier ingenuity, Mr. Thaddler contrived to become acquainted with Mrs. Bell. Diantha never quite liked him, but he won her mother's heart by frank praise of the girl and her ventures. “I never saw a smarter woman in my life,” he said; “and no airs. I tell you, ma'am, if there was more like her this world would be an easier place to live in, and I can see she owes it all to you, ma'am.” This the mother would never admit for a moment, but expatiated loyally on the scientific mind of Mr. Henderson Bell, still of Jopalez. “I don't see how he can bear to let her out of his sight,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Of course he hated to let her go,” replied the lady. “We both did. But he is very proud of her now.” “I guess there's somebody else who's proud of her, too,” he suggested. “Excuse me, ma'am, I don't mean to intrude, but we know there must be a good reason for your daughter keeping all Orchardina at a distance. Why, she could have married six times over in her first year here!” “She does not wish to give up her work,” Mrs. Bell explained. “Of course not; and why should she? Nice, womanly business, I am sure. I hope nobody'd expect a girl who can keep house for a whole township to settle down to bossing one man and a hired girl.” In course of time he got a pretty clear notion of how matters stood, and meditated upon it, seriously rolling his big cigar about between pursed lips. Mr. Thaddler was a good deal of a gossip, but this he kept to himself, and did what he could to enlarge the patronage of Union House. The business grew. It held its own in spite of fluctuations, and after a certain point began to spread steadily. Mrs. Bell's coming and Mr. Eltwood's ardent championship, together with Mr. Thaddler's, quieted the dangerous slanders which had imperilled the place at one time. They lingered, subterraneously, of course. People never forget slanders. A score of years after there were to be found in Orchardina folk who still whispered about dark allegations concerning Union House; and the papers had done some pretty serious damage; but the fame of good food, good service, cheapness and efficiency made steady headway. In view of the increase and of the plans still working in her mind, Diantha made certain propositions to Mr. Porne, and also to Mrs. Porne, in regard to a new, specially built club-house for the girls. “I have proved what they can do, with me to manage them, and want now to prove that they can do it themselves, with any matron competent to follow my directions. The house need not be so expensive; one big dining-room, with turn-up tables like those ironing-board seat-tables, you know--then they can dance there. Small reception room and office, hall, kitchen and laundry, and thirty bedrooms, forty by thirty, with an “ell” for the laundry, ought to do it, oughtn't it?” Mrs. Porne agreed to make plans, and did so most successfully, and Mr. Porne found small difficulty in persuading an investor to put up such a house, which visibly could be used as a boarding-house or small hotel, if it failed in its first purpose. It was built of concrete, a plain simple structure, but fine in proportions and pleasantly colored. Diantha kept her plans to herself, as usual, but they grew so fast that she felt a species of terror sometimes, lest the ice break somewhere. “Steady, now!” she would say. “This is real business, just plain business. There's no reason why I shouldn't succeed as well as Fred Harvey. I will succeed. I am succeeding.” She kept well, she worked hard, she was more than glad to have her mother with her; but she wanted something else, which seemed farther off than ever. Her lover's picture hung on the wall of her bedroom, stood on her bureau, and (but this was a secret) a small one was carried in her bosom. Rather a grim looking young woman, Diantha, with the cares of the world of house-keepers upon her proud young shoulders; with all the stirring hopes to be kept within bounds, all the skulking fears to be resisted, and the growing burden of a large affair to be carried steadily. But when she woke, in the brilliant California mornings, she would lie still a few moments looking at the face on the wall and the face on the bureau; would draw the little picture out from under her pillow and kiss it, would say to herself for the thousandth time, “It is for him, too.” She missed him, always. The very vigor of her general attitude, the continued strength with which she met the days and carried them, made it all the more needful for her to have some one with whom she could forget every care, every purpose, every effort; some one who would put strong arms around her and call her “Little Girl.” His letters were both a comfort and a pain. He was loyal, kind, loving, but always that wall of disapproval. He loved her, he did not love her work. She read them over and over, hunting anew for the tender phrases, the things which seemed most to feed and comfort her. She suffered not only from her loneliness, but from his; and most keenly from his sternly suppressed longing for freedom and the work that belonged to him. “Why can't he see,” she would say to herself, “that if this succeeds, he can do his work; that I can make it possible for him? And he won't let me. He won't take it from me. Why are men so proud? Is there anything so ignominious about a woman that it is disgraceful to let one help you? And why can't he think at all about the others? It's not just us, it's all people. If this works, men will have easier times, as well as women. Everybody can do their real work better with this old primitive business once set right.” And then it was always time to get up, or time to go to bed, or time to attend to some of the numberless details of her affairs. She and her mother had an early lunch before the caffeteria opened, and were glad of the afternoon tea, often held in a retired corner of the broad piazza. She sat there one hot, dusty afternoon, alone and unusually tired. The asphalted street was glaring and noisy, the cross street deep in soft dust, for months unwet. Failure had not discouraged her, but increasing success with all its stimulus and satisfaction called for more and more power. Her mind was busy foreseeing, arranging, providing for emergencies; and then the whole thing slipped away from her, she dropped her head upon her arm for a moment, on the edge of the tea table, and wished for Ross. From down the street and up the street at this moment, two men were coming; both young, both tall, both good looking, both apparently approaching Union House. One of them was the nearer, and his foot soon sounded on the wooden step. The other stopped and looked in a shop window. Diantha started up, came forward,--it was Mr. Eltwood. She had a vague sense of disappointment, but received him cordially. He stood there, his hat off, holding her hand for a long moment, and gazing at her with evident admiration. They turned and sat down in the shadow of the reed-curtained corner. The man at the shop window turned, too, and went away. Mr. Eltwood had been a warm friend and cordial supporter from the epoch of the Club-splitting speech. He had helped materially in the slow, up-hill days of the girl's effort, with faith and kind words. He had met the mother's coming with most friendly advances, and Mrs. Bell found herself much at home in his liberal little church. Diantha had grown to like and trust him much. “What's this about the new house, Miss Bell? Your mother says I may know.” “Why not?” she said. “You have followed this thing from the first. Sugar or lemon? You see I want to disentangle the undertakings, set them upon their own separate feet, and establish the practical working of each one.” “I see,” he said, “and 'day service' is not 'cooked food delivery.'” “Nor yet 'rooms for entertainment',” she agreed. “We've got them all labelled, mother and I. There's the 'd. s.' and 'c. f. d.' and 'r. f. e.' and the 'p. p.' That's picnics and parties. And more coming.” “What, more yet? You'll kill yourself, Miss Bell. Don't go too fast. You are doing a great work for humanity. Why not take a little more time?” “I want to do it as quickly as I can, for reasons,” answered Diantha. Mr. Eltwood looked at her with tender understanding. “I don't want to intrude any further than you are willing to want me,” he said, “but sometimes I think that even you--strong as you are--would be better for some help.” She did not contradict him. Her hands were in her lap, her eyes on the worn boards of the piazza floor. She did not see a man pass on the other side of the street, cast a searching glance across and walk quickly on again. “If you were quite free to go on with your beautiful work,” said Mr. Eltwood slowly, “if you were offered heartiest appreciation, profound respect, as well as love, of course; would you object to marrying, Miss Bell?” asked in an even voice, as if it were a matter of metaphysical inquiry. Mrs. Porne had told him of her theory as to a lover in the home town, wishing to save him a long heart ache, but he was not sure of it, and he wanted to be. Diantha glanced quickly at him, and felt the emotion under his quiet words. She withdrew her eyes, looking quite the other way. “You are enough of a friend to know, Mr. Eltwood,” she said, “I rather thought you did know. I am engaged.” “Thank you for telling me; some one is greatly to be congratulated,” he spoke sincerely, and talked quietly on about less personal matters, holding his tea untasted till it was cold. “Do let me give you some that is hot,” she said at last, “and let me thank you from my heart for the help and strength and comfort you have been to me, Mr. Eltwood.” “I'm very glad,” he said; and again, “I am very glad.” “You may count upon anything I can do for you, always,” he continued. “I am proud to be your friend.” He held her hand once more for a moment, and went away with his head up and a firm step. To one who watched him go, he had almost a triumphant air, but it was not triumph, only the brave beginning of a hard fight and a long one. Then came Mrs. Bell, returned from a shopping trip, and sank down in a wicker rocker, glad of the shade and a cup of tea. No, she didn't want it iced. “Hot tea makes you cooler,” was her theory. “You don't look very tired,” said the girl. “Seems to me you get stronger all the time.” “I do,” said her mother. “You don't realize, you can't realize, Diantha, what this means to me. Of course to you I am an old woman, a back number--one has to feel so about one's mother. I did when I married, and my mother then was five years younger than I am now.” “I don't think you old, mother, not a bit of it. You ought to have twenty or thirty years of life before you, real life.” “That's just what I'm feeling,” said Mrs. Bell, “as if I'd just begun to live! This is so _different!_ There is a big, moving thing to work for. There is--why Diantha, you wouldn't believe what a comfort it is to me to feel that my work here is--really--adding to the profits!” Diantha laughed aloud. “You dear old darling,” she said, “I should think it was! It is _making_ the profits.” “And it grows so,” her mother went on. “Here's this part so well assured that you're setting up the new Union House! Are you _sure_ about Mrs. Jessup, dear?” “As sure as I can be of any one till I've tried a long time. She has done all I've asked her to here, and done it well. Besides, I mean to keep a hand on it for a year or two yet--I can't afford to have that fail.” Mrs. Jessup was an imported aunt, belonging to one of the cleverest girls, and Diantha had had her in training for some weeks. “Well, I guess she's as good as any you'd be likely to get,” Mrs. Bell admitted, “and we mustn't expect paragons. If this can't be done by an average bunch of working women the world over, it can't be done--that's all!” “It can be done,” said the girl, calmly. “It will be done. You see.” “Mr. Thaddler says you could run any kind of a business you set your hand to,” her mother went on. “He has a profound respect for your abilities, Dina.” “Seems to me you and Mr. Thaddler have a good deal to say to each other, motherkins. I believe you enjoy that caffeteria desk, and all the compliments you get.” “I do,” said Mrs. Bell stoutly. “I do indeed! Why, I haven't seen so many men, to speak to, since--why, never in my life! And they are very amusing--some of them. They like to come here--like it immensely. And I don't wonder. I believe you'll do well to enlarge.” Then they plunged into a discussion of the winter's plans. The day service department and its employment agency was to go on at the New Union House, with Mrs. Jessup as manager; the present establishment was to be run as a hotel and restaurant, and the depot for the cooked food delivery. Mrs. Thorvald and her husband were installed by themselves in another new venture; a small laundry outside the town. This place employed several girls steadily, and the motor wagon found a new use between meals, in collecting and delivering laundry parcels. “It simplifies it a lot--to get the washing out of the place and the girls off my mind,” said Diantha. “Now I mean to buckle down and learn the hotel business--thoroughly, and develop this cooked food delivery to perfection.” “Modest young lady,” smiled her mother. “Where do you mean to stop--if ever?” “I don't mean to stop till I'm dead,” Diantha answered; “but I don't mean to undertake any more trades, if that is what you mean. You know what I'm after--to get 'housework' on a business basis, that's all; and prove, prove, PROVE what a good business it is. There's the cleaning branch--that's all started and going well in the day service. There's the washing--that's simple and easy. Laundry work's no mystery. But the food part is a big thing. It's an art, a science, a business, and a handicraft. I had the handicraft to start with; I'm learning the business; but I've got a lot to learn yet in the science and art of it.” “Don't do too much at once,” her mother urged. “You've got to cater to people as they are.” “I know it,” the girl agreed. “They must be led, step by step--the natural method. It's a big job, but not too big. Out of all the women who have done housework for so many ages, surely it's not too much to expect one to have a special genius for it!” Her mother gazed at her with loving admiration. “That's just what you have, Dina--a special genius for housework. I wish there were more of you!” “There are plenty of me, mother dear, only they haven't come out. As soon as I show 'em how to make the thing pay, you'll find that we have a big percentage of this kind of ability. It's all buried now in the occasional 'perfect housekeeper.' “But they won't leave their husbands, Dina.” “They don't need to,” the girl answered cheerfully. “Some of them aren't married yet; some of them have lost their husbands, and _some_ of them”--she said this a little bitterly--“have husbands who will be willing to let their wives grow.” “Not many, I'm afraid,” said Mrs. Bell, also with some gloom. Diantha lightened up again. “Anyhow, here you are, mother dear! And for this year I propose that you assume the financial management of the whole business at a salary of $1,000 'and found.' How does that suit you?” Mrs. Bell looked at her unbelievingly. “You can't afford it, Dina!” “Oh, yes, I can--you know I can, because you've got the accounts. I'm going to make big money this year.” “But you'll need it. This hotel and restaurant business may not do well.” “Now, mother, you _know_ we're doing well. Look here!” And Diantha produced her note-book. “Here's the little laundry place; its fittings come to so much, wages so much, collection and delivery so much, supplies so much--and already enough patronage engaged to cover. It will be bigger in winter, a lot, with transients, and this hotel to fall back on; ought to clear at least a thousand a year. The service club don't pay me anything, of course; that is for the girls' benefit; but the food delivery is doing better than I dared hope.” Mrs. Bell knew the figures better than Diantha, even, and they went over them carefully again. If the winter's patronage held on to equal the summer's--and the many transient residents ought to increase it--they would have an average of twenty families a week to provide for--one hundred persons. The expenses were: Food for 100 at $250 a week. Per capita. $600 --- per year $13,000 Labor--delivery man. $600 Head cook. $600 Two assistant cooks. $1,040 Three washers and packers. $1,560 Office girl. $520 --- Per year $4,320 Rent, kitchen, office, etc. $500 Rent of motor. $300 Rent of cases. $250 Gasolene and repairs. $630 --- Per year $1,680 Total. $19,000 “How do you make the gasolene and repairs as much as that?” asked Mrs. Bell. “It's margin, mother--makes it even money. It won't be so much, probably.” The income was simple and sufficient. They charged $5.00 a week per capita for three meals, table d'hote, delivered thrice daily. Frequent orders for extra meals really gave them more than they set down, but the hundred-person estimate amounted to $26,000 a year. “Now, see,” said Diantha triumphantly; “subtract all that expense list (and it is a liberal one), and we have $7,000 left. I can buy the car and the cases this year and have $1,600 over! More; because if I do buy them I can leave off some of the interest, and the rent of kitchen and office comes to Union House! Then there's all of the extra orders. It's going to pay splendidly, mother! It clears $70 a year per person. Next year it will clear a lot more.” It did not take long to make Mrs. Bell admit that if the business went on as it had been going Diantha would be able to pay her a salary of a thousand dollars, and have five hundred left--from the food business alone. There remained the hotel, with large possibilities. The present simple furnishings were to be moved over to New Union House, and paid for by the girls in due time. With new paint, paper, and furniture, the old house would make a very comfortable place. “Of course, it's the restaurant mainly--these big kitchens and the central location are the main thing. The guests will be mostly tourists, I suppose.” Diantha dwelt upon the prospect at some length; and even her cautious mother had to admit that unless there was some setback the year had a prospect of large success. “How about all this new furnishing?” Mrs. Bell said suddenly. “How do you cover that? Take what you've got ahead now?” “Yes; there's plenty,” said Diantha. “You see, there is all Union House has made, and this summer's profit on the cooked food--it's plenty.” “Then you can't pay for the motor and cases as you planned,” her mother insisted. “No, not unless the hotel and restaurant pays enough to make good. But I don't _have_ to buy them the first year. If I don't, there is $5,500 leeway.” “Yes, you are safe enough; there's over $4,000 in the bank now,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “But, child,” she said suddenly, “your father!” “Yes, I've thought of father,” said the girl, “and I mean to ask him to come and live at the hotel. I think he'd like it. He could meet people and talk about his ideas, and I'm sure I'd like to have him.” They talked much and long about this, till the evening settled about them, till they had their quiet supper, and the girls came home to their noisy one; and late that evening, when all was still again, Diantha came to the dim piazza corner once more and sat there quite alone. Full of hope, full of courage, sure of her progress--and aching with loneliness. She sat with her head in her hands, and to her ears came suddenly the sound of a familiar step--a well-known voice--the hands and the lips of her lover. “Diantha!” He held her close. “Oh, Ross! Ross! Darling! Is it true? When did you come? Oh, I'm so glad! So _glad_ to see you!” She was so glad that she had to cry a little on his shoulder, which he seemed to thoroughly enjoy. “I've good news for you, little girl,” he said. “Good news at last! Listen, dear; don't cry. There's an end in sight. A man has bought out my shop. The incubus is off--I can _live_ now!” He held his head up in a fine triumph, and she watched him adoringly. “Did you--was it profitable?” she asked. “It's all exchange, and some cash to boot. Just think! You know what I've wanted so long--a ranch. A big one that would keep us all, and let me go on with my work. And, dear--I've got it! It's a big fruit ranch, with its own water--think of that! And a vegetable garden, too, and small fruit, and everything. And, what's better, it's all in good running order, with a competent ranchman, and two Chinese who rent the vegetable part. And there are two houses on it--_two_. One for mother and the girls, and one for us!” Diantha's heart stirred suddenly. “Where is it, dear?” she whispered. He laughed joyfully. “It's _here!”_ he said. “About eight miles or so out, up by the mountains; has a little canyon of its own--its own little stream and reservoir. Oh, my darling! My darling!” They sat in happy silence in the perfumed night. The strong arms were around her, the big shoulder to lean on, the dear voice to call her “little girl.” The year of separation vanished from their thoughts, and the long years of companionship opened bright and glorious before them. “I came this afternoon,” he said at length, “but I saw another man coming. He got here first. I thought--” “Ross! You didn't! And you've left me to go without you all these hours!” “He looked so confident when he went away that I was jealous,” Ross admitted, “furiously jealous. And then your mother was here, and then those cackling girls. I wanted you--alone.” And then he had her, alone, for other quiet, happy moments. She was so glad of him. Her hold upon his hand, upon his coat, was tight. “I don't know how I've lived without you,” she said softly. “Nor I,” said he. “I haven't lived. It isn't life--without you. Well, dearest, it needn't be much longer. We closed the deal this afternoon. I came down here to see the place, and--incidentally--to see you!” More silence. “I shall turn over the store at once. It won't take long to move and settle; there's enough money over to do that. And the ranch pays, Diantha! It really _pays,_ and will carry us all. How long will it take you to get out of this?” “Get out of--what?” she faltered. “Why, the whole abominable business you're so deep in here. Thank God, there's no shadow of need for it any more!” The girl's face went white, but he could not see it. She would not believe him. “Why, dear,” she said, “if your ranch is as near as that it would be perfectly easy for me to come in to the business--with a car. I can afford a car soon.” “But I tell you there's no need any more,” said he. “Don't you understand? This is a paying fruit ranch, with land rented to advantage, and a competent manager right there running it. It's simply changed owners. I'm the owner now! There's two or three thousand a year to be made on it--has been made on it! There is a home for my people--a home for us! Oh, my beloved girl! My darling! My own sweetheart! Surely you won't refuse me now!” Diantha's head swam dizzily. “Ross,” she urged, “you don't understand! I've built up a good business here--a real successful business. Mother is in it; father's to come down; there is a big patronage; it grows. I can't give it up!” “Not for me? Not when I can offer you a home at last? Not when I show you that there is no longer any need of your earning money?” he said hotly. “But, dear--dear!” she protested. “It isn't for the money; it is the work I want to do--it is my work! You are so happy now that you can do your work--at last! This is mine!” When he spoke again his voice was low and stern. “Do you mean that you love--your work--better than you love me?” “No! It isn't that! That's not fair!” cried the girl. “Do you love your work better than you love me? Of course not! You love both. So do I. Can't you see? Why should I have to give up anything?” “You do not have to,” he said patiently. “I cannot compel you to marry me. But now, when at last--after these awful years--I can really offer you a home--you refuse!” “I have not refused,” she said slowly. His voice lightened again. “Ah, dearest! And you will not! You will marry me?” “I will marry you, Ross!” “And when? When, dearest?” “As soon as you are ready.” “But--can you drop this at once?” “I shall not drop it.” Her voice was low, very low, but clear and steady. He rose to his feet with a muffled exclamation, and walked the length of the piazza and back. “Do you realize that you are saying no to me, Diantha?” “You are mistaken, dear. I have said that I will marry you whenever you choose. But it is you who are saying, 'I will not marry a woman with a business.'” “This is foolishness!” he said sharply. “No man--that is a man--would marry a woman and let her run a business.” “You are mistaken,” she answered. “One of the finest men I ever knew has asked me to marry him--and keep on with my work!” “Why didn't you take him up?” “Because I didn't love him.” She stopped, a sob in her voice, and he caught her in his arms again. It was late indeed when he went away, walking swiftly, with a black rebellion in his heart; and Diantha dragged herself to bed. She was stunned, deadened, exhausted; torn with a desire to run after him and give up--give up anything to hold his love. But something, partly reason and partly pride, kept saying within her: “I have not refused him; he has refused me!” CHAPTER XIII. ALL THIS. They laid before her conquering feet The spoils of many lands; Their crowns shone red upon her head Their scepters in her hands. She heard two murmuring at night, Where rose-sweet shadows rest; And coveted the blossom red He laid upon her breast. When Madam Weatherstone shook the plentiful dust of Orchardina from her expensive shoes, and returned to adorn the more classic groves of Philadelphia, Mrs. Thaddler assumed to hold undisputed sway as a social leader. The Social Leader she meant to be; and marshalled her forces to that end. She Patronized here, and Donated there; revised her visiting list with rigid exclusiveness; secured an Eminent Professor and a Noted Writer as visitors, and gave entertainments of almost Roman magnificence. Her husband grew more and more restive under the rising tide of social exactions in dress and deportment; and spent more and more time behind his fast horses, or on the stock-ranch where he raised them. As a neighbor and fellow ranchman, he scraped acquaintance with Ross Warden, and was able to render him many small services in the process of settling. Mrs. Warden remembered his visit to Jopalez, and it took her some time to rearrange him in her mind as a person of wealth and standing. Having so rearranged him, on sufficient evidence, she and her daughters became most friendly, and had hopes of establishing valuable acquaintance in the town. “It's not for myself I care,” she would explain to Ross, every day in the week and more on Sundays, “but for the girls. In that dreadful Jopalez there was absolutely _no_ opportunity for them; but here, with horses, there is no reason we should not have friends. You must consider your sisters, Ross! Do be more cordial to Mr. Thaddler.” But Ross could not at present be cordial to anybody. His unexpected good fortune, the freedom from hated cares, and chance to work out his mighty theories on the faithful guinea-pig, ought to have filled his soul with joy; but Diantha's cruel obstinacy had embittered his cup of joy. He could not break with her; she had not refused him, and it was difficult in cold blood to refuse her. He had stayed away for two whole weeks, in which time the guinea-pigs nibbled at ease and Diantha's work would have suffered except for her mother's extra efforts. Then he went to see her again, miserable but stubborn, finding her also miserable and also stubborn. They argued till there was grave danger of an absolute break between them; then dropped the subject by mutual agreement, and spent evenings of unsatisfying effort to talk about other things. Diantha and her mother called on Mrs. Warden, of course, admiring the glorious view, the sweet high air, and the embowered loveliness of the two ranch houses. Ross drew Diantha aside and showed her “theirs”--a lovely little wide-porched concrete cottage, with a red-tiled roof, and heavy masses of Gold of Ophir and Banksia roses. He held her hand and drew her close to him. He kissed her when they were safe inside, and murmured: “Come, darling--won't you come and be my wife?” “I will, Ross--whenever you say--but--!” She would not agree to give up her work, and he flung away from her in reckless despair. Mrs. Warden and the girls returned the call as a matter of duty, but came no more; the mother saying that she could not take her daughters to a Servant Girls' Club. And though the Servant Girls' Club was soon removed to its new quarters and Union House became a quiet, well-conducted hotel, still the two families saw but little of each other. Mrs. Warden naturally took her son's side, and considered Diantha an unnatural monster of hard-heartedness. The matter sifted through to the ears of Mrs. Thaddler, who rejoiced in it, and called upon Mrs. Warden in her largest automobile. As a mother with four marriageable daughters, Mrs. Warden was delighted to accept and improve the acquaintance, but her aristocratic Southern soul was inwardly rebellious at the ancestorlessness and uncultured moneyed pride of her new friend. “If only Madam Weatherstone had stayed!” she would complain to her daughters. “She had Family as well as Wealth.” “There's young Mrs. Weatherstone, mother--” suggested Dora. “A nobody!” her mother replied. “She has the Weatherstone money, of course, but no Position; and what little she has she is losing by her low tastes. She goes about freely with Diantha Bell--her own housekeeper!” “She's not her housekeeper now, mother--” “Well, it's all the same! She _was!_ And a mere general servant before that! And now to think that when Ross is willing to overlook it all and marry her, she won't give it up!” They were all agreed on this point, unless perhaps that the youngest had her inward reservations. Dora had always liked Diantha better than had the others. Young Mrs. Weatherstone stayed in her big empty house for a while, and as Mrs. Warden said, went about frequently with Diantha Bell. She liked Mrs. Bell, too--took her for long stimulating rides in her comfortable car, and insisted that first one and then the other of them should have a bit of vacation at her seashore home before the winter's work grew too heavy. With Mrs. Bell she talked much of how Diantha had helped the town. “She has no idea of the psychic effects, Mrs. Bell,” said she. “She sees the business, and she has a great view of all it is going to do for women to come; but I don't think she realizes how much she is doing right now for women here--and men, too. There were my friends the Pornes; they were 'drifting apart,' as the novels have it--and no wonder. Isabel was absolutely no good as a housekeeper; he naturally didn't like it--and the baby made it all the worse; she pined for her work, you see, and couldn't get any time for it. Now they are as happy as can be--and it's just Diantha Bell's doings. The housework is off Isabel's shoulders. “Then there are the Wagrams, and the Sheldons, and the Brinks--and ever so many more--who have told me themselves that they are far happier than they ever were before--and can live more cheaply. She ought to be the happiest girl alive!” Mrs. Bell would agree to this, and quite swelled with happiness and pride; but Mrs. Weatherstone, watching narrowly, was not satisfied. When she had Diantha with her she opened fire direct. “You ought to be the happiest, proudest, most triumphant woman in the world!” she said. “You're making oodles of money, your whole thing's going well, and look at your mother--she's made over!” Diantha smiled and said she was happy; but her eyes would stray off to the very rim of the ocean; her mouth set in patient lines that were not in the least triumphant. “Tell me about it, my friend,” said her hostess. “Is it that he won't let you keep on with the business?” Diantha nodded. “And you won't give it up to marry him?” “No,” said Diantha. “No. Why should I? I'd marry him--to-morrow!” She held one hand with the other, tight, but they both shook a little. “I'd be glad to. But I will not give up my work!” “You look thin,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Yes--” “Do you sleep well?” “No--not very.” “And I can see that you don't eat as you ought to. Hm! Are you going to break down?” “No,” said Diantha, “I am not going to break down. I am doing what is right, and I shall go on. It's a little hard at first--having him so near. But I am young and strong and have a great deal to do--I shall do it.” And then Mrs. Weatherstone would tell her all she knew of the intense satisfaction of the people she served, and pleasant stories about the girls. She bought her books to read and such gleanings as she found in foreign magazines on the subject of organized house-service. Not only so, but she supplied the Orchardina library with a special bibliography on the subject, and induced the new Woman's Club to take up a course of reading in it, so that there gradually filtered into the Orchardina mind a faint perception that this was not the freak of an eccentric individual, but part of an inevitable business development, going on in various ways in many nations. As the winter drew on, Mrs. Weatherstone whisked away again, but kept a warm current of interest in Diantha's life by many letters. Mr. Bell came down from Jopalez with outer reluctance but inner satisfaction. He had rented his place, and Susie had three babies now. Henderson, Jr., had no place for him, and to do housework for himself was no part of Mr. Bell's plan. In Diantha's hotel he had a comfortable room next his wife's, and a capacious chair in the firelit hall in wet weather, or on the shaded piazza in dry. The excellent library was a resource to him; he found some congenial souls to talk with; and under the new stimulus succeeded at last in patenting a small device that really worked. With this, and his rent, he felt inclined to establish a “home of his own,” and the soul of Mrs. Bell sank within her. Without allowing it to come to an issue between them, she kept the question open for endless discussion; and Mr. Bell lived on in great contentment under the impression that he was about to move at almost any time. To his friends and cronies he dilated with pride on his daughter's wonderful achievements. “She's as good as a boy!” he would declare. “Women nowadays seem to do anything they want to!” And he rigidly paid his board bill with a flourish. Meanwhile the impressive gatherings at Mrs. Thaddler's, and the humbler tea and card parties of Diantha's friends, had a new topic as a shuttlecock. A New York company had bought one of the largest and finest blocks in town--the old Para place--and was developing it in a manner hitherto unseen. The big, shabby, neglected estate began to turn into such a fairyland as only southern lands can know. The old live-oaks were untouched; the towering eucalyptus trees remained in ragged majesty; but an army of workmen was busy under guidance of a master of beauty. One large and lovely building rose, promptly dubbed a hotel by the unwilling neighbors; others, smaller, showed here and there among the trees; and then a rose-gray wall of concrete ran around the whole, high, tantalizing, with green boughs and sweet odors coming over it. Those who went in reported many buildings, and much activity. But, when the wall was done, and each gate said “No admittance except on business,” then the work of genii was imagined, and there was none to contradict. It was a School of Theosophy; it was a Christian Science College; it was a Free-Love Colony; it was a Secret Society; it was a thousand wonders. “Lot of little houses and one big one,” the employees said when questioned. “Hotel and cottages,” the employers said when questioned. They made no secret of it, they were too busy; but the town was unsatisfied. Why a wall? What did any honest person want of a wall? Yet the wall cast a pleasant shadow; there were seats here and there between buttresses, and, as the swift California season advanced, roses and oleanders nodded over the top, and gave hints of beauty and richness more subtly stimulating than all the open glory of the low-hedged gardens near. Diantha's soul was stirred with secret envy. Some big concern was about to carry out her dream, or part of it--perhaps to be a huge and overflowing rival. Her own work grew meantime, and flourished as well as she could wish. The food-delivery service was running to its full capacity; the girls got on very well under Mrs. Jessup, and were delighted to have a house of their own with the parlors and piazzas all to themselves, and a garden to sit in as well. If this depleted their ranks by marriage, it did not matter now, for there was a waiting list in training all the time. Union House kept on evenly and profitably, and Diantha was beginning to feel safe and successful; but the years looked long before her. She was always cheered by Mrs. Weatherstone's letters; and Mrs. Porne came to see her, and to compare notes over their friend's success. For Mrs. Weatherstone had been presented at Court--at more than one court, in fact; and Mrs. Weatherstone had been proposed to by a Duke--and had refused him! Orchardina well-nigh swooned when this was known. She had been studying, investigating, had become known in scientific as well as social circles, and on her way back the strenuous upper layer of New York Society had also made much of her. Rumors grew of her exquisite costumes, of her unusual jewels, of her unique entertainments, of her popularity everywhere she went. Other proposals, of a magnificent nature, were reported, with more magnificent refusals; and Orchardina began to be very proud of young Mrs. Weatherstone and to wish she would come back. She did at last, bringing an Italian Prince with her, and a Hoch Geborene German Count also, who alleged they were travelling to study the country, but who were reputed to have had a duel already on the beautiful widow's account. All this was long-drawn gossip but bore some faint resemblance to the facts. Viva Weatherstone at thirty was a very different woman front the pale, sad-eyed girl of four years earlier. And when the great house on the avenue was arrayed in new magnificence, and all Orchardina--that dared--had paid its respects to her, she opened the season, as it were, with a brilliant dinner, followed by a reception and ball. All Orchardina came--so far as it had been invited. There was the Prince, sure enough--a pleasant, blue-eyed young man. And there was the Count, bearing visible evidence of duels a-plenty in earlier days. And there was Diantha Bell--receiving, with Mrs. Porne and Mrs. Weatherstone. All Orchardina stared. Diantha had been at the dinner--that was clear. And now she stood there in her soft, dark evening dress, the knot of golden acacias nestling against the black lace at her bosom, looking as fair and sweet as if she had never had a care in her life. Her mother thought her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; and her father, though somewhat critical, secretly thought so, too. Mrs. Weatherstone cast many a loving look at the tall girl beside her in the intervals of “Delighted to see you's,” and saw that her double burden had had no worse effect than to soften the lines of the mouth and give a hint of pathos to the clear depths of her eyes. The foreign visitors were much interested in the young Amazon of Industry, as the Prince insisted on calling her; and even the German Count for a moment forgot his ancestors in her pleasant practical talk. Mrs. Weatherstone had taken pains to call upon the Wardens--claiming a connection, if not a relationship, and to invite them all. And as the crowd grew bigger and bigger, Diantha saw Mrs. Warden at last approaching with her four daughters--and no one else. She greeted them politely and warmly; but Mrs. Weatherstone did more. Holding them all in a little group beside her, she introduced her noble visitors to them; imparted the further information that their brother was _fiance_ to Miss Bell. “I don't see him,” she said, looking about. “He will come later, of course. Ah, Miss Madeline! How proud you all must feel of your sister-in-law to be!” Madeline blushed and tried to say she was. “Such a remarkable young lady!” said the Count to Adeline. “You will admire, envy, and imitate! Is it not so?” “Your ladies of America have all things in your hands,” said the Prince to Miss Cora. “To think that she has done so much, and is yet so young--and so beautiful!” “I know you're all as proud as you can be,” Mrs. Weatherstone continued to Dora. “You see, Diantha has been heard of abroad.” They all passed on presently, as others came; but Mrs. Warden's head was reeling. She wished she could by any means get at Ross, and _make_ him come, which he had refused to do. “I can't, mother,” he had said. “You go--all of you. Take the girls. I'll call for you at twelve--but I won't go in.” Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler were there--but not happy. She was not, at least, and showed it; he was not until an idea struck him. He dodged softly out, and was soon flying off, at dangerous speed over the moon-white country roads. He found Ross, dressed and ready, sulking blackly on his shadowy porch. “Come and take a spin while you wait,” said Mr. Thaddler. “Thanks, I have to go in town later.” “I'll take you in town.” “Thank you, but I have to take the horses in and bring out my mother and the girls.” “I'll bring you all out in the car. Come on--it's a great night.” So Ross rather reluctantly came. He sat back on the luxurious cushions, his arms folded sternly, his brows knit, and the stout gentleman at his side watched him shrewdly. “How does the ranch go?” he asked. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Thaddler.” “Them Chinks pay up promptly?” “As prompt as the month comes round. Their rent is a very valuable part of the estate.” “Yes,” Mr. Thaddler pursued. “They have a good steady market for their stuff. And the chicken man, too. Do you know who buys 'em?” Ross did not. Did not greatly care, he intimated. “I should think you'd be interested--you ought to--it's Diantha Bell.” Ross started, but said nothing. “You see, I've taken a great interest in her proposition ever since she sprung it on us,” Mr. Thaddler confided. “She's got the goods all right. But there was plenty against her here--you know what women are! And I made up my mind the supplies should be good and steady, anyhow. She had no trouble with her grocery orders; that was easy. Meat I couldn't handle--except indirectly--a little pressure, maybe, here and there.” And he chuckled softly. “But this ranch I bought on purpose.” Ross turned as if he had been stung. “You!” he said. “Yes, me. Why not? It's a good property. I got it all fixed right, and then I bought your little upstate shop--lock, stock and barrel--and gave you this for it. A fair exchange is no robbery. Though it would be nice to have it all in the family, eh?” Ross was silent for a few turbulent moments, revolving this far from pleasing information. “What'd I do it for?” continued the unasked benefactor. “What do you _think_ I did it for? So that brave, sweet little girl down here could have her heart's desire. She's established her business--she's proved her point--she's won the town--most of it; and there's nothing on earth to make her unhappy now but your pigheadedness! Young man, I tell you you're a plumb fool!” One cannot throw one's host out of his own swift-flying car; nor is it wise to jump out one's self. “Nothing on earth between you but your cussed pride!” Mr. Thaddler remorselessly went on. “This ranch is honestly yours--by a square deal. Your Jopalez business was worth the money--you ran it honestly and extended the trade. You'd have made a heap by it if you could have unbent a little. Gosh! I limbered up that store some in twelve months!” And the stout man smiled reminiscently. Ross was still silent. “And now you've got what you wanted--thanks to her, mind you, thanks to her!--and you ain't willing to let her have what she wants!” The young man moistened his lips to speak. “You ain't dependent on her in any sense--I don't mean that. You earned the place all right, and I don't doubt you'll make good, both in a business way and a scientific way, young man. But why in Hades you can't let her be happy, too, is more'n I can figure! Guess you get your notions from two generations back--and some!” Ross began, stumblingly. “I did not know I was indebted to you, Mr. Thaddler.” “You're not, young man, you're not! I ran that shop of yours a year--built up the business and sold it for more than I paid for this. So you've no room for heroics--none at all. What I want you to realize is that you're breaking the heart of the finest woman I ever saw. You can't bend that girl--she'll never give up. A woman like that has got more things to do than just marry! But she's pining for you all the same. “Here she is to-night, receiving with Mrs. Weatherstone--with those Bannerets, Dukes and Earls around her--standing up there like a Princess herself--and her eyes on the door all the time--and tears in 'em, I could swear--because you don't come!” ***** They drew up with a fine curve before the carriage gate. “I'll take 'em all home--they won't be ready for some time yet,” said Mr. Thaddler. “And if you two would like this car I'll send for the other one.” Ross shook hands with him. “You are very kind, Mr. Thaddler,” he said. “I am obliged to you. But I think we will walk.” Tall and impressive, looking more distinguished in a six-year-old evening suit than even the Hoch Geborene in his uniform, he came at last, and Diantha saw him the moment he entered; saw, too, a new light in his eyes. He went straight to her. And Mrs. Weatherstone did not lay it up against him that he had but the briefest of words for his hostess. “Will you come?” he said. “May I take you home--now?” She went with him, without a word, and they walked slowly home, by far outlying paths, and long waits on rose-bowered seats they knew. The moon filled all the world with tender light and the orange blossoms flooded the still air with sweetness. “Dear,” said he, “I have been a proud fool--I am yet--but I have come to see a little clearer. I do not approve of your work--I cannot approve of it--but will you forgive me for that and marry me? I cannot live any longer without you?” “Of course I will,” said Diantha. CHAPTER XIV. AND HEAVEN BESIDE. They were married while the flowers were knee-deep over the sunny slopes and mesas, and the canyons gulfs of color and fragrance, and went for their first moon together to a far high mountain valley hidden among wooded peaks, with a clear lake for its central jewel. A month of heaven; while wave on wave of perfect rest and world-forgetting oblivion rolled over both their hearts. They swam together in the dawn-flushed lake, seeing the morning mists float up from the silver surface, breaking the still reflection of thick trees and rosy clouds, rejoicing in the level shafts of forest filtered sunlight. They played and ran like children, rejoiced over their picnic meals; lay flat among the crowding flowers and slept under the tender starlight. “I don't see,” said her lover, “but that my strenuous Amazon is just as much a woman as--as any woman!” “Who ever said I wasn't?” quoth Diantha demurely. A month of perfect happiness. It was so short it seemed but a moment; so long in its rich perfection that they both agreed if life brought no further joy this was Enough. Then they came down from the mountains and began living. ***** Day service is not so easily arranged on a ranch some miles from town. They tried it for a while, the new runabout car bringing out a girl in the morning early, and taking Diantha in to her office. But motor cars are not infallible; and if it met with any accident there was delay at both ends, and more or less friction. Then Diantha engaged a first-class Oriental gentleman, well recommended by the “vegetable Chinaman,” on their own place. This was extremely satisfactory; he did the work well, and was in all ways reliable; but there arose in the town a current of malicious criticism and protest--that she “did not live up to her principles.” To this she paid no attention; her work was now too well planted, too increasingly prosperous to be weakened by small sneers. Her mother, growing plumper now, thriving continuously in her new lines of work, kept the hotel under her immediate management, and did bookkeeping for the whole concern. New Union Home ran itself, and articles were written about it in magazines; so that here and there in other cities similar clubs were started, with varying success. The restaurant was increasingly popular; Diantha's cooks were highly skilled and handsomely paid, and from the cheap lunch to the expensive banquet they gave satisfaction. But the “c. f. d.” was the darling of her heart, and it prospered exceedingly. “There is no advertisement like a pleased customer,” and her pleased customers grew in numbers and in enthusiasm. Family after family learned to prize the cleanliness and quiet, the odorlessness and flylessness of a home without a kitchen, and their questioning guests were converted by the excellent of the meals. Critical women learned at last that a competent cook can really produce better food than an incompetent one; albeit without the sanctity of the home. “Sanctity of your bootstraps!” protested one irascible gentleman. “Such talk is all nonsense! I don't want _sacred_ meals--I want good ones--and I'm getting them, at last!” “We don't brag about 'home brewing' any more,” said another, “or 'home tailoring,' or 'home shoemaking.' Why all this talk about 'home cooking'?” What pleased the men most was not only the good food, but its clock-work regularity; and not only the reduced bills but the increased health and happiness of their wives. Domestic bliss increased in Orchardina, and the doctors were more rigidly confined to the patronage of tourists. Ross Warden did his best. Under the merciless friendliness of Mr. Thaddler he had been brought to see that Diantha had a right to do this if she would, and that he had no right to prevent her; but he did not like it any the better. When she rolled away in her little car in the bright, sweet mornings, a light went out of the day for him. He wanted her there, in the home--his home--his wife--even when he was not in it himself. And in this particular case it was harder than for most men, because he was in the house a good deal, in his study, with no better company than a polite Chinaman some distance off. It was by no means easy for Diantha, either. To leave him tugged at her heart-strings, as it did at his; and if he had to struggle with inherited feelings and acquired traditions, still more was she beset with an unexpected uprising of sentiments and desires she had never dreamed of feeling. With marriage, love, happiness came an overwhelming instinct of service--personal service. She wanted to wait on him, loved to do it; regarded Wang Fu with positive jealousy when he brought in the coffee and Ross praised it. She had a sense of treason, of neglected duty, as she left the flower-crowned cottage, day by day. But she left it, she plunged into her work, she schooled herself religiously. “Shame on you!” she berated herself. “Now--_now_ that you've got everything on earth--to weaken! You could stand unhappiness; can't you stand happiness?” And she strove with herself; and kept on with her work. After all, the happiness was presently diluted by the pressure of this blank wall between them. She came home, eager, loving, delighted to be with him again. He received her with no complaint or criticism, but always an unspoken, perhaps imagined, sense of protest. She was full of loving enthusiasm about his work, and he would dilate upon his harassed guinea-pigs and their development with high satisfaction. But he never could bring himself to ask about her labors with any genuine approval; she was keenly sensitive to his dislike for the subject, and so it was ignored between them, or treated by him in a vein of humor with which he strove to cover his real feeling. When, before many months were over, the crowning triumph of her effort revealed itself, her joy and pride held this bitter drop--he did not sympathize--did not approve. Still, it was a great glory. The New York Company announced the completion of their work and the _Hotel del las Casas_ was opened to public inspection. “House of the Houses! That's a fine name!” said some disparagingly; but, at any rate, it seemed appropriate. The big estate was one rich garden, more picturesque, more dreamily beautiful, than the American commercial mind was usually able to compass, even when possessed of millions. The hotel of itself was a pleasure palace--wholly unostentatious, full of gaiety and charm, offering lovely chambers for guests and residents, and every opportunity for healthful amusement. There was the rare luxury of a big swimming-pool; there were billiard rooms, card rooms, reading rooms, lounging rooms and dancing rooms of satisfying extent. Outside there were tennis-courts, badminton, roque, even croquet; and the wide roof was a garden of Babylon, a Court of the Stars, with views of purple mountains, fair, wide valley and far-flashing rim of sea. Around it, each in its own hedged garden, nestled “Las Casas”--the Houses--twenty in number, with winding shaded paths, groups of rare trees, a wilderness of flowers, between and about them. In one corner was a playground for children--a wall around this, that they might shout in freedom; and the nursery thereby gave every provision for the happiness and safety of the little ones. The people poured along the winding walls, entered the pretty cottages, were much impressed by a little flock of well-floored tents in another corner, but came back with Ohs! and Ahs! of delight to the large building in the Avenue. Diantha went all over the place, inch by inch, her eyes widening with admiration; Mr. and Mrs. Porne and Mrs. Weatherstone with her. She enjoyed the serene, well-planned beauty of the whole; approved heartily of the cottages, each one a little different, each charming in its quiet privacy, admired the plentiful arrangements for pleasure and gay association; but her professional soul blazed with enthusiasm over the great kitchens, clean as a hospital, glittering in glass and copper and cool tiling, with the swift, sure electric stove. The fuel all went into a small, solidly built power house, and came out in light and heat and force for the whole square. Diantha sighed in absolute appreciation. “Fine, isn't it?” said Mr. Porne. “How do you like the architecture?” asked Mrs. Porne. “What do you think of my investment?” said Mrs. Weatherstone. Diantha stopped in her tracks and looked from one to the other of them. “Fact. I control the stock--I'm president of the Hotel del las Casas Company. Our friends here have stock in it, too, and more that you don't know. We think it's going to be a paying concern. But if you can make it go, my dear, as I think you will, you can buy us all out and own the whole outfit!” It took some time to explain all this, but the facts were visible enough. “Nothing remarkable at all,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Here's Astor with three big hotels on his hands--why shouldn't I have one to play with? And I've got to employ _somebody_ to manage it!” ***** Within a year of her marriage Diantha was at the head of this pleasing Centre of Housekeeping. She kept the hotel itself so that it was a joy to all its patrons; she kept the little houses homes of pure delight for those who were so fortunate as to hold them; and she kept up her “c. f. d.” business till it grew so large she had to have quite a fleet of delivery wagons. Orchardina basked and prospered; its citizens found their homes happier and less expensive than ever before, and its citizenesses began to wake up and to do things worth while. ***** Two years, and there was a small Ross Warden born. She loved it, nursed it, and ran her business at long range for some six months. But then she brought nurse and child to the hotel with her, placed them in the cool, airy nursery in the garden, and varied her busy day with still hours by herself--the baby in her arms. Back they came together before supper, and found unbroken joy and peace in the quiet of home; but always in the background was the current of Ross' unspoken disapproval. Three years, four years. There were three babies now; Diantha was a splendid woman of thirty, handsome and strong, pre-eminently successful--and yet, there were times when she found it in her heart to envy the most ordinary people who loved and quarreled and made up in the little outlying ranch houses along the road; they had nothing between them, at least. Meantime in the friendly opportunities of Orchardina society, added to by the unexampled possibilities of Las Casas (and they did not scorn this hotel nor Diantha's position in it), the three older Miss Wardens had married. Two of them preferred “the good old way,” but one tried the “d. s.” and the “c. f. d.” and liked them well. Dora amazed and displeased her family, as soon as she was of age, by frankly going over to Diantha's side and learning bookkeeping. She became an excellent accountant and bade fair to become an expert manager soon. Ross had prospered in his work. It may be that the element of dissatisfaction in his married life spurred him on, while the unusual opportunities of his ranch allowed free effort. He had always held that the “non-transmissability of acquired traits” was not established by any number of curtailed mice or crop-eared rats. “A mutilation is not an acquired trait,” he protested. “An acquired trait is one gained by exercise; it modifies the whole organism. It must have an effect on the race. We expect the sons of a line of soldiers to inherit their fathers' courage--perhaps his habit of obedience--but not his wooden leg.” To establish his views he selected from a fine family of guinea-pigs two pair; set the one, Pair A, in conditions of ordinary guinea-pig bliss, and subjected the other, Pair B, to a course of discipline. They were trained to run. They, and their descendants after them, pair following on pair; first with slow-turning wheels as in squirrel cages, the wheel inexorably going, machine-driven, and the luckless little gluttons having to move on, for gradually increasing periods of time, at gradually increasing speeds. Pair A and their progeny were sheltered and fed, but the rod was spared; Pair B were as the guests at “Muldoon's”--they had to exercise. With scientific patience and ingenuity, he devised mechanical surroundings which made them jump increasing spaces, which made them run always a little faster and a little farther; and he kept a record as carefully as if these little sheds were racing stables for a king. Several centuries of guinea-pig time went by; generation after generation of healthy guinea-pigs passed under his modifying hands; and after some five years he had in one small yard a fine group of the descendants of his gall-fed pair, and in another the offspring of the trained ones; nimble, swift, as different from the first as the razor-backed pig of the forest from the fatted porkers in the sty. He set them to race--the young untrained specimens of these distant cousins--and the hare ran away from the tortoise completely. Great zoologists and biologists came to see him, studied, fingered, poked, and examined the records; argued and disbelieved--and saw them run. “It is natural selection,” they said. “It profited them to run.” “Not at all,” said he. “They were fed and cared for alike, with no gain from running.” “It was artificial selection,” they said. “You picked out the speediest for your training.” “Not at all,” said he. “I took always any healthy pair from the trained parents and from the untrained ones--quite late in life, you understand, as guinea-pigs go.” Anyhow, there were the pigs; and he took little specialized piglets scarce weaned, and pitted them against piglets of the untrained lot--and they outran them in a race for “Mama.” Wherefore Mr. Ross Warden found himself famous of a sudden; and all over the scientific world the Wiesmanian controversy raged anew. He was invited to deliver a lecture before some most learned societies abroad, and in several important centers at home, and went, rejoicing. Diantha was glad for him from the bottom of her heart, and proud of him through and through. She thoroughly appreciated his sturdy opposition to such a weight of authority; his long patience, his careful, steady work. She was left in full swing with her big business, busy and successful, honored and liked by all the town--practically--and quite independent of the small fraction which still disapproved. Some people always will. She was happy, too, in her babies--very happy. The Hotel del las Casas was a triumph. Diantha owned it now, and Mrs. Weatherstone built others, in other places, at a large profit. Mrs. Warden went to live with Cora in the town. Cora had more time to entertain her--as she was the one who profited by her sister-in-law's general services. Diantha sat in friendly talk with Mrs. Weatherstone one quiet day, and admitted that she had no cause for complaint. “And yet--?” said her friend. Young Mrs. Warden smiled. “There's no keeping anything from you, is there? Yes--you're right. I'm not quite satisfied. I suppose I ought not to care--but you see, I love him so! I want him to _approve_ of me!--not just put up with it, and bear it! I want him to _feel_ with me--to care. It is awful to know that all this big life of mine is just a mistake to him--that he condemns it in his heart.” “But you knew this from the beginning, my dear, didn't you?” “Yes--I knew it--but it is different now. You know when you are _married_--” Mrs. Weatherstone looked far away through the wide window. “I do know,” she said. Diantha reached a strong hand to clasp her friend's. “I wish I could give it to you,” she said. “You have done so much for me! So much! You have poured out your money like water!” “My money! Well I like that!” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “I have taken my money out of five and seven per cent investments, and put it into ten per cent ones, that's all. Shall I never make you realize that I am a richer woman because of you, Diantha Bell Warden! So don't try to be grateful--I won't have it! Your work has _paid_ remember--paid me as well as you; and lots of other folks beside. You know there are eighteen good imitations of Union House running now, in different cities, and three 'Las Casas!' all succeeding--and the papers are talking about the dangers of a Cooked Food Trust!” They were friends old and tried, and happy in mutual affection. Diantha had many now, though none quite so dear. Her parents were contented--her brother and sister doing well--her children throve and grew and found Mama a joy they never had enough of. Yet still in her heart of hearts she was not wholly happy. ***** Then one night came by the last mail, a thick letter from Ross--thicker than usual. She opened it in her room alone, their room--to which they had come so joyously five years ago. He told her of his journeying, his lectures, his controversies and triumphs; rather briefly--and then: “My darling, I have learned something at last, on my travels, which will interest you, I fancy, more than the potential speed of all the guinea-pigs in the world, and its transmissability. “From what I hear about you in foreign lands; from what I read about you wherever I go; and, even more, from what I see, as a visitor, in many families; I have at last begun to grasp the nature and importance of your work. “As a man of science I must accept any truth when it is once clearly seen; and, though I've been a long time about it, I do see at last what brave, strong, valuable work you have been doing for the world. Doing it scientifically, too. Your figures are quoted, your records studied, your example followed. You have established certain truths in the business of living which are of importance to the race. As a student I recognize and appreciate your work. As man to man I'm proud of you--tremendously proud of you. As your husband! Ah! my love! I am coming back to you--coming soon, coming with my Whole Heart, Yours! Just wait, My Darling, till I get back to you! “Your Lover and Husband.” Diantha held the letter close, with hands that shook a little. She kissed it--kissed it hard, over and over--not improving its appearance as a piece of polite correspondence. Then she gave way to an overmastering burst of feeling, and knelt down by the wide bed, burying her face there, the letter still held fast. It was a funny prayer, if any human ear had heard it. “Thank you!” was all she said, with long, deep sobbing sighs between. “Thank you!--O--thank you!” 
8157	----	Esther Waters by GEORGE MOORE 1899 I She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating in the pale evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out of sight. The white gates swung forward slowly and closed over the line. An oblong box painted reddish brown and tied with a rough rope lay on the seat beside her. The movement of her back and shoulders showed that the bundle she carried was a heavy one, the sharp bulging of the grey linen cloth that the weight was dead. She wore a faded yellow dress and a black jacket too warm for the day. A girl of twenty, short, strongly built, with short, strong arms. Her neck was plump, and her hair of so ordinary a brown that it passed unnoticed. The nose was too thick, but the nostrils were well formed. The eyes were grey, luminous, and veiled with dark lashes. But it was only when she laughed that her face lost its habitual expression, which was somewhat sullen; then it flowed with bright humour. She laughed now, showing a white line of almond-shaped teeth. The porter had asked her if she were afraid to leave her bundle with her box. Both, he said, would go up together in the donkey-cart. The donkey-cart came down every evening to fetch parcels.... That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the lodge gate in that clump of trees. The man lingered, for she was an attractive girl, but the station-master called him away to remove some luggage. It was a barren country. Once the sea had crawled at high tide half-way up the sloping sides of those downs. It would do so now were it not for the shingle bank which its surging had thrown up along the coast. Between the shingle bank and the shore a weedy river flowed and the little town stood clamped together, its feet in the water's edge. There were decaying shipyards about the harbour, and wooden breakwaters stretched long, thin arms seawards for ships that did not come. On the other side of the railway apple blossoms showed above a white-washed wall; some market gardening was done in the low-lying fields, whence the downs rose in gradual ascents. On the first slope there was a fringe of trees. That was Woodview. The girl gazed on this bleak country like one who saw it for the first time. She saw without perceiving, for her mind was occupied with personal consideration. She found it difficult to decide whether she should leave her bundle with her box. It hung heavy in her hand, and she did not know how far Woodview was from the station. At the end of the platform the station-master took her ticket, and she passed over the level-crossing still undecided. The lane began with iron railings, laurels, and French windows. She had been in service in such houses, and knew if she were engaged in any of them what her duties would be. But the life in Woodview was a great dream, and she could not imagine herself accomplishing all that would be required of her. There would be a butler, a footman, and a page; she would not mind the page--but the butler and footman, what would they think? There would be an upper-housemaid and an under-housemaid, and perhaps a lady's-maid, and maybe that these ladies had been abroad with the family. She had heard of France and Germany. Their conversation would, no doubt, turn on such subjects. Her silence would betray her. They would ask her what situations she had been in, and when they learned the truth she would have to leave disgraced. She had not sufficient money to pay for a ticket to London. But what excuse could she give to Lady Elwin, who had rescued her from Mrs. Dunbar and got her the place of kitchen-maid at Woodview? She must not go back. Her father would curse her, and perhaps beat her mother and her too. Ah! he would not dare to strike her again, and the girl's face flushed with shameful remembrance. And her little brothers and sisters would cry if she came back. They had little enough to eat as it was. Of course she must not go back. How silly of her to think of such a thing! She smiled, and her face became as bright as the month: it was the first day of June. Still she would be glad when the first week was over. If she had only a dress to wear in the afternoons! The old yellow thing on her back would never do. But one of her cotton prints was pretty fresh; she must get a bit of red ribbon--that would make a difference. She had heard that the housemaids in places like Woodview always changed their dresses twice a day, and on Sundays went out in silk mantles and hats in the newest fashion. As for the lady's-maid, she of course had all her mistress's clothes, and walked with the butler. What would such people think of a little girl like her! Her heart sank at the thought, and she sighed, anticipating much bitterness and disappointment. Even when her first quarter's wages came due she would hardly be able to buy herself a dress: they would want the money at home. Her quarter's wages! A month's wages most like, for she'd never be able to keep the place. No doubt all those fields belonged to the Squire, and those great trees too; they must be fine folk, quite as fine as Lady Elwin--finer, for she lived in a house like those near the station. On both sides of the straight road there were tall hedges, and the nursemaids lay in the wide shadows on the rich summer grass, their perambulators at a little distance. The hum of the town died out of the ear, and the girl continued to imagine the future she was about to enter on with increasing distinctness. Looking across the fields she could see two houses, one in grey stone, the other in red brick with a gable covered with ivy; and between them, lost in the north, the spire of a church. On questioning a passer-by she learnt that the first house was the Rectory, the second was Woodview Lodge. If that was the lodge, what must the house be? Two hundred yards further on the road branched, passing on either side of a triangular clump of trees, entering the sea road; and under the leaves the air was green and pleasant, and the lungs of the jaded town girl drew in a deep breath of health. Behind the plantation she found a large white-painted wooden gate. It opened into a handsome avenue, and the gatekeeper told her to keep straight on, and to turn to the left when she got to the top. She had never seen anything like it before, and stopped to admire the uncouth arms of elms, like rafters above the roadway; pink clouds showed through, and the monotonous dove seemed the very heart of the silence. Her doubts returned; she never would be able to keep the place. The avenue turned a little, and she came suddenly upon a young man leaning over the paling, smoking his pipe. "Please sir, is this the way to Woodview?" "Yes, right up through the stables, round to the left." Then, noticing the sturdily-built figure, yet graceful in its sturdiness, and the bright cheeks, he said, "You look pretty well done; that bundle is a heavy one, let me hold it for you." "I am a bit tired," she said, leaning the bundle on the paling. "They told me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring up my box later on." "Ah, then you are the new kitchen-maid? What's your name?" "Esther Waters." "My mother's the cook here; you'll have to mind your p's and q's or else you'll be dropped on. The devil of a temper while it lasts, but not a bad sort if you don't put her out." "Are you in service here?" "No, but I hope to be afore long. I could have been two years ago, but mother did not like me to put on livery, and I don't know how I'll face her when I come running down to go out with the carriage." "Is the place vacant?" Esther asked, raising her eyes timidly, looking at him sideways. "Yes, Jim Story got the sack about a week ago. When he had taken a drop he'd tell every blessed thing that was done in the stables. They'd get him down to the 'Red Lion' for the purpose; of course the squire couldn't stand that." "And shall you take the place?" "Yes. I'm not going to spend my life carrying parcels up and down the King's Road, Brighton, if I can squeeze in here. It isn't so much the berth that I care about, but the advantages, information fresh from the fountain-head. You won't catch me chattering over the bar at the 'Red Lion' and having every blessed word I say wired up to London and printed next morning in all the papers." Esther wondered what he was talking about, and, looking at him, she saw a low, narrow forehead, a small, round head, a long nose, a pointed chin, and rather hollow, bloodless cheeks. Notwithstanding the shallow chest, he was powerfully built, the long arms could deal a swinging blow. The low forehead and the lustreless eyes told of a slight, unimaginative brain, but regular features and a look of natural honesty made William Latch a man that ten men and eighteen women out of twenty would like. "I see you have got books in that bundle," he said at the end of a long silence. "Fond of readin'?" "They are mother's books," she replied, hastily. "I was afraid to leave them at the station, for it would be easy for anyone to take one out, and I should not miss it until I undid the bundle." "Sarah Tucker--that's the upper-housemaid--will be after you to lend them to her. She is a wonderful reader. She has read every story that has come out in _Bow Bells_ for the last three years, and you can't puzzle her, try as you will. She knows all the names, can tell you which lord it was that saved the girl from the carriage when the 'osses were tearing like mad towards a precipice a 'undred feet deep, and all about the baronet for whose sake the girl went out to drown herself in the moonlight, I 'aven't read the books mesel', but Sarah and me are great pals," Esther trembled lest he might ask her again if she were fond of reading; she could not read. Noticing a change in the expression of her face, he concluded that she was disappointed to hear that he liked Sarah and regretted his indiscretion. "Good friends, you know--no more. Sarah and me never hit it off; she will worry me with the stories she reads. I don't know what is your taste, but I likes something more practical; the little 'oss in there, he is more to my taste." Fearing he might speak again of her books, she mustered up courage and said-- "They told me at the station that the donkey-cart would bring up my box." "The donkey-cart isn't going to the station to-night--you'll want your things, to be sure. I'll see the coachman; perhaps he is going down with the trap. But, golly! it has gone the half-hour. I shall catch it for keeping you talking, and my mother has been expecting you for the last hour. She hasn't a soul to help her, and six people coming to dinner. You must say the train was late." "Let us go, then," cried Esther. "Will you show me the way?" Over the iron gate which opened into the pleasure-ground, thick branches of evergreen oaks made an arch of foliage, and between the trees a glimpse was caught of the angles and urns of an Italian house--distant about a hundred yards. A high brick wall separated the pleasure-ground from the stables, and as William and Esther turned to the left and walked up the roadway he explained that the numerous buildings were stables. They passed by many doors, hearing the trampling of horses and the rattling of chains. Then the roadway opened into a handsome yard overlooked by the house, the back premises of which had been lately rebuilt in red brick. There were gables and ornamental porches, and through the large kitchen windows the servants were seen passing to and fro. At the top of this yard was a gate. It led into the park, and, like the other gate, was overhung by bunched evergreens. A string of horses came towards this gate, and William ran to open it. The horses were clothed in grey cloth. They wore hoods, and Esther noticed the black round eyes looking through the eyelet holes. They were ridden by small, ugly boys, who swung their little legs, and struck them with ash plants when they reached their heads forward chawing at the bits. When William returned he said, "Look there, the third one; that's he--that's Silver Braid." An impatient knocking at the kitchen window interrupted his admiration, and William, turning quickly, said, "Mind you say the train was late; don't say I kept you, or you'll get me into the devil of a pickle. This way." The door let into a wide passage covered with coconut matting. They walked a few yards; the kitchen was the first door, and the handsome room she found herself in did not conform to anything that Esther had seen or heard of kitchens. The range almost filled one end of the room, and on it a dozen saucepans were simmering; the dresser reached to the ceiling, and was covered with a multitude of plates and dishes. Esther thought how she must strive to keep it in its present beautiful condition, and the elegant white-capped servants passing round the white table made her feel her own insignificance. "This is the new kitchen-maid, mother." "Ah, is it indeed?" said Mrs. Latch looking up from the tray of tartlets which she had taken from the oven and was filling with jam. Esther noticed the likeness that Mrs. Latch bore to her son. The hair was iron grey, and, as in William's face, the nose was the most prominent feature. "I suppose you'll tell me the train was late?" "Yes, mother, the train was a quarter of an hour late," William chimed in. "I didn't ask you, you idle, lazy, good-for-nothing vagabond. I suppose it was you who kept the girl all this time. Six people coming to dinner, and I've been the whole day without a kitchen-maid. If Margaret Gale hadn't come down to help me, I don't know where we should be; as it is, the dinner will be late." The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood listening. Esther's face clouded, and when Mrs. Latch told her to take her things off and set to and prepare the vegetables, so that she might see what she was made of, Esther did not answer at once. She turned away, saying under her breath, "I must change my dress, and my box has not come up from the station yet." "You can tuck your dress up, and Margaret Gale will lend you her apron." Esther hesitated. "What you've got on don't look as if it could come to much damage. Come, now, set to." The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then a sullen look of dogged obstinacy passed over and settled on Esther's face, even to the point of visibly darkening the white and rose complexion. II A sloping roof formed one end of the room, and through a broad, single pane the early sunlight fell across a wall papered with blue and white flowers. Print dresses hung over the door. On the wall were two pictures--a girl with a basket of flowers, the coloured supplement of an illustrated newspaper, and an old and dilapidated last century print. On the chimney-piece there were photographs of the Gale family in Sunday clothes, and the green vases that Sarah had given Margaret on her birthday. And in a low, narrow iron bed, pushed close against the wall in the full glare of the sunlight, Esther lay staring half-awake, her eyes open but still dim with dreams. She looked at the clock. It was not yet time to get up, and she raised her arms as if to cross them behind her head, but a sudden remembrance of yesterday arrested her movement, and a sudden shadow settled on her face. She had refused to prepare the vegetables. She hadn't answered, and the cook had turned her out of the kitchen. She had rushed from the house under the momentary sway of hope that she might succeed in walking back to London; but William had overtaken her in the avenue, he had expostulated with her, he had refused to allow her to pass. She had striven to tear herself from him, and, failing, had burst into tears. However, he had been kind, and at last she had allowed him to lead her back, and all the time he had filled her ears with assurances that he would make it all right with his mother. But Mrs. Latch had closed her kitchen against her, and she had had to go to her room. Even if they paid her fare back to London, how was she to face her mother? What would father say? He would drive her from the house. But she had done nothing wrong. Why did cook insult her? As she pulled on her stockings she stopped and wondered if she should awake Margaret Gale. Margaret's bed stood in the shadow of the obliquely falling wall; and she lay heavily, one arm thrown forward, her short, square face raised to the light. She slept so deeply that for a moment Esther felt afraid. Suddenly the eyes opened, and Margaret looked at her vaguely, as if out of eternity. Raising her hands to her eyes she said-- "What time is it?" "It has just gone six." "Then there's plenty of time; we needn't be down before seven. You get on with your dressing; there's no use in my getting up till you are done--we'd be tumbling over each other. This is no room to put two girls to sleep in--one glass not much bigger than your hand. You'll have to get your box under your bed.... In my last place I had a beautiful room with a Brussels carpet, and a marble washstand. I wouldn't stay here three days if it weren't----" The girl laughed and turned lazily over. Esther did not answer. "Now, isn't it a grubby little room to put two girls to sleep in? What was your last place like?" Esther answered that she had hardly been in service before. Margaret was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to notice the curtness of the answer. "There's only one thing to be said for Woodview, and that is the eating; we have anything we want, and we'd have more than we want if it weren't for the old cook: she must have her little bit out of everything and she cuts us short in our bacon in the morning. But that reminds me! You have set the cook against you; you'll have to bring her over to your side if you want to remain here." "Why should I be asked to wash up the moment I came in the house, before even I had time to change my dress." "It was hard on you. She always gets as much as she can out of her kitchen-maid. But last night she was pressed, there was company to dinner. I'd have lent you an apron, and the dress you had on wasn't of much account." "It isn't because a girl is poor----" "Oh, I didn't mean that; I know well enough what it is to be hard up." Margaret clasped her stays across her plump figure and walked to the door for her dress. She was a pretty girl, with a snub nose and large, clear eyes. Her hair was lighter in tone than Esther's, and she had brushed it from her forehead so as to obviate the defect of her face, which was too short. Esther was on her knees saying her prayers when Margaret turned to the light to button her boots. "Well, I never!" she exclaimed. "Do you think prayers any good?" Esther looked up angrily. "I don't want to say anything against saying prayers, but I wouldn't before the others if I was you--they'll chaff dreadful, and call you Creeping Jesus." "Oh, Margaret, I hope they won't do anything so wicked. But I am afraid I shan't be long here, so it doesn't matter what they think of _me_." When they got downstairs they opened the windows and doors, and Margaret took Esther round, showing her where the things were kept, and telling her for how many she must lay the table. At that moment a number of boys and men came clattering up the passage. They cried to Esther to hurry up, declaring that they were late. Esther did not know who they were, but she served them as best she might. They breakfasted hastily and rushed away to the stables; and they had not been long gone when the squire and his son Arthur appeared in the yard. The Gaffer, as he was called, was a man of about medium height. He wore breeches and gaiters, and in them his legs seemed grotesquely thick. His son was a narrow-chested, undersized young man, absurdly thin and hatchet-faced. He was also in breeches and gaiters, and to his boots were attached long-necked spurs. His pale yellow hair gave him a somewhat ludicrous appearance, as he stood talking to his father, but the moment he prepared to get into the saddle he seemed quite different. He rode a beautiful chestnut horse, a little too thin, Esther thought, and the ugly little boys were mounted on horses equally thin. The squire rode a stout grey cob, and he watched the chestnut, and was also interested in the brown horse that walked with its head in the air, pulling at the smallest of all the boys, a little freckled, red-headed fellow. "That's Silver Braid, the brown horse, the one that the Demon is riding; the chestnut is Bayleaf, Ginger is riding him: he won the City and Suburban. Oh, we did have a fine time then, for we all had a bit on. The betting was twenty to one, and I won twelve and six pence. Grover won thirty shillings. They say that John--that's the butler--won a little fortune; but he is so close no one knows what he has on. Cook wouldn't have anything on; she says that betting is the curse of servants--you know what is said, that it was through betting that Mrs. Latch's husband got into trouble. He was steward here, you know, in the late squire's time." Then Margaret told all she had heard on the subject. The late Mr. Latch had been a confidential steward, and large sums of money were constantly passing through his hands for which he was never asked for any exact account. Contrary to all expectation, Marksman was beaten for the Chester Cup, and the squire's property was placed under the charge of a receiver. Under the new management things were gone into more closely, and it was then discovered that Mr. Latch's accounts were incapable of satisfactory explanation. The defeat of Marksman had hit Mr. Latch as hard as it had hit the squire, and to pay his debts of honour he had to take from the money placed in his charge, confidently hoping to return it in a few months. The squire's misfortunes anticipated the realization of his intentions; proceedings were threatened, but were withdrawn when Mrs. Latch came forward with all her savings and volunteered to forego her wages for a term of years. Old Latch died soon after, some lucky bets set the squire on his legs again, the matter was half forgotten, and in the next generation it became the legend of the Latch family. But to Mrs. Latch it was an incurable grief, and to remove her son from influences which, in her opinion, had caused his father's death, Mrs. Latch had always refused Mr. Barfield's offers to do something for William. It was against her will that he had been taught to ride; but to her great joy he soon grew out of all possibility of becoming a jockey. She had then placed him in an office in Brighton; but the young man's height and shape marked him out for livery, and Mrs. Latch was pained when Mr. Barfield proposed it. "Why cannot they leave me my son?" she cried; for it seemed to her that in that hateful cloth, buttons and cockade, he would be no more her son, and she could not forget what the Latches had been long ago. "I believe there's going to be a trial this morning," said Margaret; "Silver Braid was stripped--you noticed that--and Ginger always rides in the trials." "I don't know what a trial is," said Esther. "They are not carriage-horses, are they? They look too slight." "Carriage-horses, you ninny! Where have you been to all this while--can't you see that they are race-horses?" Esther hung down her head and murmured something which Margaret didn't catch. "To tell the truth, I didn't know much about them when I came, but then one never hears anything else here. And that reminds me--it is as much as your place is worth to breathe one syllable about them horses; you must know nothing when you are asked. That's what Jim Story got sacked for--saying in the 'Red Lion' that Valentine pulled up lame. We don't know how it came to the Gaffer's ears. I believe that it was Mr. Leopold that told; he finds out everything. But I was telling you how I learnt about the race-horses. It was from Jim Story--Jim was my pal--Sarah is after William, you know, the fellow who brought you into the kitchen last night. Jim could never talk about anything but the 'osses. We'd go every night and sit in the wood-shed, that's to say if it was wet; if it was fine we'd walk in the drove-way. I'd have married Jim, I know I should, if he hadn't been sent away. That's the worst of being a servant. They sent Jim away just as if he was a dog. It was wrong of him to say the horse pulled up lame; I admit that, but they needn't have sent him away as they did." Esther was absorbed in the consideration of her own perilous position. Would they send her away at the end of the week, or that very afternoon? Would they give her a week's wages, or would they turn her out destitute to find her way back to London as best she might? What should she do if they turned her out-of-doors that very afternoon? Walk back to London? She did not know if that was possible. She did not know how far she had come--a long distance, no doubt. She had seen woods, hills, rivers, and towns flying past. Never would she be able to find her way back through that endless country; besides, she could not carry her box on her back.... What was she to do? Not a friend, not a penny in the world. Oh, why did such misfortune fall on a poor little girl who had never harmed anyone in the world! And if they did give her her fare back--what then?... Should she go home?... To her mother--to her poor mother, who would burst into tears, who would say, "Oh, my poor darling, I don't know what we shall do; your father will never let you stay here." For Mrs. Latch had not spoken to her since she had come into the kitchen, and it seemed to Esther that she had looked round with the air of one anxious to discover something that might serve as a pretext for blame. She had told Esther to make haste and lay the table afresh. Those who had gone were the stable folk, and breakfast had now to be prepared for the other servants. The person in the dark green dress who spoke with her chin in the air, whose nose had been pinched to purple just above the nostrils, was Miss Grover, the lady's-maid. Grover addressed an occasional remark to Sarah Tucker, a tall girl with a thin freckled face and dark-red hair. The butler, who was not feeling well, did not appear at breakfast, and Esther was sent to him with a cup of tea. There were the plates to wash and the knives to clean, and when they were done there were potatoes, cabbage, onions to prepare, saucepans to fill with water, coal to fetch for the fire. She worked steadily without flagging, fearful of Mrs. Barfield, who would come down, no doubt, about ten o'clock to order dinner. The race-horses were coming through the paddock-gate; Margaret called to Mr. Randal, a little man, wizen, with a face sallow with frequent indigestions. "Well, do you think the Gaffer's satisfied?" said Margaret. John made no articulate reply, but he muttered something, and his manner showed that he strongly deprecated all female interest in racing; and when Sarah and Grover came running down the passage and overwhelmed him with questions, crowding around him, asking both together if Silver Braid had won his trial, he testily pushed them aside, declaring that if he had a race-horse he would not have a woman-servant in the place.... "A positive curse, this chatter, chatter. Won his trial, indeed! What business had a lot of female folk----" The rest of John's sarcasm was lost in his shirt collar as he hurried away to his pantry, closing the door after him. "What a testy little man he is!" said Sarah; "he might have told us which won. He has known the Gaffer so long that he knows the moment he looks at him whether the gees are all right." "One can't speak to a chap in the lane that he doesn't know all about it next day," said Margaret. "Peggy hates him; you know the way she skulks about the back garden and up the 'ill so that she may meet young Johnson as he is ridin' home." "I'll have none of this scandal-mongering going on in my kitchen," said Mrs. Latch. "Do you see that girl there? She can't get past to her scullery." Esther would have managed pretty well if it had not been for the dining-room lunch. Miss Mary was expecting some friends to play tennis with her, and, besides the roast chicken, there were the côtelettes à la Soubise and a curry. There was for dessert a jelly and a blancmange, and Esther did not know where any of the things were, and a great deal of time was wasted. "Don't you move, I might as well get it myself," said the old woman. Mr. Randal, too, lost his temper, for she had no hot plates ready, nor could she distinguish between those that were to go to the dining-room and those that were to go to the servants' hall. She understood, however, that it would not be wise to give way to her feeling, and that the only way she could hope to retain her situation was by doing nothing to attract attention. She must learn to control that temper of hers--she must and would. And it was in this frame of mind and with this determination that she entered the servants' hall. There were not more than ten or eleven at dinner, but sitting close together they seemed more numerous, and quite half the number of faces that looked up as she took her place next to Margaret Gale, were unknown to her. There were the four ugly little boys whom she had seen on the race horses, but she did not recognize them at first, and nearly opposite, sitting next to the lady's-maid, was a small, sandy-haired man about forty: he was beginning to show signs of stoutness, and two little round whiskers grew out of his pallid cheeks. Mr. Randal sat at the end of the table helping the pudding. He addressed the sandy-haired man as Mr. Swindles; but Esther learnt afterwards his real name was Ward, and that he was Mr. Barfield's head groom. She learnt, too, that "the Demon" was not the real name of the little carroty-haired boy, and she looked at him in amazement when he whispered in her ear that he would dearly love a real go-in at that pudding, but that it was so fattening that he didn't ever dare to venture on more than a couple of sniffs. Seeing that the girl did not understand, he added, by way of explanation, "You know that I must keep under the six stone, and at times it becomes awful 'ard." Esther thought him a nice little fellow, and tried to persuade him to forego his resolution not to touch pudding, until Mr. Swindles told her to desist. The attention of the whole table being thus drawn towards the boy, Esther was still further surprised at the admiration he seemed so easily to command and the important position he seemed to occupy, notwithstanding his diminutive stature, whereas the bigger boys were treated with very little consideration. The long-nosed lad, with weak eyes and sloping shoulders, who sat on the other side of the table on Mr. Swindles' left, was everybody's laughing-stock, especially Mr. Swindles', who did not cease to poke fun at him. Mr. Swindles was now telling poor Jim's misadventures with the Gaffer. "But why do you call him Mr. Leopold when his name is Mr. Randal?" Esther ventured to inquire of the Demon. "On account of Leopold Rothschild," said the Demon; "he's pretty near as rich, if the truth was known--won a pile over the City and Sub. Pity you weren't there; might have had a bit on." "I have never seen the City," Esther replied innocently. "Never seen the City and Sub!... I was up, had a lot in hand, so I came away from my 'orses the moment I got into the dip. The Tinman nearly caught me on the post--came with a terrific rush; he is just hawful, that Tinman is. I did catch it from the Gaffer--he did give it me." The plates of all the boys except the Demon's were now filled with beefsteak pudding, potatoes, and greens, likewise Esther's. Mr. Leopold, Mr. Swindles, the housemaid, and the cook dined off the leg of mutton, a small slice of which was sent to the Demon. "That for a dinner!" and as he took up his knife and fork and cut a small piece of his one slice, he said, "I suppose you never had to reduce yourself three pounds; girls never have. I do run to flesh so, you wouldn't believe it. If I don't walk to Portslade and back every second day, I go up three or four pounds. Then there's nothing for it but the physic, and that's what settles me. Can you take physic?" "I took three Beecham's pills once." "Oh, that's nothing. Can you take castor-oil?" Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her side. Swindles had overheard the question and burst into a roar of laughter. Everyone wanted to know what the joke was, and, feeling they were poking fun at her, Esther refused to answer. The first helpings of pudding or mutton had taken the edge off their appetites, and before sending their plates for more they leaned over the table listening and laughing open-mouthed. It was a bare room, lit with one window, against which Mrs. Latch's austere figure appeared in dark-grey silhouette. The window looked on one of the little back courts and tiled ways which had been built at the back of the house; and the shadowed northern light softened the listening faces with grey tints. "You know," said Mr. Swindles, glancing at Jim as if to assure himself that the boy was there and unable to escape from the hooks of his sarcasm, "how fast the Gaffer talks, and how he hates to be asked to repeat his words. Knowing this, Jim always says, 'Yes, sir; yes, sir.' 'Now do you quite understand?' says the Gaffer. 'Yes, sir; yes, sir,' replies Jim, not having understood one word of what was said; but relying on us to put him right. 'Now what did he say I was to do?' says Jim, the moment the Gaffer is out of hearing. But this morning we were on ahead, and the Gaffer had Jim all to himself. As usual he says, 'Now do you quite understand?' and as usual Jim says, 'Yes, sir; yes, sir.' Suspecting that Jim had not understood, I said when he joined us, 'Now if you are not sure what he said you had better go back and ask him,' but Jim declared that he had perfectly understood. 'And what did he tell you to do?' said I. 'He told me,' says Jim, 'to bring the colt along and finish up close by where he would be standing at the end of the track.' I thought it rather odd to send Firefly such a stiff gallop as all that, but Jim was certain that he had heard right. And off they went, beginning the other side of Southwick Hill. I saw the Gaffer with his arms in the air, and don't know now what he said. Jim will tell you. He did give it you, didn't he, you old Woolgatherer?" said Mr. Swindles, slapping the boy on the shoulder. "You may laugh as much as you please, but I'm sure he did tell me to come along three-quarter speed after passing the barn," replied Jim, and to change the conversation he asked Mr. Leopold for some more pudding, and the Demon's hungry eyes watched the last portion being placed on the Woolgatherer's plate. Noticing that Esther drank no beer, he exclaimed-- "Well, I never; to see yer eat and drink one would think that it was you who was a-wasting to ride the crack at Goodwood." The remark was received with laughter, and, excited by his success, the Demon threw his arms round Esther, and seizing her hands, said, "Now yer a jest beginning to get through yer 'osses, and when you get on a level----" But the Demon, in his hungry merriment, had bestowed no thought of finding a temper in such a staid little girl, and a sound box on the ear threw him backwards into his seat surprised and howling. "Yer nasty thing!" he blubbered out. "Couldn't you see it was only a joke?" But passion was hot in Esther. She had understood no word that had been said since she had sat down to dinner, and, conscious of her poverty and her ignorance, she imagined that a great deal of the Demon's conversation had been directed against her; and, choking with indignation, she only heard indistinctly the reproaches with which the other little boys covered her--"nasty, dirty, ill-tempered thing, scullery-maid," etc.; nor did she understand their whispered plans to duck her when she passed the stables. All looked a little askance, especially Grover and Mr. Leopold. Margaret said-- "That will teach these impertinent little jockey-boys that the servants' hall is not the harness-room; they oughtn't to be admitted here at all." Mr. Leopold nodded, and told the Demon to leave off blubbering. "You can't be so much hurt as all that. Come, wipe your eyes and have a piece of currant tart, or leave the room. I want to hear from Mr. Swindles an account of the trial. We know that Silver Braid won, but we haven't heard how he won nor yet what the weights were." "Well," said Mr. Swindles, "what I makes out is this. I was riding within a pound or two of nine stone, and The Rake is, as you know, seven pounds, no more, worse than Bayleaf. Ginger rides usually as near as possible my weight--we'll say he was riding nine two--I think he could manage that--and the Demon, we know, he is now riding over the six stone; in his ordinary clothes he rides six seven." "Yes, yes, but how do we know that there was any lead to speak of in the Demon's saddle-cloth?" "The Demon says there wasn't above a stone. Don't you, Demon?" "I don't know nothing! I'm not going to stand being clouted by the kitchen-maid." "Oh, shut up, or leave the room," said Mr. Leopold; "we don't want to hear any more about that." "I started making the running according to orders. Ginger was within three-quarters of a length of me, being pulled out of the saddle. The Gaffer was standing at the three-quarters of the mile, and there Ginger won fairly easily, but they went on to the mile--them were the orders--and there the Demon won by half a length, that is to say if Ginger wasn't a-kidding of him." "A-kidding of me!" said the Demon. "When we was a hundred yards from 'ome I steadied without his noticing me, and then I landed in the last fifty yards by half a length. Ginger can't ride much better than any other gentleman." "Yer see," said Mr. Swindles, "he'd sooner have a box on the ear from the kitchen-maid than be told a gentleman could kid him at a finish. He wouldn't mind if it was the Tinman, eh, Demon?" "We know," said Mr. Leopold, "that Bayleaf can get the mile; there must have been a lot of weight between them. Besides, I should think that the trial was at the three-quarters of the mile. The mile was so much kid." "I should say," replied Mr. Swindles, "that the 'orses were tried at twenty-one pounds, and if Silver Braid can beat Bayleaf at that weight, he'll take a deal of beating at Goodwood." And leaning forward, their arms on the table, with large pieces of cheese at the end of their knives, the maid-servants and the jockey listened while Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles discussed the chances the stable had of pulling off the Stewards' Cup with Silver Braid. "But he will always keep on trying them," said Mr. Swindles, "and what's the use, says I, of trying 'orses that are no more than 'alf fit? And them downs is just rotten with 'orse watchers; it has just come to this, that you can't comb out an 'orse's mane without seeing it in the papers the day after. If I had my way with them gentry----" Mr. Swindles finished his beer at a gulp, and he put down his glass as firmly as he desired to put down the horse watchers. At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold said-- "Come into my pantry and smoke a pipe. Mr. Arthur will be down presently. Perhaps he'll tell us what weight he was riding this morning." "Cunning old bird," said Mr. Swindles, as he rose from the table and wiped his shaven lips with the back of his hand; "and you'd have us believe that you didn't know, would you? You'd have us believe, would you, that the Gaffer don't tell you everything when you bring up his hot water in the morning, would you?" Mr. Leopold laughed under his breath, and looking mysterious and very rat-like he led the way to his pantry. Esther watched them in strange trouble of soul. She had heard of racecourses as shameful places where men were led to their ruin, and betting she had always understood to be sinful, but in this house no one seemed to think of anything else. It was no place for a Christian girl. "Let's have some more of the story," Margaret said. "You've got the new number. The last piece was where he is going to ask the opera-singer to run away with him." Sarah took an illustrated journal out of her pocket and began to read aloud. III Esther was one of the Plymouth Brethren. In their chapel, if the house in which they met could be called a chapel, there were neither pictured stories of saints, nor vestments, nor music, nor even imaginative stimulant in the shape of written prayers. Her knowledge of life was strictly limited to her experience of life; she knew no drama of passion except that which the Gospels relate: this story in the _Family Reader_ was the first representation of life she had met with, and its humanity thrilled her like the first idol set up for worship. The actress told Norris that she loved him. They were on a balcony, the sky was blue, the moon was shining, the warm scent of the mignonette came up from the garden below, the man was in evening dress with diamond shirt studs, the actress's arm was large and white. They had loved each other for years. The strangest events had happened for the purpose of bringing them together, and, fascinated against her will, Esther could not but listen. But at the end of the chapter the racial instinct forced reproval from her. "I am sure it is wicked to read such tales." Sarah looked at her in mute astonishment. Grover said-- "You shouldn't be here at all. Can't Mrs. Latch find nothing for you to do in the scullery?" "Then," said Sarah, awaking to a sense of the situation, "I suppose that where you come from you were not so much as allowed to read a tale; ... dirty little chapel-going folk!" The incident might have closed with this reproval had not Margaret volunteered the information that Esther's box was full of books. "I should like to see them books," said Sarah. "I'll be bound that they are only prayer-books." "I don't mind what you say to me, but you shall not insult my religion." "Insult your religion! I said you never had read a book in your life unless it was a prayer-book." "We don't use prayer-books." "Then what books have you read?" Esther hesitated, her manner betrayed her, and, suspecting the truth, Sarah said: "I don't believe that you can read at all. Come, I'll bet you twopence that you can't read the first five lines of my story." Esther pushed the paper from her and walked out of the room in a tumult of grief and humiliation. Woodview and all belonging to it had grown unbearable, and heedless to what complaint the cook might make against her she ran upstairs and shut herself into her room. She asked why they should take pleasure in torturing her. It was not her fault if she did not know how to read. There were the books she loved for her mother's sake, the books that had brought such disgrace upon her. Even the names she could not read, and the shame of her ignorance lay upon her heavier than a weight of lead. "Peter Parley's Annual," "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands," "Children of the Abbey," "Uncle Tom's Cabin," Lamb's "Tales of Shakespeare's Plays," a Cooking Book, "Roda's Mission of Love," the Holy Bible and the Common Prayer Book. She turned them over, wondering what were the mysteries that this print held from her. It was to her mysterious as the stars. Esther Waters came from Barnstaple. She had been brought up in the strictness of the Plymouth Brethren, and her earliest memories were of prayers, of narrow, peaceful family life. This early life had lasted till she was ten years old. Then her father died. He had been a house-painter, but in early youth he had been led into intemperance by some wild companions. He was often not in a fit state to go to work, and one day the fumes of the beer he had drunk overpowered him as he sat in the strong sunlight on his scaffolding. In the hospital he called upon God to relieve him of his suffering; then the Brethren said, "You never thought of God before. Be patient, your health is coming back; it is a present from God; you would like to know Him and thank Him from the bottom of your heart?" John Waters' heart was touched. He became one of the Brethren, renouncing those companions who refused to follow into the glory of God. His conversion and subsequent grace won for him the sympathies of Mary Thornby. But Mary's father would not consent to the marriage unless John abandoned his dangerous trade of house-painter. John Waters consented to do this, and old James Thornby, who had made a competence in the curiosity line, offered to make over his shop to the young couple on certain conditions; these conditions were accepted, and under his father-in-law's direction John drove a successful trade in old glass, old jewellery, and old furniture. The Brethren liked not this trade, and they often came to John to speak with him on the subject, and their words were---- "Of course this is between you and the Lord, but these things" (pointing to the old glass and jewellery) "often are but snares for the feet, and lead weaker brethren into temptation. Of course, it is between you and the Lord." So John Waters was tormented with scruples concerning the righteousness of his trade, but his wife's gentle voice and eyes, and the limitations that his accident, from which he had never wholly recovered, had set upon his life, overruled his scruples, and he remained until he died a dealer in artistic ware, eliminating, however, from his dealings those things to which the Brethren most strongly objected. When he died his widow strove to carry on the business, but her father, who was now a confirmed invalid, could not help her. In the following year she lost both her parents. Many changes were taking place in Barnstaple, new houses were being built, a much larger and finer shop had been opened in the more prosperous end of the town, and Mrs. Waters found herself obliged to sell her business for almost nothing, and marry again. Children were born of this second marriage in rapid succession, the cradle was never empty, and Esther was spoken of as the little nurse. Her great solicitude was for her poor mother, who had lost her health, whose blood was impoverished by constant child-bearing. Mother and daughter were seen in the evenings, one with a baby at her breast, the other with an eighteen months old child in her arms. Esther did not dare leave her mother, and to protect her she gave up school, and this was why she had never learnt how to read. One of the many causes of quarrel between Mrs. Saunders and her husband was her attendance at prayer-meetings when he said she should be at home minding her children. He used to accuse her of carrying on with the Scripture-readers, and to punish her he would say, "This week I'll spend five bob more in the public--that'll teach you, if beating won't, that I don't want none of your hypocritical folk hanging round my place." So it befell the Saunders family to have little to eat; and Esther often wondered how she should get a bit of dinner for her sick mother and her hungry little brothers and sisters. Once they passed nearly thirty hours without food. She called them round her, and knelt down amid them: they prayed that God might help them; and their prayers were answered, for at half-past twelve a Scripture lady came in with flowers in her hands. She asked Mrs. Saunders how her appetite was. Mrs. Saunders answered that it was more than she could afford, for there was nothing to eat in the house. Then the Scripture lady gave them eighteen pence, and they all knelt down and thanked God together. But although Saunders spent a great deal of his money in the public-house, he rarely got drunk and always kept his employment. He was a painter of engines, a first-rate hand, earning good money, from twenty-five to thirty shillings a week. He was a proud man, but so avaricious that he stopped at nothing to get money. He was an ardent politician, yet he would sell his vote to the highest bidder, and when Esther was seventeen he compelled her to take service regardless of the character of the people or of what the place was like. They had left Barnstaple many months, and were now living in a little street off the Vauxhall Bridge Road, near the factory where Saunders worked; and since they had been in London Esther had been constantly in service. Why should he keep her? She wasn't one of his children, he had quite enough of his own. Sometimes of an evening, when Esther could escape from her drudgery for a few minutes, her mother would step round, and mother and daughter, wrapped in the same shawl, would walk to and fro telling each other their troubles, just as in old times. But these moments were few. In grimy lodging-houses she worked from early morning till late at night, scrubbing grates, preparing bacon and eggs, cooking chops, and making beds. She had become one of those London girls to whom rest, not to say pleasure, is unknown, who if they should sit down for a few moments hear the mistress's voice, "Now, Eliza, have you nothing to do, that you are sitting there idle?" Two of her mistresses, one after the other, had been sold up, and now all the rooms in the neighbourhood were unlet, no one wanted a "slavey," and Esther was obliged to return home. It was on the last of these occasions that her father had taken her by the shoulders, saying---- "No lodging-houses that want a slavey? I'll see about that. Tell me, first, have you been to 78?" "Yes, but another girl was before me, and the place was taken when I arrived." "I wonder what you were doing that you didn't get there sooner; dangling about after your mother, I suppose! Well, what about 27 in the Crescent?" "I couldn't go there--that Mrs. Dunbar is a bad woman." "Bad woman! Who are you, I should like to know, that you can take a lady's character away? Who told you she was a bad woman? One of the Scripture-readers, I suppose! I knew it was. Well, then, just get out of my house." "Where shall I go?" "Go to hell for all I care. Do you hear me? Get out!" Esther did not move--words, and then blows. Esther's escape from her stepfather seemed a miracle, and his anger was only appeased by Mrs. Saunders promising that Esther should accept the situation. "Only for a little while. Perhaps Mrs. Dunbar is a better woman than you think for. For my sake, dearie. If you don't he may kill you and me too." Esther looked at her one moment, then she said, "Very well, mother, to-morrow I'll take the place." No longer was the girl starved, no longer was she made to drudge till the thought of another day was a despair and a terror. And seeing that she was a good girl, Mrs. Dunbar respected her scruples. Indeed, she was very kind, and Esther soon learnt to like her, and, through her affection for her, to think less of the life she led. A dangerous point is this in a young girl's life. Esther was young, and pretty, and weary, and out of health; and it was at this critical moment that Lady Elwin, who, while visiting, had heard her story, promised Mrs. Saunders to find Esther another place. And to obviate all difficulties about references and character, Lady Elwin proposed to take Esther as her own servant for a sufficient while to justify her in recommending her. And now, as she turned over her books--the books she could not read--her pure and passionate mind was filled with the story of her life. She remembered her poor little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, and that tyrant revenging himself upon them because of the little she might eat and drink. No, she must bear with all insults and scorn, and forget that they thought her as dirt under their feet. But what were such sufferings compared to those she would endure were she to return home? In truth they were as nothing. And yet the girl longed to leave Woodview. She had never been out of sight of home before. Amid the violences of her stepfather there had always been her mother and the meeting-house. In Woodview there was nothing, only Margaret, who had come to console and persuade her to come downstairs. The resolution she had to call out of her soul to do this exhausted her, and she went downstairs heedless of what anyone might say. Two and three days passed without anything occurring that might suggest that the Fates were for or against her remaining. Mrs. Barfield continued to be indisposed, but at the end of the week Esther, while she was at work in the scullery, heard a new voice speaking with Mrs. Latch. This must be Mrs. Barfield. She heard Mrs. Latch tell the story of her refusal to go to work the evening she arrived. But Mrs. Barfield told her that she would listen to no further complaints; this was the third kitchen-maid in four months, and Mrs. Latch must make up her mind to bear with the faults and failings of this last one, whatever they were. Then Mrs. Barfield called Esther; and when she entered the kitchen she found herself face to face with a little red-haired woman, with a pretty, pointed face. "I hear, Waters--that is your name, I think--that you refused to obey cook, and walked out of the kitchen the night you arrived." "I said, ma'am, that I would wait till my box came up from the station, so that I might change my dress. Mrs. Latch said my dress didn't matter, but when one is poor and hasn't many dresses----" "Are you short of clothes, then?" "I have not many, ma'am, and the dress I had on the day I came----" "Never mind about that. Tell me, are you short of clothes?--for if you are I daresay my daughter might find you something--you are about the same height--with a little alteration----" "Oh, ma'am, you are too good. I shall be most grateful. But I think I shall be able to manage till my first quarter's wages come to me." And the scowl upon Mrs. Latch's long face did not kill the pleasure which the little interview with that kind, sweet woman, Mrs. Barfield, had created in her. She moved about her work, happy at heart, singing to herself as she washed the vegetables. Even Mrs. Latch's harshness didn't trouble her much. She felt it to be a manner under which there might be a kind heart, and she hoped by her willingness to work to gain at least the cook's toleration. Margaret suggested that Esther should give up her beer. A solid pint extra a day could not fail, she said, to win the old woman's gratitude, and perhaps induce her to teach Esther how to make pastry and jellies. True that Margaret joined in the common laugh and jeer that the knowledge that Esther said her prayers morning and evening inspired. She sometimes united with Grover and Sarah in perplexing Esther with questions regarding her previous situations, but her hostilities were, on the whole, gentle, and Esther felt that this almost neutral position was the best that Margaret could have adopted. She defended her without seeming to do so, and seemed genuinely fond of her, helping her sometimes even with her work, which Mrs. Latch made as heavy as possible. But Esther was now determined to put up with every task they might impose upon her; she would give them no excuse for sending her away; she would remain at Woodview until she had learned sufficient cooking to enable her to get another place. But Mrs. Latch had the power to thwart her in this. Before beginning on her jellies and gravies Mrs. Latch was sure to find some saucepans that had not been sufficiently cleaned with white sand, and, if her search proved abortive, she would send Esther upstairs to scrub out her bedroom. "I cannot think why she is so down upon me," Esther often said to Margaret. "She isn't more down upon you than she was on the others. You needn't expect to learn any cooking from her; her plan has always been to take care that she shall not be supplanted by any of her kitchen-maids. But I don't see why she should be always sending you upstairs to clean out her bedroom. If Grover wasn't so stand-offish, we might tell her about it, and she could tell the Saint--that's what we call the missis; the Saint would soon put a stop to all that nonsense. I will say that for the Saint, she do like everyone to have fair play." Mrs. Barfield, or the Saint, as she was called, belonged, like Esther, to the sect known as the Plymouth Brethren. She was the daughter of one of the farmers on the estate--a very old man called Elliot. He had spent his life on his barren down farm, becoming intimate with no one, driving hard bargains with all, especially the squire and the poor flint-pickers. He could be seen still on the hill-sides, his long black coat buttoned strictly about him, his soft felt hat crushed over the thin, grey face. Pretty Fanny Elliot had won the squire's heart as he rode across the down. Do you not see the shy figure of the Puritan maiden tripping through the gorse, hastening the hoofs of the squire's cob? And, furnished with some pretext of estate business, he often rode to the farm that lay under the shaws at the end of the coombe. The squire had to promise to become one of the Brethren and he had to promise never to bet again, before Fanny Elliot agreed to become Mrs. Barfield. The ambitious members of the Barfield family declared that the marriage was social ruin, but more dispassionate critics called it a very suitable match; for it was not forgotten that three generations ago the Barfields were livery-stable keepers; they had risen in the late squire's time to the level of county families, and the envious were now saying that the Barfield family was sinking back whence it came. He was faithful to his promises for a time. Race-horses disappeared from the Woodview stables. It was not until after the birth of both his children that he entered one of his hunters in the hunt steeplechase. Soon after the racing stable was again in full swing at Woodview. Tears there were, and some family disunion, but time extorts concessions from all of us. Mrs. Barfield had ceased to quarrel with her husband on the subject of his racehorses, and he in his turn did not attempt to restrict her in the exercise of her religion. She attended prayer-meetings when her soul moved her, and read the Scriptures when and where she pleased. It was one of her practices to have the women-servants for half-an-hour every Sunday afternoon in the library, and instruct them in the life of Christ. Mrs. Barfield's goodness was even as a light upon her little oval face--reddish hair growing thin at the parting and smoothed back above the ears, as in an old engraving. Although nearly fifty, her figure was slight as a young girl's. Esther was attracted by the magnetism of racial and religious affinities; and when their eyes met at prayers there was acknowledgment of religious kinship. A glow of happiness filled Esther's soul, for she knew she was no longer wholly among strangers; she knew they were united--she and her mistress--under the sweet dominion of Christ. To look at Mrs. Barfield filled her, somehow, with recollections of her pious childhood; she saw herself in the old shop, moving again in an atmosphere of prayer, listening to the beautiful story, in the annunciation of which her life had grown up. She answered her mistress's questions in sweet light-heartedness of spirit, pleasing her with her knowledge of the Holy Book. But in turn the servants had begun to read verses aloud from the New Testament, and Esther saw that her secret would be torn from her. Sarah had read a verse, and Mrs. Barfield had explained it, and now Margaret was reading. Esther listened, thinking if she might plead illness and escape from the room; but she could not summon sufficient presence of mind, and while she was still agitated and debating with herself, Mrs. Barfield called to her to continue. She hung down her head, suffocated with the shame of the exposure, and when Mrs. Barfield told her again to continue the reading Esther shook her head. "Can you not read, Esther?" she heard a kind voice saying; and the sound of this voice loosed the feelings long pent up, and the girl, giving way utterly, burst into passionate weeping. She was alone with her suffering, conscious of nothing else, until a kind hand led her from the room, and this hand soothed away the bitterness of the tittering which reached her ears as the door closed. It was hard to persuade her to speak, but even the first words showed that there was more on the girl's heart than could be told in a few minutes. Mrs. Barfield determined to take the matter at once in hand; she dismissed the other servants and returned to the library with Esther, and in that dim room of little green sofas, bookless shelves, and bird-cages, the women--mistress and maid--sealed the bond of a friendship which was to last for life. Esther told her mistress everything--the work that Mrs. Latch required of her, the persecution she received from the other servants, principally because of her religion. In the course of the narrative allusion was made to the race-horses, and Esther saw on Mrs. Barfield's face a look of grief, and it was clear to what cause Mrs. Barfield attributed the demoralisation of her household. "I will teach you how to read, Esther. Every Sunday after our Bible instruction you shall remain when the others have left for half-an-hour. It is not difficult; you will soon learn." Henceforth, every Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Barfield devoted half-an-hour to the instruction of her kitchen-maid. These half-hours were bright spots of happiness in the serving-girl's weeks of work--happiness that had been and would be again. But although possessing a clear intelligence, Esther did not make much progress, nor did her diligence seem to help her. Mrs. Barfield was puzzled by her pupil's slowness; she ascribed it to her own inaptitude to teach and the little time for lessons. Esther's powerlessness to put syllables together, to grasp the meaning of words, was very marked. Strange it was, no doubt, but all that concerned the printed page seemed to embarrass and elude her. IV Esther's position in Woodview was now assured, and her fellow-servants recognised the fact, though they liked her none the better for it. Mrs. Latch still did what she could to prevent her from learning her trade, but she no longer attempted to overburden her with work. Of Mr. Leopold she saw almost as little as she did of the people upstairs. He passed along the passages or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to go there to smoke; and when the door stood ajar Esther saw his narrow person seated on the edge of the table, his leg swinging. Among the pantry people Mr. Leopold's erudition was a constant subject of admiration. His reminiscences of the races of thirty years ago were full of interest; he had seen the great horses whose names live in the stud-book, the horses the Gaffer had owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full of anecdote concerning them and the Gaffer. Praise of his father's horsemanship always caused a cloud to gather on Ginger's face, and when he left the pantry Swindles chuckled. "Whenever I wants to get a rise out of Ginger I says, 'Ah, we shall never see another gentleman jock who can use the whip at a finish like the Governor in his best days.'" Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. Leopold comfortable Mr. Swindles used to bring in the wolf-skin rug that went out with the carriage, and wrap it round Mr. Leopold's wooden armchair, and the sallow little man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long clay, discuss the weights of the next big handicap. If Ginger contradicted him he would go to the press and extract from its obscurity a package of _Bell's Life_ or a file of the _Sportsman_. Mr. Leopold's press! For forty years no one had looked into that press. Mr. Leopold guarded it from every gaze, but it seemed to be a much-varied repository from which, if he chose, he could produce almost any trifle that might be required. It seemed to combine the usefulness of a hardware shop and a drug store. The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. Jockey boys were rarely admitted, unless with the intention of securing their services for the cleaning of boots or knives. William was very proud of his right of entry. For that half-hour in the pantry he would willingly surrender the pleasure of walking in the drove-way with Sarah. But when Mrs. Latch learnt that he was there her face darkened, and the noise she then made about the range with her saucepans was alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook's horror of the pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as "that little man." Although outwardly the family butler, he had never ceased to be the Gaffer's private servant; he represented the old days of bachelorhood. Mrs. Barfield and Mrs. Latch both disliked him. Had it not been for his influence Mrs. Barfield felt sure her husband would never have returned to his vice. Had it not been for Mr. Leopold Mrs. Latch felt that her husband would never have taken to betting. Legends and mystery had formed around Mr. Leopold and his pantry, and in Esther's unsophisticated mind this little room, with its tobacco smoke and glasses on the table, became a symbol of all that was wicked and dangerous; and when she passed the door she closed her ears to the loud talk and instinctively lowered her eyes. The simplest human sentiments were abiding principles in Esther--love of God, and love of God in the home. But above this Protestantism was human nature; and at this time Esther was, above all else, a young girl. Her twentieth year thrilled within her; she was no longer weary with work, and new, rich blood filled her veins. She sang at her work, gladdened by the sights and sounds of the yard; the young rooks cawing lustily in the evergreens, the gardener passing to and fro with plants in his hands, the white cats licking themselves in the sun or running to meet the young ladies who brought them plates of milk. Then the race-horses were always going to or coming from the downs. Sometimes they came in so covered with white mud that part of their toilette was accomplished in the yard; and from her kitchen window she could see the beautiful creature haltered to the hook fixed in the high wall, and the little boy in his shirtsleeves and hitched-up trousers, not a bit afraid, but shouting and quieting him into submission with the stick when he kicked and bit, tickled by the washing brush passing under the belly. Then the wrestling, sparring, ball-playing of the lads when their work was done, the pale, pathetic figure of the Demon watching them. He was about to start for Portslade and back, wrapped, as he would put it, in a red-hot scorcher of an overcoat. Esther often longed for a romp with these boys; she was now prime favourite with them. Once they caught her in the hay yard, and fine sport it was in the warm hay throwing each other over. Sometimes her wayward temper would get the better of her, but her momentary rage vanished at the sound of laughter. And after their tussling they would walk a little while pensively, until perhaps one, with an adroit trip, would send the other rolling over on the grass, and then, with wild cries, they would run down the drove-way. Then there was the day when the Wool-gatherer told her he was in love, and what fun they had had, and how well she had led him into belief that she was jealous! She had taken a rope as if she were going to hang herself, and having fastened it to a branch, she had knelt down as if she were saying her prayers. The poor Wool-gatherer could stand it no longer; he had rushed to her side, swearing that if she would promise not to hang herself he would never look at another girl again. The other boys, who had been crouching in the drove-way, rose up. How they did chaff the Wool-gatherer! He had burst into tears and Esther had felt sorry for him, and almost inclined to marry him out of pity for his forlorn condition. Her life grew happier and happier. She forgot that Mrs. Latch would not teach her how to make jellies, and had grown somewhat used to Sarah's allusions to her ignorance. She was still very poor, had not sufficient clothes, and her life was full of little troubles; but there were compensations. It was to her that Mrs. Barfield always came when she wanted anything in a hurry, and Miss Mary, too, seemed to prefer to apply to Esther when she wanted milk for her cats or bran and oats for her rabbits. The Gaffer and his race-horses, the Saint and her greenhouse--so went the stream of life at Woodview. What few visitors came were entertained by Miss Mary in the drawing-room or on the tennis lawn. Mrs. Barfield saw no one. She desired to remain in her old gown--an old thing that her daughter had discarded long ago--pinned up around her, and on her head an old bonnet with a faded poppy hanging from the crown. In such attire she wished to be allowed to trot about to and fro from her greenhouse to her potting-shed, watering, pruning, and syringing her plants. These plants were dearer than all things to her except her children; she seemed, indeed, to treat them as if they were children, and with the sun pouring through the glass down on her back she would sit freeing them from devouring insects all the day long. She would carry can after can of water up the long path and never complain of fatigue. She broke into complaint only when Miss Mary forgot to feed her pets, of which she had a great number--rabbits, and cats, and rooks, and all the work devolved upon her. She could not see these poor dumb creatures hungry, and would trudge to the stables, coming back laden with trusses of hay. But it was sometimes more than a pair of hands could do, and she would send Esther with scraps of meat and bread and milk to the unfortunate rooks that Mary had so unmercifully forgotten. "I'll have no more pets," she'd say, "Miss Mary won't look after them, and all the trouble falls upon me. See these poor cats, how they come mewing round my skirts." She loved to expatiate on her inexhaustible affection for dumb animals, and she continued an anecdotal discourse till, suddenly wearying of it, she would break off and speak to Esther about Barnstaple and the Brethren. The Saint loved to hear Esther tell of her father and the little shop in Barnstaple, of the prayer-meetings and the simple earnestness and narrowness of the faith of those good Brethren. Circumstances had effaced, though they had not obliterated, the once sharply-marked confines of her religious habits. Her religion was like a garden--a little less sedulously tended than of yore, but no whit less fondly loved; and while listening to Esther's story she dreamed her own early life over again, and paused, laying down her watering-can, penetrated with the happiness of gentle memories. So Esther's life grew and was fashioned; so amid the ceaseless round of simple daily occupations mistress and maid learned to know and to love one another, and became united and strengthful in the tender and ineffable sympathies of race and religion. V The summer drowsed, baking the turf on the hills, and after every gallop the Gaffer passed his fingers along the fine legs of the crack, in fear and apprehension lest he should detect any swelling. William came every day for news. He had five shillings on; he stood to win five pounds ten--quite a little fortune--and he often stopped to ask Esther if there was any news as he made his way to the pantry. She told him that so far as she knew Silver Braid was all right, and continued shaking the rug. "You'll never get the dust out of that rug," he said at last, "here, give it to me." She hesitated, then gave it him, and he beat it against the brick wall. "There," he said, handing it back to her, "that's how I beats a mat; you won't find much dust in it now." "Thank you.... Sarah went by an hour and a half ago." "Ah, she must have gone to the Gardens. You have never been to those gardens, have you? Dancing-hall, theatre, sorcerers--every blessed thing. But you're that religious, I suppose you wouldn't come?" "It is only the way you are brought up." "Well, will you come?" "I don't think I should like those Gardens.... But I daresay they are no worse than any other place. I've heard so much since I was here, that really----" "That really what?" "That sometimes it seems useless like to be particular." "Of course--all rot. Well, will you come next Sunday?" "Certainly not on Sunday." The Gaffer had engaged him as footman: his livery would be ready by Saturday, and he would enter service on Monday week. This reminded them that henceforth they would see each other every day, and, speaking of the pain it would give his mother when he came running downstairs to go out with the carriage, he said-- "It was always her idea that I shouldn't be a servant, but I believe in doing what you gets most coin for doing. I should like to have been a jockey, and I could have ridden well enough--the Gaffer thought better at one time of my riding than he did of Ginger's. But I never had any luck; when I was about fifteen I began to grow.... If I could have remained like the Demon----" Esther looked at him, wondering if he were speaking seriously, and really wished away his splendid height and shoulders. A few days later he tried to persuade her to take a ticket in a shilling sweepstakes which he was getting up among the out and the indoor servants. She pleaded poverty--her wages would not be due till the end of August. But William offered to lend her the money, and he pressed the hat containing the bits of paper on which were written the horses' names so insinuatingly upon her that a sudden impulse to oblige him came over her, and before she had time to think she had put her hand in the hat and taken a number. "Come, none of your betting and gambling in my kitchen," said Mrs. Latch, turning from her work. "Why can't you leave that innocent girl alone?" "Don't be that disagreeable, mother; it ain't betting, it's a sweepstakes." "It is all the same," muttered Mrs. Latch; "it always begins that way, and it goes on from bad to worse. I never saw any good come from it, and Heaven knows I've seen enough misfortune." Margaret and Sarah paused, looking at her open-mouthed, a little perplexed, holding the numbers they had drawn in both hands. Esther had not unfolded hers. She looked at Mrs. Latch and regretted having taken the ticket in the lottery. She feared jeers from Sarah, or from Grover, who had just come in, for her inability to read the name of the horse she had drawn. Seeing her dilemma, William took her paper from her. "Silver Braid.... by Jingo! She has got the right one." At that moment the sound of hoofs was heard in the yard, and the servants flew to the window. "He'll win," cried William, leaning over the women's backs, waving his bony hand to the Demon, who rode past on Silver Braid. "The Gaffer will bring him to the post as fit as a fiddle." "I think he will," said Mr. Leopold. "The rain has done us a lot of good; he was beginning to go a bit short a week ago. We shall want some more rain. I should like to see it come down for the next week or more." Mr. Leopold's desires looked as if they were going to be fulfilled. The heavens seemed to have taken the fortunes of the stable in hand. Rain fell generally in the afternoon and night, leaving the mornings fine, and Silver Braid went the mile gaily, becoming harder and stronger. And in the intermittent swish of showers blown up from the sea Woodview grew joyous, and a conviction of ultimate triumph gathered and settled on every face except Mrs. Barfield's and Mrs. Latch's. And askance they looked at the triumphant little butler. He became more and more the topic of conversation. He seemed to hold the thread of their destiny in his press. Peggy was especially afraid of him. And, continuing her confidences to the under-housemaid, the young lady said, "I like to know things for the pleasure of talking about them, but he for the pleasure of holding his tongue." Peggy was Miss Margaret Barfield, a cousin, the daughter of a rich brewer. "If he brings in your letters in the morning he hands them to you just as if he knew whom they are from. Ugly little beast; it irritates me when he comes into the room." "He hates women, Miss; he never lets us near his pantry, and he keeps William there talking racing." "Ah, William is very different. He ought never to have been a servant. His family was once quite as good as the Barfields." "So I have heard, Miss. But the world is that full of ups and downs you never can tell who is who. But we all likes William and 'ates that little man and his pantry. Mrs. Latch calls him the 'evil genius.'" A furtive and clandestine little man, ashamed of his women-folk and keeping them out of sight as much as possible. His wife a pale, dim woman, tall as he was short, preserving still some of the graces of the lady's-maid, shy either by nature or by the severe rule of her lord, always anxious to obliterate herself against the hedges when you met her in the lane or against the pantry door when any of the family knocked to ask for hot water, or came with a letter for the post. By nature a bachelor, he was instinctively ashamed of his family, and when the weary-looking wife, the thin, shy girl, or the corpulent, stupid-faced son were with him and he heard steps outside, he would come out like a little wasp, and, unmistakably resenting the intrusion, would ask what was wanted. If it were Ginger, Mr. Leopold would say, "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Arthur?" "Oh, nothing, thank you; I only thought that----" and Ginger would invent some paltry excuse and slink away to smoke elsewhere. Every day, a little before twelve, Mr. Leopold went out for his morning walk; every day if it were fine you would meet him at that hour in the lane either coming from or going to Shoreham. For thirty years he had done his little constitutional, always taking the same road, always starting within a few minutes of twelve, always returning in time to lay the cloth for lunch at half-past one. The hour between twelve and one he spent in the little cottage which he rented from the squire for his wife and children, or in the "Red Lion," where he had a glass of beer and talked with Watkins, the bookmaker. "There he goes, off to the 'Red Lion,'" said Mrs. Latch. "They try to get some information out of him, but he's too sharp for them, and he knows it; that's what he goes there for--just for the pleasure of seeing them swallow the lies he tells them.... He has been telling them lies about the horses for the last twenty years, and still he get them to believe what he says. It is a cruel shame! It was the lies he told poor Jackson about Blue Beard that made the poor man back the horse for all he was worth." "And the horse didn't win?" "Win! The master didn't even intend to run him, and Jackson lost all he had, and more. He went down to the river and drowned himself. John Randal has that man's death on his conscience. But his conscience don't trouble him much; if it did he'd be in his grave long ago. Lies, lies, nothing but lies! But I daresay I'm too 'ard on him; isn't lies our natural lot? What is servants for but to lie when it is in their master's interest, and to be a confidential servant is to be the Prince of liars!" "Perhaps he didn't know the 'orse was scratched." "I see you are falling in nicely with the lingo of the trade." "Oh," replied Esther, laughing; "one never hears anything else; one picks it up without knowing. Mr. Leopold is very rich, so they say. The boys tell me that he won a pile over the City and Suburban, and has thousands in the bank." "So some says; but who knows what he has? One hears of the winnings, but they say very little about the losings." VI The boys were playing ball in the stables, but she did not feel as if she wanted to romp with them. There was a stillness and a sweetness abroad which penetrated and absorbed her. She moved towards the paddock gate; the pony and the donkey came towards her, and she rubbed their muzzles in turn. It was a pleasure to touch anything, especially anything alive. She even noticed that the elm trees were strangely tall and still against the calm sky, and the rich odour of some carnations which came through the bushes from the pleasure-ground excited her; the scent of earth and leaves tingled in her, and the cawing of the rooks coming home took her soul away skyward in an exquisite longing; she was, at the same time, full of romantic love for the earth, and of a desire to mix herself with the innermost essence of things. The beauty of the evening and the sea breeze instilled a sensation of immortal health, and she wondered if a young man came to her as young men came to the great ladies in Sarah's books, how it would be to talk in the dusk, seeing the bats flitting and the moon rising through the branches. The family was absent from Woodview, and she was free to enjoy the beauty of every twilight and every rising moon for still another week. But she wearied for a companion. Sarah and Grover were far too grand to walk out with her; and Margaret had a young man who came to fetch her, and in their room at night she related all he had said. But for Esther there was nothing to do all the long summer evenings but to sit at the kitchen window sewing. Her hands fell on her lap, and her heart heaved a sigh of weariness. In all this world there was nothing for her to do but to continue her sewing or to go for a walk on the hill. She was tired of that weary hill! But she could not sit in the kitchen till bedtime. She might meet the old shepherd coming home with his sheep, and she put a piece of bread in her pocket for his dogs and strolled up the hill-side. Margaret had gone down to the Gardens. One of these days a young man would come to take her out. What would he be like? She laughed the thought away. She did not think that any young man would bother much about her. Happening at that moment to look round, she saw a man coming through the hunting gate. His height and shoulders told her that he was William. "Trying to find Sarah," she thought. "I must not let him think I am waiting for him." She continued her walk, wondering if he were following, afraid to look round. At last she fancied she could hear footsteps; her heart beat faster. He called to her. "I think Sarah has gone to the Gardens," she said, turning round. "You always keep reminding me of Sarah. There's nothing between us; anything there ever was is all off long ago.... Are you going for a walk?" She was glad of the chance to get a mouthful of fresh air, and they went towards the hunting gate. William held it open and she passed through. The plantations were enclosed by a wooden fence, and beyond them the bare downs rose hill after hill. On the left the land sloped into a shallow valley sown with various crops; and the shaws about Elliot's farm were the last trees. Beyond the farmhouse the downs ascended higher and higher, treeless, irreclaimable, scooped into long patriarchal solitudes, thrown into wild crests. There was a smell of sheep in the air, and the flock trotted past them in good order, followed by the shepherd, a huge hat and a crook in his hand, and two shaggy dogs at his heels. A brace of partridges rose out of the sainfoin, and flew down the hills; and watching their curving flight Esther and William saw the sea under the sun-setting, and the string of coast towns. "A lovely evening, isn't it?" Esther acquiesced; and tempted by the warmth of the grass they sat down, and the mystery of the twilight found way into their consciousness. "We shan't have any rain yet awhile." "How do you know?" "I'll tell you," William answered, eager to show his superior knowledge. "Look due south-west, straight through that last dip in that line of hills. Do you see anything?" "No, I can see nothing," said Esther, after straining her eyes for a few moments. "I thought not.... Well, if it was going to rain you would see the Isle of Wight." For something to say, and hoping to please, Esther asked him where the race-course was. "There, over yonder. I can't show you the start, a long way behind that hill, Portslade way; then they come right along by that gorse and finish up by Truly barn--you can't see Truly barn from here, that's Thunder's barrow barn; they go quite half a mile farther." "And does all that land belong to the Gaffer?" "Yes, and a great deal more, too; but this down land isn't worth much--not more than about ten shillings an acre." "And how many acres are there?" "Do you mean all that we can see?" "Yes." "The Gaffer's property reaches to Southwick Hill, and it goes north a long way. I suppose you don't know that all this piece, all that lies between us and that barn yonder, once belonged to my family." "To your family?" "Yes, the Latches were once big swells; in the time of my great-grandfather the Barfields could not hold their heads as high as the Latches. My great-grandfather had a pot of money, but it all went." "Racing?" "A good bit, I've no doubt. A rare 'ard liver, cock-fighting, 'unting, 'orse-racing from one year's end to the other. Then after 'im came my grandfather; he went to the law, and a sad mess he made of it--went stony-broke and left my father without a sixpence; that is why mother didn't want me to go into livery. The family 'ad been coming down for generations, and mother thought that I was born to restore it; and so I was, but not as she thought, by carrying parcels up and down the King's Road." Esther looked at William in silent admiration, and, feeling that he had secured an appreciative listener, he continued his monologue regarding the wealth and rank his family had formerly held, till a heavy dew forced them to their feet. In front of them was the moon, and out of the forlorn sky looked down the misted valleys; the crests of the hills were still touched with light, and lights flew from coast town to coast town, weaving a luminous garland. The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying in the greyness of this hill-side, and beyond them the massive moonlit landscape and the vague sea, Esther suddenly became aware, as she had never done before, of the exceeding beauty of the world. Looking up in William's face, she said-- "Oh, how beautiful!" As they descended the drove-way their feet raised the chalk, and William said-- "This is bad for Silver Braid; we shall want some more rain in a day or two.... Let's come for a walk round the farm," he said suddenly. "The farm belongs to the Gaffer, but he's let the Lodge to a young fellow called Johnson. He's the chap that Peggy used to go after--there was awful rows about that, and worse when he forestalled the Gaffer about Egmont." The conversation wandered agreeably, and they became more conscious of each other. He told her all he knew about the chap who had jilted Miss Mary, and the various burlesque actresses at the Shoreham Gardens who had captivated Ginger's susceptible heart. While listening she suddenly became aware that she had never been so happy before. Now all she had endured seemed accidental; she felt that she had entered into the permanent; and in the midst of vague but intense sensations William showed her the pigeon-house with all the blue birds dozing on the tiles, a white one here and there. They visited the workshop, the forge, and the old cottages where the bailiff and the shepherd lived; and all this inanimate nature--the most insignificant objects--seemed inspired, seemed like symbols of her emotion. They left the farm and wandered on the high road until a stile leading to a cornfield beguiled and then delayed their steps. The silence of the moonlight was clear and immense; and they listened to the trilling of the nightingale in the copse hard by. First they sought to discover the brown bird in the branches of the poor hedge, and then the reason of the extraordinary emotion in their hearts. It seemed that all life was beating in that moment, and they were as it were inflamed to reach out their hands to life and to grasp it together. Even William noticed that. And the moon shone on the mist that had gathered on the long marsh lands of the foreshore. Beyond the trees the land wavered out into down land, the river gleamed and intensely. This moment was all the poetry of their lives. The striking of a match to light his pipe, which had gone out, put the music to flight, and all along the white road he continued his monologue, interrupted only by the necessity of puffing at his pipe. "Mother says that if I had twopence worth of pride in me I wouldn't have consented to put on the livery; but what I says to mother is, 'What's the use of having pride if you haven't money?' I tells her that I am rotten with pride, but my pride is to make money. I can't see that the man what is willing to remain poor all his life has any pride at all.... But, Lord! I have argued with mother till I'm sick; she can see nothing further than the livery; that's what women are--they are that short-sighted.... A lot of good it would have done me to have carried parcels all my life, and when I could do four mile an hour no more, to be turned out to die in the ditch and be buried by the parish. 'Not good enough,' says I. 'If that's your pride, mother, you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, and as you 'aven't got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven will do as well,'--that's what I said to her. I saw well enough there was nothing for me but service, and I means to stop here until I can get on three or four good things and then retire into a nice comfortable public-house and do my own betting." "You would give up betting then?" "I'd give up backing 'orses, if you mean that.... What I should like would be to get on to a dozen good things at long prices--half-a-dozen like Silver Braid would do it. For a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds I could have the 'Red Lion,' and just inside my own bar I could do a hundred-pound book on all the big races." Esther listened, hearing interminable references to jockeys, publicans, weights, odds, and the certainty, if he had the "Red Lion," of being able to get all Joe Walker's betting business away from him. Allusions to the police, and the care that must be taken not to bet with anyone who had not been properly introduced, frightened her; but her fears died in the sensation of his arm about her waist, and the music that the striking of a match had put to flight had begun again in the next plantation, and it began again in their hearts. But if he were going to marry Sarah! The idea amused him; he laughed loudly, and they walked up the avenue, his face bent over hers. VII The Barfield calculation was that they had a stone in hand. Bayleaf, Mr. Leopold argued, would be backed to win a million of money if he were handicapped in the race at seven stone; and Silver Braid, who had been tried again with Bayleaf, and with the same result as before, had been let off with only six stone. More rain had fallen, the hay-crop had been irretrievably ruined, the prospects of the wheat harvest were jeopardized, but what did a few bushels of wheat matter? Another pound of muscle in those superb hind-quarters was worth all the corn that could be grown between here and Henfield. Let the rain come down, let every ear of wheat be destroyed, so long as those delicate fore-legs remained sound. These were the ethics that obtained at Woodview, and within the last few days showed signs of adoption by the little town and not a few of the farmers, grown tired of seeing their crops rotting on the hill-sides. The fever of the gamble was in eruption, breaking out in unexpected places--the station-master, the porters, the flymen, all had their bit on, and notwithstanding the enormous favouritism of two other horses in the race--Prisoner and Stoke Newington--Silver Braid had advanced considerably in the betting. Reports of trials won had reached Brighton, and not more than five-and-twenty to one could now be obtained. The discovery that the Demon had gone up several pounds in weight had introduced the necessary alloy into the mintage of their happiness; the most real consternation prevailed, and the strictest investigation was made as to when and how he had obtained the quantities of food required to produce such a mass of adipose tissue. Then the Gaffer had the boy upstairs and administered to him a huge dose of salts, seeing him swallow every drop; and when the effects of the medicine had worn off he was sent for a walk to Portslade in two large overcoats, and was accompanied by William, whose long legs led the way so effectively. On his return a couple of nice feather beds were ready, and Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles themselves laid him between them, and when they noticed that he was beginning to cease to perspire Mr. Leopold made him a nice cup of hot tea. "That's the way the Gaffer used to get the flesh off in the old days when he rode the winner at Liverpool." "It's the Demon's own fault," said Mr. Swindles; "if he hadn't been so greedy he wouldn't have had to sweat, and we should 'ave been spared a deal of bother and anxiety." "Greedy!" murmured the little boy, in whom the warm tea had induced a new perspiration; "I haven't had what you might call a dinner for the last three months. I think I'll chuck the whole thing." "Not until this race is over," said Mr. Swindles. "Supposing I was to pass the warming-pan down these 'ere sheets. What do you say, Mr. Leopold? They are beginning to feel a bit cold." "Cold! I 'ope you'll never go to a 'otter place. For God's sake, Mr. Leopold, don't let him come near me with the warming-pan, or else he'll melt the little flesh that's left off me." "You 'ad better not make such a fuss," said Mr. Leopold; "if you don't do what you are told, you'll have to take salts again and go for another walk with William." "If we don't warm up them sheets 'e'll dry up," said Mr. Swindles. "No, I won't; I'm teeming." "Be a good boy, and you shall have a nice cut of mutton when you get up," said Mr. Leopold. "How much? Two slices?" "Well, you see, we can't promise; it all depends on how much has come off, and 'aving once got it hoff, we don't want to put it on again." "I never did 'ear such rot," said Swindles. "In my time a boy's feelings weren't considered--one did what one considered good for them." Mr. Leopold strove to engage the Demon's attention with compliments regarding his horsemanship in the City and Sub. while Mr. Swindles raised the bedclothes. "Oh, Mr. Swindles, you are burning me." "For 'eaven's sake don't let him start out from under the bed like that! Can't yer 'old him? Burning you! I never even touched you with it; it was the sheet that you felt." "Then the sheet is at 'ot as the bloody fire. Will yer leave off?" "What! a Demon like you afraid of a little touch of 'eat; wouldn't 'ave believed it unless I 'ad 'eard it with my own ears," said Mr. Leopold. "Come, now, do yer want to ride the crack at Goodwood or do yer not? If you do, remain quiet, and let us finish taking off the last couple of pounds." "It is the last couple of pounds that takes it out of one; the first lot comes off jest like butter," said the boy, rolling out of the way of the pan. "I know what it will be; I shall be so weak that I shall just ride a stinking bad race." Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles exchanged glances. It was clear they thought that there was something in the last words of the fainting Demon, and the pan was withdrawn. But when the boy was got into the scale again it was found that he was not yet nearly the right weight, and the Gaffer ordered another effort to be made. The Demon pleaded that his feet were sore, but he was sent off to Portslade in charge of the redoubtable William. And as the last pounds came off the Demon's little carcass Mr. Leopold's face resumed a more tranquil expression. It began to be whispered that instead of hedging any part of his money he would stand it all out, and one day a market gardener brought up word that he had seen Mr. Leopold going into Brighton. "Old Watkins isn't good enough for him, that's about it. If Silver Braid wins, Woodview will see very little more of Mr. Leopold. He'll be for buying one of them big houses on the sea road and keeping his own trap." VIII The great day was now fast approaching, and the Gaffer had promised to drive his folk in a drag to Goodwood. No more rain was required, the colt's legs remained sound, and three days of sunshine would make all the difference in their sum of happiness. In the kitchen Mrs. Latch and Esther had been busy for some time with chickens and pies and jellies, and in the passage there were cases packed with fruit and wine. The dressmaker had come from Worthing, and for several days the young ladies had not left her. And one fine morning, very early--about eight o'clock--the wheelers were backed into the drag that had come from Brighton, and the yard resounded with the blaring of the horn. Ginger was practising under his sister's window. "You'll be late! You'll be late!" With the exception of two young gentlemen, who had come at the invitation of the young ladies, it was quite a family party. Miss Mary sat beside her father on the box, and looked very charming in white and blue. Peggy's black hair seemed blacker than ever under a white silk parasol, which she waved negligently above her as she stood up calling and talking to everyone until the Gaffer told her angrily to sit down, as he was going to start. Then William and the coachman let go the leaders' heads, and running side by side swung themselves into their seats. At the same moment a glimpse was caught of Mr. Leopold's sallow profile amid the boxes and the mackintoshes that filled the inside of the coach. "Oh, William did look that handsome in those beautiful new clothes! ...Everyone said so--Sarah and Margaret and Miss Grover. I'm sorry you did not come out to see him." Mrs. Latch made no answer, and Esther remembered how she hated her son to wear livery, and thought that she had perhaps made a mistake in saying that Mrs. Latch should have come out to see him. "Perhaps this will make her dislike me again," thought the girl. Mrs. Latch moved about rapidly, and she opened and closed the oven; then, raising her eyes to the window and seeing that the other women were still standing in the yard and safely out of hearing, she said-- "Do you think that he has bet much on this race?" "Oh, how should I know, Mrs. Latch?... But the horse is certain to win." "Certain to win! I have heard that tale before; they are always certain to win. So they have won you round to their way of thinking, have they?" said Mrs. Latch, straightening her back. "I know very well indeed that it is not right to bet; but what can I do, a poor girl like me? If it hadn't been for William I never would have taken a number in that sweepstakes." "Do you like him very much, then?" "He has been very kind to me--he was kind when--" "Yes, I know, when I was unkind. I was unkind to you when you first came. You don't know all. I was much troubled at that time, and somehow I did not--. But there is no ill-feeling?... I'll make it up to you--I'll teach you how to be a cook." "Oh, Mrs. Latch, I am sure----" "Never mind that. When you went out to walk with him the other night, did he tell you that he had many bets on the race?" "He talked about the race, like everyone else, but he did not tell me what bets he had on." "No, they never do do that.... But you'll not tell him that I asked you?" "No, Mrs. Latch, I promise." "It would do no good, he'd only be angry; it would only set him against me. I am afraid that nothing will stop him now. Once they get a taste for it it is like drink. I wish he was married, that might get him out of it. Some woman who would have an influence over him, some strong-minded woman. I thought once that you were strong-minded----" At that moment Sarah and Grover entered the kitchen talking loudly. They asked Mrs. Latch how soon they could have dinner--the sooner the better, for the Saint had told them that they were free to go out for the day. They were to try to be back before eight, that was all. Ah! the Saint was a first-rate sort. She had said that she did not want anyone to attend on her. She would, get herself a bit of lunch in the dining-room. Mrs. Latch allowed Esther to hurry on the dinner, and by one o'clock they had all finished. Sarah and Margaret were going into Brighton to do some shopping, Grover was going to Worthing to spend the afternoon with the wife of one of the guards of the Brighton and South Coast Railway. Mrs. Latch went upstairs to lie down. So it grew lonelier and lonelier in the kitchen. Esther's sewing fell out of her hands, and she wondered what she should do. She thought that she might go down to the beach, and soon after she put on her hat and stood thinking, remembering that she had not been by the sea, that she had not seen the sea since she was a little girl. But she remembered the tall ships that came into the harbour, sail falling over sail, and the tall ships that floated out of the harbour, sail rising over sail, catching the breeze as they went aloft--she remembered them. A suspension bridge, ornamented with straight-tailed lions, took her over the weedy river, and having crossed some pieces of rough grass, she climbed the shingle bank. The heat rippled the blue air, and the sea, like an exhausted caged beast, licked the shingle. Sea-poppies bloomed under the wheels of a decaying bathing-machine, and Esther wondered. But the sea here was lonely as a prison, and, seeing the treeless coast with its chain of towns, her thoughts suddenly reverted to William. She wished he were with her, and for pleasant contemplation she thought of that happy evening when she saw him coming through the hunting gate, when, his arm about her, William had explained that if the horse won she would take seven shillings out of the sweepstakes. She knew now that William did not care about Sarah; and that he cared for her had given a sudden and unexpected meaning to her existence. She lay on the shingle, her day-dream becoming softer and more delicate as it rounded into summer sleep. And when the light awoke her she saw flights of white clouds--white up above, rose-coloured as they approached the west; and when she turned, a tall, melancholy woman. "Good evening, Mrs. Randal," said Esther, glad to find someone to speak to. "I've been asleep." "Good evening, Miss. You're from Woodview, I think?" "Yes, I'm the kitchen-maid. They've gone to the races; there was nothing to do, so I came down here." Mrs. Randal's lips moved as if she were going to say something. But she did not speak. Soon after she rose to her feet. "I think that it must be getting near tea-time; I must be going. You might come in and have a cup of tea with me, if you're not in a hurry back to Woodview." Esther was surprised at so much condescension, and in silence the two women crossed the meadows that lay between the shingle bank and the river. Trains were passing all the while, scattering, it seemed, in their noisy passage over the spider-legged bridge, the news from Goodwood. The news seemed to be borne along shore in the dust, and, as if troubled by prescience of the news, Mrs. Randal said, as she unlocked the cottage door---- "It is all over now. The people in those trains know well enough which has won." "Yes, I suppose they know, and somehow I feel as if I knew too. I feel as if Silver Braid had won." Mrs. Randal's home was gaunt as herself. Everything looked as if it had been scraped, and the spare furniture expressed a meagre, lonely life. She dropped a plate as she laid the table, and stood pathetically looking at the pieces. When Esther asked for a teaspoon she gave way utterly. "I haven't one to give you; I had forgotten that they were gone. I should have remembered and not asked you to tea." "It don't matter, Mrs. Randal; I can stir up my tea with anything--a knitting-needle will do very well--" "I should have remembered and not asked you back to tea; but I was so miserable, and it is so lonely sitting in this house, that I could stand it no longer.... Talking to you saved me from thinking, and I did not want to think until this race was over. If Silver Braid is beaten we are ruined. Indeed, I don't know what will become of us. For fifteen years I have borne up; I have lived on little at the best of times, and very often have gone without; but that is nothing compared to the anxiety--to see him come in with a white face, to see him drop into a chair and hear him say, 'Beaten a head on the post,' or 'Broke down, otherwise he would have won in a canter.' I have always tried to be a good wife and tried to console him, and to do the best when he said, 'I have lost half a year's wages, I don't know how we shall pull through.' I have borne with ten thousand times more than I can tell you. The sufferings of a gambler's wife cannot be told. Tell me, what do you think my feelings must have been when one night I heard him calling me out of my sleep, when I heard him say, 'I can't die, Annie, without bidding you good-bye. I can only hope that you will be able to pull through, and I know that the Gaffer will do all he can for you, but he has been hit awful hard too. You mustn't think too badly of me, Annie, but I have had such a bad time that I couldn't put up with it any longer, and I thought the best thing I could do would be to go.' That's just how he talked--nice words to hear your husband speak in your ear through the darkness! There was no time to send for the doctor, so I jumped out of bed, put the kettle on, and made him drink glass after glass of salt and water. At last he brought up the laudanum." Esther listened to the melancholy woman, and remembered the little man whom she saw every day so orderly, so precise, so sedate, so methodical, so unemotional, into whose life she thought no faintest emotion had ever entered--and this was the truth. "So long as I only had myself to think of I didn't mind; but now there are the children growing up. He should think of them. Heaven only knows what will become of them... John is as kind a husband as ever was if it weren't for that one fault; but he cannot resist having something on any more than a drunkard can resist the bar-room." "Winner, winner, winner of the Stewards' Cup!" The women started to their feet. When they got into the street the boy was far away; besides, neither had a penny to pay for the paper, and they wandered about the town hearing and seeing nothing, so nervous were they. At last Esther proposed to ask at the "Red Lion" who had won. Mrs. Randal begged her to refrain, urging that she was unable to bear the tidings should it be evil. "Silver Braid," the barman answered. The girl rushed through the doors. "It is all right, it is all right; he has won!" Soon after the little children in the lane were calling forth "Silver Braid won!" And overcome by the excitement Esther walked along the sea-road to meet the drag. She walked on and on until the sound of the horn came through the crimson evening and she saw the leaders trotting in a cloud of dust. Ginger was driving, and he shouted to her, "He won!" The Gaffer waved the horn and shouted, "He won!" Peggy waved her broken parasol and shouted, "He won!" Esther looked at William. He leaned over the back seat and shouted, "He won!" She had forgotten all about late dinner. What would Mrs. Latch say? On such a day as this she would say nothing. IX Nearly everything came down untouched. Eating and drinking had been in progress almost all day on the course, and Esther had finished washing up before nine, and had laid the cloth in the servants' hall for supper. But if little was eaten upstairs, plenty was eaten downstairs; the mutton was finished in a trice, and Mrs. Latch had to fetch from the larder what remained of a beefsteak pudding. Even then they were not satisfied, and fine inroads were made into a new piece of cheese. Beer, according to orders, was served without limit, and four bottles of port were sent down so that the health of the horse might be adequately drunk. While assuaging their hunger the men had exchanged many allusive remarks regarding the Demon's bad ending, how nearly he had thrown the race away; and the meal being now over, and there being nothing to do but to sit and talk, Mr. Leopold, encouraged by William, entered on an elaborate and technical account of the race. The women listened, playing with a rind of cheese, glancing at the cheese itself, wondering if they could manage another slice, and the men sipping their port wine, puffing at their pipes, William listening most avidly of all, enjoying each sporting term, and ingeniously reminding Mr. Leopold of some detail whenever he seemed disposed to shorten his narrative. The criticism of the Demon's horsemanship took a long while, for by a variety of suggestive remarks William led Mr. Leopold into reminiscences of the skill of certain famous jockeys in the first half of the century. These digressions wearied Sarah and Grover, and their thoughts wandered to the dresses that had been worn that day, and the lady's-maid remembered she would hear all that interested her that night in the young ladies' rooms. At last, losing all patience, Sarah declared that she didn't care what Chifney had said when he just managed to squeeze his horse's head in front in the last dozen yards, she wanted to know what the Demon had done to so nearly lose the race--had he mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William looked at her contemptuously, and would have answered rudely, but at that moment Mr. Leopold began to tell the last instructions that the Gaffer had given the Demon. The orders were that the Demon should go right up to the leaders before they reached the half-mile, and remain there. Of course, if he found that he was a stone or more in hand, as the Gaffer expected, he might come away pretty well as he liked, for the greatest danger was that the horse might get shut out or might show temper and turn it up. "Well," said Mr. Leopold, "there were two false starts, and Silver Braid must have galloped a couple of 'undred yards afore the Demon could stop him. There wasn't twopence-halfpenny worth of strength in him--pulling off those three or four pounds pretty well finished him. He'll never be able to ride that weight again.... He said afore starting that he felt weak; you took him along too smartly from Portslade the last time you went there." "When he went by himself he'd stop playing marbles with the boys round the Southwick public-house." "If there had been another false start I think it would have been all up with us. The Gaffer was quite pale, and he stood there not taking his glasses from his eyes. There were over thirty of them, so you can imagine how hard it was to get them into line. However, at the third attempt they were got straight and away they came, a black line stretching right across the course. Presently the black cap and jacket came to the front, and not very long after a murmur went round, 'Silver Braid wins.' Never saw anything like it in all my life. He was three lengths a'ead, and the others were pulling off. 'Damn the boy; he'll win by twenty lengths,' said the Gaffer, without removing his glasses. But when within a few yards of the stand----" At that moment the bell rang. Mr. Leopold said, "There, they are wanting their tea; I must go and get it." "Drat their tea," said Margaret; "they can wait. Finish up; tell us how he won." Mr. Leopold looked round, and seeing every eye fixed on him he considered how much remained of the story, and with quickened speech continued, "Well, approaching the stand, I noticed that Silver Braid was not going quite so fast, and at the very instant the Demon looked over his shoulder, and seeing he was losing ground he took up the whip. But the moment he struck him the horse swerved right across the course, right under the stand, running like a rat from underneath the whip. The Demon caught him one across the nose with his left hand, but seeing what was 'appening, the Tinman, who was on Bullfinch, sat down and began riding. I felt as if there was a lump of ice down my back," and Mr. Leopold lowered his voice, and his face became grave as he recalled that perilous moment. "I thought it was all over," he said, "and the Gaffer thought the same; I never saw a man go so deadly pale. It was all the work of a moment, but that moment was more than a year--at least, so it seemed to me. Well, about half-way up the rails the Tinman got level with the Demon. It was ten to one that Silver Braid would turn it up, or that the boy wouldn't 'ave the strength to ride out so close a finish as it was bound to be. I thought then of the way you used to take him along from Portslade, and I'd have given something to've put a pound or two of flesh into his thighs and arms. The Tinman was riding splendid, getting every ounce and something more out of Bullfinch. The Demon, too weak to do much, was sitting nearly quite still. It looked as if it was all up with us, but somehow Silver Braid took to galloping of his own accord, and 'aving such a mighty lot in 'and he won on the post by a 'ead--a short 'ead.... I never felt that queer in my life and the Gaffer was no better; but I said to him, just afore the numbers went up, 'It is all right, sir, he's just done it,' and when the right number went up I thought everything was on the dance, going for swim like. By golly, it was a near thing!" At the end of a long silence Mr. Leopold said, shaking himself out of his thoughts, "Now I must go and get their tea." Esther sat at the end of the table; her cheek leaned on her hand. By turning her eyes she could see William. Sarah noticed one of these stealthy backward glances and a look of anger crossed her face, and calling to William she asked him when the sweepstakes money would be divided. The question startled William from a reverie of small bets, and he answered that there was no reason why the sweepstakes money should not be divided at once. "There was twelve. That's right, isn't it?--Sarah, Margaret, Esther, Miss Grover, Mr. Leopold, myself, the four boys, and Swindles and Wall.... Well, it was agreed that seven should go to the first, three to the second, and two to the third. No one got the third 'orse, so I suppose the two shillings that would have gone to him 'ad better be given to the first." "Given to the first! Why, that's Esther! Why should she get it?... What do you mean? No third! Wasn't Soap-bubble third?" "Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he wasn't in the sweep." "And why wasn't he?" "Because he wasn't among the eleven first favourites. We took them as they were quoted in the betting list published in the _Sportsman_." "How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid?" "Yer needn't get so angry, Sarah, no one's cheating; it is all above board. If you don't believe us, you'd better accuse us straight out." "What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was included?--he wasn't among the eleven first favourites." "Oh, don't be so stupid, Sarah; you know that we agreed to make an exception in favour of our own 'orse--a nice sweep it would 'ave been if we 'adn't included Silver Braid." "And suppose," she exclaimed, tightening her brows, "that Soap-bubble had won, what would have become of our money?" "It would have been returned--everyone would have got his shilling back." "And now I am to get three shillings, and that little Methodist or Plymouth Brethren there, whatever you like to call her, is to get nine!" said Sarah, with a light of inspiration flashing through her beer-clouded mind. "Why should the two shillings that would have gone to Soap-bubble, if anyone 'ad drawn 'im, go to the first 'orse rather than to the second?" William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a good reason why the extra two shillings should be given to Silver Braid; and Sarah, perceiving her advantage, deliberately accused him of wishing to favour Esther. "Don't we know that you went out to walk with her, and that you remained out till nearly eleven at night. That's why you want all the money to go to her. You don't take us for a lot of fools, do you? Never in any place I ever was in before would such a thing be allowed--the footman going out with the kitchen-maid, and one of the Dissenting lot." "I am not going to have my religion insulted! How dare you?" And Esther started up from her place; but William was too quick for her. He grasped her arm. "Never mind what Sarah says." "Never mind what I says! ...A thing like that, who never was in a situation before; no doubt taken out of some 'ouse. Rescue work, I think they call it----" "She shan't insult me--no, she shan't!" said Esther, tremulous with passion. "A nice sort of person to insult!" said Sarah, her arms akimbo. "Now look you here, Sarah Tucker," said Mrs. Latch, starting from her seat, "I'm not going to see that girl aggravated, so that she may do what she shouldn't do, and give you an opportunity of going to the missis with tales about her. Come away, Esther, come with me. Let them go on betting if they will; I never saw no good come of it." "That's all very fine, mother; but it must be settled, and we have to divide the money." "I don't want your money," said Esther, sullenly; "I wouldn't take it." "What blooming nonsense! You must take your money. Ah, here's Mr. Leopold! he'll decide it." Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under other circumstances would have gone to the third horse must be divided between the first and second; but Sarah refused to accept this decision. Finally, it was proposed that the matter should be referred to the editor of the _Sportsman_; and as Sarah still remained deaf to argument, William offered her choice between the _Sportsman_ and the _Sporting Life_. "Look here," said William, getting between the women; "this evening isn't one for fighting; we have all won our little bit, and ought to be thankful. The only difference between you is two shillings, that were to have gone to the third horse if anyone had drawn him. Mr. Leopold says it ought to be divided; you, Sarah, won't accept his decision. We have offered to write to the _Sportsman_, and Esther has offered to give up her claim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what do you want?" She raised some wholly irrelevant issue, and after a protracted argument with William, largely composed of insulting remarks, she declared that she wasn't going to take the two shillings, nor yet one of them; let them give her the three she had won--that was all she wanted. William looked at her, shrugged his shoulders, and, after declaring that it was his conviction that women wasn't intended to have nothing to do with horse-racing, he took up his pipe and tobacco-pouch. "Good-night, ladies, I have had enough of you for to-night; I am going to finish my smoke in the pantry. Don't scratch all your 'air out; leave enough for me to put into a locket." When the pantry door was shut, and the men had smoked some moments in silence, William said-- "Do you think he has any chance of winning the Chesterfield Cup?" "He'll win in a canter if he'll only run straight. If I was the Gaffer I think I'd put up a bigger boy. He'll 'ave to carry a seven-pound penalty, and Johnnie Scott could ride that weight." The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey and run straight with another was argued passionately, and illustrated with interesting reminiscences drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was the Gaffer's private servant--before either of them had married--when life was composed entirely of horse-racing and prize-fighting. But cutting short his tale of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken in a booth, and, not knowing who he was, had offered to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he did not know how to act--he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings for the double event; should he stand it out or lay some of it off? William thrilled with admiration. What a 'ead, and who'd think it? that little 'ead, hardly bigger than a cocoanut! What a brain there was inside! Fifty pounds to ten shillings; should he stand it out or hedge some of it? Who could tell better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a pity to break into the fifty. What did ten shillings matter? Mr. Leopold was a big enough man to stand the racket of it even if it didn't come back. William felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold had never before been known to let anyone know what he had on a race. Next day they walked into Shoreham together. The bar of the "Red Lion" was full of people. Above the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the customers were heard calling, "Two glasses of Burton, glass of bitter, three of whiskey cold." There were railway porters, sailors, boatmen, shop-boys, and market gardeners. They had all won something, and had come for their winnings. Old Watkins, an elderly man with white whiskers and a curving stomach, had just run in to wet his whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr. Leopold and William, a little corner shelved out of some out-houses, into which you could walk from the street. "Talk of favourites!" he said; "I'd sooner pay over the three first favourites than this one--thirty, twenty to one starting price, and the whole town onto him; it's enough to break any man.... Now, my men, what is it?" he said, turning to the railway porters. "Just the trifle me and my mates 'av won over that 'ere 'orse." "What was it?" "A shilling at five and twenty to one." "Look it out, Joey. Is it all right?" "Yes, sir; yes, sir," said the clerk. And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches pocket, and it came forth filled with gold and silver. "Come, come, mates, we are bound to 'ave a bet on him for the Chesterfield--we can afford it now; what say yer, a shilling each?" "Done for a shilling each," said the under-porter; "finest 'orse in training.... What price, Musser Watkins?" "Ten to one." "Right, 'ere's my bob." The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid them back into his pocket, and called to Joey to book the bet. "And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?" William stated the various items. He had had a bet of ten shillings to one on one race and had lost; he had had half-a-crown on another and had lost; in a word, three-and-sixpence had to be subtracted from his winnings on Silver Braid. These amounted to more than five pounds. William's face flushed with pleasure, and the world seemed to be his when he slipped four sovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat pocket. Should he put a sovereign of his winnings on Silver Braid for the Chesterfield? Half-a-sovereign was enough! ...The danger of risking a sovereign--a whole sovereign--frightened him. "Now, Mr. Latch," said old Watkins, "if you want to back anything, make up your mind; there are a good many besides yourself who have business with me." William hesitated, and then said he'd take ten half-sovereigns to one against Silver Braid. "Ten half-sovereigns to one?" said old Watkins. William murmured "Yes," and Joey booked the bet. Mr. Leopold's business demanded more consideration. The fat betting man and the scarecrow little butler walked aside and talked, both apparently indifferent to the impatience of a number of small customers; sometimes Joey called in his shrill cracked voice if he might lay ten half-crowns to one, or five shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would then raise his eyes from Mr. Leopold's face and nod or shake his head, or perhaps would sign with his fingers what odds he was prepared to lay. With no one else would Watkins talk so lengthily, showing so much deference. Mr. Leopold had the knack of investing all he did with an air of mystery, and the deepest interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as if dismissing matters of first importance, the two men approached William, and he heard Watkins pressing Mr. Leopold to lay off some of that fifty pounds. "I'll take twelve to one--twenty-four pounds to two. Shall I book it?" Mr. Leopold shook his head, and, smiling enigmatically, said he must be getting back. William was much impressed, and congratulated himself on his courage in taking the ten half-sovereigns to one. Mr. Leopold knew a thing or two; he had been talking to the Gaffer that morning, and if it hadn't been all right he would have laid off some of the money. Next day one of the Gaffer's two-year-olds won a race, and the day after Silver Braid won the Chesterfield Cup. The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old Watkins. He declared that he had never been so hard hit; but as he did not ask for time and continued to draw notes and gold and silver in handfuls from his capacious pockets, his lamentations only served to stimulate the happiness of the fortunate backers, and, listening to the sweet note of self ringing in their hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the health of the horse. So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little town, decrepit and colourless by its high shingle beach and long reaches of muddy river. The dear gold jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, lightening the heart, curling lips with smiles, opening lips with laughter. The dear gold came falling softly, sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of working folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to dream again. The dear gold was like an opiate; it wiped away memories of hardship and sorrow, it showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folk laughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered how they could have thought life so hard and relentless. The dear gold was pleasing as a bird on the branch, as a flower on the stem; the tune it sang was sweet, the colour it flaunted was bright. The trade of former days had never brought the excitement and the fortune that this horse's hoofs had done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen a happy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every corner and crevice of life the glitter appeared. That fine red dress on the builder's wife, and the feathers that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud trousers on the young man's legs, the cigar in his mouth--all is Goodwood gold. It glitters in that girl's ears and on this girl's finger. It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two thousand pounds on the race; it was said that Mr. Leopold had won two hundred; it was said that William Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the coachman, had won five-and-twenty; it was said that the Gaffer had won forty thousand pounds. For ten miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of the Barfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the county came to call; even the most distant and reserved left cards, others walked up and down the lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. A golden prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian house. Carriages passed under its elm-trees at every hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour said that large alterations were going to be made, so that larger and grander entertainments might be given; an Italian garden was spoken of, balustrades and terraces, stables were in course of construction, many more race-horses were bought; they arrived daily, and the slender creatures, their dark eyes glancing out of the sight holes in their cloth hoods, walked up from the station followed by an admiring and commenting crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing and singing upstairs and downstairs, and the jollifications culminated in a servants' ball given at the Shoreham Gardens. All the Woodview servants, excepting Mrs. Latch, were there; likewise all the servants from Mr. Northcote's, and those from Sir George Preston's--two leading county families. A great number of servants had come from West Brighton, and Lancing, and Worthing --altogether between two and three hundred. "Evening dress is indispensable" was printed on the cards. The butlers, footmen, cooks, ladies' maids, housemaids, and housekeepers hoped by this notification to keep the ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn Esther to play again the part of Cinderella. X A group of men turned from the circular buffet when Esther entered. Miss Mary had given her a white muslin dress, a square-cut bodice with sleeves reaching to the elbows, and a blue sash tied round the waist. The remarks as she passed were, "A nice, pretty girl." William was waiting, and she went away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka. Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the gardens, but a few couples had begun to whirl, the women borne along by force, the men poising their legs into curious geometrical positions. Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away from the circular buffet--they must dance whether they knew how or not. "The Gaffer has told me partic'lar to see that the 'gals' all had partners, and just look down that 'ere room; 'alf of that lot 'aven't been on their legs yet. 'Ere's a partner for you," and the butler pulled a young gamekeeper towards a young girl who had just arrived. She entered slowly, her hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the ground, and the strangeness of the spectacle caused Mr. Leopold to pause. It was whispered that she had never worn a low dress before, and Grover came to the rescue of her modesty with a pocket-handkerchief. But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball to those who possessed or could obtain an evening suit, and plenty of check trousers and red neckties were hopping about. Among the villagers many a touch suggested costume. A young girl had borrowed her grandmother's wedding dress, and a young man wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue coastguardsman's coat of old time. These touches of fancy and personal taste divided the villagers from the household servants. The butlers seemed on the watch for side dishes, and the valets suggested hair brushes and hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses adorned with wide collars, and fastened with gold brooches containing portraits of their late husbands; and the fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, the lavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expressive of ease and leisure, made Ginger's two friends--young Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote --noticeable among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved the upper circles, and now he romped the polka in the most approved London fashion, his elbows advanced like a yacht's bowsprit, and, his coat-tails flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople who were bobbing up and down, hardly advancing at all. Esther was now being spoken of as the belle of the ball, she had danced with young Mr. Preston, and seeing her sitting alone Grover called her and asked her why she was not dancing. Esther answered sullenly that she was tired. "Come, the next polka, just to show there is no ill-feeling." Half a dozen times William repeated his demand. At last she said-- "You've spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing." "I'm sorry if I've done that, Esther. I was jealous, that's all." "Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it matter what people think, so long as I know I haven't done no wrong?" And in silence they walked into the garden. The night was warm, even oppressive, and the moon hung like a balloon above the trees, and often the straying revellers stopped to consider the markings now so plain upon its disc. There were arbours, artificial ruins, darkling pathways, and the breathless garden was noisy in the illusive light. William showed Esther the theatre and explained its purpose. She listened, though she did not understand, nor could she believe that she was not dreaming when they suddenly stood on the borders of a beautiful lake full of the shadows of tall trees, and crossed by a wooden bridge at the narrowest end. "How still the water is; and the stars, they are lovely!" "You should see the gardens about three o'clock on Saturday afternoons, when the excursion comes in from Brighton." They walked on a little further, and Esther said, "What's these places? Ain't they dark?" "These are arbours, where we 'as shrimps and tea. I'll take you next Saturday, if you'll come." A noisy band of young men, followed by three or four girls, ran across the bridge. Suddenly they stopped to argue on which side the boat was to be found. Some chose the left, some the right; those who went to the right sent up a yell of triumph, and paddled into the middle of the water. They first addressed remarks to their companions, and then they admired the moon and stars. A song was demanded, and at the end of the second verse William threw his arm round Esther. "Oh, Esther, I do love you." She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed in a long interrogation. "I wonder if that is true. What is there to love in me?" He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protestations. "I do, I do, I do love you, Esther." She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A holly bush threw a black shadow on the gravel path and a moment after the ornamental tin roof of the dancing room appeared between the trees. Even in their short absence a change had come upon the ball. About the circular buffet numbers of men called for drink, and talked loudly of horse-racing. Many were away at supper, and those that remained were amusing themselves in a desultory fashion. A tall, lean woman, dressed like Sarah in white muslin, wearing amber beads round her neck, was dancing the lancers with the Demon, and everyone shook with laughter when she whirled the little fellow round or took him in her arms and carried him across. William wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry, and led him away to an adjoining building where cold beef, chicken, and beer might be had by the strong and adventurous. As they struggled through the crowd Esther spied three young gentlemen at the other end of the room. "Now tell me, if they ask me, the young gents yonder, to dance, am I to look them straight in the face and say no?" William considered a moment, and then he said, "I think you had better dance with them if they asks you; if you refuse, Sarah will say it was I who put you up to it." "Let's have another bottle," cried Ginger. "Come, what do you say, Mr. Thomas?" Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. Arthur wished to see him in the hands of the police. However, he promised to drink his share. Two more bottles were sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the weights that would probably be assigned to certain horses in the autumn handicap were discussed. William was very proud of being admitted into such company, and he listened, a cigar which he did not like between his teeth, and a glass of champagne in his hand.... Suddenly the conversation was interrupted by the cornet sounding the first phrase of a favourite waltz, and the tipsy and the sober hastened away. Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but they tumbled round the room, enjoying themselves immensely. In the polka and mazurka they got on better; and there were quadrilles and lancers in which the gentlemen joined, and all were gay and pleasant; even Sarah's usually sour face glowed with cordiality when they joined hands and raced round the men standing in the middle. In the chain they lost themselves as in a labyrinth and found their partners unexpectedly. But the dance of the evening was Sir Roger de Coverley, and Esther's usually sober little brain evaporated in the folly of running up the room, then turning and running backwards, getting into her place as best she could, and then starting again. It always appeared to be her turn, and it was so sweet to see her dear William, and such a strange excitement to run forward to meet young Mr. Preston, to curtsey to him, and then run away; and this over and over again. "There's the dawn." Esther looked, and in the whitening doorways she saw the little jockey staggering about helplessly drunk. The smile died out of her eyes; she returned to her true self, to Mrs. Barfield and the Brethren. She felt that all this dancing, drinking, and kissing in the arbours was wicked. But Miss Mary had sent for her, and had told her that she would give her one of her dresses, and she had not known how to refuse Miss Mary. Then, if she had not gone, William--Sounds of loud voices were heard in the garden, and the lean woman in the white muslin repeated some charge. Esther ran out to see what was happening, and there she witnessed a disgraceful scene. The lean woman in the muslin dress and the amber beads accused young Mr. Preston of something which he denied, and she heard William tell someone that he was mistaken, that he and his pals didn't want no rowing at this 'ere ball, and what was more they didn't mean to have none. And her heart filled with love for her big William. What a fine fellow he was! how handsome were his shoulders beside that round-shouldered little man whom he so easily pulled aside! and having crushed out the quarrel, he helped her on with her jacket, and, hanging on his arm, they returned home through the little town. Margaret followed with the railway porter; Sarah was with her faithful admirer, a man with a red beard, whom she had picked up at the ball; Grover waddled in the rear, embarrassed with the green silk, which she held high out of the dust of the road. When they reached the station the sky was stained with rose, and the barren downs--more tin-like than ever in the shadow-less light of dawn--stretched across the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The little birds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the responsibilities of the day, flew away into the corn. The night had been close and sultry, and even at this hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther looked at the hills, examining the landscape intently. She was thinking of the first time she saw it. Some vague association of ideas--the likeness that the morning landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the wish to prolong the sweetness of these, the last moments of her happiness, impelled her to linger and to ask William if the woods and fields were not beautiful. The too familiar landscape awoke in William neither idea nor sensation; Esther interested him more, and while she gazed dreamily on the hills he admired the white curve of her neck which showed beneath the unbuttoned jacket. She never looked prettier than she did that morning, standing on the dusty road, her white dress crumpled, the ends of the blue sash hanging beneath the black cloth jacket. XI For days nothing was talked of but the ball--how this man had danced, the bad taste of this woman's dress, and the possibility of a marriage. The ball had brought amusement to all, to Esther it had brought happiness. Her happiness was now visible in her face and audible in her voice, and Sarah's ironical allusions to her inability to learn to read no longer annoyed her, no longer stirred her temper--her love seemed to induce forgiveness for all and love for everything. In the evenings when their work was done Esther and her lover lingered about the farm buildings, listening to the rooks, seeing the lights die in the west; and in the summer darkness about nine she tripped by his side when he took the letters to post. The wheat stacks were thatching, and in the rickyard, in the carpenter's shop, and in the whist of the woods they talked of love and marriage. They lay together in the warm valleys, listening to the tinkling of the sheep-bell, and one evening, putting his pipe aside, William threw his arm round her, whispering that she was his wife. The words were delicious in her fainting ears, and her will died in what seemed like irresistible destiny. She could not struggle with him, though she knew that her fate depended upon her resistance, and swooning away she awakened in pain, powerless to free herself.... Soon after thoughts betook themselves on their painful way, and the stars were shining when he followed her across the down, beseeching her to listen. But she fled along the grey road and up the stairs to her room. Margaret was in bed, and awakening a little asked her what had kept her out so late. She did not answer... and hearing Margaret fall asleep she remembered the supper-table. Sarah, who had come in late, had sat down by her; William sat on the opposite side; Mrs. Latch was in her place, the jockeys were all together; Mr. Swindles, his snuff-box on the table; Margaret and Grover. Everyone had drunk a great deal; and Mr. Leopold had gone to the beer cellar many times. She thought that she remembered feeling a little dizzy when William asked her to come for a stroll up the hill. They had passed through the hunting gate; they had wandered into the loneliness of the hills. Over the folded sheep the rooks came home noisily through a deepening sky. So far she remembered, and she could not remember further; and all night lay staring into the darkness, and when Margaret called her in the morning she was pale and deathlike. "Whatever is the matter? You do look ill." "I did not sleep all last night. My head aches as if it would drop off. I don't feel as if I could go to work to-day." "That's the worst of being a servant. Well or ill, it makes no matter." She turned from the glass, and holding her hair in her left hand, leaned her head so that she might pin it. "You do look bad," she remarked dryly. Never had they been so late! Half-past seven, and the shutters still up! So said Margaret as they hurried downstairs. But Esther thought only of the meeting with William. She had seen him cleaning boots in the pantry as they passed. He waited till Margaret left her, till he heard the baize door which separated the back premises from the front of the house close, then he ran to the kitchen, where he expected to find Esther alone. But meeting his mother he mumbled some excuse and retreated. There were visitors in the house, he had a good deal to do that morning, and Esther kept close to Mrs. Latch; but at breakfast it suddenly became necessary that she should answer him, and Sarah saw that Esther and William were no longer friends. "Well I never! Look at her! She sits there over her tea-cup as melancholy as a prayer-meeting." "What is it to you?" said William. "What's it to me? I don't like an ugly face at the breakfast-table, that's all." "I wouldn't be your looking-glass, then. Luckily there isn't one here." In the midst of an angry altercation, Esther walked out of the room. During dinner she hardly spoke at all. After dinner she went to her room, and did not come down until she thought he had gone out with the carriage. But she was too soon, William came running down the passage to meet her. He laid his hand supplicatingly on her arm. "Don't touch me!" she said, and her eyes filled with dangerous light. "Now, Esther! ...Come, don't lay it on too thick!" "Go away. Don't speak to me!" "Just listen one moment, that's all." "Go away. If you don't, I'll go straight to Mrs. Barfield." She passed into the kitchen and shut the door in his face. He had gone a trifle pale, and after lingering a few moments he hurried away to the stables, and Esther saw him spring on the box. As it was frequent with Esther not to speak to anyone with whom she had had a dispute for a week or fifteen days, her continued sulk excited little suspicion, and the cause of the quarrel was attributed to some trifle. Sarah said-- "Men are such fools. He is always begging of her to forgive him. Just look at him--he is still after her, following her into the wood-shed." She rarely answered him a yes or no, but would push past him, and if he forcibly barred the way she would say, "Let me go by, will you? You are interfering with my work." And if he still insisted, she spoke of appealing to Mrs. Barfield. And if her heart sometimes softened, and an insidious thought whispered that it did not matter since they were going to be married, instinct forced her to repel him; her instinct was that she could only win his respect by refusing forgiveness for a long while. The religion in which her soul moved and lived--the sternest Protestantism--strengthened and enforced the original convictions and the prejudices of her race; and the natural shame which she had first felt almost disappeared in the violence of her virtue. She even ceased to fear discovery. What did it matter who knew, since she knew? She opened her heart to God. Christ looked down, but he seemed stern and unforgiving. Her Christ was the Christ of her forefathers; and He had not forgiven, because she could not forgive herself. Hers was the unpardonable sin, the sin which her race had elected to fight against, and she lay down weary and sullen at heart. The days seemed to bring no change, and wearied by her stubbornness, William said, "Let her sulk," and he went out with Sarah; and when Esther saw them go down the yard her heart said, "Let him take her out, I don't want him." For she knew it to be a trick to make her jealous, and that he should dare such a trick angered her still further against him, and when they met in the garden, where she had gone with some food for the cats, and he said, "Forgive me, Esther, I only went out with Sarah because you drove me wild," she closed her teeth and refused to answer. But he stood in her path, determined not to leave her. "I am very fond of you, Esther, and I will marry you as soon as I have earned enough or won enough money to give you a comfortable 'ome." "You are a wicked man; I will never marry you." "I am very sorry, Esther. But I am not as bad as you think for. You let your temper get the better of you. So soon as I have got a bit of money together--" "If you were a good man you would ask me to marry you now." "I will if you like, but the truth is that I have only three pounds in the world. I have been unlucky lately--" "You think of nothing but that wicked betting. Come, let me pass; I'm not going to listen to a lot of lies." "After the Leger--" "Let me pass. I will not speak to you." "But look here, Esther: marriage or no marriage, we can't go on in this way: they'll be suspecting something shortly." "I shall leave Woodview." She had hardly spoken the words when it seemed clear to her that she must leave, and the sooner the better. "Come, let me pass.... If Mrs. Barfield--" An angry look passed over William's face, and he said-- "I want to act honest with you, and you won't let me. If ever there was a sulky pig! ...Sarah's quite right; you are just the sort that would make hell of a man's life." She was bound to make him respect her. She had vaguely felt from the beginning that this was her only hope, and now the sensation developed and defined itself into a thought and she decided that she would not yield, but would continue to affirm her belief that he must acknowledge his sin, and then come and ask her to marry him. Above all things, Esther desired to see William repentant. Her natural piety, filling as it did her entire life, unconsciously made her deem repentance an essential condition of their happiness. How could they be happy if he were not a God-fearing man? This question presented itself constantly, and she was suddenly convinced that she could not marry him until he had asked forgiveness of the Lord. Then they would be joined together, and would love each other faithfully unto death. But in conflict with her prejudices, her natural love of the man was as the sun shining above a fog-laden valley; rays of passion pierced her stubborn nature, dissolving it, and unconsciously her eyes sought William's, and unconsciously her steps strayed from the kitchen when her ears told her he was in the passage. But when her love went out freely to William, when she longed to throw herself in his arms, saying, "Yes, I love you; make me your wife," she noticed, or thought she noticed, that he avoided her eyes, and she felt that thoughts of which she knew nothing had obtained a footing in his mind, and she was full of foreboding. Her heart being intent on him, she was aware of much that escaped the ordinary eye, and she was the first to notice when the drawing-room bell rang, and Mr. Leopold rose, that William would say, "My legs are the youngest, don't you stir." No one else, not even Sarah, thought William intended more than to keep in Mr. Leopold's good graces, but Esther, although unable to guess the truth, heard the still tinkling bell ringing the knell of her hopes. She noted, too, the time he remained upstairs, and asked herself anxiously what it was that detained him so long. The weather had turned colder lately.... Was it a fire that was wanted? In the course of the afternoon, she heard from Margaret that Miss Mary and Mrs. Barfield had gone to Southwick to make a call, and she heard from one of the boys that the Gaffer and Ginger had ridden over in the morning to Fendon Fair, and had not yet returned. It must have been Peggy who had rung the bell. Peggy? Suddenly she remembered something--something that had been forgotten. The first Sunday, the first time she went to the library for family prayers, Peggy was sitting on the little green sofa, and as Esther passed across the room to her place she saw her cast a glance of admiration on William's tall figure, and the memory of that glance had flamed up in her brain, and all that night Esther saw the girl with the pale face and the coal-black hair looking at her William. Next day Esther waited for the bell that was to call her lover from her. The afternoon wore slowly away, and she had begun to hope she was mistaken when the metal tongue commenced calling. She heard the baize door close behind him; but the bell still continued to utter little pathetic notes. A moment after all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the knees in quicksands she felt that the time had come for a decided effort. But what could she do? She could not follow him to the drawing-room. She had begun to notice that he seemed to avoid her, and by his conduct seemed to wish that their quarrel might endure. But pride and temper had fallen from her, and she lived conscious of him, noting every sign, and intensely, all that related to him, divining all his intentions, and meeting him in the passage when he least expected her. "I'm always getting in your way," she said, with a low, nervous laugh. "No harm in that; ...fellow servants; there must be give and take." Tremblingly they looked at each other, feeling that the time had come, that an explanation was inevitable, but at that moment the drawing-room bell rang above their heads, and William said, "I must answer that bell." He turned from her, and passed through the baize door before she had said another word. Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a great deal of his time in the drawing-room, and Esther started out of her moody contemplation, and, speaking instinctively, she said, "I don't think much of ladies who go after their servants." Everyone looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving-knife on the meat and fixed her eyes on her son. "Lady?" said Sarah; "she's no lady! Her mother used to mop out the yard before she was 'churched.'" "I can tell you what," said William, "you had better mind what you are a-saying of, for if any of your talk got wind upstairs you'd lose yer situation, and it might be some time before yer got another!" "Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall always be able to suit mesel'; don't you fear about me. But if it comes to talking about situations, I can tell you that you are more likely to lose yours than I am to lose mine." William hesitated, and while he sought a judicious reply Mrs. Latch and Mr. Leopold, putting forth their joint authority, brought the discussion to a close. The jockey-boys exchanged grins, Sarah sulked, Mr. Swindles pursed up his mouth in consideration, and the elder servants felt that the matter would not rest in the servant's hall; that evening it would be the theme of conversation in the "Red Lion," and the next day it would be the talk of the town. About four o'clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield, Miss Mary, and Peggy walk across the yard towards the garden, and as Esther had to go soon after to the wood-shed she saw Peggy slip out of the garden by a bottom gate and make her way through the evergreens. Esther hastened back to the kitchen and stood waiting for the bell to ring. She had not to wait long; the bell tinkled, but so faintly that Esther said, "She only just touched it; it is a signal; he was on the look-out for it; she did not want anyone else to hear." Esther remembered the thousands of pounds she had heard that the young lady possessed, and the beautiful dresses she wore. There was no hope for her. How could there be? Her poor little wages and her print dress! He would never look at her again! But oh! how cruel and wicked it was! How could one who had so much come to steal from one who had so little? Oh, it was very cruel and very wicked, and no good would come of it either to her or to him; of that she felt quite sure. God always punished the wicked. She knew he did not love Peggy. It was sin and shame; and after his promises--after what had happened. Never would she have believed him to be so false. Then her thought turned to passionate hatred of the girl who had so cruelly robbed her. He had gone through that baize door, and no doubt he was sitting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He had gone where she could not follow. He had gone where the grand folk lived in idleness, in the sinfulness of the world and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinking of nothing else, and with servants to wait on them, obeying their orders and saving them from every trouble. She knew that these fine folk thought servants inferior beings. But was she not of the same flesh and blood as they? Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was no better; take off her dress and they were the same, woman to woman. She pushed through the door and walked down the passage. A few steps brought her to the foot of a polished oak staircase, lit by a large window in coloured glass, on either side of which there were statues. The staircase sloped slowly to an imposing landing set out with columns and blue vases and embroidered curtains. The girl saw these things vaguely, and she was conscious of a profusion of rugs, matting, and bright doors, and of her inability to decide which door was the drawing-room door--the drawing-room of which she had heard so much, and where even now, amid gold furniture and sweet-scented air, William listened to the wicked woman who had tempted him away from her. Suddenly William appeared, and seeing Esther he seemed uncertain whether to draw back or come forward. Then his face took an expression of mixed fear and anger; and coming rapidly towards her, he said-- "What are you doing here?"... then changing his voice, "This is against the rules of the 'ouse." "I want to see her." "Anything else? What do you want to say to her? I won't have it, I tell you.... What do you mean by spying after me? That's your game, is it?" "I want to speak to her." With averted face the young lady fled up the oak staircase, her handkerchief to her lips. Esther made a movement as if to follow, but William prevented her. She turned and walked down the passage and entered the kitchen. Her face was one white tint, her short, strong arms hung tremblingly, and William saw that it would be better to temporise. "Now look here, Esther," he said, "you ought to be damned thankful to me for having prevented you from making a fool of yourself." Esther's eyelids quivered, and then her eyes dilated. "Now, if Miss Margaret," continued William, "had--" "Go away! go away! I am--" At that moment the steel of a large, sharp-pointed knife lying on the table caught her eye. She snatched it up, and seeing blood she rushed at him. William retreated from her, and Mrs. Latch, coming suddenly in, caught her arm. Esther threw the knife; it struck the wall, falling with a rattle on the meat screen. Escaping from Mrs. Latch, she rushed to secure it, but her strength gave way, and she fell back in a dead faint. "What have you been doing to the girl?" said Mrs. Latch. "Nothing, mother.... We had a few words, that was all. She said I should not go out with Sarah." "That is not true.... I can read the lie in your face; a girl doesn't take up a knife unless a man well-nigh drives her mad." "That's right; always side against your son! ...If you don't believe me, get what you can out of her yourself." And, turning on his heel, he walked out of the house. Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the stables, and when Esther opened her eyes she looked at Mrs. Latch questioningly, unable to understand why the old woman was standing by her. "Are you better now, dear?" "Yes, but--but what--" Then remembrance struggled back. "Is he gone? Did I strike him? I remember that I--" "You did not hurt him." "I don't want to see him again. Far better not. I was mad. I did not know what I was doing." "You will tell me about it another time, dear." "Where is he? tell me that; I must know." "Gone to the stables, I think; but you must not go after him--you'll see him to-morrow." "I do not want to go after him; but he isn't hurt? That's what I want to know." "No, he isn't hurt.... You're getting stronger.... Lean on me. You'll begin to feel better when you are in bed. I'll bring you up your tea." "Yes, I shall be all right presently. But how'll you manage to get the dinner?" "Don't you worry about that; you go upstairs and lie down." A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain that William might be brought back to her. In the evening the kitchen was full of people: Margaret, Sarah, and Grover were there, and she heard that immediately after lunch Mr. Leopold had been sent for, and the Gaffer had instructed him to pay William a month's wages, and see that he left the house that very instant. Sarah, Margaret, and Grover watched Esther's face and were surprised at her indifference. She even seemed pleased. She was pleased; nothing better could have happened. William was now separated from her rival, and released from her bad influence he would return to his real love. At the first sign she would go to him, she would forgive him. But a little later, when the dishes came down from the dining-room, it was whispered that Peggy was not there. Later in the evening, when the servants were going to bed, it became known that she had left the house, that she had taken the six o'clock to Brighton. Esther turned from the foot of the stair with a wild look. Margaret caught her. "It's no use, dear; you can do nothing to-night." "I can walk to Brighton." "No, you can't; you don't know the way, and even if you did you don't know where they are." Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in silence the servants went to their rooms. Margaret closed the door and turned to look at Esther, who had fallen on the chair, her eyes fixed in vacancy. "I know what it is; I was the same when Jim Story got the sack. It seems as if one couldn't live through it, and yet one does somehow." "I wonder if they'll marry." "Most probable. She has a lot of money." Two days after a cab stood in the yard in front of the kitchen window. Peggy's luggage was being piled upon it--two large, handsome basket boxes with the initials painted on them. Kneeling on the box-seat, the coachman leaned over the roof making room for another--a small box covered with red cowhide and tied with a rough rope. The little box in its poor simplicity brought William back to Esther, whelming her for a moment in so acute a sense of her loss that she had to leave the kitchen. She went into the scullery, drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her face in her apron. A stifled sob or two, and then she recovered her habitual gravity of expression, and continued her work as if nothing had happened. XII "They are just crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and the Gaffer are the worst. They say they had better sell the place and build another house somewhere else. None of the county people will call on them now--and just as they were beginning to get on so well! Miss Mary, too, is terrible cut up about it; she says it will interfere with her prospects, and that Ginger has nothing to do now but to marry the kitchen-maid to complete the ruin of the Barfields." "Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound another's feelings. It is only a nasty old deceitful thing like yourself who could think of such a thing." "Eh, you got it there, my lady," said Sarah, who had had a difference with Grover, and was anxious to avenge it. Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look clearly said, "Is everyone going to side with that little kitchen-maid?" Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the position the Latches had held three generations ago; the Barfields were then nobodies; they had nothing even now but their money, and that had come out of a livery stable. "And it shows, too; just compare Ginger with young Preston or young Northcote. Anyone could tell the difference." Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy ache in her heart. She had now not an enemy nor yet an opponent; the cause of rivalry and jealousy being removed, all were sorry for her. They recognised that she had suffered and was suffering, and seeing none but friends about her, she was led to think how happy she might have been in this beautiful house if it had not been for William. She loved her work, for she was working for those she loved. She could imagine no life happier than hers might have been. But she had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for sin, and she must bear her punishment uncomplainingly, giving Him thanks that He had imposed no heavier one upon her. Such reflection was the substance of Esther's mind for three months after William's departure; and in the afternoons, about three o'clock, when her work paused, Esther's thoughts would congregate and settle on the great misfortune of her life--William's desertion. It was one afternoon at the beginning of December; Mrs. Latch had gone upstairs to lie down. Esther had drawn her chair towards the fire. A broken-down race-horse, his legs bandaged from his knees to his fetlocks, had passed up the yard; he was going for walking exercise on the downs, and when the sound of his hoofs had died away Esther was quite alone. She sat on her wooden chair facing the wide kitchen window. She had advanced one foot on the iron fender; her head leaned back, rested on her hand. She did not think--her mind was lost in vague sensation of William, and it was in this death of active memory that something awoke within her, something that seemed to her like a flutter of wings; her heart seemed to drop from its socket, and she nearly fainted away, but recovering herself she stood by the kitchen table, her arms drawn back and pressed to her sides, a death-like pallor over her face, and drops of sweat on her forehead. The truth was borne in upon her; she realised in a moment part of the awful drama that awaited her, and from which nothing could free her, and which she would have to live through hour by hour. So dreadful did it seem, that she thought her brain must give way. She would have to leave Woodview. Oh, the shame of confession! Mrs. Barfield, who had been so good to her, and who thought so highly of her. Her father would not have her at home; she would be homeless in London. No hope of obtaining a situation.... they would send her away without a character, homeless in London, and every month her position growing more desperate.... A sickly faintness crept up through her. The flesh had come to the relief of the spirit; and she sank upon her chair, almost unconscious, sick, it seemed, to death, and she rose from the chair wiping her forehead slowly with her apron.... She might be mistaken. And she hid her face in her hands, and then, falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon the table, she prayed for strength to walk without flinching under any cross that He had thought fit to lay upon her. There was still the hope that she might be mistaken; and this hope lasted for one week, for two, but at the end of the third week it perished, and she abandoned herself in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure with courage what she now knew she must endure, and she prayed for light to guide her in her present decision. Mrs. Barfield, however much she might pity her, could not keep her once she knew the truth, whereas none might know the truth if she did not tell it. She might remain at Woodview earning another quarter's wages; the first she had spent on boots and clothes, the second she had just been paid. If she stayed on for another quarter she would have eight pounds, and with that money, and much less time to keep herself, she might be able to pull through. But would she be able to go undetected for nearly three whole months, until her next wages came due? She must risk it. Three months of constant fear and agonising suspense wore away, and no one, not even Margaret, suspected Esther's condition. Encouraged by her success, and seeing still very little sign of change in her person, and as every penny she could earn was of vital consequence in the coming time, Esther determined to risk another month; then she would give notice and leave. Another month passed, and Esther was preparing for departure when a whisper went round, and before she could take steps to leave she was told that Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. Esther turned a little pale, and the expression of her face altered; it seemed to her impossible to go before Mrs. Barfield and admit her shame. Margaret, who was standing near and saw what was passing in her mind, said-- "Pull yourself together, Esther. You know the Saint--she's not a bad sort. Like all the real good ones, she is kind enough to the faults of others." "What's this? What's the matter with Esther?" said Mrs. Latch, who had not yet heard of Esther's misfortune. "I'll tell you presently, Mrs. Latch. Go, dear, get it over." Esther hurried down the passage and passed through the baize door without further thought. She had then but to turn to the left and a few steps would bring her to the library door. The room was already present in her mind. She could see it. The dim light, the little green sofa, the round table covered with books, the piano at the back, the parrot in the corner, and the canaries in the window. She knocked at the door. The well-known voice said, "Come in." She turned the handle, and found herself alone with her mistress. Mrs. Barfield laid down the book she was reading, and looked up. She did not look as angry as Esther had imagined, but her voice was harder than usual. "Is this true, Esther?" Esther hung down her head. She could not speak at first; then she said, "Yes." "I thought you were a good girl, Esther." "So did I, ma'am." Mrs. Barfield looked at the girl quickly, hesitated a moment, and then said-- "And all this time--how long is it?" "Nearly seven months, ma'am." "And all this time you were deceiving us." "I was three months gone before I knew it myself, ma'am." "Three months! Then for three months you have knelt every Sunday in prayer in this room, for twelve Sundays you sat by me learning to read, and you never said a word?" A certain harshness in Mrs. Barfield's voice awakened a rebellious spirit in Esther, and a lowering expression gathered above her eyes. She said-- "Had I told you, you would have sent me away then and there. I had only a quarter's wages, and should have starved or gone and drowned myself." "I'm sorry to hear you speak like that, Esther." "It is trouble that makes me, ma'am, and I have had a great deal." "Why did you not confide in me? I have not shown myself cruel to you, have I?" "No, indeed, ma'am. You are the best mistress a servant ever had, but--" "But what?" "Why, ma'am, it is this way.... I hated being deceitful--indeed I did. But I can no longer think of myself. There is another to think for now." There was in Mrs. Barfield's look something akin to admiration, and she felt she had not been wholly wrong in her estimate of the girl's character; she said, and in a different intonation-- "Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn't have kept you on, on account of the bad example to the younger servants. I might have helped you with money. But six months alone in London and in your condition! ...I am glad you did not tell me, Esther; and as you say there is another to think of now, I hope you will never neglect your child, if God give it to you alive." "I hope not, ma'am; I shall try and do my best." "My poor girl! my poor girl! you do not know what trial is in store for you. A girl like you, and only twenty! ...Oh, it is a shame! May God give you courage to bear up in your adversity!" "I know there is many a hard time before me, but I have prayed for strength, and God will give me strength, and I must not complain. My case is not so bad as many another. I have nearly eight pounds. I shall get on, ma'am, that is to say if you will stand by me and not refuse me a character." "Can I give you a character? You were tempted, you were led into temptation. I ought to have watched over you better--mine is the responsibility. Tell me, it was not your fault." "It is always a woman's fault, ma'am. But he should not have deserted me as he did, that's the only thing I reproach him with, the rest was my fault--I shouldn't have touched the second glass of ale. Besides, I was in love with him, and you know what that is. I thought no harm, and I let him kiss me. He used to take me out for walks on the hill and round the farm. He told me he loved me, and would make me his wife--that's how it was. Afterwards he asked me to wait till after the Leger, and that riled me, and I knew then how wicked I had been. I would not go out with him or speak to him any more; and while our quarrel was going on Miss Peggy went after him, and that's how I got left." At the mention of Peggy's name a cloud passed over Mrs. Barfield's face. "You have been shamefully treated, my poor child. I knew nothing of all this. So he said he would marry you if he won his bet on the Leger? Oh, that betting! I know that nothing else is thought of here; upstairs and downstairs, the whole place is poisoned with it, and it is the fault of--" Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the room, but when she turned the sight of Esther provoked her into speech. "I have seen it all my life, nothing else, and I have seen nothing come of it but sin and sorrow; you are not the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what misery, what death!" Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out the memories that crowded upon her. "I think, ma'am, if you will excuse my saying so, that a great deal of harm do come from this betting on race-horses. The day when you was all away at Goodwood when the horse won, I went down to see what the sea was like here. I was brought up by the seaside at Barnstaple. On the beach I met Mrs. Leopold, that is to say Mrs. Randal, John's wife; she seemed to be in great trouble, she looked that melancholy, and for company's sake she asked me to come home to tea with her. She was in that state of mind, ma'am, that she forgot the teaspoons were in pawn, and when she could not give me one she broke down completely, and told me what her troubles had been." "What did she tell you, Esther?" "I hardly remember, ma'am, but it was all the same thing--ruin if the horse didn't win, and more betting if he did. But she said they never had been in such a fix as the day Silver Braid won. If he had been beaten they would have been thrown out on the street, and from what I have heard the best half of the town too." "So that little man has suffered. I thought he was wiser than the rest.... This house has been the ruin of the neighbourhood; we have dispensed vice instead of righteousness." Walking towards the window, Mrs. Barfield continued to talk to herself. "I have struggled against the evil all my life, and without result. How much more misery shall I see come of it?" Turning then to Esther she said, "Yes, the betting is an evil--one from which many have suffered--but the question is now about yourself, Esther. How much money have you?" "I have about eight pounds, ma'am." "And how much do you reckon will see you through it?" "I don't know, ma'am, I have no experience. I think father will let me stay at home if I can pay my way. I could manage easily on seven shillings a week. When my time comes I shall go to the hospital." While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield calculated roughly that about ten pounds would meet most of her wants. Her train fare, two month's board at seven shillings a week, the room she would have to take near the hospital before her confinement, and to which she would return with her baby--all these would run to about four or five pounds. There would be baby's clothes to buy.... If she gave four pounds Esther would have then twelve pounds, and with that she would be able to manage. Mrs. Barfield went over to an old-fashioned escritoire, and, pulling out some small drawers, took from one some paper packages which she unfolded. "Now, my girl, look here. I'm going to give you four pounds; then you will have twelve, and that ought to see you through your trouble. You have been a good servant, Esther; I like you very much, and am truly sorry to part with you. You will write and tell me how you are getting on, and if one of these days you want a place, and I have one to give you, I shall be glad to take you back." Harshness deadened and hardened her feelings, yet she was easily moved by kindness, and she longed to throw herself at her mistress's feet; but her nature did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her blunt English way-- "You are far too good, ma'am; I do not deserve such treatment--I know I don't." "Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may give you strength to bear your cross.... Now go and pack up your box. But, Esther, do you feel your sin, can you truly say honestly before God that you repent?" "Yes, ma'am, I think I can say all that." "Then, Esther, come and kneel down and pray to God to give you strength in the future to stand against temptation." Mrs. Barfield took Esther's hand and they knelt down by the round table, leaning their hands on its edge. And, in a high, clear voice, Mrs. Barfield prayed aloud, Esther repeating the words after her-- "Dear Lord, Thou knowest all things, knowest how Thy servant has strayed and has fallen into sin. But Thou hast said there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just men. Therefore, Lord, kneeling here before Thee, we pray that this poor girl, who repents of the evil she has done, may be strengthened in Thy mercy to stand firm against temptation. Forgive her sin, even as Thou forgavest the woman of Samaria. Give her strength to walk uprightly before Thee, and give her strength to bear the pain and the suffering that lie before her." The women rose from their knees and stood looking at each other. Esther's eyes were full of tears. Without speaking she turned to go. "One word more, Esther. You asked me just now for a character; I hesitated, but it seems to me now that it would be wrong to refuse. If I did you might never get a place, and then it would be impossible to say what might happen. I am not certain that I am doing right, but I know what it means to refuse to give a servant a character, and I cannot take upon myself the responsibility." Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in which she described her as an honest, hard-working girl. She paused at the word "reliable," and wrote instead, "I believe her to be at heart a thoroughly religious girl." She went upstairs to pack her box, and when she came down she found all the women in the kitchen; evidently they were waiting for her. Coming forward, Sarah said-- "I hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels we may have had--There's no ill-feeling now, is there?" "I bear no one any ill-feeling. We have been friends these last months; indeed, everyone has been very kind to me." And Esther kissed Sarah on both cheeks. "I'm sure we're all sorry to lose you," said Margaret, pressing forward, "and we hope you'll write and let us know how you are getting on." Margaret, who was a tender-hearted girl, began to cry, and, kissing Esther, she declared that she had never got on with a girl who slept in her room so well before. Esther shook hands with Grover, and then her eyes met Mrs. Latch's. The old woman took her in her arms. "It breaks my heart to think that one belonging to me should have done you such a wrong--But if you want for anything let me know, and you shall have it. You will want money; I have some here for you." "Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. Mrs. Barfield has been very good to me." The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold from the pantry; he came with a glass of beer in his hand, and this suggested a toast to Sarah. "Let's drink baby's health," she said. "Mr. Leopold won't refuse us the beer." The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and Esther hid her face in her hands and tried to get away. But Margaret would not allow her. "What nonsense!" she said. "We don't think any the worse of you; why that's an accident that might happen to any of us." "I hope not," said Esther. The jug of beer was finished; she was kissed and hugged again, some tears were shed, and Esther walked down the yard through the stables. The avenue was full of wind and rain; the branches creaked dolefully overhead; the lane was drenched, and the bare fields were fringed with white mist, and the houses seemed very desolate by the bleak sea; and the girl's soul was desolate as the landscape. She had come to Woodview to escape the suffering of a home which had become unendurable, and she was going back in circumstances a hundred times worse than those in which she had left it, and she was going back with the memory of the happiness she had lost. All the grief and trouble that girls of her class have so frequently to bear gathered in Esther's heart when she looked out of the railway carriage window and saw for the last time the stiff plantations on the downs and the angles of the Italian house between the trees. She drew her handkerchief from her jacket, and hid her distress as well as she could from the other occupants of the carriage. XIII When she arrived at Victoria it was raining. She picked up her skirt, and as she stepped across a puddle a wild and watery wind swept up the wet streets, catching her full in the face. She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did not know if her father would have her at home. Her mother would tell her what she thought, but no one could say for certain what he would do. If she brought the box he might fling it after her into the street; better come without it, even if she had to go back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment another gust drove the rain violently over her, forcing it through her boots. The sky was a tint of ashen grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled in vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and nothing was heard but the melancholy bell of the tram-car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend a penny unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is often a pound foolish she called to the driver and got in. The car passed by the little brick street where the Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the door open she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices of the children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down the stairs, but at the sound of footsteps she ceased to bang the broom, and, stooping till her head looked over the banisters, she cried-- "Who is it?" "Me, mother." "What! You, Esther?" "Yes, mother." Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the broom against the wall, she took her daughter in her arms and kissed her. "Well, this is nice to see you again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit poorly, Esther." Then her face changed expression. "What has happened? Have you lost your situation?" "Yes, mother." "Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so 'appy there and liked your mistress above all those you 'ad ever met with. Did you lose your temper and answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, and your own temper--you was never very sure of it." "I've no fault to find with my mistress; she is the kindest in the world--none better,--and my temper--it wasn't that, mother--" "My own darling, tell me--" Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in the kitchen, and the front door was open. "Come into the parlour. We can talk quietly there.... When do you expect father home?" "Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet." Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the front door. Then they went into the parlour and sat down side by side on the little horsehair sofa placed against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in their hearts betrayed itself on their faces. "I had to leave, mother. I'm seven months gone." "Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!" "Yes, mother, it is quite true." Esther hurried through her story, and when her mother questioned her regarding details she said-- "Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don't care to talk about it more than I can help." Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders' cheeks, and when she wiped them away with the corner of her apron, Esther heard a sob. "Don't cry, mother," said Esther. "I have been very wicked, I know, but God will be good to me. I always pray to him, just as you taught me to do, and I daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow." "Your father will never let you stop 'ere; 'e'll say, just as afore, that there be too many mouths to feed as it is." "I don't want him to keep me for nothing--I know well enough if I did that 'e'd put me outside quick enough. But I can pay my way. I earned good money while I was with the Barfields, and though she did tell me I must go, Mrs. Barfield--the Saint they call her, and she is a saint if ever there was one--gave me four pounds to see me, as she said, through my trouble. I've better than eleven pound. Don't cry, mother dear; crying won't do no good, and I want you to help me. So long as the money holds out I can get a lodging anywhere, but I'd like to be near you; and father might be glad to let me have the parlour and my food for ten or eleven shillings a week--I could afford as much as that, and he never was the man to turn good money from his door. Do yer think he will?" "I dunno, dearie; 'tis hard to say what 'e'll do; he's a 'ard man to live with. I've 'ad a terrible time of it lately, and them babies allus coming. Ah, we poor women have more than our right to bear with!" "Poor mother!" said Esther, and, taking her mother's hand in hers, she passed her arm round her, drew her closer, and kissed her. "I know what he was; is he any worse now?" "Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. It was only the other day, just as I was attending to his dinner--it was a nice piece of steak, and it looked so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees me do it, and he cries out, 'Now then, guts, what are you interfering with my dinner for?' I says, 'I only cut off a tiny piece to taste.' 'Well, then, taste that,' he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, yes, lucky for you to be in service; you've half forgot by now what we've to put up with 'ere." "You was always that soft with him, mother; he never touched me since I dashed the hot water in his face." "Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, and long to go and drown meself. Jenny and Julia--you remember little Julia; she 'as grown up such a big girl, and is getting on so well--they are both at work now in the kitchen. Johnnie gives us a deal of trouble; he cannot tell a word of truth; father took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, but it ain't no use. If it wasn't for Jenny and Julia I don't think we should ever make both ends meet; but they works all day at the dogs, and at the warehouse their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than any other. Their poor fingers is worn away cramming the paper into the moulds; but they never complains, no more shouldn't I if he was a bit gentler and didn't take more than half of what he earns to the public-'ouse. I was glad you was away, Esther, for you allus was of an 'asty temper and couldn't 'ave borne it. I don't want to make my troubles seem worse than they be, but sometimes I think I will break up, 'special when I get to thinking what will become of us and all them children, money growing less and expenses increasing. I haven't told yer, but I daresay you have noticed that another one is coming. It is the children that breaks us poor women down altogether. Ah, well, yours be the hardest trouble, but you must put a brave face on it; we'll do the best we can; none of us can say no more." Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron; Esther looked at her with her usual quiet, stubborn stare, and without further words mother and daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at work. It was a long, low room, with one window looking on a small back-yard, at the back of which was the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. There was a long table and a bench ran along the wall. The fireplace was on the left-hand side; the dresser stood against the opposite wall; and amid the poor crockery, piled about in every available space, were the toy dogs, some no larger than your hand, others almost as large as a small poodle. Jenny and Julia had been working busily for some days, and were now finishing the last few that remained of the order they had received from the shop they worked for. Three small children sat on the floor tearing the brown paper, which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia. The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron moulds, filling them with brown paper, pasting it down, tucking it in with strong and dexterous fingers. "Why, it is Esther!" said Jenny, the elder girl. "And, lorks, ain't she grand!--quite the lady. Why, we hardly knowed ye." And having kissed their sister circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they admired with their pasty fingers, they stood lost in contemplation, thrilled with consciousness of the advantage of service. Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her arms, and asked him if he remembered her. "Naw, I don't think I do. Will oo put me down?" "But you do, Lizzie?" she said, addressing a girl of seven, whose bright red hair shone like a lamp in the gathering twilight. "Yes, you're my big sister; you've been away this year or more in service." "And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?" Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a moment's reflection she nodded her head vigorously. "Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on," said Mrs. Saunders; "she makes her dogs nearly as fast as Jenny. She is still a bit careless in drawing the paper into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it: 'ere's a dog with one shoulder just 'arf the size of the other." "Oh, mother, I'm sure nobody'd never know the difference." "Wouldn't know the difference! Just look at the hanimal! Is it natural? Sich carelessness I never seed." "Esther, just look at Julia's dog," cried Jenny, "'e 'asn't got no more than 'arf a shoulder. It's lucky mother saw it, for if the manager'd seen it he'd have found something wrong with I don't know 'ow many more, and docked us maybe a shilling or more on the week's work." Julia began to cry. "Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just because mother said I worked as fast as she did. If her work was overhauled--" "There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side of the dresser--I always 'as the right for my dogs--and if you find one there with an uneven shoulder I'll--" "Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like 'erself; that's why she stuffs so much paper into her dogs." It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her explanation of the excellence of Jenny's dogs, given with stolid childish gravity in the interval of tearing a large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But in the midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble came upon Esther. Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a look of pity came into her eyes, and to make an end of the unseemly gaiety she took Julia's dog and told her that it must be put into the mould again. She cut the skin away, and helped to force the stiff paper over the edge of the mould. "Now," she said, "it is a dog; both shoulders is equal, and if it was a real dog he could walk." "Oh, bother!" cried Jenny, "I shan't be able to finish my last dozen this evening. I 'ave no more buttons for the eyes, and the black pins that Julia is a-using of for her little one won't do for this size." "Won't they give yer any at the shop? I was counting on the money they would bring to finish the week with." "No, we can't get no buttons in the shop: that's 'ome work, they says; and even if they 'ad them they wouldn't let us put them in there. That's 'ome work they says to everything; they is a that disagreeable lot." "But 'aven't you got sixpence, mother? and I'll run and get them." "No, I've run short." "But," said Esther, "I'll give you sixpence to get your buttons with." "Yes, that's it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have it back to-morrow if you are 'ere. How long are yer up for? If not, we'll send it." "I'm not going back just yet." "What, 'ave yer lost yer situation?" "No, no," said Mrs. Saunders, "Esther ain't well--she 'as come up for 'er 'ealth; take the sixpence and run along." "May I go too?" said Julia. "I've been at work since eight, and I've only a few more dogs to do." "Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; don't bother me any more, I've got to get your father's supper." When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. Saunders could talk freely; the other children were too young to understand. "There is times when 'e is well enough," said Mrs. Saunders, "and others when 'e is that awful. It is 'ard to know 'ow to get him, but 'e is to be got if we only knew 'ow. Sometimes 'tis most surprising how easy 'e do take things, and at others--well, as about that piece of steak that I was a-telling you of. Should you catch him in that humour 'e's as like as not to take ye by the shoulder and put you out; but if he be in a good humour 'e's as like as not to say, 'Well, my gal, make yerself at 'ome.'" "He can but turn me out, I'll leave yer to speak to 'im, mother." "I'll do my best, but I don't answer for nothing. A nice bit of supper do make a difference in 'im, and as ill luck will 'ave it, I've nothing but a rasher, whereas if I only 'ad a bit of steak 'e'd brighten up the moment he clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful." "But, mother, if you think it will make a difference I can easily slip round to the butcher's and----" "Yes, get half a pound, and when it's nicely cooked and inside him it'll make all the difference. That will please him. But I don't like to see you spending your money--money that you'll want badly." "It can't be helped, mother. I shan't be above a minute or two away, and I'll bring back a pint of porter with the steak." Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she told them her purchases they remarked significantly that they were now quite sure of a pleasant evening. "When he's done eating 'e'll go out to smoke his pipe with some of his chaps," said Jenny, "and we shall have the 'ouse to ourselves, and yer can tell us all about your situation. They keeps a butler and a footman, don't they? They must be grand folk. And what was the footman like? Was he very handsome? I've 'eard that they all is." "And you'll show us yer dresses, won't you?" said Julia. "How many 'ave you got, and 'ow did yer manage to save up enough money to buy such beauties, if they're all like that?" "This dress was given to me by Miss Mary." "Was it? She must be a real good 'un. I should like to go to service; I'm tired of making dogs; we have to work that 'ard, and it nearly all goes to the public; father drinks worse than ever." Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther's purchase; it was a beautiful bit of steak. The fire was raked up, and a few minutes after the meat was roasting on the gridiron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid the rough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened with their work, pressing the paper with nervous fingers into the moulds, calling sharply to the little group for what sized paper they required. Esther and Mrs. Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the sound of a heavy tread in the passage. At last it came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping that its savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, and that he would come to them mollified and amiable. "Hullo, Jim; yer are 'ome a bit earlier to-day. I'm not quite ready with yer supper." "I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the day? Smells damned nice, what you're cooking for me, missus. What is it?" "Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. Hope it will eat tender." "That it will. I was afeard you would have nothing more than a rasher, and I'm that 'ungry." Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. He had not shaved for some days, his face was black with beard; his moustache was cut into bristle; around his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and his blue jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers were worn at the heels. He threw his basket into a corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed against the wall, and there, without speaking another word, he lay sniffing the odour of the meat like an animal going to be fed. Suddenly a whiff from the beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his rough hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he was not mistaken. "What's this?" he exclaimed; "a pint of porter! Yer are doing me pretty well this evening, I reckon. What's up?" "Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther has come up we thought we'd try to make yer comfortable. It was Esther who fetched it; she 'as been doing pretty well, and can afford it." Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal astonishment, and feeling he must say something, and not knowing well what, he said---- "Well, 'ere's to your good health!" and he took a long pull at the jug. "Where did you get this?" "In Durham street, at the 'Angel.'" "I thought as much; they don't sell stuff like this at the 'Rose and Crown.' Well, much obliged to yer. I shall enjoy my bit of steak now; and I see a tater in the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman--is it nearly done? Yer know I don't like all the goodness burnt out of it." "It isn't quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes more----" Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed himself to Esther. "Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. My word, what a toff yer are! Quite a lady.... There's nothing like service for a girl; I've always said so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn't yer like to go into service, like yer sister? Looks better, don't it, than making toy dogs at three-and-sixpence the gross?" "I should just think it was. I wish I could. As soon as Maggie can take my place, I mean to try." "It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave 'er that nice dress," said Julia. "My eye! she must have been a favourite." At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from the gridiron, and putting it on a nice hot plate she carried it in her apron to Jim, saying, "Mind yer 'ands, it is burning 'ot." Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, regretting that none of them ever had suppers like that. He didn't speak until he had put away the better part of the steak; then, after taking a long pull at the jug of beer, he said-- "I 'aven't enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a day; I was that beat when I came in, and it does do one good to put a piece of honest meat into one's stomach after a 'ard day's work!" Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he complimented Esther on her looks, and then, with increasing interest, inquired what kind of people she was staying with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, and answered his questions briefly without entering into details. Her reserve only increased his curiosity, which fired up at the first mention of the race-horses. "I scarcely know much about them. I only used to see them passing through the yard as they went to exercise on the downs. There was always a lot of talk about them in the servants' hall, but I didn't notice it. They were a great trouble to Mrs. Barfield--I told you, mother, that she was one of ourselves, didn't I?" A look of contempt passed over Jim's face, and he said-- "We've quite enough talk 'ere about the Brethren; give them a rest. What about the 'orses? Did they win any races? Yer can't 'ave missed 'earing that." "Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards' Cup." "Silver Braid was one of your horses?" "Yes, Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, everyone in Shoreham won something, and a ball for the servants was given in the Gardens." "And you never thought of writing to me about it! I could have 'ad thirty to one off Bill Short. One pound ten to a bob! And yer never thought it worth while to send me the tip. I'm blowed! Girls aren't worth a damn.... Thirty to one off Bill Short--he'd have laid it. I remember seeing the price quoted in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and hoffered. If you had told me all yer knowed I might 'ave gone 'alf a quid--fifteen pun to 'alf a quid! as much as I'd earn in three months slaving eight and ten hours a day, paint-pot on 'and about them blooming engines. Well, there's no use crying over what's done--sich a chance won't come again, but something else may. What are they going to do with the 'orse this autumn--did yer 'ear that?" "I think I 'eard that he was entered for the Cambridgeshire, but if I remember rightly, Mr. Leopold--that's the butler, not his real name, but what we call him--" "Ah, yes; I know; after the Baron. Now what do 'e say? I reckon 'e knows. I should like to 'ave 'alf-an-hour's talk with your Mr. Leopold. What do 'e say? For what 'e says, unless I'm pretty well mistaken, is worth listening to. A man wouldn't be a-wasting 'is time in listening to 'im. What do 'e say?" "Mr. Leopold never says much. He's the only one the Gaffer ever confides in. 'Tis said they are as thick as thieves, so they say. Mr. Leopold was his confidential servant when the Gaffer--that's the squire--was a bachelor." Jim chuckled. "Yes, I think I know what kind of man your Mr. Leopold is like. But what did 'e say about the Cambridgeshire?" "He only laughed a little once, and said he didn't think the 'orse would do much good in the autumn races--no, not races, that isn't the word." "Handicaps?" "Yes, that's it. But there's no relying on what Mr. Leopold says--he never says what he really means. But I 'eard William, that's the footman--" "What are you stopping for? What did yer 'ear 'im say?" "That he intends to have something on next spring." "Did he say any race? Did he say the City and Sub.?" "Yes, that was the race he mentioned." "I thought that would be about the length and the breadth of it," Jim said, as he took up his knife and fork. There was only a small portion of the beef-steak left, and this he ate gluttonously, and, finishing the last remaining beer, he leaned back in the happiness of repletion. He crammed tobacco into a dirty clay, with a dirtier finger-nail, and said-- "I'd be uncommon glad to 'ear how he is getting on. When are you going back? Up for the day only?" Esther did not answer, and Jim looked inquiringly as he reached across the table for the matches. The decisive moment had arrived, and Mrs. Saunders said-- "Esther ain't a-going back; leastways--" "Not going back! You don't mean that she ain't contented in her situation--that she 'as--" "Esther ain't going back no more," Mrs. Saunders answered, incautiously. "Look ee 'ere, Jim--" "Out with it, old woman--no 'umbug! What is it all about? Ain't going back to 'er sitooation, and where she 'as been treated like that--just look at the duds she 'as got on." The evening was darkening rapidly, and the firelight flickered over the back of the toy dogs piled up on the dresser. Jim had lit his pipe, and the acrid and warm odour of quickly-burning tobacco overpowered the smell of grease and the burnt skin of the baked potato, a fragment of which remained on the plate; only the sickly flavour of drying paste was distinguishable in the reek of the short black clay which the man held firmly between his teeth. Esther sat by the fire, her hands crossed over her knees, no signs of emotion on her sullen, plump face. Mrs. Saunders stood on the other side of Esther, between her and the younger children, now quarrelling among themselves, and her face was full of fear as she watched her husband anxiously. "Now, then, old woman, blurt it out!" he said. "What is it? Can it be the girl 'as lost her sitooation--got the sack? Yes, I see that's about the cut of it. Her beastly temper! So they couldn't put up with it in the country any more than I could mesel'. Well, it's 'er own look-out! If she can afford to chuck up a place like that, so much the better for 'er. Pity, though; she might 'ave put me up to many a good thing." "It ain't that, Jim. The girl is in trouble." "Wot do yer say? Esther in trouble? Well, that's the best bit I've heard this long while. I always told ye that the religious ones were just the same as the others--a bit more hypocritical, that's all. So she that wouldn't 'ave nothing to do with such as was Mrs. Dunbar 'as got 'erself into trouble! Well I never! But 'tis just what I always suspected. The goody-goody sort are the worst. So she 'as got 'erself into trouble! Well, she'll 'ave to get 'erself out of it." "Now, Jim, dear, yer mustn't be 'ard on 'er; she could tell a very different story if she wished it, but yer know what she is. There she sits like a block of marble, and won't as much as say a word in 'er own defence." "But I don't want 'er to speak. I don't care, it's nothing to me; I only laughed because--" "Jim, dear, it is something to all of us. What we thought was that you might let her stop 'ere till her time was come to go to the 'orspital." "Ah, that's it, is it? That was the meaning of the 'alf-pound of steak and the pint of porter, was it. I thought there was something hup. So she wants to stop 'ere, do she? As if there wasn't enough already! Well, I be blowed if she do! A nice thing, too; a girl can't go away to service without coming back to her respectable 'ome in trouble--in trouble, she calls it. Now, I won't 'ave it; there's enough 'ere as it is, and another coming, worse luck. We wants no bastards 'ere.... And a nice example, too, for the other children! No, I won't 'ave it!" Jenny and Julia looked curiously at Esther, who sat quite still, her face showing no sign of emotion. Mrs. Saunders turned towards her, a pitying look on her face, saying clearly, "You see, my poor girl, how matters stand; I can do nothing." The girl, although she did not raise her eyes, understood what was passing in her mother's mind, for there was a grave deliberativeness in the manner in which she rose from the chair. But just as the daughter had guessed what was passing in the mother's mind, so did the mother guess what was passing in the daughter's. Mrs. Saunders threw herself before Esther, saying, "Oh, no, Esther, wait a moment; 'e won't be 'ard on 'ee." Then turning to her husband, "Yer don't understand, Jim. It is only for a little time." "No, I tell yer. No, I won't 'ave it! There be too many 'ere as it is." "Only a little while, Jim." "No. And those who ain't wanted 'ad better go at once--that's my advice to them. The place is as full of us that we can 'ardly turn round as it is. No, I won't 'ear of it!" "But, Jim, Esther is quite willing to pay her way; she's saved a good little sum of money, and could afford to pay us ten shillings a week for board and the parlour." A perplexed look came on Jim's face. "Why didn't yer tell me that afore? Of course I don't wish to be 'ard on the girl, as yer 'ave just heard me say. Ten shillings a week for her board and the parlour--that seems fair enough; and if it's any convenience to 'er to remain, I'm sure we'll be glad to 'ave 'er. I'll say right glad, too. We was always good friends, Esther, wasn't we, though ye wasn't one of my own?" So saying, Jim held out his hand. Esther tried to pass by her mother. "I don't want to stop where I'm not wanted; I wants no one's charity. Let me go, mother." "No, no, Esther. 'Aven't yer 'eard what 'e says? Ye are my child if you ain't 'is, and it would break my 'eart, that it would, to see you go away among strangers. Yer place is among yer own people, who'll look after you." "Now, then, Esther, why should there be ill feeling. I didn't mean any 'arm. There's a lot of us 'ere, and I've to think of the interests of my own. But for all that I should be main sorry to see yer take yer money among strangers, where you wouldn't get no value for it. You'd better stop. I'm sorry for what I said. Ain't that enough for yer?" "Jim, Jim, dear, don't say no more; leave 'er to me. Esther, for my sake stop with us. You are in trouble, and it is right for you to stop with me. Jim 'as said no more than the truth. With all the best will in the world we couldn't afford to keep yer for nothing, but since yer can pay yer way, it is yer duty to stop. Think, Esther, dear, think. Go and shake 'ands with 'im, and I'll go and make yer up a bed on the sofa." "There's no bloody need for 'er to shake my 'and if she don't like," Jim replied, and he pulled doggedly at his pipe. Esther tried, but her fierce and heavy temper held her back. She couldn't go to her father for reconciliation, and the matter might have ended quite differently, but suddenly, without another word, Jim put on his hat and went out to join "his chaps" who were waiting for him about the public-house, close to the cab-rank in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. The door was hardly closed behind him when the young children laughed and ran about joyously, and Jenny and Julia went over to Esther and begged her to stop. "Of course she'll stop," said Mrs. Saunders. "And now, Esther, come along and help me to make you up a bed in the parlour." XIV Esther was fast asleep next morning when Mrs. Saunders came into the parlour. Mrs. Saunders stood looking at her, and Esther turned suddenly on the sofa and said---- "What time is it, mother?" "It's gone six; but don't you get up. You're your own mistress whilst you're here; you pays for what you 'as." "I can't afford them lazy habits. There's plenty of work here, and I must help you with some of it." "Plenty of work here, that's right enough. But why should you bother, and you nearly seven months gone? I daresay you feels that 'eavy that you never care to get out of your chair. But they says that them who works up to the last 'as the easiest time in the end. Not that I've found it so." The conversation paused. Esther threw her legs over the side of the sofa, and still wrapped in the blanket, sat looking at her mother. "You can't be over-comfortable on that bit of sofa," said Mrs. Saunders. "Lor, I can manage right enough, if that was all." "You is that cast down, Esther; you mustn't give way. Things sometimes turns out better than one expects." "You never found they did, mother." "Perhaps I didn't, but that says nothing for others. We must bear up as best we can." One word led to another, and very soon Esther was telling her mother the whole tale of her misfortune--all about William, the sweepstakes, the ball at the Shoreham Gardens, the walks about the farm and hillside. "Service is no place for a girl who wants to live as we used to live when father was alive--no service that I've seen. I see that plain enough. Mistress was one of the Brethren like ourselves, and she had to put up with betting and drinking and dancing, and never a thought of the Lord. There was no standing out against it. They call you Creeping Jesus if you say your prayers, and you can't say them with a girl laughing or singing behind your back, so you think you'll say them to yourself in bed, but sleep comes sooner than you expect, and so you slips out of the habit. Then the drinking. We was brought up teetotal, but they're always pressing it upon you, and to please him I said I would drink the 'orse's 'ealth. That's how it began.... You don't know what it is, mother; you only knew God-fearing men until you married him. We aren't all good like you, mother. But I thought no harm, indeed I didn't." "A girl can't know what a man is thinking of, and we takes the worst for the best." "I don't say that I was altogether blameless but--" "You didn't know he was that bad." Esther hesitated. "I knew he was like other men. But he told me--he promised me he'd marry me." Mrs. Saunders did not answer, and Esther said, "You don't believe I'm speaking the truth." "Yes, I do, dearie. I was only thinking. You're my daughter; no mother had a better daughter. There never was a better girl in this world." "I was telling you, mother--" "But I don't want no telling that my Esther ain't a bad girl." Mrs. Saunders sat nodding her head, a sweet, uncritical mother; and Esther understood how unselfishly her mother loved her, and how simply she thought of how she might help her in her trouble. Neither spoke, and Esther continued dressing. "You 'aven't told me what you think of your room. It looks pretty, don't you think? I keeps it as nice as I can. Jenny hung up them pictures. They livens it up a bit," she said, pointing to the coloured supplements, from the illustrated papers, on the wall. "The china shepherd and shepherdess, you know; they was at Barnstaple." When Esther was dressed, she and Mrs. Saunders knelt down and said a prayer together. Then Esther said she would make up her room, and when that was done she insisted on helping her mother with the housework. In the afternoon she sat with her sisters, helping them with their dogs, folding the paper into the moulds, pasting it down, or cutting the skins into the requisite sizes. About five, when the children had had their tea, she and her mother went for a short walk. Very often they strolled through Victoria Station, amused by the bustle of the traffic, or maybe they wandered down the Buckingham Palace Road, attracted by the shops. And there was a sad pleasure in these walks. The elder woman had borne years of exceeding trouble, and felt her strength failing under her burdens, which instead of lightening were increasing; the younger woman was full of nervous apprehension for the future and grief for the past. But they loved each other deeply. Esther threw herself in the way to protect her mother, whether at a dangerous crossing or from the heedlessness of the crowd at a corner, and often a passer-by turned his head and looked after them, attracted by the solicitude which the younger woman showed for the elder. In those walks very little was said. They walked in silence, slipping now and then into occasional speech, and here and there a casual allusion or a broken sentence would indicate what was passing in their minds. One day some flannel and shirts in a window caught Mrs. Saunder's eye, and she said-- "It is time, Esther, you thought about your baby clothes. One must be prepared; one never knows if one will go one's full time." The words came upon Esther with something of a shock, helping her to realise the imminence of her trouble. "You must have something by you, dear; one never knows how it is going to turn out; even I who have been through it do feel that nervous. I looks round the kitchen when I'm taken with the pains, and I says, 'I may never see this room again.'" The words were said in an undertone to Esther, and the shop-woman turned to get down the ready-made things which Mrs. Saunders had asked to see. "Here," said the shopwoman, "is the gown, longcloth, one-and-sixpence; here is the flannel, one-and-sixpence; and here is the little shirt, sixpence." "You must have these to go on with, dear, and if the baby lives you'll want another set." "Oh, mother, of course he'll live; why shouldn't he?" Even the shopwoman smiled, and Mrs. Saunders, addressing the shopwoman, said-- "Them that knows nothing about it is allus full of 'ope." The shopwoman raised her eyes, sighed, and inquired sympathetically if this was the young lady's first confinement. Mrs. Saunders nodded and sighed, and then the shopwoman asked Mrs. Saunders if she required any baby clothes. Mrs. Saunders said she had all she required. The parcel was made up, and they were preparing to leave, when Esther said-- "I may as well buy the material and make another set--it will give me something to do in the afternoons. I think I should like to make them." "We have some first-rate longcloth at sixpence-half-penny a yard." "You might take three yards, Esther; if anything should happen to yer bairn it will always come in useful. And you had better take three yards of flannel. How much is yer flannel?" "We have some excellent flannel," said the woman, lifting down a long, heavy package in dull yellow paper; "this is ten-pence a yard. You will want a finer longcloth for the little shirts." And every afternoon Esther sat in the parlour by the window, seeing, when she raised her eyes from the sewing, the low brick street full of children, and hearing the working women calling from the open doors or windows; and as she worked at the baby clothes, never perhaps to be worn, her heart sank at the long prospect that awaited her, the end of which she could not see, for it seemed to reach to the very end of her life. In these hours she realised in some measure the duties that life held in store, and it seemed to her that they exceeded her strength. Never would she be able to bring him up--he would have no one to look to but her. She never imagined other than that her child would be a boy. The task was clearly more than she could perform, and in despair she thought it would be better for it to die. What would happen if she remained out of a situation? Her father would not have her at home, that she knew well enough. What should she do, and the life of another depending on her? She would never see William again--that was certain. He had married a lady, and, were they to meet, he would not look at her. Her temper grew hot, and the memory of the injustice of which she had been a victim pressed upon her. But when vain anger passed away she thought of her baby, anticipating the joy she would experience when he held out tiny hands to her, and that, too, which she would feel when he laid an innocent cheek to hers; and her dream persisting, she saw him learning a trade, going to work in the morning and coming back to her in the evening, proud in the accomplishment of something done, of good money honestly earned. She thought a great deal, too, of her poor mother, who was looking strangely weak and poorly, and whose condition was rendered worse by her nervous fears that she would not get through this confinement. For the doctor had told Mrs. Saunders that the next time it might go hard with her; and in this house, her husband growing more reckless and drunken, it was altogether a bad look-out, and she might die for want of a little nourishment or a little care. Unfortunately they would both be down at the same time, and it was almost impossible that Esther should be well in time to look after her mother. That brute! It was wrong to think of her father so, but he seemed to be without mercy for any of them. He had come in yesterday half-boozed, having kept back part of his money--he had come in tramping and hiccuping. "Now, then, old girl, out with it! I must have a few halfpence; my chaps is waiting for me, and I can't be looking down their mouths with nothing in my pockets." "I only have a few halfpence to get the children a bit of dinner; if I give them to you they'll have nothing to eat." "Oh, the children can eat anything; I want beer. If yer 'aven't money, make it." Mrs. Saunders said that if he had any spare clothes she would take them round the corner. He only answered-- "Well, if I 'aven't a spare waistcoat left just take some of yer own things. I tell yer I want beer, and I mean to have some." Then, with his fist raised, he came at his poor wife, ordering her to take one of the sheets from the bed and "make money," and would have struck her if Esther had not come between them and, with her hand in her pocket, said, "Be quiet, father; I'll give you the money you want." She had done the same before, and, if needs be, she would do so again. She could not see her mother struck, perhaps killed by that brute; her first duty was to save her mother, but these constant demands on her little savings filled her with terror. She would want every penny; the ten shillings he had already had from her might be the very sum required to put her on her feet again, and send her in search of a situation where she would be able to earn money for the boy. But if this extortion continued she did not know what she would do, and that night she prayed that God might not delay the birth of her child. XV "I wish, mother, you was going to the hospital with me; it would save a lot of expense and you'd be better cared for." "I'd like to be with you, dearie, but I can't leave my 'ome, all these young children about and no one to give an order. I must stop where I am. But I've been intending to tell you--it is time that you was thinking about yer letter." "What letter, mother?" "They don't take you without a letter from one of the subscribers. If I was you, now that the weather is fine and you have strength for the walk, I'd go up to Queen Charlotte's. It is up the Edgware Road way, I think. What do you think about to-morrow?" "To-morrow's Sunday." "That makes no matter, them horspitals is open." "I'll go to-morrow when we have washed up." On Friday Esther had had to give her father more money for drink. She gave him two shillings, and that made a sovereign that he had had from her. On Saturday night he had been brought home helplessly drunk long after midnight, and next morning one of the girls had to fetch him a drop of something to pull him together. He had lain in bed until dinner-time, swearing he would brain anyone who made the least noise. Even the Sunday dinner, a nice beef-steak pudding, hardly tempted him, and he left the table saying that if he could find Tom Carter they would take a penny boat and go for a blow on the river. The whole family waited for his departure. But he lingered, talked inconsequently, and several times Mrs. Saunders and the children gave up hope. Esther sat without a word. He called her a sulky brute, and, snatching up his hat, left the house. The moment he was gone the children began to chatter like birds. Esther put on her hat and jacket. "I'm going, mother." "Well, take care of yourself. Good luck to you." Esther smiled sadly. But the beautiful weather melted on her lips, her lungs swelled with the warm air, and she noticed the sparrow that flew across the cab rank, and saw the black dot pass down a mews and disappear under the eaves. It was a warm day in the middle of April, a mist of green had begun in the branches of the elms of the Green Park; and in Park Lane, in all the balconies and gardens, wherever nature could find roothold, a spray of gentle green met the eye. There was music, too, in the air, the sound of fifes and drums, and all along the roadway as far as she could see the rapid movement of assembling crowds. A procession with banners was turning the corner of the Edgware Road, and the policeman had stopped the traffic to allow it to pass. The principal banner blew out blue and gold in the wind, and the men that bore the poles walked with strained backs under the weight; the music changed, opinions about the objects of the demonstration were exchanged, and it was some time before Esther could gain the policeman's attention. At last the conductor rang his bell, the omnibus started, and gathering courage she asked the way. It seemed to her that every one was noticing her, and fearing to be overheard she spoke so low that the policeman understood her to say Charlotte Street. At that moment an omnibus drew up close beside them. "Charlotte Street, Charlotte Street," said the policeman, "there's Charlotte Street, Bloomsbury." Before Esther could answer he had turned to the conductor. "You don't know any Charlotte Street about here, do you?" "No, I don't. But can't yer see that it ain't no Charlotte Street she wants, but Queen Charlotte's Hospital? And ye'd better lose no time in directing her." A roar of coarse laughter greeted this pleasantry, and burning with shame she hurried down the Edgware Road. But she had not gone far before she had to ask again, and she scanned the passers-by seeking some respectable woman, or in default an innocent child. She came at last to an ugly desert place. There was the hospital, square, forbidding; and opposite a tall, lean building with long grey columns. Esther rang, and the great door, some fifteen feet high, was opened by a small boy. "I want to see the secretary." "Will you come this way?" She was shown into a waiting-room, and while waiting she looked at the religious prints on the walls. A lad of fifteen or sixteen came in. He said-- "You want to see the secretary?" "Yes." "But I'm afraid you can't see him; he's out." "I have come a long way; is there no one else I can see?" "Yes, you can see me--I'm his clerk. Have you come to be confined?" Esther answered that she had. "But," said the boy, "you are not in labour; we never take anyone in before." "I do not expect to be confined for another month. I came to make arrangements." "You've got a letter?" "No." "Then you must get a letter from one of the subscribers." "But I do not know any." "You can have a book of their names and addresses." "But I know no one." "You needn't know them. You can go and call. Take those that live nearest--that's the way it is done." "Then will you give me the book?" "I'll go and get one." The boy returned a moment after with a small book, for which he demanded a shilling. Since she had come to London her hand had never been out of her pocket. She had her money with her; she did not dare leave it at home on account of her father. The clerk looked out the addresses for her and she tried to remember them--two were in Cumberland Place, another was in Bryanstone Square. In Cumberland Place she was received by an elderly lady who said she did not wish to judge anyone, but it was her invariable practice to give letters only to married women. There was a delicate smell of perfume in the room; the lady stirred the fire and lay back in her armchair. Once or twice Esther tried to withdraw, but the lady, although unswervingly faithful to her principles, seemed not indifferent to Esther's story, and asked her many questions. "I don't see what interest all that can be to you, as you ain't going to give me a letter," Esther answered. The next house she called at the lady was not at home, but she was expected back presently, and the maid servant asked her to take a seat in the hall. But when Esther refused information about her troubles she was called a stuck-up thing who deserved all she got, and was told there was no use her waiting. At the next place she was received by a footman who insisted on her communicating her business to him. Then he said he would see if his master was in. He wasn't in; he must have just gone out. The best time to find him was before half-past ten in the morning. "He'll be sure to do all he can for you--he always do for the good-looking ones. How did it all happen?" "What business is that of yours? I don't ask your business." "Well, you needn't turn that rusty." At that moment the master entered. He asked Esther to come into his study. He was a tall, youngish-looking man of three or four-and-thirty, with bright eyes and hair, and there was in his voice and manner a kindness that impressed Esther. She wished, however, that she had seen his mother instead of him, for she was more than ever ashamed of her condition. He seemed genuinely sorry for her, and regretted that he had given all his tickets away. Then a thought struck him, and he wrote a letter to one of his friends, a banker in Lincoln's Inn Fields. This gentleman, he said, was a large subscriber to the hospital, and would certainly give her the letter she required. He hoped that Esther would get through her trouble all right. The visit brought a little comfort into the girl's heart; and thinking of his kind eyes she walked slowly, inquiring out her way until she got back to the Marble Arch, and stood looking down the long Bayswater Road. The lamps were beginning in the light, and the tall houses towered above the sunset. Esther watched the spectral city, and some sensation of the poetry of the hour must have stolen into her heart, for she turned into the Park, choosing to walk there. Upon its dim green grey the scattered crowds were like strips of black tape. Here and there by the railings the tape had been wound up in a black ball, and the peg was some democratic orator, promising poor human nature unconditional deliverance from evil. Further on were heard sounds from a harmonium, and hymns were being sung, and in each doubting face there was something of the perplexing, haunting look which the city wore. A chill wind was blowing. Winter had returned with the night, but the instinct of spring continued in the branches. The deep, sweet scent of the hyacinth floated along the railings, and the lovers that sat with their arms about each other on every seat were of Esther's own class. She would have liked to have called them round her and told them her miserable story, so that they might profit by her experience. XVI No more than three weeks now remained between her and the dreaded day. She had hoped to spend them with her mother, who was timorous and desponding, and stood in need of consolation. But this was not to be; her father's drunkenness continued, and daily he became more extortionate in his demands for money. Esther had not six pounds left, and she felt that she must leave. It had come to this, that she doubted if she were to stay on that the clothes on her back might not be taken from her. Mrs. Saunders was of the same opinion, and she urged Esther to go. But scruples restrained her. "I can't bring myself to leave you, mother; something tells me I should stay with you. It is dreadful to be parted from you. I wish you was coming to the hospital; you'd be far safer there than at home." "I know that, dearie; but where's the good in talking about it? It only makes it harder to bear. You know I can't leave. It is terrible hard, as you says." Mrs. Saunders held her apron to her eyes and cried. "You have always been a good girl, never a better--my one consolation since your poor father died." "Don't cry, mother," said Esther; "the Lord will watch over us, and we shall both pray for each other. In about a month, dear, we shall be both quite well, and you'll bless my baby, and I shall think of the time when I shall put him into your arms." "I hope so, Esther; I hope so, but I am full of fears. I'm sore afraid that we shall never see one another again--leastways on this earth." "Oh, mother, dear, yer mustn't talk like that; you'll break my heart, that you will." The cab that took Esther to her lodging cost half-a-crown, and this waste of money frightened her thrifty nature, inherited through centuries of working folk. The waste, however, had ceased at last, and it was none too soon, she thought, as she sat in the room she had taken near the hospital, in a little eight-roomed house, kept by an old woman whose son was a bricklayer. It was at the end of the week, one afternoon, as Esther was sitting alone in her room, that there came within her a great and sudden shock--life seemed to be slipping from her, and she sat for some minutes quite unable to move. She knew that her time had come, and when the pain ceased she went downstairs to consult Mrs. Jones. "Hadn't I better go to the hospital now, Mrs. Jones?" "Not just yet, my dear; them is but the first labour pains; plenty of time to think of the hospital; we shall see how you are in a couple of hours." "Will it last so long as that?" "You'll be lucky if you get it over before midnight. I have been down for longer than that." "Do you mind my stopping in the kitchen with you? I feel frightened when I'm alone." "No, I'll be glad of your company. I'll get you some tea presently." "I could not touch anything. Oh, this is dreadful!" she exclaimed, and she walked to and fro holding her sides, balancing herself dolefully. Often Mrs. Jones stopped in her work about the range and said, looking at her, "I know what it is, I have been through it many a time--we all must--it is our earthly lot." About seven o'clock Esther was clinging to the table, and with pain so vivid on her face that Mrs. Jones laid aside the sausages she was cooking and approached the suffering girl. "What! is it so bad as all that?" "Oh," she said, "I think I'm dying, I cannot stand up; give me a chair, give me a chair!" and she sank down upon it, leaning across the table, her face and neck bathed in a cold sweat. "John will have to get his supper himself; I'll leave these sausages on the hob, and run upstairs and put on my bonnet. The things you intend to bring with you, the baby clothes, are made up in a bundle, aren't they?" "Yes, yes." Little Mrs. Jones came running down; she threw a shawl over Esther, and it was astonishing what support she lent to the suffering girl, calling on her the whole time to lean on her and not to be afraid. "Now then, dear, you must keep your heart up, we have only a few yards further to go." "You are too good, you are too kind," Esther said, and she leaned against the wall, and Mrs. Jones rang the bell. "Keep up your spirits; to-morrow it will be all over. I will come round and see how you are." The door opened. The porter rang the bell, and a sister came running down. "Come, come, take my arm," she said, "and breathe hard as you are ascending the stairs. Come along, you mustn't loiter." On the second landing a door was thrown open, and she found herself in a room full of people, eight or nine young men and women. "What! in there? and all those people?" said Esther. "Of course; those are the midwives and the students." She saw that the screams she had heard in the passage came from a bed on the left-hand side. A woman lay there huddled up. In the midst of her terror Esther was taken behind a screen by the sister who had brought her upstairs and quickly undressed. She was clothed in a chemise a great deal too big for her, and a jacket which was also many sizes too large. She remembered hearing the sister say so at the time. Both windows were wide open, and as she walked across the room she noticed the basins on the floor, the lamp on the round table, and the glint of steel instruments. The students and the nurses were behind her; she knew they were eating sweets, for she heard a young man ask the young women if they would have any more fondants. Their chatter and laughter jarred on her nerves; but at that moment her pains began again and she saw the young man whom she had seen handing the sweets approaching her bedside. "Oh, no, not him, not him!" she cried to the nurse. "Not him, not him! he is too young! Do not let him come near me!" They laughed loudly, and she buried her head in the pillow, overcome with pain and shame; and when she felt him by her she tried to rise from the bed. "Let me go! take me away! Oh, you are all beasts!" "Come, come, no nonsense!" said the nurse; "you can't have what you like; they are here to learn;" and when he had tried the pains she heard the midwife say that it wasn't necessary to send for the doctor. Another said that it would be all over in about three hours' time. "An easy confinement, I should say. The other will be more interesting...." Then they talked of the plays they had seen, and those they wished to see. A discussion arose regarding the merits of a shilling novel which every one was reading, and then Esther heard a stampede of nurses, midwives, and students in the direction of the window. A German band had come into the street. "Is that the way to leave your patient, sister?" said the student who sat by Esther's bed, a good-looking boy with a fair, plump face. Esther looked into his clear blue, girl-like eyes, wondered, and turned away for shame. The sister stopped her imitation of a popular comedian, and said, "Oh, she's all right; if they were all like her there'd be very little use our coming here." "Unfortunately that's just what they are," said another student, a stout fellow with a pointed red beard, the ends of which caught the light. Esther's eyes often went to those stubble ends, and she hated him for his loud voice and jocularity. One of the midwives, a woman with a long nose and small grey eyes, seemed to mock her, and Esther hoped that this woman would not come near her. She felt that she could not bear her touch. There was something sinister in her face, and Esther was glad when her favourite, a little blond woman with wavy flaxen hair, came and asked her if she felt better. She looked a little like the young student who still sat by her bedside, and Esther wondered if they were brother and sister, and then she thought that they were sweethearts. Soon after a bell rang, and the students went down to supper, the nurse in charge promising to warn them if any change should take place. The last pains had so thoroughly exhausted her that she had fallen into a doze. But she could hear the chatter of the nurses so clearly that she did not believe herself asleep. And in this film of sleep reality was distorted, and the unsuccessful operation which the nurses were discussing Esther understood to be a conspiracy against her life. She awoke, listened, and gradually sense of the truth returned to her. She was in the hospital.... The nurses were talking of some one who had died last week.... That poor woman in the other bed seemed to suffer dreadfully. Would she live through it? Would she herself live to see the morning? How long the time, how fearful the place! If the nurses would only stop talking.... The pains would soon begin again.... It was awful to lie listening, waiting. The windows were open, and the mocking gaiety of the street was borne in on the night wind. Then there came a trampling of feet and sound of voices in the passage--the students and nurses were coming up from supper; and at the same moment the pains began to creep up from her knees. One of the young men said that her time had not come. The woman with the sinister look that Esther dreaded, held a contrary opinion. The point was argued, and, interested in the question, the crowd came from the window and collected round the disputants. The young man expounded much medical and anatomical knowledge; the nurses listened with the usual deference of women. Suddenly the discussion was interrupted by a scream from Esther; it seemed to her that she was being torn asunder, that life was going from her. The nurse ran to her side, a look of triumph came upon her face, and she said, "Now we shall see who's right," and forthwith ran for the doctor. He came running up the stairs; immediately silence and scientific collectedness gathered round Esther, and after a brief examination he said, in a low whisper-- "I'm afraid this will not be as easy a case as one might have imagined. I shall administer chloroform." He placed a small wire case over her mouth and nose, and the sickly odour which she breathed from the cotton wool filled her brain with nausea; it seemed to choke her, and then life faded, and at every inhalation she expected to lose sight of the circle of faces. * * * * * When she opened her eyes the doctors and nurses were still standing round her, but there was no longer any expression of eager interest on their faces. She wondered at this change, and then out of the silence there came a tiny cry. "What's that?" Esther asked. "That's your baby." "My baby! Let me see it; is it a boy or a girl?" "It is a boy; it will be given to you when we get you out of the labour ward." "I knew it would be a boy." Then a scream of pain rent the stillness of the room. "Is that the same woman who was here when I first came in? Hasn't she been confined yet?" "No, and I don't think she will be till midday; she's very bad." The door was thrown open, and Esther was wheeled into the passage. She was like a convalescent plant trying to lift its leaves to the strengthening light, but within this twilight of nature the thought of another life, now in the world, grew momentarily more distinct. "Where is my boy?" she said; "give him to me." The nurse entered, and answered, "Here." A pulp of red flesh rolled up in flannel was laid alongside of her. Its eyes were open; it looked at her, and her flesh filled with a sense of happiness so deep and so intense that she was like one enchanted. When she took the child in her arms she thought she must die of happiness. She did not hear the nurse speak, nor did she understand her when she took the babe from her arms and laid it alongside on the pillow, saying, "You must let the little thing sleep, you must try to sleep yourself." Her personal self seemed entirely withdrawn; she existed like an atmosphere about the babe, an impersonal emanation of love. She lay absorbed in this life of her life, this flesh of her flesh, unconscious of herself as a sponge in warm sea-water. She touched this pulp of life, and was thrilled, and once more her senses swooned with love; it was still there. She remembered that the nurse had said it was a boy. She must see her boy, and her hands, working as in a dream, unwound him, and, delirious with love, she gazed until he awoke and cried. She tried to hush him and to enfold him, but her strength failed, she could not help him, and fear came lest he should die. She strove to reach her hands to him, but all strength had gone from her, and his cries sounded hollow in her weak brain. Then the nurse came and said-- "See what you have done, the poor child is all uncovered; no wonder he is crying. I will wrap him up, and you must not interfere with him again." But as soon as the nurse turned away Esther had her child back in her arms. She did not sleep. She could not sleep for thinking of him, and the long night passed in adoration. XVII She was happy, her babe lay beside her. All her joints were loosened, and the long hospital days passed in gentle weariness. Lady visitors came and asked questions. Esther said that her father and mother lived in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and she admitted that she had saved four pounds. There were two beds in this ward, and the woman who occupied the second bed declared herself to be destitute, without home, or money, or friends. She secured all sympathy and promises of help, and Esther was looked upon as a person who did not need assistance and ought to have known better. They received visits from a clergyman. He spoke to Esther of God's goodness and wisdom, but his exhortations seemed a little remote, and Esther was sad and ashamed that she was not more deeply stirred. Had it been her own people who came and knelt about her bed, lifting their voices in the plain prayers she was accustomed to, it might have been different; but this well-to-do clergyman, with his sophisticated speech, seemed foreign to her, and failed to draw her thoughts from the sleeping child. The ninth day passed, but Esther recovered slowly, and it was decided that she should not leave the hospital before the end of the third week. She knew that when she crossed the threshold of the hospital there would be no more peace for her; and she was frightened as she listened to the never-ending rumble of the street. She spent whole hours thinking of her dear mother, and longing for some news from home, and her face brightened when she was told that her sister had come to see her. "Jenny, what has happened; is mother very bad?" "Mother is dead, that's what I've come to tell you; I'd have come before, but----" "Mother dead! Oh, no, Jenny! Oh, Jenny, not my poor mother!" "Yes Esther. I knew it would cut you up dreadful; we was all very sorry, but she's dead. She's dead a long time now, I was just a-going to tell you----" "Jenny, what do you mean? Dead a long time?" "Well, she was buried more than a week ago. We were so sorry you couldn't be at the funeral. We was all there, and had crape on our dresses and father had crape on his 'at. We all cried, especially in church and about the grave, and when the sexton threw in the soil it sounded that hollow it made me sob. Julia, she lost her 'ead and asked to be buried with mother, and I had to lead her away; and then we went 'ome to dinner." "Oh, Jenny, our poor mother gone from us for ever! How did she die? Tell me, was it a peaceful death? Did she suffer?" "There ain't much to tell. Mother was taken bad almost immediately after you was with us the last time. Mother was that bad all the day long and all night too we could 'ardly stop in the 'ouse; it gave one just the creeps to listen to her crying and moaning." "And then?" "Why, then the baby was born. It was dead, and mother died of weakness; prostration the doctor called it." Esther hid her face in the pillow. Jenny waited, and an anxious look of self began to appear on the vulgar London street face. "Look 'ere, Esther, you can cry when I've gone; I've a deal to say to yer and time is short." "Oh, Jenny, don't speak like that! Father, was he kind to mother?" "I dunno that he thought much about it; he spent 'alf 'is time in the public, 'e did. He said he couldn't abide the 'ouse with a woman a-screaming like that. One of the neighbours came in to look after mother, and at last she had the doctor." Esther looked at her sister through streaming tears, and the woman in the other bed alluded to the folly of poor women being confined "in their own 'omes--in a 'ome where there is a drunken 'usband, and most 'omes is like that nowadays." At that moment Esther's baby awoke crying for the breast. The little lips caught at the nipple, the wee hand pressed the white curve, and in a moment Esther's face took that expression of holy solicitude which Raphael sublimated in the Virgin's downward-gazing eyes. Jenny watched the gluttonous lips, interested in the spectacle, and yet absorbed in what she had come to say to her sister. "Your baby do look 'ealthy." "Yes, and he is too, not an ache or a pain. He's as beautiful a boy as ever lived. But think of poor mother, Jenny, think of poor mother." "I do think of her, Esther. But I can't help seeing your baby. He's like you, Esther. I can see a look of you in 'is eyes. But I don't know that I should care to 'ave a baby meself--the expense comes very 'eavy on a poor girl." "Please God, my baby shall never want for anything as long as I can work for him. But, Jenny, my trouble will be a lesson to you. I hope you will always be a good girl, and never allow yourself to be led away; you promise me?" "Yes, I promise." "A 'ome like ours, a drunken father, and now that poor mother is gone it will be worse than ever. Jenny, you are the eldest and must do your best to look after the younger ones, and as much as possible to keep father from the public-house. I shall be away; the moment I'm well enough I must look out for a place." "That's just what I came to speak to you about. Father is going to Australia. He is that tired of England, and as he lost his situation on the railway he has made up his mind to emigrate. It is pretty well all arranged; he has been to an agency and they say he'll 'ave to pay two pounds a 'ead, and that runs to a lot of money in a big family like ours. So I'm likely to get left, for father says that I'm old enough to look after myself. He's willing to take me if I gets the money, not without. That's what I came to tell yer about." Esther understood that Jenny had come to ask for money. She could not give it, and lapsed into thinking of this sudden loss of all her family. She did not know where Australia was; she fancied that she had once heard that it took months to get there. But she knew that they were all going from her, they were going out on the sea in a great ship that would sail and sail further and further away. She could see the ship from her bedside, at first strangely distinct, alive with hands and handkerchiefs; she could distinguish all the children--Jenny, Julia, and little Ethel. She lost sight of their faces as the ship cleared the harbour. Soon after the ship was far away on the great round of waters, again a little while and all the streaming canvas not larger than a gull's wing, again a little while and the last speck on the horizon hesitated and disappeared. "What are you crying about, Esther? I never saw yer cry before. It do seem that odd." "I'm so weak. Mother's death has broken my heart, and now to know that I shall never see any one of you again." "It do seem 'ard. We shall miss you sadly. But I was going to say that father can't take me unless I finds two pounds. You won't see me stranded, will you, Esther?" "I cannot give you the money, Jenny. Father has had too much of my money already; there's 'ardly enough to see me through. I've only four pounds left. I cannot give you my child's money; God knows how we shall live until I can get to work again." "You're nearly well now. But if yer can't help me, yer can't. I don't know what's to be done. Father can't take me if I don't find the money." "You say the agency wants two pounds for each person?" "Yes, that's it." "And I've four. We might both go if it weren't for the baby, but I don't suppose they'd make any charge for a child on the breast." "I dunno. There's father; yer know what he is." "That's true. He don't want me; I'm not one of his. But, Jenny, dear, it is terrible to be left all alone. Poor mother dead, and all of you going to Australia. I shall never see one of you again." The conversation paused. Esther changed the baby from the left to the right breast, and Jenny tried to think what she had best say to induce her sister to give her the money she wanted. "If you don't give me the money I shall be left; it is hard luck, that's all, for there's fine chances for a girl, they says, out in Australia. If I remain 'ere I dunno what will become of me." "You had better look out for a situation. We shall see each other from time to time. It's a pity you don't know a bit of cooking, enough to take the place of kitchen-maid." "I only know that dog-making, and I've 'ad enough of that." "You can always get a situation as general servant in a lodging-'ouse." "Service in a lodging-'ouse! Not me. You know what that is. I'm surprised that you'd ask me." "Well, what are yer thinking of doing?" "I was thinking of going on in the pantomime as one of the hextra ladies, if they'll 'ave me." "Oh, Jenny, you won't do that, will you? A theatre is only sinfulness, as we 'ave always knowed." "You know that I don't 'old with all them preachy-preachy brethren says about the theatre." "I can't argue--I 'aven't the strength, and it interferes with the milk." And then, as if prompted by some association of ideas, Esther said, "I hope, Jenny, that you'll take example by me and will do nothing foolish; you'll always be a good girl." "Yes, if I gets the chance." "I'm sorry to 'ear you speak like that, and poor mother only just dead." The words that rose to Jenny's lips were: "A nice one you are, with a baby at your breast, to come a-lecturing me," but, fearing Esther's temper, she checked the dangerous words and said instead-- "I didn't mean that I was a-going on the streets right away this very evening, only that a girl left alone in London without anyone to look to may go wrong in spite of herself, as it were." "A girl never need go wrong; if she does it is always 'er own fault." Esther spoke mechanically, but suddenly remembering her own circumstances she said: "I'd give you the money if I dared, but for the child's sake I mustn't." "You can afford it well enough--I wouldn't ask you if you couldn't. You'll be earning a pound a week presently." "A pound a week! What do you mean, Jenny?" "Yer can get that as wet-nurse, and yer food too." "How do yer know that, Jenny?" "A friend of mine who was 'ere last year told me she got it, and you can get it too if yer likes. Fancy a pound for the next six months, and everything found. Yer might spare me the money and let me go to Australia with the others." "I'd give yer the money if what you said was true." "Yer can easily find out what I say is the truth by sending for the matron. Shall I go and fetch her? I won't be a minute; you'll see what she says." A few moments after Jenny returned with a good-looking, middle-aged woman. On her face there was that testy and perplexed look that comes of much business and many interruptions. Before she had opened her lips her face had said: "Come, what is it? Be quick about it." "Father and the others is going to Australia. Mother's dead and was buried last week, so father says there's nothing to keep 'im 'ere, for there is better prospects out there. But he says he can't take me, for the agency wants two pounds a 'ead, and it was all he could do to find the money for the others. He is just short of two pounds, and as I'm the eldest barring Esther, who is 'is step-daughter, 'e says that I had better remain, that I'm old enough to get my own living, which is very 'ard on a girl, for I'm only just turned sixteen. So I thought that I would come up 'ere and tell my sister----" "But, my good girl, what has all this got to do with me? I can't give you two pounds to go to Australia. You are only wasting my time for nothing." "'Ear me out, missis. I want you to explain to my sister that you can get her a situation as a wet-nurse at a pound a week--that's the usual money they gets, so I told her, but she won't believe me; but if you tells her, she'll give me two pounds and I shall be able to go with father to Australia, where they says there is fine chances for a girl." The matron examined in critical disdain the vague skirt, the broken boots, and the misshapen hat, coming all the while to rapid conclusions regarding the moral value of this unabashed child of the gutter. "I think your sister will be very foolish if she gives you her money." "Oh, don't say that, missis, don't." "How does she know that your story is true? Perhaps you are not going to Australia at all." "Perhaps I'm not--that's just what I'm afraid of; but father is, and I can prove it to you. I've brought a letter from father--'ere it is; now, is that good enough for yer?" "Come, no impertinence, or I'll order you out of the hospital in double quick time," said the matron. "I didn't intend no impertinence," said Jenny humbly, "only I didn't like to be told I was telling lies when I was speaking the truth." "Well, I see that your father is going to Australia," the matron replied, returning the letter to Jenny; "you want your sister to give you her money to take you there too." "What I wants is for you to tell my sister that you can get her a situation as wet-nurse; then perhaps she'll give me the money." "If your sister wants to go out as wet-nurse, I daresay I could get her a pound a week." "But," said Esther, "I should have to put baby out at nurse." "You'll have to do that in any case," Jenny interposed; "you can't live for nine months on your savings and have all the nourishing food that you'll want to keep your milk going." "If I was yer sister I'd see yer further before I'd give yer my money. You must 'ave a cheek to come a-asking for it, to go off to Australia where a girl 'as chances, and yer sister with a child at the breast left behind. Well I never!" Jenny and the matron turned suddenly and looked at the woman in the opposite bed who had so unexpectedly expressed her views. Jenny was furious. "What odds is it to you?" she screamed; "what business is it of yours, coming poking your nose in my affairs?" "Come, now, I can't have any rowing," exclaimed the matron. "Rowing! I should like to know what business it is of 'ers." "Hush, hush, I can't have you interfering with my patients; another word and I'll order you out of the hospital." "Horder me out of the horspital! and what for? Who began it? No, missis, be fair; wait until my sister gives her answer." "Well, then, she must be quick about it--I can't wait about here all day." "I'll give my sister the money to take her to Australia if you say you can get me a situation as wet-nurse." "Yes, I think I can do that. It was four pounds five that you gave me to keep. I remember the amount, for since I've been here no one has come with half that. If they have five shillings they think they can buy half London." "My sister is very careful," said Jenny, sententiously. The matron looked sharply at her and said-- "Now come along with me--I'm going to fetch your sister's money. I can't leave you here--you'd get quarrelling with my patients." "No, missis, indeed I won't say nothing to her." "Do as I tell you. Come along with me." So with a passing scowl Jenny expressed her contempt for the woman who had come "a-interfering in 'er business," and went after the matron, watching her every movement. When they came back Jenny's eyes were fixed on the matron's fat hand as if she could see the yellow metal through the fingers. "Here is your money," said the matron; "four pounds five. You can give your sister what you like." Esther held the four sovereigns and the two half-crowns in her hand for a moment, then she said-- "Here, Jenny, are the two pounds you want to take you to Australia. I 'ope they'll bring you good luck, and that you'll think of me sometimes." "Indeed I will, Esther. You've been a good sister to me, indeed you 'ave; I shall never forget you, and will write to you.... It is very 'ard parting." "Come, come, never mind those tears. You have got your money; say good-bye to your sister and run along." "Don't be so 'eartless," cried Jenny, whose susceptibilities were now on the move. "'Ave yer no feeling; don't yer know what it is to bid good-bye to yer sister, and perhaps for ever?" Jenny flung herself into Esther's arms crying bitterly. "Oh, Esther, I do love you; yer 'ave been that kind to me I shall never forget it. I shall be very lonely without you. Write to me sometimes; it will be a comfort to hear how you are getting on. If I marry I'll send for you, and you'll bring the baby." "Do you think I'd leave him behind? Kiss 'im before you go." "Good-bye, Esther; take care of yourself." Esther was now alone in the world, and she remembered the night she walked home from the hospital and how cruel the city had seemed. She was now alone in that great wilderness with her child, for whom she would have to work for many, many years. How would it all end? Would she be able to live through it? Had she done right in letting Jenny have the money--her boy's money? She should not have given it; but she hardly knew what she was doing, she was so weak, and the news of her mother's death had overcome her. She should not have given Jenny her boy's money.... But perhaps it might turn out all right after all. If the matron got her a situation as wet-nurse she'd be able to pull through. "So they would separate us," she whispered, bending over the sleeping child. "There is no help for it, my poor darling. There's no help for it, no help for it." Next day Esther was taken out of bed. She spent part of the afternoon sitting in an easy-chair, and Mrs. Jones came to see her. The little old woman seemed like one whom she had known always, and Esther told her about her mother's death and the departure of her family for Australia. Perhaps a week lay between her and the beginning of the struggle which she dreaded. She had been told that they did not usually keep anyone in the hospital more than a fortnight. Three days after Mrs. Jones' visit the matron came into their room hurriedly. "I'm very sorry," she said, "but a number of new patients are expected; there's nothing for it but to get rid of you. It is a pity, for I can see you are both very weak." "What, me too?" said the woman in the other bed. "I can hardly stand; I tried just now to get across the room." "I'm very sorry, but we've new patients coming, and there's all our spring cleaning. Have you any place to go to?" "No place except a lodging," said Esther; "and I have only two pounds five now." "What's the use in taking us at all if you fling us out on the street when we can hardly walk?" said the other woman. "I wish I had gone and drowned myself. I was very near doing it. If I had it would be all over now for me and the poor baby." "I'm used to all this ingratitude," said the matron. "You have got through your confinement very comfortably, and your baby is quite healthy; I hope you'll try and keep it so. Have you any money?" "Only four-and-sixpence." "Have you got any friends to whom you can go?" "No." "Then you'll have to apply for admission to the workhouse." The woman made no answer, and at that moment two sisters came and forcibly began to dress her. She fell back from time to time in their arms, almost fainting. "Lord, what a job!" said one sister; "she's just like so much lead in one's arms. But if we listened to them we should have them loafing here over a month more." Esther did not require much assistance, and the sister said, "Oh, you are as strong as they make 'em; you might have gone two days ago." "You're no better than brutes," Esther muttered. Then, turning to the matron, she said, "You promised to get me a situation as wet-nurse." "Yes, so I did, but the lady who I intended to recommend you to wrote this morning to say that she had suited herself." "But do you think you could get me a situation as wet-nurse?" said the other woman; "it would save me from going to the workhouse." "I really don't know what to do with you all; you all want to stop in the hospital at least a month, eating and drinking the best of everything, and then you want situations as wet-nurses at a pound a week." "But," said Esther, indignantly, "I never should have given my sister two pounds if you had not told me you could get me the situation." "I'm sorry," said the matron, "to have to send you away. I should like to have kept you, but really there is no help for it. As for the situation, I'll do the best I can. It is true that place I intended for you is filled up, but there will be another shortly, and you shall have the first. Give me your address. I shall not keep you long waiting, you can depend upon me. You are still very weak, I can see that. Would you like to have one of the nurses to walk round with you? You had better--you might fall and hurt the baby. My word, he is a fine boy." "Yes, he is a beautiful boy; it will break my heart to part with him." Some eight or nine poor girls stood outside, dressed alike in dingy garments. They were like half-dead flies trying to crawl through an October afternoon; and with their babies and a keen wind blowing, they found it difficult to hold on their hats. "It do catch you a bit rough, coming out of them 'ot rooms," said a woman standing by her. "I'm that weak I can 'ardly carry my baby. I dunno 'ow I shall get as far as the Edgware Road. I take my 'bus there. Are you going that way?" "No, I'm going close by, round the corner." XVIII Her hair hung about her, her hands and wrists were shrunken, her flesh was soft and flabby, and she had dark shadows in her face. Nursing her child seemed to draw all strength from her, and her nervous depression increased; she was too weary and ill to think of the future, and for a whole week her physical condition held her, to the exclusion of every other thought. Mrs. Jones was very kind, and only charged her ten shillings a week for her board and lodging, but this was a great deal when only two pounds five shillings remained between her and the workhouse, and this fact was brought home to her when Mrs. Jones came to her for the first week's money. Ten shillings gone; only one pound fifteen shillings left, and still she was so weak that she could hardly get up and down stairs. But if she were twice as weak, if she had to crawl along the street on her hands and knees, she must go to the hospital and implore the matron to get her a situation as wet-nurse. It was raining heavily, and Mrs. Jones said it was madness for her to go out in such weather, but go she must; and though it was distant only a few hundred yards, she often thought she would like to lie down and die. And at the hospital only disappointment. Why hadn't she called yesterday? Yesterday two ladies of title had come and taken two girls away. Such a chance might not occur for some time. "For some time," thought Esther; "very soon I shall have to apply for admission at the workhouse." She reminded the matron of her promise, and returned home more dead than alive. Mrs. Jones helped her to change her clothes, and bade her be of good heart. Esther looked at her hopelessly, and sitting down on the edge of her bed she put the baby to her breast. Another week passed. She had been to the hospital every day, but no one had been to inquire for a wet-nurse. Her money was reduced to a few shillings, and she tried to reconcile herself to the idea that she might do worse than to accept the harsh shelter of the workhouse. Her nature revolted against it; but she must do what was best for the child. She often asked herself how it would all end, and the more she thought, the more terrible did the future seem. Her miserable meditations were interrupted by a footstep on the stairs. It was Mrs. Jones, coming to tell her that a lady who wanted a wet-nurse had come from the hospital; and a lady entered dressed in a beautiful brown silk, and looked around the humble room, clearly shocked at its poverty. Esther, who was sitting on the bed, rose to meet the fine lady, a thin woman, with narrow temples, aquiline features, bright eyes, and a disagreeable voice. "You are the young person who wants a situation as wet-nurse?" "Yes, ma'am." "Are you married?" "No, ma'am." "Is that your first child?" "Yes, ma'am." "Ah, that's a pity. But it doesn't matter much, so long as you and your baby are healthy. Will you show it to me?" "He is asleep now, ma'am," Esther said, raising the bed-clothes; "there never was a healthier child." "Yes, he seems healthy enough. You have a good supply of milk?" "Yes, ma'am." "Fifteen shillings, and all found. Does that suit you?" "I had expected a pound a week." "It is only your first baby. Fifteen shillings is quite enough. Of course I only engage you subject to the doctor's approval. I'll ask him to call." "Very well, ma'am; I shall be glad of the place." "Then it is settled. You can come at once?" "I must arrange to put my baby out to nurse, ma'am." The lady's face clouded. But following up another train of thought, she said-- "Of course you must arrange about your baby, and I hope you'll make proper arrangements. Tell the woman in whose charge you leave it that I shall want to see it every three weeks. It will be better so," she added under her breath, "for two have died already." "This is my card," said the lady--"Mrs. Rivers, Curzon Street, Mayfair--and I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon--that is to say, if the doctor approves of you. Here is one-and-sixpence for your cab fare." "Thank you, ma'am." "I shall expect you not later than four o'clock. I hope you won't disappoint me; remember my child is waiting." When Mrs. Rivers left, Esther consulted with Mrs. Jones. The difficulty was now where she should put the child out at nurse. It was now just after two o'clock. The baby was fast asleep, and would want nothing for three or four hours. It would be well for Esther to put on her hat and jacket and go off at once. Mrs. Jones gave her the address of a respectable woman who used to take charge of children. But this woman was nursing twins, and could not possibly undertake the charge of another baby. And Esther visited many streets, always failing for one reason or another. At last she found herself in Wandsworth, in a battered tumble-down little street, no thoroughfare, only four houses and a coal-shed. Broken wooden palings stood in front of the small area into which descent was made by means of a few wooden steps. The wall opposite seemed to be the back of some stables, and in the area of No. 3 three little mites were playing. The baby was tied in a chair, and a short fat woman came out of the kitchen at Esther's call, her dirty apron sloping over her high stomach, and her pale brown hair twisted into a knot at the top of her head. "Well, what is it?" "I came about putting a child out to nurse. You are Mrs. Spires, ain't yer?" "Yes, that's my name. May I ask who sent you?" Esther told her, and then Mrs. Spires asked her to step down into the kitchen. "Them 'ere children you saw in the area I looks after while their mothers are out washing or charing. They takes them 'ome in the evening. I only charges them four-pence a-day, and it is a loss at that, for they does take a lot of minding. What age is yours?" "Mine is only a month old. I've a chance to go out as wet-nurse if I can find a place to put him out at nurse. Will you look after my baby?" "How much do you think of paying for him?" "Five shillings a week." "And you a-going out as wet-nurse at a pound a week; you can afford more than that." "I'm only getting fifteen shillings a week." "Well, you can afford to pay six. I tell you the responsibility I of looking after a hinfant is that awful nowadays that I don't care to undertake it for less." Esther hesitated; she did not like this woman. "I suppose," said the woman, altering her tone to one of mild interrogation, "you would like your baby to have the best of everything, and not the drainings of any bottle that's handy?" "I should like my child to be well looked after, and I must see the child every three weeks." "Do you expect me to bring up the child to wherever the lady lives, and pay my 'bus fare, all out of five shillings a week? It can't be done!" Esther did not answer. "You ain't married, of course?" Mrs. Spires said suddenly. "No, I ain't; what about that?" "Oh, nothing; there is so many of you, that's all. You can't lay yer 'and on the father and get a bit out of 'im?" The conversation paused. Esther felt strangely undecided. She looked round suspiciously, and noticing the look the woman said-- "Your baby will be well looked after 'ere; a nice warm kitchen, and I've no other babies for the moment; them children don't give no trouble, they plays in the area. You had better let me have the child; you won't do better than 'ere." Esther promised to think it over and let her know to-morrow. It took her many omnibuses to get home, and it was quite dark when she pushed the door to. The first thing that caught her ear was her child crying. "What is the matter?" she cried, hurrying down the passage. "Oh, is that you? You have been away a time. The poor child is that hungry he has been crying this hour or more. If I'd 'ad a bottle I'd 'ave given him a little milk." "Hungry, is he? Then he shall have plenty soon. It is nearly the last time I shall nurse the poor darling." Then she told Mrs. Jones about Mrs. Spires, and both women tried to arrive at a decision. "Since you have to put the child out to nurse, you might as well put him there as elsewhere; the woman will look after him as well as she can--she'll do that, if it is for the sake of the six shillings a week." "Yes, yes, I know; but I've always heard that children die that are put out to nurse. If mine died I never should forgive myself." She could not sleep; she lay with her arms about her baby, distracted at the thought of parting from him. What had she done that her baby should be separated from her? What had the poor little darling done? He at least was innocent; why should he be deprived of his mother? At midnight she got up and lighted a candle, looked at him, took him in her arms, squeezed him to her bosom till he cried, and the thought came that it would be sweeter to kill him with her own hands than to be parted from him. The thought of murder went with the night, and she enjoyed the journey to Wandsworth. Her baby laughed and cooed, and was much admired in the omnibus, and the little street where Mrs. Spires lived seemed different. A cart of hay was being unloaded, and this gave the place a pleasant rural air. Mrs. Spires, too, was cleaner, tidier; Esther no longer disliked her; she had a nice little cot ready for the baby, and he seemed so comfortable in it that Esther did not feel the pangs at parting which she had expected to feel. She would see him in a few weeks, and in those weeks she would be richer. It seemed quite wonderful to earn so much money in so short a time. She had had a great deal of bad luck, but her luck seemed to have turned at last. So engrossed was she in the consideration of her good fortune that she nearly forgot to get out of her 'bus at Charing Cross, and had it not been for the attention of the conductor might have gone on, she did not know where--perhaps to Clerkenwell, or may be to Islington. When the second 'bus turned into Oxford Street she got out, not wishing to spend more money than was necessary. Mrs. Jones approved of all she had done, helped her to pack up her box, and sent her away with many kind wishes to Curzon Street in a cab. Esther was full of the adventure and the golden prospect before her. She wondered if the house she was going to was as grand as Woodview, and she was struck by the appearance of the maidservant who opened the door to her. "Oh, here you are," Mrs. Rivers said. "I have been anxiously expecting you; my baby is not at all well. Come up to the nursery at once. I don't know your name," she said, turning to Esther. "Waters, ma'am." "Emily, you'll see that Waters' box is taken to her room." "I'll see to it, ma'am." "Then come up at once, Waters. I hope you'll succeed better than the others." A tall, handsome gentleman stood at the door of a room full of beautiful things, and as they went past him Mrs. Rivers said, "This is the new nurse, dear." Higher up, Esther saw a bedroom of soft hangings and bright porcelain. Then another staircase, and the little wail of a child caught on the ear, and Mrs. Rivers said, "The poor little thing; it never ceases crying. Take it, Waters, take it." Esther sat down, and soon the little thing ceased crying. "It seems to take to you," said the anxious mother. "So it seems," said Esther; "it is a wee thing, not half the size of my boy." "I hope the milk will suit it, and that it won't bring up what it takes. This is our last chance." "I daresay it will come round, ma'am. I suppose you weren't strong enough to nurse it yourself, and yet you looks healthy." "I? No, I could not undertake to nurse it." Then, glancing suspiciously at Esther, whose breast was like a little cup, Mrs. Rivers said, "I hope you have plenty of milk?" "Oh, yes, ma'am; they said at the hospital I could bring up twins." "Your supper will be ready at nine. But that will be a long time for you to wait. I told them to cut you some sandwiches, and you'll have a glass of porter. Or perhaps you'd prefer to wait till supper? You can have your supper, you know, at eight, if you like?" Esther took a sandwich and Mrs. Rivers poured out a glass of porter. And later in the evening Mrs. Rivers came down from her drawing-room to see that Esther's supper was all right, and not satisfied with the handsome fare that had been laid before her child's nurse, she went into the kitchen and gave strict orders that the meat for the future was not to be quite so much cooked. Henceforth it seemed to Esther that she was eating all day. The food was doubtless necessary after the great trial of the flesh she had been through, likewise pleasant after her long abstinences. She grew happy in the tide of new blood flowing in her veins, and might easily have abandoned herself in the seduction of these carnal influences. But her moral nature was of tough fibre, and made mute revolt. Such constant mealing did not seem natural, and the obtuse brain of this lowly servant-girl was perplexed. Her self-respect was wounded; she hated her position in this house, and sought consolation in the thought that she was earning good money for her baby. She noticed, too, that she never was allowed out alone, and that her walks were limited to just sufficient exercise to keep her in health. A fortnight passed, and one afternoon, after having put baby to sleep, she said to Mrs. Rivers, "I hope, ma'am, you'll be able to spare me for a couple of hours; baby won't want me before then. I'm very anxious about my little one." "Oh, nurse, I couldn't possibly hear of it; such a thing is never allowed. You can write to the woman, if you like." "I do not know how to write, ma'am." "Then you can get some one to write for you. But your baby is no doubt all right." "But, ma'am, you are uneasy about your baby; you are up in the nursery twenty times a day; it is only natural I should be uneasy about mine." "But, nurse, I've no one to send with you." "There is no reason why any one should go with me, ma'am; I can take care of myself." "What! let you go off all the way to--where did you say you had left it--Wandsworth?--by yourself! I really couldn't think of it. I don't want to be unnecessarily hard--but I really couldn't--no mother could. I must consider the interests of my child. But I don't want you to agitate yourself, and if you like I'll write myself to the woman who has charge of your baby. I cannot do more, and I hope you'll be satisfied." By what right, by what law, was she separated from her child? She was tired of hearing Mrs. Rivers speak of "my child, my child, my child," and of seeing this fine lady turn up her nose when she spoke of her own beautiful boy. When Mrs. Rivers came to engage her she had said that it would be better for the baby to be brought to see her every three or four weeks, for two had died already. At the time Esther had not understood. She had supposed vaguely, in a passing way, that Mrs. Rivers had already lost two children. But yesterday the housemaid had told her that that little thing in the cradle had had two wet-nurses before Esther, and that both babies had died. It was then a life for a life. It was more. The children of two poor girls had been sacrificed so that this rich woman's child might be saved. Even that was not enough, the life of her beautiful boy was called for. Then other memories swept into Esther's frenzied brain. She remembered vague hints, allusions that Mrs. Spires had thrown out; and as if in the obtuseness of a nightmare, it seemed to this ignorant girl that she was the victim of a dark and far-reaching conspiracy; she experienced the sensation of the captured animal, and she scanned the doors and windows, thinking of some means of escape. At that moment a knock was heard and the housemaid came in. "The woman who has charge of your baby has come to see you." Esther started up from her chair, and fat little Mrs. Spires waddled into the room, the ends of her shawl touching the ground. "Where is my baby?" said Esther. "Why haven't you brought him?" "Why, you see, my dear, the sweet little thing didn't seem as well as usual this afternoon, and I did not care to bring him out, it being a long way and a trifle cold.... It is nice and warm in here. May I sit down?" "Yes, there's a chair; but tell me what is the matter with him?" "A little cold, dear--nothing to speak of. You must not excite yourself, it isn't worth while; besides, it's bad for you and the little darling in the cradle. May I have a look?... A little girl, isn't it?" "Yes, it is a girl." "And a beautiful little girl too. 'Ow 'ealthy she do look! I'll be bound you have made a difference in her. I suppose you are beginning to like her just as if she was your own?" Esther did not answer. "Yer know, all you girls are dreadful taken with their babies at first. But they is a awful drag on a girl who gets her living in service. For my part I do think it providential-like that rich folk don't nurse their own. If they did, I dunno what would become of all you poor girls. The situation of wet-nurse is just what you wants at the time, and it is good money. I hope yer did what I told you and stuck out for a pound a week. Rich folk like these here would think nothing of a pound a week, nor yet two, when they sees their child is suited." "Never mind about my money, that's my affair. Tell me what's the matter with my baby?" "'Ow yer do 'arp on it! I've told yer that 'e's all right; nothing to signify, only a little poorly, but knowing you was that anxious I thought it better to come up. I didn't know but what you might like to 'ave in the doctor." "Does he require the doctor? I thought you said it was nothing to signify." "That depends on 'ow yer looks at it. Some likes to 'ave in the doctor, however little the ailing; then others won't 'ave anything to do with doctors--don't believe in them. So I thought I'd come up and see what you thought about it. I would 'ave sent for the doctor this morning--I'm one of those who 'as faith in doctors--but being a bit short of money I thought I'd come up and ask you for a trifle." At that moment Mrs. Rivers came into the nursery and her first look went in the direction of the cradle, then she turned to consider curtseying Mrs. Spires. "This is Mrs. Spires, the lady who is looking after my baby, ma'am," said Esther; "she has come with bad news--my baby is ill." "Oh, I'm sorry. But I daresay it is nothing." "But Mrs. Spires says, ma'am----" "Yes, ma'am, the little thing seemed a bit poorly, and I being short of money, ma'am, I had to come and see nurse. I knows right well that they must not be disturbed, and of course your child's 'ealth is everything; but if I may make so bold I'd like to say that the little dear do look beautiful. Nurse is bringing her up that well that yer must have every satisfaction in 'er." "Yes, she seems to suit the child; that's the reason I don't want her upset." "It won't occur again, ma'am, I promise you." Esther did not answer, and her white, sullen face remained unchanged. She had a great deal on her mind, and would have spoken if the words did not seem to betray her when she attempted to speak. "When the baby is well, and the doctor is satisfied there is no danger of infection, you can bring it here--once a month will be sufficient. Is there anything more?" "Mrs. Spires thinks my baby ought to see the doctor." "Well, let her send for the doctor." "Being a bit short of money----" "How much is it?" said Esther. "Well, what we pays is five shillings to the doctor, but then there's the medicine he will order, and I was going to speak to you about a piece of flannel; if yer could let me have ten shillings to go on with." "But I haven't so much left. I must see my baby," and Esther moved towards the door. "No, no, nurse, I cannot hear of it; I'd sooner pay the money myself. Now, how much do you want, Mrs. Spires?" "Ten shillings will do for the present, ma'am." "Here they are; let the child have every attendance, and remember you are not to come troubling my nurse. Above all, you are not to come up to the nursery. I don't know how it happened, it was a mistake on the part of the new housemaid. You must have my permission before you see my nurse." And while talking rapidly and imperatively Mrs. Rivers, as it were, drove Mrs. Spires out of the nursery. Esther could hear them talking on the staircase, and she listened, all the while striving to collect her thoughts. Mrs. Rivers said when she returned, "I really cannot allow her to come here upsetting you." Then, as if impressed by the sombre look on Esther's face, she added: "Upsetting you about nothing. I assure you it will be all right; only a little indisposition." "I must see my baby," Esther replied. "Come, nurse, you shall see your baby the moment the doctor says it is fit to come here. You can't expect me to do more than that." Esther did not move, and thinking that it would not be well to argue with her, Mrs. Rivers went over to the cradle. "See, nurse, the little darling has just woke up; come and take her, I'm sure she wants you." Esther did not answer her. She stood looking into space, and it seemed to Mrs. Rivers that it would be better not to provoke a scene. She went towards the door slowly, but a little cry from the cradle stopped her, and she said-- "Come, nurse, what is it? Come, the baby is waiting for you." Then, like one waking from a dream, Esther said: "If my baby is all right, ma'am, I'll come back, but if he wants me, I'll have to look after him first." "You forget that I'm paying you fifteen shillings a week. I pay you for nursing my baby; you take my money, that's sufficient." "Yes, I do take your money, ma'am. But the housemaid has told me that you had two wet-nurses before me, and that both their babies died, so I cannot stop here now that mine's ill. Everyone for her own; you can't blame me. I'm sorry for yours--poor little thing, she was getting on nicely too." "But, Waters, you won't leave my baby. It's cruel of you. If I could nurse it myself----" "Why couldn't you, ma'am? You look fairly strong and healthy." Esther spoke in her quiet, stolid way, finding her words unconsciously. "You don't know what you're saying, nurse; you can't.... You've forgotten yourself. Next time I engage a nurse I'll try to get one who has lost her baby, and then there'll be no bother." "It is a life for a life--more than that, ma'am--two lives for a life; and now the life of my boy is asked for." A strange look passed over Mrs. Rivers' face. She knew, of course, that she stood well within the law, that she was doing no more than a hundred other fashionable women were doing at the same moment; but this plain girl had a plain way of putting things, and she did not care for it to be publicly known that the life of her child had been bought with the lives of two poor children. But her temper was getting the better of her. "He'll only be a drag on you. You'll never be able to bring him up, poor little bastard child." "It is wicked of you to speak like that, ma'am, though it is I who am saying it. It is none of the child's fault if he hasn't got a father, nor is it right that he should be deserted for that... and it is not for you to tell me to do such a thing. If you had made sacrifice of yourself in the beginning and nursed your own child such thoughts would not have come to you. But when you hire a poor girl such as me to give the milk that belongs to another to your child, you think nothing of the poor deserted one. He is but a bastard, you say, and had better be dead and done with. I see it all now; I have been thinking it out. It is all so hidden up that the meaning is not clear at first, but what it comes to is this, that fine folks like you pays the money, and Mrs. Spires and her like gets rid of the poor little things. Change the milk a few times, a little neglect, and the poor servant girl is spared the trouble of bringing up her baby and can make a handsome child of the rich woman's little starveling." At that moment the baby began to cry; both women looked in the direction of the cradle. "Nurse, you have utterly forgotten yourself, you have talked a great deal of nonsense, you have said a great deal that is untrue. You accused me of wishing your baby were dead, indeed I hardly know what wild remarks you did not indulge in. Of course, I cannot put up with such conduct--to-morrow you will come to me and apologise. In the meantime the baby wants you, are you not going to her?" "I'm going to my own child." "That means that you refuse to nurse my baby?" "Yes, I'm going straight to look after my own." "If you leave my house you shall never enter it again." "I don't want to enter it again." "I shall not pay you one shilling if you leave my baby. You have no money." "I shall try to manage without. I shall go with my baby to the workhouse. However bad the living may be there, he'll be with his mother." "If you go to-night my baby will die. She cannot be brought up on the bottle." "Oh, I hope not, ma'am. I should be sorry, indeed I should." "Then stay, nurse." "I must go to my baby, ma'am." "Then you shall go at once--this very instant." "I'm going this very instant, as soon as I've put on my hat and jacket." "You had better take your box with you. If you don't I'll shall have it thrown into the street." "I daresay you're cruel enough to do that if the law allows you, only be careful that it do." XIX The moment Esther got out of the house in Curzon Street she felt in her pocket for her money. She had only a few pence; enough for her 'bus fare, however, and her thoughts did not go further. She was absorbed by one desire, how to save her child--how to save him from Mrs. Spires, whom she vaguely suspected; from the world, which called him a bastard and denied to him the right to live. And she sat as if petrified in the corner of the 'bus, seeing nothing but a little street of four houses, facing some haylofts, the low-pitched kitchen, the fat woman, the cradle in the corner. The intensity and the oneness of her desire seemed to annihilate time, and when she got out of the omnibus she walked with a sort of animal-like instinct straight for the house. There was a light in the kitchen just as she expected, and as she descended the four wooden steps into the area she looked to see if Mrs. Spires was there. She was there, and Esther pushed open the door. "Where's my baby?" "Lord, 'ow yer did frighten me!" said Mrs. Spires, turning from the range and leaning against the table, which was laid for supper. "Coming like that into other folk's places without a word of warning--without as much as knocking at the door." "I beg your pardon, but I was that anxious about my baby." "Was you indeed? It is easy to see it is the first one. There it is in the cradle there." "Have you sent for the doctor?" "Sent for the doctor! I've to get my husband's supper." Esther took her baby out of the cradle. It woke up crying, and Esther said, "You don't mind my sitting down a moment. The poor little thing wants its mother." "If Mrs. Rivers saw you now a-nursing of yer baby?" "I shouldn't care if she did. He's thinner than when I left him; ten days 'ave made a difference in him." "Well, yer don't expect a child to do as well without its mother as with her. But tell me, how did yer get out? You must have come away shortly after me." "I wasn't going to stop there and my child ill." "Yer don't mean to tell me that yer 'ave gone and thrown hup the situation?" "She told me if I went out, I should never enter her door again." "And what did you say?" "Told her I didn't want to." "And what, may I ask, are yer thinking of doing? I 'eard yer say yer 'ad no money." "I don't know." "Take my advice, and go straight back and ask 'er to overlook it, this once." "Oh, no, she'd never take me back." "Yes, she will; you suits the child, and that's all they think of." "I don't know what will become of me and my baby." "No more don't I. Yer can't stop always in the work'us, and a baby'll be a 'eavy drag on you. Can't you lay 'ands on 'is father, some'ow?" Esther shook her head, and Mrs. Spires noticed that she was crying. "I'm all alone," she said; "I don't know 'ow I'm ever to pull through." "Not with that child yer won't--it ain't possible.... You girls is all alike, yer thinks of nothing but yer babies for the first few weeks, then yer tires of them, the drag on yer is that 'eavy--I knows yer--and then yer begins to wish they 'ad never been born, or yer wishes they had died afore they knew they was alive. I don't say I'm not often sorry for them, poor little dears, but they takes less notice than you'd think for, and they is better out of the way; they really is, it saves a lot of trouble hereafter. I often do think that to neglect them, to let them go off quiet, that I be their best friend; not wilful neglect, yer know, but what is a woman to do with ten or a dozen, and I often 'as as many? I am sure they'd thank me for it." Esther did not answer, but judging by her face that she had lost all hope, Mrs. Spires was tempted to continue. "There's that other baby in the far corner, that was brought 'ere since you was 'ere by a servant-girl like yerself. She's out a'nursing of a lady's child, getting a pound a week, just as you was; well, now I asks 'ow she can 'ope to bring up that 'ere child--a weakly little thing that wants the doctor and all sorts of looking after. If that child was to live it would be the ruin of that girl's life. Don't yer 'ear what I'm saying?" "Yes, I hear," said Esther, speaking like one in a dream; "don't she care for her baby, then?" "She used to care for them, but if they had all lived I should like to know where she'd be. There 'as been five of them--that's the fifth--so, instead of them a-costing 'er money, they brings 'er money. She 'as never failed yet to suit 'erself in a situation as wet-nurse." "And they all died?" "Yes, they all died; and this little one don't look as if it was long for the world, do it?" said Mrs. Spires, who had taken the infant from the cradle to show Esther. Esther looked at the poor wizened features, twitched with pain, and the far-off cry of doom, a tiny tinkle from the verge, shivered in the ear with a strange pathos. "It goes to my 'eart," said Mrs. Spires, "it do indeed, but, Lord, it is the best that could 'appen to 'em; who's to care for 'em? and there is 'undreds and 'undreds of them--ay, thousands and thousands every year--and they all dies like the early shoots. It is 'ard, very 'ard, poor little dears, but they is best out of the way--they is only an expense and a disgrace." Mrs. Spires talked on in a rapid, soothing, soporific voice. She had just finished pouring some milk in the baby's bottle and had taken down a jug of water from the dresser. "But that's cold water," said Esther, waking from the stupor of her despair; "it will give the baby gripes for certain." "I've no 'ot water ready; I'll let the bottle stand afore the fire, that'll do as well." Watching Esther all the while, Mrs. Spires held the bottle a few moments before the fire, and then gave it to the child to suck. Very soon after a cry of pain came from the cradle. "The little dear never was well; it wouldn't surprise me a bit if it died--went off before morning. It do look that poorly. One can't 'elp being sorry for them, though one knows there is no 'ouse for them 'ere. Poor little angels, and not even baptised. There's them that thinks a lot of getting that over. But who's to baptise the little angels?" "Baptise them?" Esther repeated. "Oh, sprinkle them, you mean. That's not the way with the Lord's people;" and to escape from a too overpowering reality she continued to repeat the half-forgotten patter of the Brethren, "You must wait until it is a symbol of living faith in the Lord!" And taking the baby in her hands for a moment, the wonder crossed her mind whether he would ever grow up and find salvation and testify to the Lord as an adult in voluntary baptism. All the while Mrs. Spires was getting on with her cooking. Several times she looked as if she were going to speak, and several times she checked herself. In truth, she didn't know what to make of Esther. Was her love of her child such love as would enable her to put up with all hardships for its sake, or was it the fleeting affection of the ordinary young mother, which, though ardent at first, gives way under difficulties? Mrs. Spires had heard many mothers talk as Esther talked, but when the real strain of life was put upon them they had yielded to the temptation of ridding themselves of their burdens. So Mrs. Spires could not believe that Esther was really different from the others, and if carefully handled she would do what the others had done. Still, there was something in Esther which kept Mrs. Spires from making any distinct proposal. But it were a pity to let the girl slip through her fingers--five pounds were not picked up every day. There were three five-pound notes in the cradles. If Esther would listen to reason there would be twenty pounds, and the money was wanted badly. Once more greed set Mrs. Spires' tongue flowing, and, representing herself as a sort of guardian angel, she spoke again about the mother of the dying child, pressing Esther to think what the girl's circumstances would have been if they had all lived. "And they all died?" said Esther. "Yes, and a good job, too," said Mrs. Spires, whose temper for the moment outsped her discretion. Was this penniless drab doing it on purpose to annoy her? A nice one indeed to high-and-mighty it over her. She would show her in mighty quick time she had come to the wrong shop. Just as Mrs. Spires was about to speak out she noticed that Esther was in tears. Mrs. Spires always looked upon tears as a good sign, so she resolved to give her one more chance. "What are you crying about?" she said. "Oh," said Esther, "I don't even know where I shall sleep tonight. I have only threepence, and not a friend in the world." "Now look 'ere, if you'll listen to reason I'll talk to you. Yer mustn't look upon me as a henemy. I've been a good friend to many a poor girl like you afore now, and I'll be one to you if you're sensible. I'll do for you what I'm doing for the other girl. Give me five pounds--" "Five pounds! I've only a few pence." "'Ear me out. Go back to yer situation--she'll take you back, yer suits the child, that's all she cares about; ask 'er for an advance of five pounds; she'll give it when she 'ears it is to get rid of yer child--they 'ates their nurses to be a-'ankering after their own, they likes them to be forgotten like; they asks if the child is dead very often, and won't engage them if it isn't, so believe me she'll give yer the money when yer tells 'er that it is to give the child to someone who wants to adopt it. That's what you 'as to say." "And you'll take the child off my hands for ever for five pounds?" "Yes; and if you likes to go out again as wet-nurse, I'll take the second off yer 'ands too, and at the same price." "You wicked woman; oh, this is awful!" "Come, come.... What do you mean by talking to me like that? And because I offered to find someone who would adopt your child." "You did nothing of the kind; ever since I've been in your house you have been trying to get me to give you up my child to murder as you are murdering those poor innocents in the cradles." "It is a lie, but I don't want no hargument with yer; pay me what you owe me and take yerself hoff. I want no more of yer, do you 'ear?" Esther did not shrink before her as Mrs. Spires expected. Clasping her baby more tightly, she said: "I've paid you what I owe you, you've had more than your due. Mrs. Rivers gave you ten shillings for a doctor which you didn't send for. Let me go." "Yes, when yer pays me." "What's all this row about?" said a tall, red-bearded man who had just come in; "no one takes their babies out of this 'ere 'ouse before they pays. Come now, come now, who are yer getting at? If yer thinks yer can come here insulting of my wife yer mistaken; yer've come to the wrong shop." "I've paid all I owe," said Esther. "You're no better than murderers, but yer shan't have my poor babe to murder for a five-pound note." "Take back them words, or else I'll do for yer; take them back," he said, raising his fist. "Help, help, murder!" Esther screamed. Before the brute could seize her she had slipped past, but before she could scream again he had laid hold of her. Esther thought her last moment had come. "Let 'er go, let 'er go," cried Mrs. Spires, clinging on her husband's arm. "We don't want the perlice in 'ere." "Perlice! What do I care about the perlice? Let 'er pay what she owes." "Never mind, Tom; it is only a trifle. Let her go. Now then, take yer hook," she said, turning to Esther; "we don't want nothing to do with such as you." With a growl the man loosed his hold, and feeling herself free Esther rushed through the open doorway. Her feet flew up the wooden steps and she ran out of the street. So shaken were her nerves that the sight of some men drinking in a public-house frightened her. She ran on again. There was a cab-stand in the next street, and to avoid the cabmen and the loafers she hastily crossed to the other side. Her heart beat violently, her thoughts were in disorder, and she walked a long while before she realised that she did not know where she was going. She stopped to ask the way, and then remembered there was no place where she might go. She would have to spend the night in the workhouse, and then? She did not know.... All sorts of thoughts came upon her unsolicited, and she walked on and on. At last she rested her burden on the parapet of a bridge, and saw the London night, blue and gold, vast water rolling, and the spectacle of the stars like a dream from which she could not disentangle her individuality. Was she to die in the star-lit city, she and her child; and why should such cruelty happen to her more than to the next one? Steadying her thoughts with an effort, she said, "Why not go to the workhouse, only for the night?... She did not mind for herself, only she did not wish her boy to go there. But if God willed it...." She drew her shawl about her baby and tried once more to persuade herself into accepting the shelter of the workhouse. It seemed strange even to her that a pale, glassy moon should float high up in the sky, and that she should suffer; and then she looked at the lights that fell like golden daggers from the Surrey shore into the river. What had she done to deserve the workhouse? Above all, what had the poor, innocent child done to deserve it? She felt that if she once entered the workhouse she would remain there. She and her child paupers for ever. "But what can I do?" she asked herself crazily, and sat down on one of the seats. A young man coming home from an evening party looked at her as he passed. She asked herself if she should run after him and tell him her story. Why should he not assist her? He could so easily spare it. Would he? But before she could decide to appeal to him he had called a passing hansom and was soon far away. Then looking at the windows of the great hotels, she thought of the folk there who could so easily save her from the workhouse if they knew. There must be many a kind heart behind those windows who would help her if she could only make known her trouble. But that was the difficulty. She could not make known her trouble; she could not tell the misery she was enduring. She was so ignorant; she could not make herself understood. She would be mistaken for a common beggar. Nowhere would she find anyone to listen to her. Was this punishment for her wrong-doing? An idea of the blind cruelty of fate maddened her, and in the delirium of her misery she asked herself if it would not have been better, perhaps, if she had left him with Mrs. Spires. What indeed had the poor little fellow to live for? A young man in evening dress came towards her, looking so happy and easy in life, walking with long, swinging strides. He stopped and asked her if she was out for a walk. "No, sir; I'm out because I've no place to go." "How's that?" She told him the story of the baby-farmer and he listened kindly, and she thought the necessary miracle was about to happen. But he only complimented her on her pluck and got up to go. Then she understood that he did not care to listen to sad stories, and a vagrant came and sat down. "The 'copper,'" he said, "will be moving us on presently. It don't much matter; it's too cold to get to sleep, and I think it will rain. My cough is that bad." She might beg a night's lodging of Mrs. Jones. It was far away; she did not think she could walk so far. Mrs. Jones might have left, then what would she do? The workhouse up there was much the same as the workhouse down here. Mrs. Jones couldn't keep her for nothing, and there was no use trying for another situation as wet-nurse; the hospital would not recommend her again.... She must go to the workhouse. Then her thoughts wandered. She thought of her father, brothers, and sisters, who had gone to Australia. She wondered if they had yet arrived, if they ever thought of her, if--She and her baby were on their way to the workhouse. They were going to become paupers. She looked at the vagrant--he had fallen asleep. He knew all about the workhouse--should she ask him what it was like? He, too, was friendless. If he had a friend he would not be sleeping on the Embankment. Should she ask him? Poor chap, he was asleep. People were happy when they were asleep. A full moon floated high up in the sky, and the city was no more than a faint shadow on the glassy stillness of the night; and she longed to float away with the moon and the river, to be borne away out of sight of this world. Her baby grew heavy in her arms, and the vagrant, a bundle of rags thrown forward in a heap, slept at the other end of the bench. But she could not sleep, and the moon whirled on her miserable way. Then the glassy stillness was broken by the measured tramp of the policeman going his rounds. He directed her to Lambeth Workhouse, and as she walked towards Westminster she heard him rousing the vagrant and bidding him move onward. XX Those who came to the workhouse for servants never offered more than fourteen pounds a year, and these wages would not pay for her baby's keep out at nurse. Her friend the matron did all she could, but it was always fourteen pounds. "We cannot afford more." At last an offer of sixteen pounds a year came from a tradesman in Chelsea; and the matron introduced Esther to Mrs. Lewis, a lonely widowed woman, who for five shillings a week would undertake to look after the child. This would leave Esther three pounds a year for dress; three pounds a year for herself. What luck! The shop was advantageously placed at a street corner. Twelve feet of fronting on the King's Road, and more than half that amount on the side street, exposed to every view wall papers and stained glass designs. The dwelling-house was over the shop; the shop entrance faced the kerb in the King's Road. The Bingleys were Dissenters. They were ugly, and exacted the uttermost farthing from their customers and their workpeople. Mrs. Bingley was a tall, gaunt woman, with little grey ringlets on either side of her face. She spoke in a sour, resolute voice, when she came down in a wrapper to superintend the cooking. On Sundays she wore a black satin, fastened with a cameo brooch, and round her neck a long gold chain. Then her manners were lofty, and when her husband called "Mother," she answered testily, "Don't keep on mothering me." She frequently stopped him to settle his necktie or collar. All the week he wore the same short jacket; on Sundays he appeared in an ill-fitting frock-coat. His long upper lip was clean shaven, but under his chin there grew a ring of discoloured hair, neither brown nor red, but the neutral tint that hair which does not turn grey acquires. When he spoke he opened his mouth wide, and seemed quite unashamed of the empty spaces and the three or four yellow fangs that remained. John, the elder of the two brothers, was a silent youth whose one passion seemed to be eavesdropping. He hung round doors in the hopes of overhearing his sisters' conversation and if he heard Esther and the little girl who helped Esther in her work talking in the kitchen, he would steal cautiously halfway down the stairs. Esther often thought that his young woman must be sadly in want of a sweetheart to take on with one such as he. "Come along, Amy," he would cry, passing out before her; and not even at the end of a long walk did he offer her his arm; and they came strolling home just like boy and girl. Hubert, John's younger brother, was quite different. He had escaped the family temperament, as he had escaped the family upper lip. He was the one spot of colour in a somewhat sombre household, and Esther liked to hear him call back to his mother, "All right, mother, I've got the key; no one need wait up for me. I'll make the door fast." "Oh, Hubert, don't be later than eleven. You are not going out dancing again, are you? Your father will have the electric bell put on the door, so that he may know when you come in." The four girls were all ruddy-complexioned and long upper-lipped. The eldest was the plainest; she kept her father's books, and made the pastry. The second and third entertained vague hopes of marriage. The youngest was subject to hysterics, fits of some kind. The Bingleys' own house was representative of their ideas, and the taste they had imposed upon the neighbourhood. The staircase was covered with white drugget, and the white enamelled walls had to be kept scrupulously clean. There were no flowers in the windows, but the springs of the blinds were always in perfect order. The drawing-room was furnished with substantial tables, cabinets and chairs, and antimacassars, long and wide, and china ornaments and glass vases. There was a piano, and on this instrument, every Sunday evening, hymns were played by one of the young ladies, and the entire family sang in the chorus. It was into this house that Esther entered as general servant, with wages fixed at sixteen pounds a year. And for seventeen long hours every day, for two hundred and thirty hours every fortnight, she washed, she scrubbed, she cooked, she ran errands, with never a moment that she might call her own. Every second Sunday she was allowed out for four, perhaps for four and a half hours; the time fixed was from three to nine, but she was expected to be back in time to get the supper ready, and if it were many minutes later than nine there were complaints. She had no money. Her quarter's wages would not be due for another fortnight, and as they did not coincide with her Sunday out, she would not see her baby for another three weeks. She had not seen him for a month, and a great longing was in her heart to clasp him in her arms again, to feel his soft cheek against hers, to take his chubby legs and warm, fat feet in her hands. The four lovely hours of liberty would slip by, she would enter on another long fortnight of slavery. But no matter, only to get them, however quickly they sped from her. She resigned herself to her fate, her soul rose in revolt, and it grew hourly more difficult for her to renounce this pleasure. She must pawn her dress--the only decent dress she had left. No matter, she must see the child. She would be able to get the dress out of pawn when she was paid her wages. Then she would have to buy herself a pair of boots; and she owed Mrs. Lewis a good deal of money. Five shillings a week came to thirteen pound a year, leaving her three pound a year for boots and clothes, journeys back and forward, and everything the baby might want. Oh, it was not to be done--she never would be able to pull through. She dare not pawn her dress; if she did she'd never be able to get it out again. At that moment something bright lying on the floor, under the basin-stand, caught her eye. It was half-a-crown. She looked at it, and as the temptation came into her heart to steal, she raised her eyes and looked round the room. She was in John's room--in the sneak's room. No one was about. She would have cut off one of her fingers for the coin. That half-crown meant pleasure and a happiness so tender and seductive that she closed her eyes for a moment. The half-crown she held between forefinger and thumb presented a ready solution of the besetting difficulty. She threw out the insidious temptation, but it came quickly upon her again. If she did not take the half-crown she would not be able to go Peckham on Sunday. She could replace the money where she found it when she was paid her wages. No one knew it was there; it had evidently rolled there, and having tumbled between the carpet and the wall had not been discovered. It had probably lain there for months, perhaps it was utterly forgotten. Besides, she need not take it now. It would be quite safe if she put it back in its place; on Sunday afternoon she would take it, and if she changed it at once--It was not marked. She examined it all over. No, it was not marked. Then the desire paused, and she wondered how she, an honest girl, who had never harboured a dishonest thought in her life before, could desire to steal; a bitter feeling of shame came upon her. It was a case of flying from temptation, and she left the room so hurriedly that John, who was spying in the passage, had not time either to slip downstairs or to hide in his brother's room. They met face to face. "Oh, I beg pardon, sir, but I found this half-crown in your room." "Well, there's nothing wonderful in that. What are you so agitated about? I suppose you intended to return it to me?" "Intended to return it! Of course." An expression of hate and contempt leaped into her handsome grey eyes, and, like a dog's, the red lip turned down. She suddenly understood that this pasty-faced, despicable chap had placed the coin where it might have accidentally rolled, where she would be likely to find it. He had complained that morning that she did not keep his room sufficiently clean! It was a carefully-laid plan, he was watching her all the while, and no doubt thought that it was his own indiscretion that had prevented her from falling into the snare. Without a word Esther dropped the half-crown at his feet and returned to her work; and all the time she remained in her present situation she persistently refused to speak to him; she brought him what he asked for, but never answered him, even with a Yes or No. It was during the few minutes' rest after dinner that the burden of the day pressed heaviest upon her; then a painful weariness grew into her limbs, and it seemed impossible to summon strength and will to beat carpets or sweep down the stairs. But if she were not moving about before the clock struck, Mrs. Bingley came down to the kitchen. "Now, Esther, is there nothing for you to do?" And again, about eight o'clock, she felt too tired to bear the weight of her own flesh. She had passed through fourteen hours of almost unintermittent toil, and it seemed to her that she would never be able to summon up sufficient courage to get through the last three hours. It was this last summit that taxed all her strength and all her will. Even the rest that awaited her at eleven o'clock was blighted by the knowledge of the day that was coming; and its cruel hours, long and lean and hollow-eyed, stared at her through the darkness. She was often too tired to rest, and rolled over and over in her miserable garret bed, her whole body aching. Toil crushed all that was human out of her; even her baby was growing indifferent to her. If it were to die! She did not desire her baby's death, but she could not forget what the baby-farmer had told her--the burden would not become lighter, it would become heavier and heavier. What would become of her? Was there no hope? She buried her face in her pillow, seeking to escape from the passion of her despair. She was an unfortunate girl, and had missed all her chances. In the six months she had spent in the house in Chelsea her nature had been strained to the uttermost, and what we call chance now came to decide the course of her destiny. The fight between circumstances and character had gone till now in favour of character, but circumstances must call up no further forces against character. A hair would turn the scale either way. One morning she was startled out of her sleep by a loud knocking at the door. It was Mrs. Bingley, who had come to ask her if she knew what time it was. It was nearly seven o'clock. But Mrs. Bingley could not blame her much, having herself forgotten to put on the electric bell, and Esther hurried through her dressing. But in hurrying she happened to tread on her dress, tearing it right across. It was most unfortunate, and just when she was most in a hurry. She held up the torn skirt. It was a poor, frayed, worn-out rag that would hardly bear mending again. Her mistress was calling her; there was nothing for it but to run down and tell her what had happened. "Haven't you got another dress that you can put on?" "No, ma'am." "Really, I can't have you going to the door in that thing. You don't do credit to my house; you must get yourself a new dress at once." Esther muttered that she had no money to buy one. "Then I don't know what you do with your money." "What I do with my wages is my affair; I've plenty of use for my money." "I cannot allow any servant of mine to speak to me like that." Esther did not answer, and Mrs. Bingley continued-- "It is my duty to know what you do with your money, and to see that you do not spend it in any wrong way. I am responsible for your moral welfare." "Then, ma'am, I think I had better leave you." "Leave me, because I don't wish you to spend your money wrongfully, because I know the temptations that a young girl's life is beset with?" "There ain't much chance of temptation for them who work seventeen hours a day." "Esther, you seem to forget--" "No, ma'am; but there's no use talking about what I do with my money--there are other reasons; the place is too hard a one. I've felt it so for some time, ma'am. My health ain't equal to it." Once she had spoken, Esther showed no disposition to retract, and she steadily resisted all Mrs. Bingley's solicitations to remain with her. She knew the risk she was running in leaving her situation, and yet she felt she must yield to an instinct like that which impels the hunted animal to leave the cover and seek safety in the open country. Her whole body cried out for rest, she must have rest; that was the thing that must be. Mrs. Lewis would keep her and her baby for twelve shillings a week; the present was the Christmas quarter, and she was richer by five and twenty shillings than she had been before. Mrs. Bingley had given her ten shillings, Mr. Hubert five, and the other ten had been contributed by the four young ladies. Out of this money she hoped to be able to buy a dress and a pair of boots, as well as a fortnight's rest with Mrs. Lewis. She had determined on her plans some three weeks before her month's warning would expire, and henceforth the mountainous days of her servitude drew out interminably, seeming more than ever exhausting, and the longing in her heart to be free at times rose to her head, and her brain turned as if in delirium. Every time she sat down to a meal she remembered she was so many hours nearer to rest--a fortnight's rest--she could not afford more; but in her present slavery that fortnight seemed at once as a paradise and an eternity. Her only fear was that her health might give way, and that she would be laid up during the time she intended for rest--personal rest. Her baby was lost sight of. Even a mother demands something in return for her love, and in the last year Jackie had taken much and given nothing. But when she opened Mrs. Lewis's door he came running to her, calling her Mummie; and the immediate preference he showed for her, climbing on her knees instead of on Mrs. Lewis's, was a fresh sowing of love in the mother's heart. They were in the midst of those few days of sunny weather which come in January, deluding us so with their brightness and warmth that we look round for roses and are astonished to see the earth bare of flowers. And these bright afternoons Esther spent entirely with Jackie. At the top of the hill their way led through a narrow passage between a brick wall and a high paling. She had always to carry him through this passage, for the ground there was sloppy and dirty, and the child wanted to stop to watch the pigs through the chinks in the boards. But when they came to the smooth, wide, high roads overlooking the valley, she put him down, and he would run on ahead, crying, "Turn for a walk, Mummie, turn along," and his little feet went so quickly beneath his frock that it seemed as if he were on wheels. She followed, often forced to break into a run, tremulous lest he should fall. They descended the hill into the ornamental park, and spent happy hours amid geometrically-designed flower-beds and curving walks. She ventured with him as far as the old Dulwich village, and they strolled through the long street. Behind the street were low-lying, shiftless fields, intersected with broken hedges. And when Jackie called to his mother to carry him, she rejoiced in the labour of his weight; and when he grew too heavy, she rested on the farm-gate, and looked into the vague lowlands. And when the chill of night awoke her from her dream she clasped Jackie to her bosom and turned towards home, very soon to lose herself again in another tide of happiness. The evenings, too, were charming. When the candles were lighted, and tea was on the table, Esther sat with the dozing child on her knee, looking into the flickering fire, her mind a reverie, occasionally broken by the homely talk of her companion; and when the baby was laid in his cot she took up her sewing--she was making herself a new dress; or else the great kettle was steaming on the hob, and the women stood over the washing-tubs. On the following evening they worked on either side of the ironing-table, the candle burning brightly and their vague woman's chatter sounding pleasant in the hush of the little cottage. A little after nine they were in bed, and so the days went softly, like happy, trivial dreams. It was not till the end of the third week that Mrs. Lewis would hear of Esther looking out for another place. And then Esther was surprised at her good fortune. A friend of Mrs. Lewis's knew a servant who was leaving her situation in the West End of London. Esther got the address, and went next day after the place. She was fortunate enough to obtain it, and her mistress seemed well satisfied with her. But one day in the beginning of her second year of service she was told that her mistress wished to speak to her in the dining-room. "I fancy," said the cook, "that it is about that baby of yours; they're very strict here." Mrs. Trubner was sitting on a low wicker chair by the fire. She was a large woman with eagle features. Her eyesight had been failing for some years, and her maid was reading to her. The maid closed the book and left the room. "It has come to my knowledge, Waters, that you have a child. You're not a married woman, I believe?" "I've been unfortunate; I've a child, but that don't make no difference so long as I gives satisfaction in my work. I don't think that the cook has complained, ma'am." "No, the cook hasn't complained, but had I known this I don't think I should have engaged you. In the character which you showed me, Mrs. Barfield said that she believed you to be a thoroughly religious girl at heart." "And I hope I am that, ma'am. I'm truly sorry for my fault. I've suffered a great deal." "So you all say; but supposing it were to happen again, and in my house? Supposing----" "Then don't you think, ma'am, there is repentance and forgiveness? Our Lord said----" "You ought to have told me; and as for Mrs. Barfield, her conduct is most reprehensible." "Then, ma'am, would you prevent every poor girl who has had a misfortune from earning her bread? If they was all like you there would be more girls who'd do away with themselves and their babies. You don't know how hard pressed we are. The baby-farmer says, 'Give me five pounds and I'll find a good woman who wants a little one, and you shall hear no more about it.' Them very words were said to me. I took him away and hoped to be able to rear him, but if I'm to lose my situations----" "I should be sorry to prevent anyone from earning their bread----" "You're a mother yourself, ma'am, and you know what it is." "Really, it's quite different.... I don't know what you mean, Waters." "I mean that if I am to lose my situations on account of my baby, I don't know what will become of me. If I give satisfaction--" At that moment Mr. Trubner entered. He was a large, stout man, with his mother's aquiline features. He arrived with his glasses on his nose, and slightly out of breath. "Oh, oh, I didn't know, mother," he blurted out, and was about to withdraw when Mrs. Trubner said-- "This is the new servant whom that lady in Sussex recommended." Esther saw a look of instinctive repulsion come over his face. "I'll leave you to settle with her, mother." "I must speak to you, Harold--I must." "I really can't; I know nothing of this matter." He tried to leave the room, and when his mother stopped him he said testily, "Well, what is it? I am very busy just now, and--" Mrs. Trubner told Esther to wait in the passage. "Well," said Mr. Trubner, "have you discharged her? I leave all these things to you." "She has told me her story; she is trying to bring up her child on her wages.... She said if she was kept from earning her bread she didn't know what would become of her. Her position is a very terrible one." "I know that.... But we can't have loose women about the place. They all can tell a fine story; the world is full of impostors." "I don't think the girl is an impostor." "Very likely not, but everyone has a right to protect themselves." "Don't speak so loud, Harold," said Mrs. Trubner, lowering her voice. "Remember her child is dependent upon her; if we send her away we don't know what may happen. I'll pay her a month's wages if you like, but you must take the responsibility." "I won't take any responsibility in the matter. If she had been here two years--she has only been here a year--not so much more--and had proved a satisfactory servant, I don't say that we'd be justified in sending her away.... There are plenty of good girls who want a situation as much as she. I don't see why we should harbour loose women when there are so many deserving cases." "Then you want me to send her away?" "I don't want to interfere; you ought to know how to act. Supposing the same thing were to happen again? My cousins, young men, coming to the house--" "But she won't see them." "Do as you like; it is your business, not mine. It doesn't matter to me, so long as I'm not interfered with; keep her if you like. You ought to have looked into her character more closely before you engaged her. I think that the lady who recommended her ought to be written to very sharply." They had forgotten to close the door, and Esther stood in the passage burning and choking with shame. "It is a strange thing that religion should make some people so unfeeling," Esther thought as she left Onslow Square. It was necessary to keep her child secret, and in her next situation she shunned intimacy with her fellow-servants, and was so strict in her conduct that she exposed herself to their sneers. She dreaded the remark that she always went out alone, and often arrived at the cottage breathless with fear and expectation--at a cottage where a little boy stood by a stout middle-aged woman, turning over the pages of the illustrated papers that his mother had brought him; she had no money to buy him toys. Dropping the Illustrated London News, he cried, "Here is Mummie," and ran to her with outstretched arms. Ah, what an embrace! Mrs. Lewis continued her sewing, and for an hour or more Esther told about her fellow-servants, about the people she lived with, the conversation interrupted by the child calling his mother's attention to the pictures, or by the delicate intrusion of his little hand into hers. Her clothes were her great difficulty, and she often thought that she would rather go back to the slavery of the house in Chelsea than bear the humiliation of going out any longer on Sunday in the old things that the servants had seen her in for eight or nine months or more. She was made to feel that she was the lowest of the low--the servant of servants. She had to accept everybody's sneer and everybody's bad language, and oftentimes gross familiarity, in order to avoid arguments and disputes which might endanger her situation. She had to shut her eyes to the thefts of cooks; she had to fetch them drink, and to do their work when they were unable to do it themselves. But there was no help for it. She could not pick and choose where she would live, and any wages above sixteen pound a year she must always accept, and put up with whatever inconvenience she might meet. Hers is an heroic adventure if one considers it--a mother's fight for the life of her child against all the forces that civilisation arrays against the lowly and the illegitimate. She is in a situation to-day, but on what security does she hold it? She is strangely dependent on her own health, and still more upon the fortunes and the personal caprice of her employers; and she realised the perils of her life when an outcast mother at the corner of the street, stretching out of her rags a brown hand and arm, asked alms for the sake of the little children. Esther remembered then that three months out of a situation and she too would be on the street as a flower-seller, match-seller, or---- It did not seem, however, that any of these fears were to be realised. Her luck had mended; for nearly two years she had been living with some rich people in the West End; she liked her mistress and was on good terms with her fellow servants, and had it not been for an accident she could have kept this situation. The young gentlemen had come home for their summer holidays; she had stepped aside to let Master Harry pass on the stairs. But he did not go by, and there was a strange smile on his face. "Look here, Esther, I'm awfully fond of you. You are the prettiest girl I've ever seen. Come out for a walk with me next Sunday." "Master Harry, I'm surprised at you; will you let me go by at once?" There was no one near, the house was silent, and the boy stood on the step above her. He tried to throw his arm round her waist, but she shook him off and went up to her room calm with indignation. A few days afterward she suddenly became aware that he was following her in the street. She turned sharply upon him. "Master Harry, I know that this is only a little foolishness on your part, but if you don't leave off I shall lose my situation, and I'm sure you don't want to do me an injury." Master Harry seemed sorry, and he promised not to follow her in the street again. And never thinking that it was he who had written the letter she received a few days after, she asked Annie, the upper housemaid, to read it. It contained reference to meetings and unalterable affection, and it concluded with a promise to marry her if she lost her situation through his fault. Esther listened like one stunned. A schoolboy's folly, the first silly sentimentality of a boy, a thing lighter than the lightest leaf that falls, had brought disaster upon her. If Annie had not seen the letter she might have been able to get the boy to listen to reason; but Annie had seen the letter, and Annie could not be trusted. The story would be sure to come out, and then she would lose her character as well as her situation. It was a great pity. Her mistress had promised to have her taught cooking at South Kensington, and a cook's wages would secure her and her child against all ordinary accidents. She would never get such a chance again, and would remain a kitchen-maid to the end of her days. And acting on the impulse of the moment she went straight to the drawing-room. Her mistress was alone, and Esther handed her the letter. "I thought you had better see this at once, ma'am. I did not want you to think it was my fault. Of course the young gentleman means no harm." "Has anyone seen this letter?" "I showed it to Annie. I'm no scholar myself, and the writing was difficult." "You have no reason for supposing----How often did Master Harry speak to you in this way?" "Only twice, ma'am." "Of course it is only a little foolishness. I needn't say that he doesn't mean what he says." "I told him, ma'am, that if he continued I should lose my situation." "I'm sorry to part with you, Esther, but I really think that the best way will be for you to leave. I am much obliged to you for showing me this letter. Master Harry, you see, says that he is going away to the country for a week. He left this morning. So I really think that a month's wages will settle matters nicely. You are an excellent servant, and I shall be glad to recommend you." Then Esther heard her mistress mutter something about the danger of good-looking servants. And Esther was paid a month's wages, and left that afternoon. XXI It was the beginning of August, and London yawned in every street; the dust blew unslaked, and a little cloud curled and disappeared over the crest of the hill at Hyde Park Corner; the streets and St. George's Place looked out with blind, white eyes; and in the deserted Park the trees tossed their foliage restlessly, as if they wearied and missed the fashion of their season. And all through Park Lane and Mayfair, caretakers and gaunt cats were the traces that the caste on which Esther depended had left of its departed presence. She was coming from the Alexandra Hotel, where she had heard a kitchen-maid was wanted. Mrs. Lewis had urged her to wait until people began to come back to town. Good situations were rarely obtainable in the summer months; it would be bad policy to take a bad one, even if it were only for a while. Besides, she had saved a little money, and, feeling that she required a rest, had determined to take this advice. But as luck would have it Jackie fell ill before she had been at Dulwich a week. His illness made a big hole in her savings, and it had become evident that she would have to set to work and at once. She turned into the park. She was going north, to a registry office near Oxford Street, which Mrs. Lewis had recommended. Holborn Row was difficult to find, and she had to ask the way very often, but she suddenly knew that she was in the right street by the number of servant-girls going and coming from the office, and in company with five others Esther ascended a gloomy little staircase. The office was on the first floor. The doors were open, and they passed into a special odour of poverty, as it were, into an atmosphere of mean interests. Benches covered with red plush were on either side, and these were occupied by fifteen or twenty poorly-dressed women. A little old woman, very white and pale, stood near the window recounting her misfortunes to no one in particular. "I lived with her more than thirty years; I brought up all the children. I entered her service as nurse, and when the children grew up I was given the management of everything. For the last fifteen years my mistress was a confirmed invalid. She entrusted everything to me. Oftentimes she took my hand and said, 'You are a good creature, Holmes, you mustn't think of leaving me; how should I get on without you?' But when she died they had to part with me; they said they were very sorry, and wouldn't have thought of doing so, only they were afraid I was getting too old for the work. I daresay I was wrong to stop so long in one situation. I shouldn't have done so, but she always used to say, 'You mustn't leave us; we never shall be able to get on without you.'" At that moment the secretary, an alert young woman with a decisive voice, came through the folding doors. "I will not have all this talking," she said. Her quick eyes fell on the little old woman, and she came forward a few steps. "What, you here again, Miss Holmes? I've told you that when I hear of anything that will suit you I'll write." "So you said, Miss, but my little savings are running short. I'm being pressed for my rent." "I can't help that; when I hear of anything I'll write. But I can't have you coming here every third day wasting my time; now run along." And having made casual remarks about the absurdity of people of that age coming after situations, she called three or four women to her desk, of whom Esther was one. She examined them critically, and seemed especially satisfied with Esther's appearance. "It will be difficult," she said, "to find you the situation you want before people begin to return to town. If you were only an inch or two taller I could get you a dozen places as housemaid; tall servants are all the fashion, and you are the right age--about five-and-twenty." Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after she began to receive letters containing the addresses of ladies who required servants. They were of all sorts, for the secretary seemed to exercise hardly any discrimination, and Esther was sent on long journeys from Brixton to Notting Hill to visit poor people who could hardly afford a maid-of-all-work. These useless journeys were very fatiguing. Sometimes she was asked to call at a house in Bayswater, and thence she had to go to High Street, Kensington, or Earl's Court; a third address might be in Chelsea. She could only guess which was the best chance, and while she was hesitating the situation might be given away. Very often the ladies were out, and she was asked to call later in the day. These casual hours she spent in the parks, mending Jackie's socks or hemming pocket handkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed till evening; and in the mildness of the summer twilight, with some fresh disappointment lying heavy on her heart, she made her way from the Marble Arch round the barren Serpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of light beginning in the sunset. And standing at the kerb of Piccadilly Circus, waiting for a 'bus to take her to Ludgate Hill Station, the girl grew conscious of the moving multitude that filled the streets. The great restaurants rose up calm and violet in the evening sky, the Café Monico, with its air of French newspapers and Italian wines; and before the grey façade of the fashionable Criterion hansoms stopped and dinner parties walked across the pavement. The fine weather had brought the women up earlier than usual from the suburbs. They came up the long road from Fulham, with white dresses floating from their hips, and feather boas waving a few inches from the pavement. But through this elegant disguise Esther could pick out the servant-girls. Their stories were her story. They had been deserted, as she had been; and perhaps each had a child to support, only they had not been so lucky as she had been in finding situations. But now luck seemed to have deserted her. It was the middle of September and she had not yet been able to find the situation she wanted; and it had become more and more distressing to her to refuse sixteen pound a year. She had calculated it all out, and nothing less than eighteen pound was of any use to her. With eighteen pound and a kind mistress who would give her an old dress occasionally she could do very well. But if she didn't find these two pounds she did not know what she should do. She might drag on for a time on sixteen pound, but such wages would drive her in the end into the workhouse. If it were not for the child! But she would never desert her darling boy, who loved her so dearly, come what might. A sudden imagination let her see him playing in the little street, waiting for her to come home, and her love for him went to her head like madness. She wondered at herself; it seemed almost unnatural to love anything as she did this child. Then, in a shiver of fear, determined to save her 'bus fare, she made her way through Leicester Square. She was a good-looking girl, who hastened her steps when addressed by a passer-by or crossed the roadway in sullen indignation, and who looked in contempt on the silks and satins which turned into the Empire, and she seemed to lose heart utterly. She had been walking all day and had not tasted food since the morning, and the weakness of the flesh brought a sudden weakness of the spirit. She felt that she could struggle no more, that the whole world was against her--she felt that she must have food and drink and rest. All this London tempted her, and the cup was at her lips. A young man in evening clothes had spoken to her. His voice was soft, the look in his eyes seemed kindly. Thinking of the circumstances ten minutes later it seemed to her that she had intended to answer him. But she was now at Charing Cross. There was a lightness, an emptiness in her head which she could not overcome, and the crowd appeared to her like a blurred, noisy dream. And then the dizziness left her, and she realised the temptation she had escaped. Here, as in Piccadilly, she could pick out the servant girls; but here their service was yesterday's lodging-house--poor and dissipated girls, dressed in vague clothes fixed with hazardous pins. Two young women strolled in front of her. They hung on each other's arms, talking lazily. They had just come out of an eating-house, and a happy digestion was in their eyes. The skirt on the outside was a soiled mauve, and the bodice that went with it was a soiled chocolate. A broken yellow plume hung out of a battered hat. The skirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left of the cotton velvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of sixteen walking sturdily, like a little man, crossed the road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of her red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip of beaded mantle; her hair was plaited and tied with a red ribbon. Corpulent women passed, their eyes liquid with invitation; and the huge bar-loafer, the man of fifty, the hooked nose and the waxed moustache, stood at the door of a restaurant, passing the women in review. A true London of the water's edge--a London of theatres, music-halls, wine-shops, public-houses--the walls painted various colours, nailed over with huge gold lettering; the pale air woven with delicate wire, a gossamer web underneath which the crowd moved like lazy flies, one half watching the perforated spire of St. Mary's, and all the City spires behind it now growing cold in the east, the other half seeing the spire of St. Martin's above the chimney-pots aloft in a sky of cream pink. Stalwart policemen urged along groups of slattern boys and girls; and after vulgar remonstrance these took the hint and disappeared down strange passages. Suddenly Esther came face to face with a woman whom she recognised as Margaret Gale. "What, is it you, Margaret?" "Yes, it is me all right. What are you doing up here? Got tired of service? Come and have a drink, old gal." "No, thank you; I'm glad to have seen you, Margaret, but I've a train to catch." "That won't do," said Margaret, catching her by the arm; "we must have a drink and a talk over old times." Esther felt that if she did not have something she would faint before she reached Ludgate Hill, and Margaret led the way through the public-house, opening all the varnished doors, seeking a quiet corner. "What's the matter?" she said, startled at the pallor of Esther's face. "Only a little faintness; I've not had anything to eat all day." "Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water," Margaret cried to the barman, and a moment after she was holding the glass to her friend's lips. "Not had anything to eat all day, dear? Then we'll have a bite and a sup together. I feel a bit peckish myself. Two sausages and two rolls and butter," she cried. Then the women had a long talk. Margaret told Esther the story of her misfortune. The Barfields were all broken up. They had been very unlucky racing, and when the servants got the sack Margaret had come up to London. She had been in several situations. Eventually, one of her masters had got her into trouble, his wife had turned her out neck and crop, and what was she to do? Then Esther told how Master Harry had lost her her situation. "And you left like that? Well I never! The better one behaves the worse one gets treated, and them that goes on with service find themselves in the end without as much as will buy them a Sunday dinner." Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and they walked together as far as Wellington Street. "I can't go any further," and pointing to where London seemed to end in a piece of desolate sky, she said, "I live on the other side, in Stamford Street. You might come and see me. If you ever get tired of service you'll get decent rooms there." Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming umbrella Esther went from one address to another, her damp skirts clinging about her and her boots clogged with mud. She looked upon the change in the weather as unfortunate, for in getting a situation so much depended on personal appearance and cheerfulness of manner; and it is difficult to seem a right and tidy girl after two miles' walk through the rain. One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants, another said she never engaged good-looking girls, and another place that would have suited her was lost through unconsciously answering that she was chapel. The lady would have nothing in her house but church. Then there were the disappointments occasioned by the letters which she received from people who she thought would have engaged her, saying they were sorry, but that they had seen some one whom they liked better. Another week passed and Esther had to pawn her clothes to get money for her train fare to London, and to keep the registry office supplied with stamps. Her prospects had begun to seem quite hopeless, and she lay awake thinking that she and Jackie must go back to the workhouse. They could not stop on at Mrs. Lewis's much longer. Mrs. Lewis had been very good to them, but Esther owed her two weeks' money. What was to be done? She had heard of charitable institutions, but she was an ignorant girl and did not know how to make the necessary inquiries. Oh, the want of a little money--of a very little money; the thought beat into her brain. For just enough to hold on till the people came back to town. One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for her, came to her with an advertisement which she said seemed to read like a very likely chance. Esther looked at the pence which remained out of the last dress that she had pawned. "I'm afraid," she said, "it will turn out like the others; I'm out of my luck." "Don't say that," said Mrs. Lewis; "keep your courage up; I'll stick to you as long as I can." The women had a good cry in each other's arms, and then Mrs. Lewis advised Esther to take the situation, even if it were no more than sixteen. "A lot can be done by constant saving, and if she gives yer 'er dresses and ten shillings for a Christmas-box, I don't see why you should not pull through. The baby shan't cost you more than five shillings a week till you get a situation as plain cook. Here is the address--Miss Rice, Avondale Road, West Kensington." XXII Avondale Road was an obscure corner of the suburb--obscure, for it had just sprung into existence. The scaffolding that had built it now littered an adjoining field, where in a few months it would rise about Horsely Gardens, whose red gables and tiled upper walls will correspond unfailingly with those of Avondale Road. Nowhere in this neighbourhood could Esther detect signs of eighteen pounds a year. Scanning the Venetian blinds of the single drawing-room window, she said to herself, "Hot joint today, cold the next." She noted the trim iron railings and the spare shrubs, and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gable windows of the cupboard-like rooms where the single servant kept in these houses slept. A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house. The thin passage and the meagre staircase confirmed Esther in the impression she had received from the aspect of the street; and she felt that the place was more suitable to the gaunt woman with iron-grey hair who waited in the passage. This woman looked apprehensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she had come after the place a painful change of expression passed over her face, and she said-- "You'll get it; I'm too old for anything but charing. How much are you going to ask?" "I can't take less than sixteen." "Sixteen! I used to get that once; I'd be glad enough to get twelve now. You can't think of sixteen once you've turned forty, and I've lost my teeth, and they means a couple of pound off." Then the door opened, and a woman's voice called to the gaunt woman to come in. She went in, and Esther breathed a prayer that she might not be engaged. A minute intervened, and the gaunt woman came out; there were tears in her eyes, and she whispered to Esther as she passed, "No good; I told you so. I'm too old for anything but charing." The abruptness of the interview suggested a hard mistress, and Esther was surprised to find herself in the presence of a slim lady, about seven-and-thirty, whose small grey eyes seemed to express a kind and gentle nature. As she stood speaking to her, Esther saw a tall glass filled with chrysanthemums and a large writing-table covered with books and papers. There was a bookcase, and in place of the usual folding-doors, a bead curtain hung between the rooms. The room almost said that the occupant was a spinster and a writer, and Esther remembered that she had noticed even at the time Miss Rice's manuscript, it was such a beautiful clear round hand, and it lay on the table, ready to be continued the moment she should have settled with her. "I saw your advertisement in the paper, miss; I've come after the situation." "You are used to service?" "Yes, miss, I've had several situations in gentlemen's families, and have excellent characters from them all." Then Esther related the story of her situations, and Miss Rice put up her glasses and her grey eyes smiled. She seemed pleased with the somewhat rugged but pleasant-featured girl before her. "I live alone," she said; "the place is an easy one, and if the wages satisfy you, I think you will suit me very well. My servant, who has been with me some years, is leaving me to be married." "What are the wages, miss?" "Fourteen pounds a year." "I'm afraid, miss, there would be no use my taking the place; I've so many calls on my money that I could not manage on fourteen pounds. I'm very sorry, for I feel sure I should like to live with you, miss." But what was the good of taking the place? She could not possibly manage on fourteen, even if Miss Rice did give her a dress occasionally, and that didn't look likely. All her strength seemed to give way under her misfortune, and it was with difficulty that she restrained her tears. "I think we should suit each other," Miss Rice said reflectively. "I should like to have you for my servant if I could afford it. How much would you take?" "Situated, as I am, miss, I could not take less than sixteen. I've been used to eighteen." "Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I'll think it over. Give me your name and address." "Esther Waters, 13 Poplar Road, Dulwich." As Esther turned to go she became aware of the kindness of the eyes that looked at her. Miss Rice said-- "I'm afraid you're in trouble.... Sit down; tell me about it." "No, miss, what's the use?" But Miss Rice looked at her so kindly that Esther could not restrain herself. "There's nothing for it," she said, "but to go back to the workhouse." "But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer you fourteen pounds a year and everything found." "You see, miss, I've a baby; we've been in the workhouse already; I had to go there the night I left my situation, to get him away from Mrs. Spires; she wanted to kill him; she'd have done it for five pounds--that's the price. But, miss, my story is not one that can be told to a lady such as you." "I think I'm old enough to listen to your story; sit down, and tell it to me." And all the while Miss Rice's eyes were filled with tenderness and pity. "A very sad story--just such a story as happens every day. But you have been punished, you have indeed." "Yes, miss, I think I have; and after all these years of striving it is hard to have to take him back to the workhouse. Not that I want to give out that I was badly treated there, but it is the child I'm thinking of. He was then a little baby and it didn't matter; we was only there a few months. There's no one that knows of it but me. But he's a growing boy now, he'll remember the workhouse, and it will be always a disgrace." "How old is he?" "He was six last May, miss. It has been a hard job to bring him up. I now pay six shillings a week for him, that's more than fourteen pounds a year, and you can't do much in the way of clothes on two pounds a year. And now that he's growing up he's costing more than ever; but Mrs. Lewis--that's the woman what has brought him up--is as fond of him as I am myself. She don't want to make nothing out of his keep, and that's how I've managed up to the present. But I see well enough that it can't be done; his expense increases, and the wages remains the same. It was my pride to bring him up on my earnings, and my hope to see him an honest man earning good money. But it wasn't to be, miss, it wasn't to be. We must be humble and go back to the workhouse." "I can see that it has been a hard fight." "It has indeed, miss; no one will ever know how hard. I shouldn't mind if it wasn't going to end by going back to where it started.... They'll take him from me; I shall never see him while he is there. I wish I was dead, miss, I can't bear my trouble no longer." "You shan't go back to the workhouse so long as I can help you. Esther, I'll give you the wages you ask for. It is more than I can afford. Eighteen pounds a year! But your child shall not be taken from you. You shall not go to the workhouse. There aren't many such good women in the world as you, Esther." XXIII From the first Miss Rice was interested in her servant, and encouraged her confidences. But it was some time before either was able to put aside her natural reserve. They were not unlike--quiet, instinctive Englishwomen, strong, warm natures, under an appearance of formality and reserve. The instincts of the watch-dog soon began to develop in Esther, and she extended her supervision over all the household expenses, likewise over her mistress's health. "Now, miss, I must 'ave you take your soup while it is 'ot. You'd better put away your writing; you've been at it all the morning. You'll make yourself ill, and then I shall have the nursing of you." If Miss Rice were going out in the evening she would find herself stopped in the passage. "Now, miss, I really can't see you go out like that; you'll catch your death of cold. You must put on your warm cloak." Miss Rice's friends were principally middle-aged ladies. Her sisters, large, stout women, used to come and see her, and there was a fashionably-dressed young man whom her mistress seemed to like very much. Mr. Alden was his name, and Miss Rice told Esther that he, too, wrote novels; they used to talk about each other's books for hours, and Esther feared that Miss Rice was giving her heart away to one who did not care for her. But perhaps she was satisfied to see Mr. Alden once a week and talk for an hour with him about books. Esther didn't think she'd care, if she had a young man, to see him come and go like a shadow. But she hadn't a young man, and did not want one. All she now wanted was to awake in the morning and know that her child was safe; her ambition was to make her mistress's life comfortable. And for more than a year she pursued her plan of life unswervingly. She declined an offer of marriage, and was rarely persuaded into a promise to walk out with any of her admirers. One of these was a stationer's foreman, and almost every day Esther went to the stationer's for the sermon paper on which her mistress wrote her novels, for blotting-paper, for stamps, to post letters--that shop seemed the centre of their lives. Fred Parsons--that was his name--was a meagre little man about thirty-five. A high and prominent forehead rose above a small pointed face, and a scanty growth of blonde beard and moustache did not conceal the receding chin nor the red sealing-wax lips. His faded yellow hair was beginning to grow thin, and his threadbare frock-coat hung limp from sloping shoulders. But these disadvantages were compensated by a clear bell-like voice, into which no trace of doubt ever seemed to come; and his mind was neatly packed with a few religious and political ideas. He had been in business in the West End, but an uncontrollable desire to ask every customer who entered into conversation with him if he were sure that he believed in the second coming of Christ had been the cause of severance between him and his employers. He had been at West Kensington a fortnight, had served Esther once with sermon paper, and had already begun to wonder what were her religious beliefs. But bearing in mind his recent dismissal, he refrained for the present. At the end of the week they were alone in the shop. Esther had come for a packet of note-paper. Fred was sorry she had not come for sermon paper; if she had it would have been easier to inquire her opinions regarding the second coming. But the opportunity, such as it was, was not to be resisted. He said-- "Your mistress seems to use a great deal of paper; it was only a day or two ago that I served you with four quires." "That was for her books; what she now wants is note-paper." "So your mistress writes books!" "Yes." "I hope they're good books--books that are helpful." He paused to see that no one was within earshot. "Books that bring sinners back to the Lord." "I don't know what she writes; I only know she writes books; I think I've heard she writes novels." Fred did not approve of novels--Esther could see that--and she was sorry; for he seemed a nice, clear-spoken young man, and she would have liked to tell him that her mistress was the last person who would write anything that could do harm to anyone. But her mistress was waiting for her paper, and she took leave of him hastily. The next time they met was in the evening. She was going to see if she could get some fresh eggs for her mistress's breakfast before the shops closed, and coming towards her, walking at a great pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognised, a meagre little man with long reddish hair curling under the brim of a large soft black hat. He nodded, smiling pleasantly as he passed her. "Lor'," she thought, "I didn't know him; it's the stationer's foreman." And the very next evening they met in the same street; she was out for a little walk, he was hurrying to catch his train. They stopped to pass the time of day, and three days after they met at the same time, and as nearly as possible at the same place. "We're always meeting," he said. "Yes, isn't it strange?... You come this way from business?" she said. "Yes; about eight o'clock is my time." It was the end of August; the stars caught fire slowly in the murky London sunset; and, vaguely conscious of a feeling of surprise at the pleasure they took in each other's company, they wandered round a little bleak square in which a few shrubs had just been planted. They took up the conversation exactly at the point where it had been broken off. "I'm sorry," Fred said, "that the paper isn't going to be put to better use." "You don't know my mistress, or you wouldn't say that." "Perhaps you don't know that novels are very often stories about the loves of men for other men's wives. Such books can serve no good purpose." "I'm sure my mistress don't write about such things. How could she, poor dear innocent lamb? It is easy to see you don't know her." In the course of their argument it transpired that Miss Rice went to neither church nor chapel. Fred was much shocked. "I hope," he said, "you do not follow your mistress's example." Esther admitted she had for some time past neglected her religion. Fred went so far as to suggest that she ought to leave her present situation and enter a truly religious family. "I owe her too much ever to think of leaving her. And it has nothing to do with her if I haven't thought as much about the Lord as I ought to have. It's the first place I've been in where there was time for religion." This answer seemed to satisfy Fred. "Where used you to go?" "My people--father and mother--belonged to the Brethren." "To the Close or the Open?" "I don't remember; I was only a little child at the time." "I'm a Plymouth Brother." "Well, that is strange." "Remember that it is only through belief in our Lord, in the sacrifice of the Cross, that we can be saved." "Yes, I believe that." The avowal seemed to have brought them strangely near to each other, and on the following Sunday Fred took Esther to meeting, and introduced her as one who had strayed, but who had never ceased to be one of them. She had not been to meeting since she was a little child; and the bare room and bare dogma, in such immediate accordance with her own nature--were they not associated with memories of home, of father and mother, of all that had gone?--touched her with a human delight that seemed to reach to the roots of her nature. It was Fred who preached; and he spoke of the second coming of Christ, when the faithful would be carried away in clouds of glory, of the rapine and carnage to which the world would be delivered up before final absorption in everlasting hell; and a sensation of dreadful awe passed over the listening faces; a young girl who sat with closed eyes put out her hand to assure herself that Esther was still there--that she had not been carried away in glory. As they walked home, Esther told Fred that she had not been so happy for a long time. He pressed her hand, and thanked her with a look in which appeared all his soul; she was his for ever and ever; nothing could wholly disassociate them; he had saved her soul. His exaltation moved her to wonder. But her own innate faith, though incapable of these exaltations, had supported her during many a troublous year. Fred would want her to come to meeting with him next Sunday, and she was going to Dulwich. Sooner or later he would find out that she had a child, then she would see him no more. It were better that she should tell him than that he should hear it from others. But she felt she could not bear the humiliation, the shame; and she wished they had never met. That child came between her and every possible happiness.... It were better to break off with Fred. But what excuse could she give? Everything went wrong with her. He might ask her to marry him, then she would have to tell him. Towards the end of the week she heard some one tap at the window; it was Fred. He asked her why he had not seen her; she answered that she had not had time. "Can you come out this evening?" "Yes, if you like." She put on her hat, and they went out. Neither spoke, but their feet took instinctively the pavement that led to the little square where they had walked the first time they went out together. "I've been thinking of you a good deal, Esther, in the last few days. I want to ask you to marry me." Esther did not answer. "Will you?" he said. "I can't; I'm very sorry; don't ask me." "Why can't you?" "If I told you I don't think you'd want to marry me. I suppose I'd better tell you. I'm not the good woman you think me. I've got a child. There, you have it now, and you can take your hook when you like." It was her blunt, sullen nature that had spoken; she didn't care if he left her on the spot--now he knew all and could do as he liked. At last, he said-- "But you've repented, Esther?" "I should think I had, and been punished too, enough for a dozen children." "Ah, then it wasn't lately?" "Lately! It's nearly eight year ago." "And all that time you've been a good woman?" "Yes, I think I've been that." "Then if--" "I don't want no ifs. If I am not good enough for you, you can go elsewhere and get better; I've had enough of reproaches." "I did not mean to reproach you; I know that a woman's path is more difficult to walk in than ours. It may not be a woman's fault if she falls, but it is always a man's. He can always fly from temptation." "Yet there isn't a man that can say he hasn't gone wrong." "No, not all, Esther." Esther looked him full in the face. "I understand what you mean, Esther, but I can honestly say that I never have." Esther did not like him any better for his purity, and was irritated by the clear tones of his icy voice. "But that is no reason why I should be hard on those who have not been so fortunate. I didn't mean to reproach you just now, Esther; I only meant to say that I wish you had told me this before I took you to meeting." "So you're ashamed of me, is that it? Well, you can keep your shame to yourself." "No, not that, Esther--" "Then you'd like to see me humiliated before the others, as if I haven't had enough of that already." "No, Esther, listen to me. Those who transgress the moral law may not kneel at the table for a time, until they have repented; but those who believe in the sacrifice of the Cross are acquitted, and I believe you do that." "Yes." "A sinner that repenteth----I will speak about this at our next meeting; you will come with me there?" "Next Sunday I'm going to Dulwich to see the child." "Can't you go after meeting?" "No, I can't be out morning and afternoon both." "May I go with you?" "To Dulwich!" "You won't go until after meeting; I can meet you at the railway station." "If you like." As they walked home Esther told Fred the story of her betrayal. He was interested in the story, and was very sorry for her. "I love you, Esther; it is easy to forgive those we love." "You're very good; I never thought to find a man so good." She looked up in his face; her hand was on the gate, and in that moment she felt that she almost loved him. XXIV Mrs. Humphries, an elderly person, who looked after a bachelor's establishment two doors up, and generally slipped in about tea-time, soon began to speak of Fred as a very nice young man who would be likely to make a woman happy. But Esther moved about the kitchen in her taciturn way, hardly answering. Suddenly she told Mrs. Humphries that she had been to Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful how he and Jackie had taken to one another. "You don't say so! Well, it is nice to find them religious folks less 'ard-'earted than they gets the name of." Mrs. Humphries was of the opinion that henceforth Esther should give herself out as Jackie's aunt. "None believes them stories, but they make one seem more respectable like, and I am sure Mr. Parsons will appreciate the intention." Esther did not answer, but she thought of what Mrs. Humphries had said. Perhaps it would be better if Jackie were to leave off calling her Mummie. Auntie! But no, she could not bear it. Fred must take her as she was or not at all. They seemed to understand each other; he was earning good money, thirty shillings a week, and she was now going on for eight-and-twenty; if she was ever going to be married it was time to think about it. "I don't know how that dear soul will get on without me," she said one October morning as they jogged out of London by a slow train from St. Paul's. Fred was taking her into Kent to see his people. "How do you expect me to get on without you?" Esther laughed. "Trust you to manage somehow. There ain't much fear of a man not looking after his little self." "But the old folk will want to know when. What shall I tell them?" "This time next year; that'll be soon enough. Perhaps you'll get tired of me before then." "Say next spring, Esther." The train stopped. "There's father waiting for us in the spring-cart. Father! He don't hear us. He's gone a bit deaf of late years. Father!" "Ah, so here you are. Train late." "This is Esther, father." They were going to spend the day at the farm-house, and she was going to be introduced to Fred's sisters and to his brother. But these did not concern her much, her thoughts were set on Mrs. Parsons, for Fred had spoken a great deal about his mother. When she had been told about Jackie she was of course very sorry; but when she had heard the whole of Esther's story she had said, "We are all born into temptation, and if your Esther has really repented and prayed to be forgiven, we must not say no to her." Nevertheless Esther was not quite easy in her mind, and half regretted that she had consented to see Fred's people until he had made her his wife. But it was too late to think of such things. There was the farm-house. Fred had just pointed it out, and scenting his stable, the old grey ascended the hill at a trot, and Esther wondered what the farm-house would be like. All the summer they had had a fine show of flowers, Fred said. Now only a few Michaelmas daisies withered in the garden, and the Virginia creeper covered one side of the house with a crimson mantle. The old man said he would take the trap round to the stable, and Fred walked up the red-bricked pavement and lifted the latch. As they passed through the kitchen Fred introduced Esther to his two sisters, Mary and Lily. But they were busy cooking. "Mother is in the parlour," said Mary; "she is waiting for you." By the window, in a wide wooden arm-chair, sat a large woman about sixty, dressed in black. She wore on either side of her long white face two corkscrew curls, which gave her a somewhat ridiculous appearance. But she ceased to be ridiculous or grotesque when she rose from her chair to greet her son. Her face beamed, and she held out her hands in a beautiful gesture of welcome. "Oh, how do you do, dear Fred? I am that glad to see you! How good of you to come all this way! Come and sit down here." "Mother, this is Esther." "How do you do, Esther? It was good of you to come. I am glad to see you. Let me get you a chair. Take off your things, dear; come and sit down." She insisted on relieving Esther of her hat and jacket, and, having laid them on the sofa, she waddled across the room, drawing over two chairs. "Come and sit down; you'll tell me everything. I can't get about much now, but I like to have my children round me. Take this chair, Esther." Then turning to Fred, "Tell me, Fred, how you've been getting on. Are you still living at Hackney?" "Yes, mother; but when we're married we're going to have a cottage at Mortlake. Esther will like it better than Hackney. It is nearer the country." "Then you've not forgotten the country. Mortlake is on the river, I think. I hope you won't find it too damp." "No, mother, there are some nice cottages there. I think we shall find that Mortlake suits us. There are many friends there; more than fifty meet together every Sunday. And there's a lot of political work to be done there. I know that you're against politics, but men can't stand aside nowadays. Times change, mother." "So long as we have God in our hearts, my dear boy, all that we do is well. But you must want something after your journey. Fred, dear, knock at that door. Your sister Clara's dressing there. Tell her to make haste." "All right, mother," cried a voice from behind the partition which separated the rooms, and a moment after the door opened and a young woman about thirty entered. She was better-looking than the other sisters, and the fashion of her skirt, and the worldly manner with which she kissed her brother and gave her hand to Esther, marked her off at once from the rest of the family. She was forewoman in a large millinery establishment. She spent Saturday afternoon and Sunday at the farm, but to-day she had got away earlier, and with the view to impressing Esther, she explained how this had come about. Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of currant wine, and Lily came in with a tray and glasses. Clara said she was starving. Mary said she would have to wait, and Lily whispered, "In about half-an-hour." After dinner the old man said that they must be getting on with their work in the orchard. Esther said she would be glad to help, but as she was about to follow the others Mrs. Parsons detained her. "You don't mind staying with me a few minutes, do you, dear? I shan't keep you long." She drew over a chair for Esther. "I shan't perhaps see you again for some time. I am getting an old woman, and the Lord may be pleased to take me at any moment. I wanted to tell you, dear, that I put my trust in you. You will make a good wife to Fred, I feel sure, and he will make a good father to your child, and if God blesses you with other children he'll treat your first no different than the others. He's told me so, and my Fred is a man of his word. You were led into sin, but you've repented. We was all born into temptation, and we must trust to the Lord to lead us out lest we should dash our foot against a stone." "I was to blame; I don't say I wasn't, but----" "We won't say no more about that. We're all sinners, the best of us. You're going to be my son's wife; you're therefore my daughter, and this house is your home whenever you please to come to see us. And I hope that that will be often. I like to have my children about me. I can't get about much now, so they must come to me. It is very sad not to be able to go to meeting. I've not been to meeting since Christmas, but I can see them going there from the kitchen window, and how 'appy they look coming back from prayer. It is easy to see that they have been with God. The Salvationists come this way sometimes. They stopped in the lane to sing. I could not hear the words, but I could see by their faces that they was with God... Now, I've told you all that was on my mind. I must not keep you; Fred is waiting." Esther kissed the old woman, and went into the orchard, where she found Fred on a ladder shaking the branches. He came down when he saw Esther, and Harry, his brother, took his place. Esther and Fred filled one basket, then, yielding to a mutual inclination, they wandered about the orchard, stopping on the little plank bridge. They hardly spoke at all, words seemed unnecessary; each felt happiness to be in the other's presence. They heard the water trickling through the weeds, and as the light waned the sound of the falling apples grew more distinct. Then a breeze shivered among the tops of the apple-trees, and the sered leaves were blown from the branches. The voices of the gatherers were heard crying that their baskets were full. They crossed the plank bridge, joking the lovers, who stood aside to let them pass. When they entered the house they saw the old farmer, who had slipped in before them, sitting by his wife holding her hand, patting it in a curious old-time way, and the attitude of the old couple was so pregnant with significance that it fixed itself on Esther's mind. It seemed to her that she had never seen anything so beautiful. So they had lived for forty years, faithful to each other, and she wondered if Fred forty years hence would be sitting by her side holding her hand. The old man lighted a lantern and went round to the stable to get a trap out. Driving through the dark country, seeing village lights shining out of the distant solitudes, was a thrilling adventure. A peasant came like a ghost out of the darkness; he stepped aside and called, "Good-night!" which the old farmer answered somewhat gruffly, while Fred answered in a ringing, cheery tone. Never had Esther spent so long and happy a day. Everything had combined to produce a strange exaltation of the spirit in her; and she listened to Fred more tenderly than she had done before. The train rattled on through suburbs beginning far away in the country; rattled on through suburbs that thickened at every mile; rattled on through a brick entanglement; rattled over iron bridges, passed over deep streets, over endless lines of lights. He bade her good-bye at the area gate, and she had promised him that they should be married in the spring. He had gone away with a light heart. And she had run upstairs to tell her dear mistress of the happy day which her kindness had allowed her to spend in the country. And Miss Rice had laid the book she was reading on her knees, and had listened to Esther's pleasures as if they had been her own. XXV But when the spring came Esther put Fred off till the autumn, pleading as an excuse that Miss Rice had not been very well lately, and that she did not like to leave her. It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the end of July, when the sky seems as if it could not darken. The roadway was very still in its dust and heat, and Esther, her print dress trailing, watched a poor horse striving to pull a four-wheeler through the loose heavy gravel that had just been laid down. So absorbed was she in her pity for the poor animal that she did not see the gaunt, broad-shouldered man coming towards her, looking very long-legged in a pair of light grey trousers and a black jacket a little too short for him. He walked with long, even strides, a small cane in one hand, the other in his trousers pocket; a heavy gold chain showed across his waistcoat. He wore a round hat and a red necktie. The side whiskers and the shaven upper lip gave him the appearance of a gentleman's valet. He did not notice Esther, but a sudden step taken sideways as she lingered, her eyes fixed on the cab-horse, brought her nearly into collision with him. "Do look where you are going to," he exclaimed, jumping back to avoid the beer-jug, which fell to the ground. "What, Esther, is it you?" "There, you have made me drop the beer." "Plenty more in the public; I'll get you another jug." "It is very kind of you. I can get what I want myself." They looked at each other, and at the end of a long silence William said: "Just fancy meeting you, and in this way! Well I never! I am glad to see you again." "Are you really! Well, so much for that--your way and mine aren't the same. I wish you good evening." "Stop a moment, Esther." "And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I've to go and get some more beer." "Shall I wait for you?" "Wait for me! I should think not, indeed." Esther ran down the area steps. Her hand paused as it was about to lift the jug down from the dresser, and a number of thoughts fled across her mind. That man would be waiting for her outside. What was she to do? How unfortunate! If he continued to come after her he and Fred would be sure to meet. "What are you waiting for, I should like to know?" she cried, as she came up the steps. "That's 'ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years too; one would think--" "I want none of your thinking; get out of my sight. Do you 'ear? I want no truck with you whatever. Haven't you done me enough mischief already?" "Be quiet; listen to me. I'll explain." "I don't want none of your explanation. Go away." Her whole nature was now in full revolt, and quick with passionate remembrance of the injustice that had been done her, she drew back from him, her eyes flashing. Perhaps it was some passing remembrance of the breakage of the first beer-jug that prevented her from striking him with the second. The spasm passed, and then her rage, instead of venting itself in violent action, assumed the form of dogged silence. He followed her up the street, and into the bar. She handed the jug across the counter, and while the barman filled it searched in her pocket for the money. She had brought none with her. William promptly produced sixpence. Esther answered him with a quick, angry glance, and addressing the barman, she said, "I'll pay you to-morrow; that'll do, I suppose? 41 Avondale Road." "That will be all right, but what am I to do with this sixpence?" "I know nothing about that," Esther said, picking up her skirt; "I'll pay you for what I have had." Holding the sixpence in his short, thick, and wet fingers, the barman looked at William. William smiled, and said, "Well, they do run sulky sometimes." He caught at the leather strap and pulled the door open for her, and as she passed out she became aware that William still admired her. It was really too bad, and she was conscious of injustice. Having destroyed her life, this man had passed out of sight and knowledge, but only to reappear when a vista leading to a new life seemed open before her. "It was that temper of yours that did it; you wouldn't speak to me for a fortnight. You haven't changed, I can see that," he said, watching Esther's face, which did not alter until he spoke of how unhappy he had been in his marriage. "A regular brute she was--we're no longer together, you know; haven't been for the last three years; could not put up with 'er. She was that--but that's a long story." Esther did not answer him. He looked at her anxiously, and seeing that she would not be won over easily, he spoke of his money. "Look 'ere, Esther," he said, laying his hand on the area gate. "You won't refuse to come out with me some Sunday. I've a half a share in a public-house, the 'King's Head,' and have been backing winners all this year. I've plenty of money to treat you. I should like to make it up to you. Perhaps you've 'ad rather a 'ard time. What 'ave yer been doing all these years? I want to hear." "What 'ave I been doing? Trying to bring up your child! That's what I've been doing." "There's a child, then, is there?" said William, taken aback. Before he could recover himself Esther had slipped past him down the area into the house. For a moment he looked as if he were going to follow her; on second thoughts he thought he had better not. He lingered a moment and then walked slowly away in the direction of the Metropolitan Railway. "I'm sorry to 'ave kept you waiting, miss, but I met with an accident and had to come back for another jug." "And what was the accident you met with, Esther?" "I wasn't paying no attention, miss; I was looking at a cab that could hardly get through the stones they've been laying down in the Pembroke Road; the poor little horse was pulling that 'ard that I thought he'd drop down dead, and while I was looking I ran up against a passer-by, and being a bit taken aback I dropped the jug." "How was that? Did you know the passer-by?" Esther busied herself with the dishes on the sideboard; and, divining that something serious had happened to her servant, Miss Rice refrained and allowed the dinner to pass in silence. Half-an-hour later Esther came into the study with her mistress's tea. She brought over the wicker table, and as she set it by her mistress's knees the shadows about the bookcase and the light of the lamp upon the book and the pensive content on Miss Rice's face impelled her to think of her own troubles, the hardship, the passion, the despair of her life compared with this tranquil existence. Never had she felt more certain that misfortune was inherent in her life. She remembered all the trouble she had had, she wondered how she had come out of it all alive; and now, just as things seemed like settling, everything was going to be upset again. Fred was away for a fortnight's holiday--she was safe for eleven or twelve days. After that she did not know what might not happen. Her instinct told her that although he had passed over her fault very lightly, so long as he knew nothing of the father of her child, he might not care to marry her if William continued to come after her. Ah! if she hadn't happened to go out at that particular time she might never have met William. He did not live in the neighbourhood; if he did they would have met before. Perhaps he had just settled in the neighbourhood. That would be worst of all. No, no, no; it was a mere accident; if the cask of beer had held out a day or two longer, or if it had run out a day or two sooner, she might never have met William! But now she could not keep out of his way. He spent the whole day in the street waiting for her. If she went out on an errand he followed her there and back. If she'd only listen. She was prettier than ever. He had never cared for any one else. He would marry her when he got his divorce, and then the child would be theirs. She did not answer him, but her blood boiled at the word "theirs." How could Jackie become their child? Was it not she who had worked for him, brought him up? and she thought as little of his paternity as if he had fallen from heaven into her arms. One evening as she was laying the table her grief took her unawares, and she was obliged to dash aside the tears that had risen to her eyes. The action was so apparent that Miss Rice thought it would be an affectation to ignore it. So she said in her kind, musical, intimate manner, "Esther, I'm afraid you have some trouble on your mind; can I do anything for you?" "No, miss, no, it's nothing; I shall get over it presently." But the effort of speaking was too much for her, and a bitter sob caught her in the throat. "You had better tell me your trouble, Esther; even if I cannot help you it will ease your heart to tell me about it. I hope nothing is the matter with Jackie?" "No, miss, no; thank God, he's well enough. It's nothing to do with him; leastways--" Then with a violent effort she put back her tears. "Oh, it is silly of me," she said, "and your dinner getting cold." "I don't want to pry into your affairs, Esther, but you know that----" "Yes, miss, I know you to be kindness itself; but there's nothing to be done but to bear it. You asked me just now if it had anything to do with Jackie. Well, it is no more than that his father has come back." "But surely, Esther, that's hardly a reason for sorrow; I should have thought that you would have been glad." "It is only natural that you should think so, miss; them what hasn't been through the trouble never thinks the same as them that has. You see, miss, it is nearly nine years since I've seen him, and during them nine years I 'ave been through so much. I 'ave worked and slaved, and been through all the 'ardship, and now, when the worst is over, he comes and wants me to marry him when he gets his divorce." "Then you like some one else better?" "Yes, miss, I do, and what makes it so 'ard to bear is that for the last two months or more I've been keeping company with Fred Parsons--that's the stationer's assistant; you've seen him in the shop, miss--and he and me is engaged to be married. He's earning good money, thirty shillings a week; he's as good a young man as ever stepped--religious, kind-hearted, everything as would make a woman 'appy in 'er 'ome. It is 'ard for a girl to keep up with 'er religion in some of the situations we have to put up with, and I'd mostly got out of the habit of chapel-going till I met him; it was 'e who led me back again to Christ. But for all that, understanding very well, not to say indulgent for the failings of others, like yourself, miss. He knew all about Jackie from the first, and never said nothing about it, but that I must have suffered cruel, which I have. He's been with me to see Jackie, and they both took to each other wonderful like; it couldn't 'ave been more so if 'e'd been 'is own father. But now all that's broke up, for when Fred meets William it is as likely as not as he'll think quite different." The evening died behind the red-brick suburb, and Miss Rice's strip of garden grew greener. She had finished her dinner, and she leaned back thinking of the story she had heard. She was one of those secluded maiden ladies so common in England, whose experience of life is limited to a tea party, and whose further knowledge of life is derived from the yellow-backed French novels which fill their bookcases. "How was it that you happened to meet William--I think you said his name was William?" "It was the day, miss, that I went to fetch the beer from the public-house. It was he that made me drop the jug; you remember, miss, I had to come back for another. I told you about it at the time. When I went out again with a fresh jug he was waiting for me, he followed me to the 'Greyhound' and wanted to pay for the beer--not likely that I'd let him; I told them to put it on the slate, and that I'd pay for it to-morrow. I didn't speak to him on leaving the bar, but he followed me to the gate. He wanted to know what I'd been doing all the time. Then my temper got the better of me, and I said, 'Looking after your child.' 'My child!' says he. 'So there's a child, is there?'" "I think you told me that he married one of the young ladies at the place you were then in situation?" "Young lady! No fear, she wasn't no young lady. Anyway, she was too good or too bad for him; for they didn't get on, and are now living separate." "Does he speak about the child? Does he ask to see him?" "Lor', yes, miss; he'd the cheek to say the other day that we'd make him our child--our child, indeed! and after all these years I've been working and he doing nothing." "Perhaps he might like to do something for him; perhaps that's what he's thinking of." "No, miss, I know him better than that. That's his cunning; he thinks he'll get me through the child." "In any case I don't see what you'll gain by refusing to speak to him; if you want to do something for the child, you can. You said he was proprietor of a public-house." "I don't want his money; please God, we'll be able to do without it to the end." "If I were to die to-morrow, Esther, remember that you would be in exactly the same position as you were when you entered my service. You remember what that was? You have often told me there was only eighteen-pence between you and the workhouse; you owed Mrs. Lewis two weeks' money for the support of the child. I daresay you've saved a little money since you've been with me, but it cannot be more than a few pounds. I don't think that you ought to let this chance slip through your fingers, if not for your own, for Jackie's sake. William, according to his own account, is making money. He may become a rich man; he has no children by his wife; he might like to leave some of his money--in any case, he'd like to leave something--to Jackie." "He was always given to boasting about money. I don't believe all he says about money or anything else." "That may be, but he may have money, and you have no right to refuse to allow him to provide for Jackie. Supposing later on Jackie were to reproach you?" "Jackie'd never do that, miss; he'd know I acted for the best." "If you again found yourself out of a situation, and saw Jackie crying for his dinner, you'd reproach yourself." "I don't think I should, miss." "I know you are very obstinate, Esther. When does Parsons return?" "In about a week, miss." "Without telling William anything about Parsons, you'll be able to find out whether it is his intention to interfere in your life. I quite agree with you that it is important that the two men should not meet; but it seems to me, by refusing to speak to William, by refusing to let him see Jackie, you are doing all you can to bring about the meeting that you wish to avoid. Is he much about here?" "Yes, miss, he seems hardly ever out of the street, and it do look so bad for the 'ouse. I do feel that ashamed. Since I've been with you, miss, I don't think you've 'ad to complain of followers." "Well, don't you see, you foolish girl, that he'll remain hanging about, and the moment Parsons comes back he'll hear of it. You'd better see to this at once." "Whatever you says, miss, always do seem right, some 'ow. What you says do seem that reasonable, and yet I don't know how to bring myself to go to 'im. I told 'im that I didn't want no truck with 'im." "Yes, I think you said so. It is a delicate matter to advise anyone in, but I feel sure I am right when I say that you have no right to refuse to allow him to do something for the child. Jackie is now eight years old, you've not the means of giving him a proper education, and you know the disadvantage it has been to you not to know how to read and write." "Jackie can read beautifully--Mrs. Lewis 'as taught him." "Yes, Esther; but there's much besides reading and writing. Think over what I've said; you're a sensible girl; think it out when you go to bed to-night." Next day, seeing William in the street, she went upstairs to ask Miss Rice's permission to go out. "Could you spare me, miss, for an hour or so?" was all she said. Miss Rice, who had noticed a man loitering, replied, "Certainly, Esther." "You aren't afraid to be left in the house alone, miss? I shan't be far away." "No. I am expecting Mr. Alden. I'll let him in, and can make the tea myself." Esther ran up the area steps and walked quickly down the street, as if she were going on an errand. William crossed the road and was soon alongside of her. "Don't be so 'ard on a chap," he said. "Just listen to reason." "I don't want to listen to you; you can't have much to say that I care for." Her tone was still stubborn, but he perceived that it contained a change of humour. "Come for a little walk, and then, if you don't agree with what I says, I'll never come after you again." "You must take me for a fool if you think I'd pay attention to your promises." "Esther, hear me out; you're very unforgiving, but if you'd hear me out----" "You can speak; no one's preventing you that I can see." "I can't say it off like that; it is a long story. I know that I've behaved badly to you, but it wasn't as much my fault as you think; I could explain a good lot of it." "I don't care about your explanations. If you've only got explanations----" "There's that boy." "Oh, it is the boy you're thinking of?" "Yes, and you too, Esther. The mother can't be separated from the child." "Very likely; the father can, though." "If you talk that snappish I shall never get out what I've to say. I've treated you badly, and it is to make up for the past as far as I can--" "And how do you know that you aren't doing harm by coming after me?" "You mean you're keeping company with a chap and don't want me?" "You don't know I'm not a married woman; you don't know what kind of situation I'm in. You comes after me just because it pleases your fancy, and don't give it a thought that you mightn't get me the sack, as you got it me before." "There's no use nagging; just let's go where we can have a talk, and then if you aren't satisfied you can go your way and I can go mine. You said I didn't know that you wasn't married. I don't, but if you aren't, so much the better. If you are, you've only to say so and I'll take my hook. I've done quite enough harm, without coming between you and your husband." William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evidently from his heart that Esther was touched against her will. "No, I ain't married yet," she replied. "I'm glad of that." "I don't see what odds it can make to you whether I'm married or not. If I ain't married, you are." William and Esther walked on in silence, listening to the day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs. The sky was almost colourless--a faded grey, that passed into an insignificant blue; and upon this almost neutral tint the red suburb appeared in rigid outline, like a carving. At intervals the wind raised a cloud of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece of waste ground, William said-- "Let's go in there; we'll be able to talk easier." Esther raised no objection. They went in and looked for a place where they could sit down. "This is just like old times," said William, moving a little closer. "If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I'll get up and go. I only came out with you because you said you had something particular to say about the child." "Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my son." "How do you know it's a son?" "I thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy--is it?" "Yes, it is a boy, and a lovely boy too; very different to his father. I've always told him that his father is dead." "And is he sorry?" "Not a bit. I've told him his father wasn't good to me; and he don't care for those who haven't been good to his mother." "I see, you've brought him up to hate me?" "He don't know nothing about you--how should 'e?" "Very likely; but there's no need to be that particular nasty. As I've said before, what's done can't be undone. I treated you badly, I know that; and I've been badly treated myself--damned badly treated. You've 'ad a 'ard time; so have I, if that's any comfort to ye." "I suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has brought up a deal of bitterness, more than I thought there was in me." William lay at length, his body resting on one arm. He held a long grass stalk between his small, discoloured teeth. The conversation had fallen. He looked at Esther; she sat straight up, her stiff cotton dress spread over the rough grass; her cloth jacket was unbuttoned. He thought her a nice-looking woman and he imagined her behind the bar of the "King's Head." His marriage had proved childless and in every way a failure; he now desired a wife such as he felt sure she would be, and his heart hankered sorely after his son. He tried to read Esther's quiet, subdued face. It was graver than usual, and betrayed none of the passion that choked in her. She must manage that the men should not meet. But how should she rid herself of him? She noticed that he was looking at her, and to lead his thoughts away from herself she asked him where he had gone with his wife when they left Woodview. Breaking off suddenly, he said-- "Peggy knew all the time I was gone on you." "It don't matter about that. Tell me where you went--they said you went foreign." "We first went to Boulogne, that's in France; but nearly everyone speaks English there, and there was a nice billiard room handy, where all the big betting men came in of an evening. We went to the races. I backed three winners on the first day--the second I didn't do so well. Then we went on to Paris. The race-meetings is very 'andy--I will say that for Paris--half-an-hour's drive and there you are." "Did your wife like Paris?" "Yes, she liked it pretty well--it is all the place for fashion, and the shops is grand; but she got tired of it too, and we went to Italy." "Where's that?" "That's down south. A beast of a place--nothing but sour wine, and all the cookery done in oil, and nothing to do but seeing picture-galleries. I got that sick of it I could stand it no longer, and I said, 'I've 'ad enough of this. I want to go home, where I can get a glass of Burton and a cut from the joint, and where there's a horse worth looking at.'" "But she was very fond of you. She must have been." "She was, in her way. But she always liked talking to the singers and the painters that we met out there. Nothing wrong, you know. That was after we had been married about three years." "What was that?" "That I caught her out." "How do you know there was anything wrong? Men always think bad of women." "No, it was right enough! she had got dead sick of me, and I had got dead sick of her. It never did seem natural like. There was no 'omeliness in it, and a marriage that ain't 'omely is no marriage for me. Her friends weren't my friends; and as for my friends, she never left off insulting me about them. If I was to ask a chap in she wouldn't sit in the same room with him. That's what it got to at last. And I was always thinking of you, and your name used to come up when we was talking. One day she said, 'I suppose you are sorry you didn't marry a servant?' and I said, 'I suppose you are sorry you did?'" "That was a good one for her. Did she say she was?" "She put her arms round my neck and said she loved none but her big Bill. But all her flummery didn't take me in. And I says to myself, 'Keep an eye on her.' For there was a young fellow hanging about in a manner I didn't particularly like. He was too anxious to be polite to me, he talked to me about 'orses, and I could see he knew nothing about them. He even went so far as go down to Kempton with me." "And how did it all end?" "I determined to keep my eye on this young whipper-snapper, and come up from Ascot by an earlier train than they expected me. I let myself in and ran up to the drawing-room. They were there sitting side by side on the sofa. I could see they were very much upset. The young fellow turned red, and he got up, stammering, and speaking a lot of rot. "'What! you back already? How did you get on at Ascot? Had a good day?' "'Rippin'; but I'm going to have a better one now,' I said, keeping my eye all the while on my wife. I could see by her face that there was no doubt about it. Then I took him by the throat. 'I just give you two minutes to confess the truth; I know it, but I want to hear it from you. Now, out with it, or I'll strangle you.' I gave him a squeeze just to show him that I meant it. He turned up his eyes, and my wife cried, 'Murder!' I threw him back from me and got between her and the door, locked it, and put the key in my pocket. 'Now,' I said, 'I'll drag the truth out of you both.' He did look white, he shrivelled up by the chimney-piece, and she--well, she looked as if she could have killed me, only there was nothing to kill me with. I saw her look at the fire-irons. Then, in her nasty sarcastic way, she said, 'There's no reason, Percy, why he shouldn't know. Yes,' she said, 'he is my lover; you can get your divorce when you like.' "I was a bit taken aback; my idea was to squeeze it all out of the fellow and shame him before her. But she spoilt my little game there, and I could see by her eyes that she knew that she had. 'Now, Percy,' she said, 'we'd better go.' That put my blood up. I said, 'Go you shall, but not till I give you leave,' and without another word I took him by the collar and led him to the door; he came like a lamb, and I sent him off with as fine a kick as he ever got in his life. He went rolling down, and didn't stop till he got to the bottom. You should have seen her look at me; there was murder in her eyes. If she could she'd have killed me, but she couldn't and calmed down a bit. 'Let me go; what do you want me for? You can get a divorce.... I'll pay the costs.' "'I don't think I'd gratify you so much. So you'd like to marry him, would you, my beauty?' "'He's a gentleman, and I've had enough of you; if you want money you shall have it.' "I laughed at her, and so it went on for an hour or more. Then she suddenly calmed down. I knew something was up, only I didn't know what. I don't know if I told you we was in lodgings--the usual sort, drawing-room with folding doors, the bedroom at the back. She went into the bedroom, and I followed, just to make sure she couldn't get out that way. There was a chest of drawers before the door; I thought she couldn't move it, and went back into the sitting-room. But somehow she managed to move it without my hearing her, and before I could stop her she was down the stairs like lightning. I went after her, but she had too long a start of me, and the last I heard was the street door go bang." The conversation paused. William took the stalk he was chewing from his teeth, and threw it aside. Esther had picked one, and with it she beat impatiently among the grass. "But what has all this to do with me?" she said. "If this is all you have brought me out to listen to----" "That's a nice way to round on me. Wasn't it you what asked me to tell you the story?" "So you've deserted two women instead of one, that's about the long and short of it." "Well, if that's what you think I'd better be off," said William, and he rose to his feet and stood looking at her. She sat quite still, not daring to raise her eyes; her heart was throbbing violently. Would he go away and never come back? Should she answer him indifferently or say nothing? She chose the latter course. Perhaps it was the wrong one, for her dogged silence irritated him, and he sat down and begged of her to forgive him. He would wait for her. Then her heart ceased throbbing, and a cold numbness came over her hands. "My wife thought that I had no money, and could do what she liked with me. But I had been backing winners all the season, and had a couple of thousand in the bank. I put aside a thousand for working expenses, for I intended to give up backing horses and go in for bookmaking instead. I have been at it ever since. A few ups and downs, but I can't complain. I am worth to-day close on three thousand pounds." At the mention of so much money Esther raised her eyes. She looked at William steadfastly. Her object was to rid herself of him, so that she might marry another man; but at that moment a sensation of the love she had once felt for him sprang upon her suddenly. "I must be getting back, my mistress will be waiting for me." "You needn't be in that hurry. It is quite early. Besides, we haven't settled nothing yet." "You've been telling me about your wife. I don't see much what it's got to do with me." "I thought you was interested... that you wanted to see that I wasn't as much to blame as you thought." "I must be getting back," she said; "anything else you have to say to me you can tell me on the way home." "Well, it all amounts to this, Esther; if I get a divorce we might come together again. What do you think?" "I think you'd much better make it up with her. I daresay she's very sorry for what she's done." "That's all rot, Esther. She ain't sorry, and wouldn't live with me no more than I with her. We could not get on; what's the use? You'd better let bygones be bygones. You know what I mean--marry me." "I don't think I could do that." "You like some other chap. You like some chap, and don't want me interfering in your life. That's why you wants me to go back and live with my wife. You don't think of what I've gone through with her already." "You've not been through half of what I have. I'll be bound that you never wanted a dinner. I have." "Esther, think of the child." "You're a nice one to tell me to think of the child, I who worked and slaved for him all these years." "Then I'm to take no for an answer?" "I don't want to have nothing to do with you." "And you won't let me see the child?" A moment later Esther answered, "You can see the child, if you like." "Where is he?" "You can come with me to see him next Sunday, if you like. Now let me go in." "What time shall I come for you?" "About three--a little after." XXVI William was waiting for her in the area; and while pinning on her hat she thought of what she should say, and how she should act. Should she tell him that she wanted to marry Fred? Then the long black pin that was to hold her hat to her hair went through the straw with a little sharp sound, and she decided that when the time came she would know what to say. As he stepped aside to let her go up the area steps, she noticed how beautifully dressed he was. He wore a pair of grey trousers, and in his spick and span morning coat there was a bunch of carnations. They walked some half-dozen yards up the street in silence. "But why do you want to see the boy? You never thought of him all these years." "I'll tell you, Esther.... But it is nice to be walking out with you again. If you'd only let bygones be bygones we might settle down together yet. What do you think?" She did not answer, and he continued, "It do seem strange to be walking out with you again, meeting you after all these years, and I'm never in your neighbourhood. I just happened to have a bit of business with a friend who lives your way, and was coming along from his 'ouse, turning over in my mind what he had told me about Rising Sun for the Stewards' Cup, when I saw you coming along with the jug in your 'and. I said, 'That's the prettiest girl I've seen this many a day; that's the sort of girl I'd like to see behind the bar of the "King's Head."' You always keeps your figure--you know you ain't a bit changed; and when I caught sight of those white teeth I said, 'Lor', why, it's Esther.'" "I thought it was about the child you was going to speak to me." "So I am, but you came first in my estimation. The moment I looked into your eyes I felt it had been a mistake all along, and that you was the only one I had cared about." "Then all about wanting to see the child was a pack of lies?" "No, they weren't lies. I wanted both mother and child--if I could get 'em, ye know. I'm telling you the unvarnished truth, Esther. I thought of the child as a way of getting you back; but little by little I began to take an interest in him, to wonder what he was like, and with thoughts of the boy came different thoughts of you, Esther, who is the mother of my boy. Then I wanted you both back; and I've thought of nothing else ever since." At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Railway, and William pressed forward to get the tickets. A subterraneous rumbling was heard, and they ran down the steps as fast as they could, and seeing them so near the ticket-collector held the door open for them, and just as the train was moving from the platform William pushed Esther into a second-class compartment. "We're in the wrong class," she cried. "No, we ain't; get in, get in," he shouted. And with the guard crying to him to desist, he hopped in after her, saying, "You very nearly made me miss the train. What 'ud you've done if the train had taken you away and left me behind?" The remark was not altogether a happy one. "Then you travel second-class?" Esther said. "Yes, I always travel second-class now; Peggy never would, but second seems to me quite good enough. I don't care about third, unless one is with a lot of pals, and can keep the carriage to ourselves. That's the way we manage it when we go down to Newmarket or Doncaster." They were alone in the compartment. William leaned forward and took her hand. "Try to forgive me, Esther." She drew her hand away; he got up, and sat down beside her, and put his arm around her waist. "No, no. I'll have none of that. All that sort of thing is over between us." He looked at her inquisitively, not knowing how to act. "I know you've had a hard time, Esther. Tell me about it. What did you do when you left Woodview?" He unfortunately added, "Did you ever meet any one since that you cared for?" The question irritated her, and she said, "It don't matter to you who I met or what I went through." The conversation paused. William spoke about the Barfields, and Esther could not but listen to the tale of what had happened at Woodview during the last eight years. Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her misfortune. She had gone there when the sap of life was flowing fastest in her, and Woodview had become the most precise and distinct vision she had gathered from life. She remembered that wholesome and ample country house, with its park and its down lands, and the valley farm, sheltered by the long lines of elms. She remembered the race-horses, their slight forms showing under the grey clothing, the round black eyes looking out through the eyelet holes in the hanging hoods, the odd little boys astride--a string of six or seven passing always before the kitchen windows, going through the paddock gate under the bunched evergreens. She remembered the rejoicings when the horse won at Goodwood, and the ball at the Shoreham Gardens. Woodview had meant too much in her life to be forgotten; its hillside and its people were drawn out in sharp outline on her mind. Something in William's voice recalled her from her reverie, and she heard him say-- "The poor Gaffer, 'e never got over it; it regular broke 'im up. I forgot to tell you, it was Ginger who was riding. It appears that he did all he knew; he lost start, he tried to get shut in, but it warn't no go, luck was against them; the 'orse was full of running, and, of course, he couldn't sit down and saw his blooming 'ead off, right in th' middle of the course, with Sir Thomas's (that's the 'andicapper) field-glasses on him. He'd have been warned off the blooming 'eath, and he couldn't afford that, even to save his own father. The 'orse won in a canter: they clapped eight stun on him for the Cambridgeshire. It broke the Gaffer's 'eart. He had to sell off his 'orses, and he died soon after the sale. He died of consumption. It generally takes them off earlier; but they say it is in the family. Miss May----" "Oh, tell me about her," said Esther, who had been thinking all the while of Mrs. Barfield and of Miss Mary. "Tell me, there's nothing the matter with Miss Mary?" "Yes, there is: she can't live no more in England; she has to go to winter, I think it is, in Algeria." At that moment the train screeched along the rails, and vibrating under the force of the brakes, it passed out of the tunnel into Blackfriars. "We shall just be able to catch the ten minutes past four to Peckham," she said, and they ran up the high steps. William strode along so fast that Esther was obliged to cry out, "There's no use, William; train or no train, I can't walk at that rate." There was just time for them to get their tickets at Ludgate Hill. They were in a carriage by themselves, and he proposed to draw up the windows so that they might be able to talk more easily. He was interested in the ill-luck that had attended certain horses, and Esther wanted to hear about Mrs. Barfield. "You seem to be very fond of her; what did she do for you?" "Everything--that was after you went away. She was kind." "I'm glad to hear that," said William. "So they spends the summer at Woodview and goes to foreign parts for the winter?" "Yes, that's it. Most of the estate was sold; but Mrs. Barfield, the Saint--you remember we used to call her the Saint--well, she has her fortune, about five hundred a year, and they just manage to live there in a sort of hole-and-corner sort of way. They can't afford to keep a trap, and towards the end of October they go off and don't return till the beginning of May. Woodview ain't what it was. You remember the stables they were putting up when Silver Braid won the two cups? Well, they are just as when you last saw them--rafters and walls." "Racing don't seem to bring no luck to any one. It ain't my affair, but if I was you I'd give it up and get to some honest work." "Racing has been a good friend to me. I don't know where I should be without it to-day." "So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder what has become of them." "You remember my mother, the cook? She died a couple of years ago." "Mrs. Latch! Oh, I'm so sorry." "She was an old woman. You remember John Randal, the butler? He's in a situation in Cumberland Place, near the Marble Arch. He sometimes comes round and has a glass in the 'King's Head.' Sarah Tucker--she's in a situation somewhere in town. I don't know what has become of Margaret Gale." "I met her one day in the Strand. I'd had nothing to eat all day. I was almost fainting, and she took me into a public-house and gave me a sausage." The train began to slacken speed, and William said, "This is Peckham." They handed up their tickets, and passed into the air of an irregular little street--low disjointed shops and houses, where the tramcars tinkled through a slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners were accustomed to. "This way," said Esther. "This is the way to the Rye." "Then Jackie lives at the Rye?" "Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dulwich?" "No, I never was here before." "Mrs. Lewis (that's the woman who looks after him) lives at East Dulwich, but it ain't very far. I always gets out here. I suppose you don't mind a quarter of an hour's walk." "Not when I'm with you," William replied gallantly, and he followed her through the passers-by. The Rye opened up like a large park, beginning in the town and wending far away into a country prospect. At the Peckham end there were a dozen handsome trees, and under them a piece of artificial water where boys were sailing toy boats, and a poodle was swimming. Two old ladies in black came out of a garden full of hollyhocks; they walked towards a seat and sat down in the autumn landscape. And as William and Esther pursued their way the Rye seemed to grow longer and longer. It opened up into a vast expanse full of the last days of cricket; it was charming with slender trees and a Japanese pavilion quaintly placed on a little mound. An upland background in gradations, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gardens, and steep hillside, showing fields and hayricks, brought the Rye to a picturesque and abrupt end. "But it ain't nearly so big as Chester race-course. A regular cockpit of a place is the Chester course; and not every horse can get round it." Turning to the right and leaving the Rye behind them, they ascended a long, monotonous, and very ugly road composed of artificial little houses, each set in a portion of very metallic garden. These continued all the way to the top of a long hill, straggling into a piece of waste ground where there were some trees and a few rough cottages. A little boy came running towards them, stumbling over the cinder heaps and the tin canisters with which the place was strewn, and William felt that that child was his. "That child will break 'is blooming little neck if 'e don't take care," he remarked tentatively. She hated him to see the child, and to assert her complete ownership she clasped Jackie to her bosom without a word of explanation, and she questioned the child on matters about which William knew nothing. William stood looking tenderly on his son, waiting for Esther to introduce them. Mother and child were both so glad in each other that they forgot the fine gentleman standing by. Suddenly the boy looked towards his father, and she repented a little of her cruelty. "Jackie," she said, "do you know who this gentleman is who has come to see you?" "No, I don't." She did not care that Jackie should love his father, and yet she could not help feeling sorry for William. "I'm your father," said William. "No, you ain't. I ain't got no father." "How do you know, Jackie?" "Father died before I was born; mother told me." "But mother may be mistaken." "If my father hadn't died before I was born he'd 've been to see us before this. Come, mother, come to tea. Mrs. Lewis 'as got hot cakes, and they'll be burnt if we stand talking." "Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite true; he is your father." Jackie made no answer, and Esther said, "I told you your father was dead, but I was mistaken." "Won't you come and walk with me?" said William. "No, thank you; I like to walk with mother." "He's always like that with strangers," said Esther; "it is shyness; but he'll come and talk to you presently, if you leave him alone." Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, the yellow crowns of sunflowers showed over the broken palings, and Mrs. Lewis's large face came into the windowpane. A moment later she was at the front door welcoming her visitors. The affection of her welcome was checked when she saw that William was with Esther, and she drew aside respectfully to let this fine gentleman pass. When they were in the kitchen Esther said---- "This is Jackie's father." "What, never! I thought--but I'm sure we're very glad to see you." Then noticing the fine gold chain that hung across his waistcoat, the cut of his clothes, and the air of money which his whole bearing seemed to represent, she became a little obsequious in her welcome. "I'm sure, sir, we're very glad to see you. Won't you sit down?" and dusting a chair with her apron, she handed it to him. Then turning to Esther, she said-- "Sit yourself down, dear; tea'll be ready in a moment." She was one of those women who, although their apron-strings are a good yard in length, preserve a strange agility of movement and a pleasant vivacity of speech. "I 'ope, sir, we've brought 'im up to your satisfaction; we've done the best we could. He's a dear boy. There's been a bit of jealousy between us on his account, but for all that we 'aven't spoilt him. I don't want to praise him, but he's as well behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bit wilful, but there ain't much fault to find with him, and I ought to know, for it is I that 'ad the bringing up of him since he was a baby of two months old. Jackie, dear, why don't you go to your father?" He stood by his mother's chair, twisting his slight legs in a manner that was peculiar to him. His dark hair fell in thick, heavy locks over his small face, and from under the shadow of his locks his great luminous eyes glanced furtively at his father. Mrs. Lewis told him to take his finger out of his mouth, and thus encouraged he went towards William, still twisting his legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak for some time, but he allowed William to put his arm round him and draw him against his knees. Then fixing his eyes on the toes of his shoes he said somewhat abruptly, but confidentially-- "Are you really my father? No humbug, you know," he added, raising his eyes, and for a moment looking William searchingly in the face. "I'm not humbugging, Jack. I'm your father right enough. Don't you like me? But I think you said you didn't want to have a father?" Jackie did not answer this question. After a moment's reflection, he said, "If you be father, why didn't you come to see us before?" William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced at Mrs. Lewis. "I'm afraid that's rather a long story, Jackie. I was away in foreign parts." Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about "foreign parts," and William awaited the question that seemed to tremble on the child's lips. But, instead, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Lewis and said-- "The cakes aren't burnt, are they? I ran as fast as I could the moment I saw them coming." The childish abruptness of the transition made them laugh, and an unpleasant moment passed away. Mrs. Lewis took the plate of cakes from the fender and poured out their tea. The door and window were open, and the dying light lent a tenderness to the tea table, to the quiet solicitude of the mother watching her son, knowing him in all his intimate habits; to the eager curiosity of the father on the other side, leaning forward delighted at every look and word, thinking it all astonishing, wonderful. Jackie sat between the women. He seemed to understand that his chance of eating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come, and he ate with his eyes fixed on the plate, considering which piece he would have when he had finished the piece he had in his hand. Little was said--a few remarks about the fine weather, and offers to put out another cup of tea. By their silence Mrs. Lewis began to understand that they had differences to settle, and that she had better leave them. She took her shawl from the peg, and pleaded that she had an appointment with a neighbour. But she wouldn't be more than half-an-hour; would they look after the house till her return? And William watched her, thinking of what he would say when she was out of hearing. "That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you've been a good mother, I can see that. If I had only known." "There's no use talking no more about it; what's done is done." The cottage door was open, and in the still evening they could see their child swinging on the gate. The moment was tremulous with responsibility, and yet the words as they fell from their lips seemed accidental. At last he said-- "Esther, I can get a divorce." "You'd much better go back to your wife. Once married, always married, that's my way of thinking." "I'm sorry to hear you say it, Esther. Do you think a man should stop with his wife who's been treated as I have been?" Esther avoided a direct reply. Why should he care about the child? He had never done anything for him. William said that if he had known there was a child he would have left his wife long ago. He believed that he loved the child just as much as she did, and didn't believe in marriage without children. "That would have been very wrong." "We ain't getting no for'arder by discussing them things," he said, interrupting her. "We can't say good-bye after this evening and never see one another again." "Why not? I'm nothing to you now; you've got a wife of your own; you've no claim upon me; you can go your way and I can keep to mine." "There's that child. I must do something for him." "Well, you can do something for him without ruining me." "Ruining you, Esther?" "Yes, ruining me. I ain't going to lose my character by keeping company with a married man. You've done me harm enough already, and should be ashamed to think of doing me any more. You can pay for the boy's schooling if you like, you can pay for his keep too, but you mustn't think that in doing so you'll get hold of me again." "Do you mean it, Esther?" "Followers ain't allowed where I am. You're a married man. I won't have it." "But when I get my divorce?" "When you get your divorce! I don't know how it'll be then. But here's Mrs. Lewis; she's a-scolding of Jackie for swinging on that 'ere gate. Naughty boy; he's been told twenty times not to swing on the gate." Esther complained that they had stayed too long, that he had made her late, and treated his questions about Jackie with indifference. He might write if he had anything important to say, but she could not keep company with a married man. William seemed very downcast. Esther, too, was unhappy, and she did not know why. She had succeeded as well as she had expected, but success had not brought that sense of satisfaction which she had expected it would. Her idea had been to keep William out of the way and hurry on her marriage with Fred. But this marriage, once so ardently desired, no longer gave her any pleasure. She had told Fred about the child. He had forgiven her. But now she remembered that men were very forgiving before marriage, but how did she know that he would not reproach her with her fault the first time they came to disagree about anything? Ah, it was all misfortune. She had no luck. She didn't want to marry anyone. That visit to Dulwich had thoroughly upset her. She ought to have kept out of William's way--that man seemed to have a power over her, and she hated him for it. What did he want to see the child for? The child was nothing to him. She had been a fool; now he'd be after the child; and through this fever of trouble there raged an acute desire to know what Jackie thought of his father, what Mrs. Lewis thought of William. And the desire to know what was happening became intolerable. She went to her mistress to ask for leave to go out. Very little of her agitation betrayed itself in her demeanour, but Miss Rice's sharp eyes had guessed that her servant's life was at a crisis. She laid her book on her knee, asked a few kind, discreet questions, and after dinner Esther hurried towards the Underground. The door of the cottage was open, and as she crossed the little garden she heard Mrs. Lewis say-- "Now you must be a good boy, and not go out in the garden and spoil your new clothes." And when Esther entered Mrs. Lewis was giving the finishing touches to the necktie which she had just tied. "Now you'll go and sit on that chair, like a good boy, and wait there till your father comes." "Oh, here's mummie," cried the boy, and he darted out of Mrs. Lewis's hand. "Look at my new clothes, mummie; look at them!" And Esther saw her boy dressed in a suit of velveteen knickerbockers with brass buttons, and a sky-blue necktie. "His father--I mean Mr. Latch--came here on Thursday morning, and took him to----" "Took me up to London----" "And brought him back in those clothes." "We went to such a big shop in Oxford Street for them, and they took down many suits before they could get one to fit. Father is that difficult to please, and I thought we should go away without any clothes, and I couldn't walk about London with father in these old things. Aren't they shabby?" he added, kicking them contemptuously. It was a little grey suit that Esther had made for him with her own hands. "Father had me measured for another suit, but it won't be ready for a few days. Father took me to the Zoological Gardens, and we saw the lions and tigers, and there are such a lot of monkeys. There is one----But what makes you look so cross, mummie dear? Don't you ever go out with father in London? London is such a beautiful place. And then we walked through the park and saw a lot of boys sailing boats. Father asked me if I had a boat. I said you couldn't afford to buy me toys. He said that was hard lines on me, and on the way back to the station we stopped at a toy-shop and he bought me a boat. May I show you my boat?" Jackie was too much occupied with thoughts of his boat to notice the gloom that was gathering on his mother's face; Mrs. Lewis wished to call upon him to desist, but before she could make up her mind what to do, he had brought the toy from the table and was forcing it into his mother's hands. "This is a cutter-rigged boat, because it has three sails and only one mast. Father told me it was. He'll be here in half-an-hour; we're going to sail the boat in the pond on the Rye, and if it gets across all right he'll take me to the park where there's a big piece of water, twice, three times as big as the water on the Rye. Do you think, mummie, that I shall ever be able to get my boat across such a piece of water as the--I've forgotten the name. What do they call it, mummie?" "Oh, I don't know; don't bother me with your boat." "Oh, mummie, what have I done that you won't look at my boat? Aren't you coming with father to the Rye to see me sail it?" "I don't want to go with you. You want me no more. I can't afford to give you boats.... Come, don't plague me any more with your toy," she said, pushing it away, and then in a moment of convulsive passion she threw the boat across the room. It struck the opposite wall, its mast was broken, and the sails and cords made a tangled little heap. Jackie ran to his toy, he picked it up, and his face showed his grief. "I shan't be able to sail my boat now; it won't sail, its mast and the sails is broke. Mummie, what did you break my boat for?" and the child burst into tears. At that moment William entered. "What is the child crying for?" he asked, stopping abruptly on the threshold. There was a slight tone of authority in his voice which angered Esther still more. "What is it to you what he is crying for?" she said, turning quickly round. "What has the child got to do with you that you should come down ordering people about for? A nice sort of mean trick, and one that is just like you. You beg and pray of me to let you see the child, and when I do you come down here on the sly, and with the present of a suit of clothes and a toy boat you try to win his love away from his mother." "Esther, Esther, I never thought of getting his love from you. I meant no harm. Mrs. Lewis said that he was looking a trifle moped; we thought that a change would do him good, and so----" "Ah! it was Mrs. Lewis that asked you to take him up to London. It is a strange thing what a little money will do. Ever since you set foot in this cottage she has been curtseying to you, handing you chairs. I didn't much like it, but I didn't think that she would round on me in this way." Then turning suddenly on her old friend, she said, "Who told you to let him have the child?... Is it he or I who pays you for his keep? Answer me that. How much did he give you--a new dress?" "Oh, Esther, I am surprised at you: I didn't think it would come to accusing me of being bribed, and after all these years." Mrs. Lewis put her apron to her eyes, and Jackie stole over to his father. "It wasn't I who smashed the boat, it was mummie; she's in a passion. I don't know why she smashed it. I didn't do nothing." William took the child on his knee. "She didn't mean to smash it. There's a good boy, don't cry no more." Jackie looked at his father. "Will you buy me another? The shops aren't open to-day." Then getting off his father's knee he picked up the toy, and coming back he said, "Could we mend the boat somehow? Do you think we could?" "Jackie, dear, go away; leave your father alone. Go into the next room," said Mrs. Lewis. "No, he can stop here; let him be," said Esther. "I want to have no more to say to him, he can look to his father for the future." Esther turned on her heel and walked straight for the door. But dropping his boat with a cry, the little fellow ran after her and clung to her skirt despairingly. "No, mummie dear, you mustn't go; never mind the boat; I love you better than the boat--I'll do without a boat." "Esther, Esther, this is all nonsense. Just listen." "No, I won't listen to you. But you shall listen to me. When I brought you here last week you asked me in the train what I had been doing all these years. I didn't answer you, but I will now. I've been in the workhouse." "In the workhouse!" "Yes, do that surprise you?" Then jerking out her words, throwing them at him as if they were half-bricks, she told him the story of the last eight years--Queen Charlotte's hospital, Mrs. Rivers, Mrs. Spires, the night on the Embankment, and the workhouse. "And when I came out of the workhouse I travelled London in search of sixteen pounds a year wages, which was the least I could do with, and when I didn't find them I sat here and ate dry bread. She'll tell you--she saw it all. I haven't said nothing about the shame and sneers I had to put up with--you would understand nothing about that,--and there was more than one situation I was thrown out of when they found I had a child. For they didn't like loose women in their houses; I had them very words said about me. And while I was going through all that you was living in riches with a lady in foreign parts; and now when she could put up with you no longer, and you're kicked out, you come to me and ask for your share of the child. Share of the child! What share is yours, I'd like to know?" "Esther!" "In your mean, underhand way you come here on the sly to see if you can't steal the love of the child from me." She could speak no more; her strength was giving way before the tumult of her passion, and the silence that had come suddenly into the room was more terrible than her violent words. William stood quaking, horrified, wishing the earth would swallow him; Mrs. Lewis watched Esther's pale face, fearing that she would faint; Jackie, his grey eyes open round, held his broken boat still in his hand. The sense of the scene had hardly caught on his childish brain; he was very frightened; his tears and sobs were a welcome intervention. Mrs. Lewis took him in her arms and tried to soothe him. William tried to speak; his lips moved, but no words came. Mrs. Lewis whispered, "You'll get no good out of her now, her temper's up; you'd better go. She don't know what she's a-saying of." "If one of us has to go," said William, taking the hint, "there can't be much doubt which of us." He stood at the door holding his hat, just as if he were going to put it on. Esther stood with her back turned to him. At last he said-- "Good-bye, Jackie. I suppose you don't want to see me again?" For reply Jackie threw his boat away and clung to Mrs. Lewis for protection. William's face showed that he was pained by Jackie's refusal. "Try to get your mother to forgive me; but you are right to love her best. She's been a good mother to you." He put on his hat and went without another word. No one spoke, and every moment the silence grew more paralysing. Jackie examined his broken boat for a moment, and then he put it away, as if it had ceased to have any interest for him. There was no chance of going to the Rye that day; he might as well take off his velvet suit; besides, his mother liked him better in his old clothes. When he returned his mother was sorry for having broken his boat, and appreciated the cruelty. "You shall have another boat, my darling," she said, leaning across the table and looking at him affectionately; "and quite as good as the one I broke." "Will you, mummie? One with three sails, cutter-rigged, like that?" "Yes, dear, you shall have a boat with three sails." "When will you buy me the boat, mummie--to-morrow?" "As soon as I can, Jackie." This promise appeared to satisfy him. Suddenly he looked-- "Is father coming back no more?" "Do you want him back?" Jackie hesitated; his mother pressed him for an answer. "Not if you don't, mummie." "But if he was to give you another boat, one with four sails?" "They don't have four sails, not them with one mast." "If he was to give you a boat with two masts, would you take it?" "I should try not to, I should try ever so hard." There were tears in Jackie's voice, and then, as if doubtful of his power to resist temptation, he buried his face in his mother's bosom and sobbed bitterly. "You shall have another boat, my darling." "I don't want no boat at all! I love you better than a boat, mummie, indeed I do." "And what about those clothes? You'd sooner stop with me and wear those shabby clothes than go to him and wear a pretty velvet suit?" "You can send back the velvet suit." "Can I? My darling, mummie will give you another velvet suit," and she embraced the child with all her strength, and covered him with kisses. "But why can't I wear that velvet suit, and why can't father come back? Why don't you like father? You shouldn't be cross with father because he gave me the boat. He didn't mean no harm." "I think you like your father. You like him better than me." "Not better than you, mummie." "You wouldn't like to have any other father except your own real father?" "How could I have a father that wasn't my own real father?" Esther did not press the point, and soon after Jackie began to talk about the possibility of mending his boat; and feeling that something irrevocable had happened, Esther put on her hat and jacket, and Mrs. Lewis and Jackie accompanied her to the station. The women kissed each other on the platform and were reconciled, but there was a vague sensation of sadness in the leave-taking which they did not understand. And Esther sat alone in a third-class carriage absorbed in consideration of the problem of her life. The life she had dreamed would never be hers--somehow she seemed to know that she would never be Fred's wife. Everything seemed to point to the inevitableness of this end. She had determined to see William no more, but he wrote asking how she would like him to contribute towards the maintenance of the child, and this could not be settled without personal interviews. Miss Rice and Mrs. Lewis seemed to take it for granted that she would marry William when he obtained his divorce. He was applying himself to the solution of this difficulty, and professed himself to be perfectly satisfied with the course that events were taking. And whenever she saw Jackie he inquired after his father; he hoped, too, that she had forgiven poor father, who had never meant no harm at all. Day by day she saw more clearly that her instinct was right in warning her not to let the child see William, that she had done wrong in allowing her feelings to be overruled by Miss Rice, who had, of course, advised her for the best. But it was clear to her now that Jackie never would take kindly to Fred as a stepfather; that he would never forgive her if she divided him from his real father by marrying another man. He would grow to dislike his stepfather more and more; and when he grew older he would keep away from the house on account of the presence of his stepfather; it would end by his going to live with him. He would be led into a life of betting and drinking; she would lose her child if she married Fred. XXVII It was one evening as she was putting things away in the kitchen before going up to bed that she heard some one rap at the window. Could this be Fred? Her heart was beating; she must let him in. The area was in darkness; she could see no one. "Who is there?" she cried. "It's only me. I had to see you to-night on----" She drew an easier breath, and asked him to come in. William had expected a rougher reception. The tone in which Esther invited him in was almost genial, and there was no need of so many excuses; but he had come prepared with excuses, and a few ran off his tongue before he was aware. "Well," said Esther, "it is rather late. I was just going up to bed; but you can tell me what you've come about, if it won't take long." "It won't take long.... I've seen my solicitor this afternoon, and he says that I shall find it very difficult to get a divorce." "So you can't get your divorce?" "Are you glad?" "I don't know." "What do you mean? You must be either glad or sorry." "I said what I mean. I am not given to telling lies." Esther set the large tin candlestick, on which a wick was spluttering, on the kitchen table, and William looked at her inquiringly. She was always a bit of a mystery to him. And then he told her, speaking very quickly, how he had neglected to secure proofs of his wife's infidelity at the time; and as she had lived a circumspect although a guilty life ever since, the solicitor thought that it would be difficult to establish a case against her. "Perhaps she never was guilty," said Esther, unable to resist the temptation to irritate. "Not guilty! what do you mean? Haven't I told you how I found them the day I came up from Ascot?... And didn't she own up to it? What more proof do you want?" "Anyway, it appears you haven't enough; what are you going to do? Wait until you catch her out?" "There is nothing else to do, unless----" William paused, and his eyes wandered from Esther's. "Unless what?" "Well, you see my solicitors have been in communication with her solicitors, and her solicitors say that if it were the other way round, that if I gave her reason to go against me for a divorce, she would be glad of the chance. That's all they said at first, but since then I've seen my wife, and she says that if I'll give her cause to get a divorce she'll not only go for it, but will pay all the legal expenses; it won't cost us a penny. What do you think Esther?" "I don't know that I understand. You don't mean----" "You see, Esther, that to get a divorce--there's no one who can hear us, is there?" "No, there's no one in the 'ouse except me and the missus, and she's in the study reading. Go on." "It seems that one of the parties must go and live with another party before either can get a divorce. Do you understand?" "You don't mean that you want me to go and live with you, and perhaps get left a second time?" "That's all rot, Esther, and you knows it." "If that's all you've got to say to me you'd better take your hook." "Do you see, there's the child to consider? And you know well enough, Esther, that you've nothing to fear; you knows as well as can be that I mean to run straight this time. So I did before. But let bygones be bygones, and I know you'd like the child to have a father; so if only for his sake----" "For his sake! I like that; as if I hadn't done enough for him. Haven't I worked and slaved myself to death and gone about in rags? That's what that child has cost me. Tell me what he's cost you. Not a penny piece--a toy boat and a suit of velveteen knickerbockers,--and yet you come telling me--I'd like to know what's expected of me. Is a woman never to think of herself? Do I count for nothing? For the child's sake, indeed! Now, if it was anyone else but you. Just tell me where do I come in? That's what I want to know. I've played the game long enough. Where do I come in? That's what I want to know." "There's no use flying in a passion, Esther. I know you've had a hard time. I know it was all very unlucky from the very first. But there's no use saying that you might get left a second time, for you know well enough that that ain't true. Say you won't do it; you're a free woman, you can act as you please. It would be unjust to ask you to give up anything more for the child; I agree with you in all that. But don't fly in a rage with me because I came to tell you there was no other way out of the difficulty." "You can go and live with another woman, and get a divorce that way." "Yes, I can do that; but I first thought I'd speak to you on the subject. For if I did go and live with another woman I couldn't very well desert her after getting a divorce." "You deserted me." "Why go back on that old story?" "It ain't an old story, it's the story of my life, and I haven't come to the end of it yet." "But you'll have got to the end of it if you'll do what I say." A moment later Esther said-- "I don't know what you want to get a divorce for at all. I daresay your wife would take you back if you were to ask her." "She's no children, and never will have none, and marriage is a poor look-out without children--all the worry and anxiety for nothing. What do we marry for but children? There's no other happiness. I've tried everything else--" "But I haven't." "I know all that. I know you've had a damned hard time, Esther. I've had a good week at Doncaster, and have enough money to buy my partner out; we shall 'ave the 'ouse to ourselves, and, working together, I don't think we'll 'ave much difficulty in building it up into a very nice property, all of which will in time go to the boy. I'm doing pretty well, I told you, in the betting line, but if you like I'll give it up. I'll never lay or take the odds again. I can't say more, Esther, can I? Come, say yes," he said, reaching his arm towards her. "Don't touch me," she said surlily, and drew back a step with air of resolution that made him doubt if he would be able to persuade her. "Now, Esther----" William did not finish. It seemed useless to argue with her, and he looked at the great red ash of the tallow candle. "You are the mother of my boy, so it is different; but to advise me to go and live with another woman! I shouldn't have thought it of a religious girl like you." "Religion! There's very little time for religion in the places I've had to work in." Then, thinking of Fred, she added that she had returned to Christ, and hoped He would forgive her. William encouraged her to speak of herself, remarking that, chapel or no chapel, she seemed just as severe and particular as ever. "If you won't, I can only say I am sorry; but that shan't prevent me from paying you as much a week as you think necessary for Jack's keep and his schooling. I don't want the boy to cost you anything. I'd like to do a great deal more for the boy, but I can't do more unless you make him my child." "And I can only do that by going away to live with you?" The words brought an instinctive look of desire into her eyes. "In six months we shall be man and wife.... Say yes." "I can't... I can't, don't ask me." "You're afraid to trust me, is that it?" Esther did not answer. "I can make that all right: I'll settle £500 on you and the child." She looked up; the same look was in her eyes, only modified, softened by some feeling of tenderness which had come into her heart. He put his arm round her; she was leaning against the table; he was sitting on the edge. "You know that I mean to act rightly by you." "Yes, I think you do." "Then say yes." "I can't--it is too late." "There's another chap?" She nodded. "I thought as much. Do you care for him?" She did not answer. He drew her closer to him; she did not resist; he could see that she was weeping. He kissed her on her neck first, and then on her face; and he continued to ask her if she loved the other chap. At last she signified that she did not. "Then say yes." She murmured that she could not. "You can, you can, you can." He kissed her, all the while reiterating, "You can, you can, you can," until it became a sort of parrot cry. Several minutes elapsed, and the candle began to splutter in its socket. She said-- "Let me go; let me light the gas." As she sought for the matches she caught sight of the clock. "I did not know it was so late." "Say yes before I go." "I can't." And it was impossible to extort a promise from her. "I'm too tired," she said, "let me go." He took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, "My own little wife." As he went up the area steps she remembered that he had used the same words before. She tried to think of Fred, but William's great square shoulders had come between her and this meagre little man. She sighed, and felt once again that her will was overborne by a force which she could not control or understand. XXVIII She went round the house bolting and locking the doors, seeing that everything was made fast for the night. At the foot of the stairs painful thoughts came upon her, and she drew her hand across her eyes; for she was whelmed with a sense of sorrow, of purely mental misery, which she could not understand, and which she had not strength to grapple with. She was, however, conscious of the fact that life was proving too strong for her, that she could make nothing of it, and she thought that she did not care much what happened. She had fought with adverse fate, and had conquered in a way; she had won countless victories over herself, and now found herself without the necessary strength for the last battle; she had not even strength for blame, and merely wondered why she had let William kiss her. She remembered how she had hated him, and now she hated him no longer. She ought not to have spoken to him; above all, she ought not to have taken him to see the child. But how could she help it? She slept on the same landing as Miss Rice, and was moved by a sudden impulse to go in and tell her the story of her trouble. But what good? No one could help her. She liked Fred; they seemed to suit each other, and she could have made him a good wife if she had not met William. She thought of the cottage at Mortlake, and their lives in it; and she sought to stimulate her liking for him with thoughts of the meeting-house; she thought even of the simple black dress she would wear, and that life seemed so natural to her that she did not understand why she hesitated.... If she were to marry William she would go to the "King's Head." She would stand behind the bar; she would serve the customers. She had never seen much life, and felt somehow that she would like to see a little life; there would not be much life in the cottage at Mortlake; nothing but the prayer-meeting. She stopped thinking, surprised at her thoughts. She had never thought like that before; it seemed as if some other woman whom she hardly knew was thinking for her. She seemed like one standing at cross-roads, unable to decide which road she would take. If she took the road leading to the cottage and the prayer-meeting her life would henceforth be secure. She could see her life from end to end, even to the time when Fred would come and sit by her, and hold her hand as she had seen his father and mother sitting side by side. If she took the road to the public-house and the race-course she did not know what might not happen. But William had promised to settle £500 on her and Jackie. Her life would be secure either way. She must marry Fred; she had promised to marry him; she wished to be a good woman; he would give her the life she was most fitted for, the life she had always desired; the life of her father and mother, the life of her childhood. She would marry Fred, only--something at that moment seemed to take her by the throat. William had come between her and that life. If she had not met him at Woodview long ago; if she had not met him in the Pembroke Road that night she went to fetch the beer for her mistress's dinner, how different everything would have been! ...If she had met him only a few months later, when she was Fred's wife! Wishing she might go to sleep, and awake the wife of one or the other, she fell asleep to dream of a husband possessed of the qualities of both, and a life that was neither all chapel nor all public-house. But soon the one became two, and Esther awoke in terror, believing she had married them both. XXIX If Fred had said, "Come away with me," Esther would have obeyed the elemental romanticism which is so fixed a principle in woman's nature. But when she called at the shop he only spoke of his holiday, of the long walks he had taken, and the religious and political meetings he had attended. Esther listened vaguely; and there was in her mind unconscious regret that he was not a little different. Little irrelevant thoughts came upon her. She would like him better if he wore coloured neckties and a short jacket; she wished half of him away--his dowdiness, his sandy-coloured hair, the vague eyes, the black neckties, the long loose frock-coat. But his voice was keen and ringing, and when listening her heart always went out to him, and she felt that she might fearlessly entrust her life to him. But he did not seem wholly to understand her, and day by day, against her will, the thought gripped her more and more closely that she could not separate Jackie from his father. She would have to tell Fred the whole truth, and he would not understand it; that she knew. But it would have to be done, and she sent round to say she'd like to see him when he left business. Would he step round about eight o'clock? The clock had hardly struck eight when she heard a tap at the window. She opened the door and he came in, surprised by the silence with which she received him. "I hope nothing has happened. Is anything the matter?" "Yes, a great deal's the matter. I'm afraid we shall never be married, Fred, that's what's the matter." "How's that, Esther? What can prevent us getting married?" She did not answer, and then he said, "You've not ceased to care for me?" "No, that's not it." "Jackie's father has come back?" "You've hit it, that's what happened." "I'm sorry that man has come across you again. I thought you told me he was married. But, Esther, don't keep me in suspense; what has he done?" "Sit down; don't stand staring at me in that way, and I'll tell you the story." Then in a strained voice, in which there was genuine suffering, Esther told her story, laying special stress on the fact that she had done her best to prevent him from seeing the child. "I don't see how you could have forbidden him access to the child." He often used words that Esther did not understand, but guessing his meaning, she answered-- "That's just what the missus said; she argued me into taking him to see the child. I knew once he'd seen Jackie there'd be no getting rid of him. I shall never get rid of him again." "He has no claim upon you. It is just like him, low blackguard fellow that he is, to come after you, persecuting you. But don't you fear; you leave him to me. I'll find a way of stopping his little game." Esther looked at his frail figure. "You can do nothing; no one can do nothing," she said, and the tears trembled in her handsome eyes. "He wants me to go away and live with him, so that his wife may be able to divorce him." "Wants you to go away and live with him! But surely, Esther, you do not----" "Yes, he wants me to go and live with him, so that his wife can get a divorce," Esther answered, for the suspense irritated her; "and how can I refuse to go with him?" "Esther, are you serious? You cannot... You told me that you did not love him, and after all----" He waited for Esther to speak. "Yes," she said very quickly, "there is no way out of it that I can see." "Esther, that man has tempted you, and you have not prayed." She did not answer. "I don't want to hear more of this," he said, catching up his hat. "I shouldn't have believed it if I had not heard it from your lips; no, not if the whole world had told me. You are in love with this man, though you may not know it, and you've invented this story as a pretext to throw me over. Good-bye, Esther." "Fred, dear, listen, hear me out. You'll not go away in that hasty way. You're the only friend I have. Let me explain." "Explain! how can such things be explained?" "That's what I thought until all this happened to me. I have suffered dreadful in the last few days. I've wept bitter tears, and I thought of all you said about the 'ome you was going to give me." Her sincerity was unmistakable, and Fred doubted her no longer. "I'm very fond of you, Fred, and if things had been different I think I might have made you a good wife. But it wasn't to be." "Esther, I don't understand. You need never see this man again if you don't wish it." "Nay, nay, things ain't so easily changed as all that. He's the father of my child, he's got money, and he'll leave his money to his child if he's made Jackie's father in the eyes of the law." "That can be done without your going to live with him." "Not as he wants. I know what he wants; he wants a 'ome, and he won't be put off with less." "How men can be so wicked as----" "No, you do him wrong. He ain't no more wicked than another; he's just one of the ordinary sort--not much better or worse. If he'd been a real bad lot it would have been better for us, for then he'd never have come between us. You're beginning to understand, Fred, ain't you? If I don't go with him my boy'll lose everything. He wants a 'ome--a real 'ome with children, and if he can't get me he'll go after another woman." "And are you jealous?" "No, Fred. But think if we was to marry. As like as not I should have children, and they'd be more in your sight than my boy." "Esther, I promise that----" "Just so, Fred; even if you loved him like your own, you can't make sure that he'd love you." "Jackie and I----" "Ah, yes; he'd have liked you well enough if he'd never seen his father. But he's that keen on his father, and it would be worse later on. He'd never be contented in our 'ome. He'd be always after him, and then I should never see him, and he would be led away into betting and drink." "If his father is that sort of man, the best chance for Jackie would be to keep him out of his way. If he gets divorced and marries another woman he will forget all about Jackie." "Yes, that might be," said Esther, and Fred pursued his advantage. But, interrupting him, Esther said-- "Anyway, Jackie would lose all his father's money; the public-house would--" "So you're going to live in a public-house, Esther?" "A woman must be with her husband." "But he's not your husband; he's another woman's husband." "He's to marry me when he gets his divorce." "He may desert you and leave you with another child." "You can't say nothing I ain't thought of already. I must put up with the risk. I suppose it is a part of the punishment for the first sin. We can't do wrong without being punished--at least women can't. But I thought I'd been punished enough." "The second sin is worse than the first. A married man, Esther--you who I thought so religious." "Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is other times when it don't seem to fit in with one's duty. I may be wrong, but it seems natural like--he's the father of my child." "I'm afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think twice before it's too late." "Fred, I can't help myself--can't you see that? Don't make it harder for me by talking like that." "When are you going to him?" "To-night; he's waiting for me." "Then good-bye, Esther, good--" "But you'll come and see us." "I hope you'll be happy, Esther, but I don't think we shall see much more of each other. You know that I do not frequent public-houses." "Yes, I know; but you might come and see me in the morning when we're doing no business." Fred smiled sadly. "Then you won't come?" she said. "Good-bye, Esther." They shook hands, and he went out hurriedly. She dashed a tear from her eyes, and went upstairs to her mistress, who had rung for her. Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long, slanting ray entered the room; the bead curtain glittered, and so peaceful was the impression that Esther could not but perceive the contrast between her own troublous life and the contented privacy of this slender little spinster's. "Well, miss," she said, "it's all over. I've told him." "Have you, Esther?" said Miss Rice. Her white, delicate hands fell over the closed volume. She wore two little colourless rings and a ruby ring which caught the light. "Yes, miss, I've told him all. He seemed a good deal cut up. I couldn't help crying myself, for I could have made him a good wife--I'm sure I could; but it wasn't to be." "You've told him you were going off to live with William?" "Yes, miss; there's nothing like telling the whole truth while you're about it. I told him I was going off to-night." "He's a very religious young man?" "Yes, miss; he spoke to me about religion, but I told him I didn't want Jackie to be a fatherless boy, and to lose any money he might have a right to. It don't look right to go and live with a married man; but you knows, miss, how I'm situated, and you knows that I'm only doing it because it seems for the best." "What did he say to that?" "Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a second time--and, he wasn't slow to add, with another child." "Have you thought of that danger, Esther?" "Yes, miss, I've thought of everything; but thinking don't change nothing. Things remain just the same, and you've to chance it in the end--leastways a woman has. Not on the likes of you, miss, but the likes of us." "Yes," said Miss Rice reflectively, "it is always the woman who is sacrificed." And her thought went back for a moment to the novel she was writing. It seemed to her pale and conventional compared with this rough page torn out of life. She wondered if she could treat the subject. She passed in review the names of some writers who could do justice to it, and then her eyes went from her bookcase to Esther. "So you're going to live in a public-house, Esther? You're going to-night? I've paid you everything I owe you?" "Yes, miss, you have; you've been very kind to me, indeed you have, miss--I shall never forget you, miss. I've been very happy in your service, and should like nothing better than to remain on with you." "All I can say, Esther, is that you have been a very good servant, and I'm very sorry to part with you. And I hope you'll remember if things do not turn out as well as you expect them to, that I shall always be glad to do anything in my power to help you. You'll always find a friend in me. When are you going?" "As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall have about finished by the time the new servant comes in. She's expected at nine; there she is, miss--that's the area bell. Good-bye, miss." Miss Rice involuntarily held out her hand. Esther took it, and thus encouraged she said-- "There never was anyone that clear-headed and warm-hearted as yerself, miss. I may have a lot of trouble, miss.... If I wasn't yer servant I'd like to kiss you." Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware, Esther had taken her in her arms and kissed her. "You're not angry with me, miss; I couldn't help myself." "No, Esther, I'm not angry." "I must go now and let her in." Miss Rice walked towards her writing-table, and a sense of the solitude of her life coming upon her suddenly caused her to burst into tears. It was one of those moments of effusion which take women unawares. But her new servant was coming upstairs and she had to dry her eyes. Soon after she heard the cabman's feet on the staircase as he went up for Esther's box. They brought it down together, and Miss Rice heard her beg of him to be careful of the paint. The girl had been a good and faithful servant to her; she was sorry to lose her. And Esther was equally sorry that anyone but herself should have the looking after of that dear, kind soul. But what could she do? She was going to be married. She did not doubt that William was going to marry her; and the cab had hardly entered the Brompton Road when her thoughts were fully centred in the life that awaited her. This sudden change of feeling surprised her, and she excused herself with the recollection that she had striven hard for Fred, but as she had failed to get him, it was only right that she should think of her husband. Then quite involuntarily the thought sprang upon her that he was a fine fellow, and she remembered the line of his stalwart figure as he walked down the street. There would be a parlour behind the bar, in which she would sit. She would be mistress of the house. There would be a servant, a potboy, and perhaps a barmaid. The cab swerved round the Circus, and she wondered if she were capable of conducting a business like the "King's Head." It was the end of a fine September evening, and the black, crooked perspectives of Soho seemed as if they were roofed with gold. A slight mist was rising, and at the end of every street the figures appeared and disappeared mysteriously in blue shadow. She had never been in this part of London before; the adventure stimulated her imagination, and she wondered where she was going and which of the many public-houses was hers. But the cabman jingled past every one. It seemed as if he were never going to pull up. At last he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The cabmen were inside, having a glass; the usual vagrant was outside, looking after the horses. He offered to take down Esther's box, and when she asked him if he had seen Mr. Latch he took her round to the private bar. The door was pushed open, and Esther saw William leaning over the counter wrapped in conversation with a small, thin man. They were both smoking, their glasses were filled, and the sporting paper was spread out before them. "Oh, so here you are at last," said William, coming towards her. "I expected you an hour ago." "The new servant was late, and I couldn't leave before she came." "Never mind; glad you've come." Esther felt that the little man was staring hard at her. He was John Randal, or Mr. Leopold, as they used to call him at Barfield. Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he muttered a "Glad to see you again," But it was the welcome of a man who regards a woman's presence as an intrusion, and Esther understood the quiet contempt with which he looked at William. "Can't keep away from them," his face said for one brief moment. William asked Esther what she'd take to drink, and Mr. Leopold looked at his watch and said he must be getting home. "Try to come round to-morrow night if you've an hour to spare." "Then you don't think you'll go to Newmarket?" "No, I don't think I shall do much in the betting way this year. But come round to-morrow night if you can; you'll find me here. I must be here to-morrow night," he said, turning to Esther; "I'll tell you presently." Then the men had a few more words, and William bade John good-night. Coming back to Esther, he said-- "What do you think of the place? Cosy, ain't it?" But before she had time to reply he said, "You've brought me good luck. I won two 'undred and fifty pounds to-day, and the money will come in very 'andy, for Jim Stevens, that's my partner, has agreed to take half the money on account and a bill of sale for the rest. There he is; I'll introduce you to him. Jim, come this way, will you?" "In a moment, when I've finished drawing this 'ere glass of beer," answered a thick-set, short-limbed man. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he crossed the bar wiping the beer from his hands. "Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of mine, Jim, Miss Waters." "Very 'appy, I'm sure, to make your acquaintance," said Jim, and he extended his fat hand across the counter. "You and my partner are, I 'ear, going to take this 'ere 'ouse off my hands. Well, you ought to make a good thing of it. There's always room for a 'ouse that supplies good liquor. What can I hoffer you, madam? Some of our whisky has been fourteen years in bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you'd like to try some of our best unsweetened." Esther declined, but William said they could not leave without drinking the health of the house. "Irish or Scotch, ma'am? Mr. Latch drinks Scotch." Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, Esther decided that she would try the unsweetened. The glasses were clinked across the counter, and William whispered, "This isn't what we sell to the public; this is our own special tipple. You didn't notice, perhaps, but he took the bottle from the third row on the left." At that moment Esther's cabman came in and wanted to know if he was to have the box taken down. William said it had better remain where it was. "I don't think I told you I'm not living here; my partner has the upper part of the house, but he says he'll be ready to turn out at the end of the week. I'm living in lodgings near Shaftesbury Avenue, so we'd better keep the cab on." Esther looked disappointed, but said nothing. William said he'd stand the cabby a drink, and, winking at Esther, he whispered, "Third row on the left, partner." XXX The "King's Head" was an humble place in the old-fashioned style. The house must have been built two hundred years, and the bar seemed as if it had been dug out of the house. The floor was some inches lower than the street, and the ceiling was hardly more than a couple of feet above the head of a tall man. Nor was it divided by numerous varnished partitions, according to the latest fashion. There were but three. The private entrance was in Dean Street, where a few swells came over from the theatre and called for brandies-and-sodas. There was a little mahogany what-not on the counter, and Esther served her customers between the little shelves. The public entrance and the jug and bottle entrance were in a side street. There was no parlour for special customers at the back, and the public bar was inconveniently crowded by a dozen people. The "King's Head" was not an up-to-date public-house. It had, however, one thing in its favour--it was a free house, and William said they had only to go on supplying good stuff, and trade would be sure to come back to them. For their former partner had done them much harm by systematic adulteration, and a little way down the street a new establishment, with painted tiles and brass lamps, had been opened, and was attracting all the custom of the neighbourhood. She was more anxious than William to know what loss the books showed; she was jealous of the profits of his turf account, and when he laughed at her she said, "But you're never here in the daytime, you do not have these empty bars staring you in the face morning and afternoon." And then she would tell him: a dozen pots of beer about dinner-time, a few glasses of bitter--there had been a rehearsal over the way--and that was about all. The bars were empty, and the public-house dozed through the heavy heat of a summer afternoon. Esther sat behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackie to come home from school. William was away at Newmarket. The clock struck five and Jackie peeped through the doors, dived under the counter, and ran into his mother's arms. "Well, did you get full marks to-day?" "Yes, mummie, I got full marks." "That's a good boy--and you want your tea?" "Yes, mummie; I'm that hungry I could hardly walk home." "Hardly walk home! What, as bad as that?" "Yes, mummie. There's a new shop open in Oxford Street. The window is all full of boats. Do you think that if all the favourites were to be beaten for a month, father would buy me one?" "I thought you was so hungry you couldn't walk home, dear?" "Well, mummie, so I was, but----" Esther laughed. "Well, come this way and have your tea." She went into the parlour and rang the bell. "Mummie, may I have buttered toast?" "Yes, dear, you may." "And may I go downstairs and help Jane to make it?" "Yes, you can do that too; it will save her the trouble of coming up. Let me take off your coat--give me your hat; now run along, and help Jane to make the toast." Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk; it led from the bar to the parlour, a tiny room, hardly larger than the private bar, holding with difficulty a small round table, three chairs, an arm-chair, a cupboard. In the morning a dusty window let in a melancholy twilight, but early in the afternoon it became necessary to light the gas. Esther took a cloth from the cupboard, and laid the table for Jackie's tea. He came up the kitchen stairs telling Jane how many marbles he had won, and at that moment voices were heard in the bar. It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a grey frock-coat, a pair of field glasses slung over his shoulders. He was with his clerk, Ted Blamy, a feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed suit, covered with white dust. "Put that bag down, Teddy, and come and have a drink." Esther saw at once that things had not gone well with him. "Have the favourites been winning?" "Yes, every bloody one. Five first favourites straight off the reel, three yesterday, and two second favourites the day before. By God, no man can stand up against it. Come, what'll you have to drink, Teddy?" "A little whisky, please, guv'nor." The men had their drink. Then William told Teddy to take his bag upstairs, and he followed Esther into the parlour. She could see that he had been losing heavily, but she refrained from asking questions. "Now, Jackie, you keep your father company; tell him how you got on at school. I'm going downstairs to look after his dinner." "Don't you mind about my dinner, Esther, don't you trouble; I was thinking of dining at a restaurant. I'll be back at nine." "Then I'll see nothing of you. We've hardly spoken to one another this week; all the day you're away racing, and in the evening you're talking to your friends over the bar. We never have a moment alone." "Yes, Esther, I know; but the truth is, I'm a bit down in the mouth. I've had a very bad week. The favourites has been winning, and I overlaid my book against Wheatear; I'd heard that she was as safe as 'ouses. I'll meet some pals down at the 'Cri'; it will cheer me up." Seeing how disappointed she was, he hesitated, and asked what there was for dinner. "A sole and a nice piece of steak; I'm sure you'll like it. I've a lot to talk to you about. Do stop, Bill, to please me." She was very winning in her quiet, grave way, so he took her in his arms, kissed her, and said he would stop, that no one could cook a sole as she could, that it gave him an appetite to think of it. "And may I stop with father while you are cooking his dinner?" said Jackie. "Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed when I bring it upstairs. I want to talk with father then." Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, but when Esther came upstairs with the sole, and was about to hand him over to Jane, he begged lustily to be allowed to remain until father had finished his fish. "It won't matter to you," he said; "you've to go downstairs to fry the steak." But when she came up with the steak he was unwilling as ever to leave. She said he must go to bed, and he knew from her tone that argument was useless. As a last consolation, she promised him that she would come upstairs and kiss him before he went to sleep. "You will come, won't you, mummie? I shan't go to sleep till you do." Esther and William both laughed, and Esther was pleased, for she was still a little jealous of his love for his father. "Come along," Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran upstairs, chattering to her about the toys he had seen in Oxford Street. Charles was lighting the gas, and Esther had to go into the bar to serve some customers. When she returned, William was smoking his pipe. Her dinner had had its effect, he had forgotten his losses, and was willing to tell her the news. He had a bit of news for her. He had seen Ginger; Ginger had come up as cordial as you like, and had asked him what price he was laying. "Did he bet with you?" "Yes, I laid him ten pounds to five." Once more William began to lament his luck. "You'll have better luck to-morrow," she said. "The favourites can't go on winning. Tell me about Ginger." "There isn't much to tell. We'd a little chat. He knew all about the little arrangement, the five hundred, you know, and laughed heartily. Peggy's married. I've forgotten the chap's name." "The one that you kicked downstairs?" "No, not him; I can't think of it. No matter, Ginger remembered you; he wished us luck, took the address, and said he'd come in to-night to see you if he possibly could. I don't think he's been doing too well lately, if he had he'd been more stand-offish. I saw Jimmy White--you remember Jim, the little fellow we used to call the Demon, 'e that won the Stewards' Cup on Silver Braid?... Didn't you and 'e 'ave a tussle together at the end of dinner--the first day you come down from town?" "The second day it was." "You're right, it was the second day. The first day I met you in the avenue I was leaning over the railings having a smoke, and you come along with a heavy bundle and asked me the way. I wasn't in service at that time. Good Lord, how time does slip by! It seems like yesterday.... And after all those years to meet you as you was going to the public for a jug of beer, and 'ere we are man and wife sitting side by side in our own 'ouse." Esther had been in the "King's Head" now nearly a year. The first Mrs. Latch had got her divorce without much difficulty; and Esther had begun to realise that she had got a good husband long before they slipped round to the nearest registry office and came back man and wife. Charles opened the door. "Mr. Randal is in the bar, sir, and would like to have a word with you." "All right," said William. "Tell him I'm coming into the bar presently." Charles withdrew. "I'm afraid," said William, lowering his voice, "that the old chap is in a bad way. He's been out of a place a long while, and will find it 'ard to get back again. Once yer begin to age a bit, they won't look at you. We're both well out of business." Mr. Randal sat in his favourite corner by the wall, smoking his clay. He wore a large frock-coat, vague in shape, pathetically respectable. The round hat was greasy round the edges, brown and dusty on top. The shirt was clean but unstarched, and the thin throat was tied with an old black silk cravat. He looked himself, the old servant out of situation--the old servant who would never be in situation again. "Been 'aving an 'ell of a time at Newmarket," said William; "favourites romping in one after the other." "I saw that the favourites had been winning. But I know of something, a rank outsider, for the Leger. I got the letter this morning. I thought I'd come round and tell yer." "Much obliged, old mate, but it don't do for me to listen to such tales; we bookmakers must pay no attention to information, no matter how correct it may be.... Much obliged all the same. What are you drinking?" "I've not finished my glass yet." He tossed off the last mouthful. "The same?" said William. "Yes, thank you." William drew two glasses of porter. "Here's luck." The men nodded, drank, and then William turned to speak to a group at the other end of the bar. "One moment," John said, touching William on the shoulder. "It is the best tip I ever had in my life. I 'aven't forgotten what I owe you, and if this comes off I'll be able to pay you all back. Lay the odds, twenty sovereigns to one against--" Old John looked round to see that no one was within ear-shot, then he leant forward and whispered the horse's name in William's ear. William laughed. "If you're so sure about it as all that," he said, "I'd sooner lend you the quid to back the horse elsewhere." "Will you lend me a quid?" "Lend you a quid and five first favourites romping in one after another!--you must take me for Baron Rothschild. You think because I've a public-house I'm coining money; well, I ain't. It's cruel the business we do here. You wouldn't believe it, and you know that better liquor can't be got in the neighbourhood." Old John listened with the indifference of a man whose life is absorbed in one passion and who can interest himself with nothing else. Esther asked him after Mrs. Randal and his children, but conversation on the subject was always disagreeable to him, and he passed it over with few words. As soon as Esther moved away he leant forward and whispered, "Lay me twelve pounds to ten shillings. I'll be sure to pay you; there's a new restaurant going to open in Oxford Street and I'm going to apply for the place of headwaiter." "Yes, but will you get it?" William answered brutally. He did not mean to be unkind, but his nature was as hard and as plain as a kitchen-table. The chin dropped into the unstarched collar and the old-fashioned necktie, and old John continued smoking unnoticed by any one. Esther looked at him. She saw he was down on his luck, and she remembered the tall, melancholy, pale-faced woman whom she had met weeping by the sea-shore the day that Silver Braid had won the cup. She wondered what had happened to her, in what corner did she live, and where was the son that John Randal had not allowed to enter the Barfield establishment as page-boy, thinking he would be able to make something better of him than a servant. The regular customers had begun to come in. Esther greeted them with nods and smiles of recognition. She drew the beer two glasses at once in her hand, and picked up little zinc measures, two and four of whisky, and filled them from a small tap. She usually knew the taste of her customers. When she made a mistake she muttered "stupid," and Mr. Ketley was much amused at her forgetting that he always drank out of the bottle; he was one of the few who came to the "King's Head" who could afford sixpenny whisky. "I ought to have known by this time," she said. "Well, mistakes will occur in the best regulated families," the little butterman replied. He was meagre and meek, with a sallow complexion and blond beard. His pale eyes were anxious, and his thin, bony hands restless. His general manner was oppressed, and he frequently raised his hat to wipe his forehead, which was high and bald. At his elbow stood Journeyman, Ketley's very opposite. A tall, harsh, angular man, long features, a dingy complexion, and the air of a dismissed soldier. He held a glass of whisky-and-water in a hairy hand, and bit at the corner of a brown moustache. He wore a threadbare black frock-coat, and carried a newspaper under his arm. Ketley and Journeyman held widely different views regarding the best means of backing horses. Ketley was preoccupied with dreams and omens; Journeyman, a clerk in the parish registry office, studied public form; he was guided by it in all his speculations, and paid little heed to the various rumours always afloat regarding private trials. Public form he admitted did not always come out right, but if a man had a headpiece and could remember all the running, public form was good enough to follow. Racing with Journeyman was a question of calculation, and great therefore was his contempt for the weak and smiling Ketley, whom he went for on all occasions. But Ketley was pluckier than his appearance indicated, and the duels between the two were a constant source of amusement in the bar of the "King's Head." "Well, Herbert, the omen wasn't altogether up to the mark this time," said Journeyman, with a malicious twinkle in his small brown eyes. "No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents." "One of them unfortunate accidents," repeated Journeyman, derisively; "what's accidents to do with them that 'as to do with the reading of omens? I thought they rose above such trifles as weights, distances, bad riding.... A stone or two should make no difference if the omen is right." Ketley was no way put out by the slight titter that Journeyman's retort had produced in the group about the bar. He drank his whisky-and-water deliberately, like one, to use a racing expression, who had been over the course before. "I've 'eard that argument. I know all about it, but it don't alter me. Too many strange things occur for me to think that everything can be calculated with a bit of lead-pencil in a greasy pocket-book." "What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with it?" replied Journeyman, looking round. The company smiled and nodded. "You says that signs and omens is above any calculation of weights. Never mind the pocket-book, greasy or not greasy; you says that these omens is more to be depended on than the best stable information." "I thought that you placed no reliance on stable information, and that you was guided by the weights that you calculated in that 'ere pocket-book." "What's my pocket-book to do with it? You want to see my pocket-book; well, here it is, and I'll bet two glasses of beer that it ain't greasier than any other pocket-book in this bar." "I don't see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not greasy, has to do with it," said William. "Walter put a fair question to Herbert. The omen didn't come out right, and Walter wanted to know why it didn't come out right." "That was it," said Journeyman. All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. "You want to know why the omen wasn't right? I'll tell you--because it was no omen at all, that's why. The omens always comes right; it is we who aren't always in the particular state of mind that allows us to read the omens right." Journeyman shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the same expression of placid amusement. "You'd like me to explain; well, I will. The omen is always right, but we aren't always in the state of mind for the reading of the omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter; but why should omens differ from other things? Some days we can get through our accounts in 'alf the time we can at other times, the mind being clearer. I asks all present if that is not so." Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journeyman's remark about closing time only provoked a momentary titter. Ketley looked long and steadily at Journeyman and then said, "Perhaps closing time won't do no more for your calculation of weights than for my omens.... I know them jokes, we've 'eard them afore; but I'm not making jokes; I'm talking serious." The company nodded approval. "I was saying there was times when the mind is fresh like the morning. That's the time for them what 'as got the gift of reading the omens. It is a sudden light that comes into the mind, and it points straight like a ray of sunlight, if there be nothing to stop it.... Now do you understand?" No one had understood, but all felt that they were on the point of understanding. "The whole thing is in there being nothing to interrupt the light." "But you says yourself that yer can't always read them," said Journeyman; "an accident will send you off on the wrong tack, so it all comes to the same thing, omens or no omens." "A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the street, but that don't prove he can't walk, do it, Walter?" Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so Ketley scored another point over his opponent. "I made a mistake, I know I did, and if it will help you to understand I'll tell you how it was made. Three weeks ago I was in this 'ere bar 'aving what I usually takes. It was a bit early; none of you fellows had come in. I don't think it was much after eight. The governor was away in the north racin'--hadn't been 'ome for three or four days; the missus was beginning to look a bit lonely." Ketley smiled and glanced at Esther, who had told Charles to serve some customers, and was listening as intently as the rest. "I'd 'ad a nice bit of supper, and was just feeling that fresh and clear 'eaded as I was explaining to you just now is required for the reading, thinking of nothing in perticler, when suddenly the light came. I remembered a conversation I 'ad with a chap about American corn. He wouldn't 'ear of the Government taxing corn to 'elp the British farmer. Well, that conversation came back to me as clear as if the dawn had begun to break. I could positively see the bloody corn; I could pretty well 'ave counted it. I felt there was an omen about somewhere, and all of a tremble I took up the paper; it was lying on the bar just where your hand is, Walter. But at that moment, just as I was about to cast my eye down the list of 'orses, a cab comes down the street as 'ard as it could tear. There was but two or three of us in the bar, and we rushed out--the shafts was broke, 'orse galloping and kicking, and the cabby 'olding on as 'ard as he could. But it was no good, it was bound to go, and over it went against the kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was pretty well shook to pieces; his leg was broke, and we'd to 'elp to take him to the hosspital. Now I asks if it was no more than might be expected that I should have gone wrong about the omen. Next day, as luck would have it, I rolled up 'alf a pound of butter in a piece of paper on which 'Cross Roads' was written." "But if there had been no accident and you 'ad looked down the list of 'orses, 'ow do yer know that yer would 'ave spotted the winner?" "What, not Wheatear, and with all that American corn in my 'ead? Is it likely I'd've missed it?" No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in the midst of a most thoughtful silence. At last one of the group said, and he seemed to express the general mind of the company-- "I don't know if omens be worth a-following of, but I'm blowed if 'orses be worth backing if the omens is again them." His neighbour answered, "And they do come wonderful true occasional. They 'as 'appened to me, and I daresay to all 'ere present." The company nodded. "You've noticed how them that knows nothing at all about 'orses--the less they knows the better their luck--will look down the lot and spot the winner from pure fancy--the name that catches their eyes as likely." "There's something in it," said a corpulent butcher with huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous stomach. "I always held with going to church, and I hold still more with going to church since I backed Vanity for the Chester Cup. I was a-falling asleep over the sermon, when suddenly I wakes up hearing, 'Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.'" Several similar stories were told, and then various systems for backing horses were discussed. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" said Mr. Stack, the porter at Sutherland Mansions, Oxford Street, a large, bluff man, wearing a dark blue square-cut frock coat with brass buttons. A curious-looking man, with red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scanty growth of beard, and a loud, assuming voice. "You don't believe that no 'orses is pulled?" he reiterated. "I didn't say that no 'orse was never pulled," said Journeyman. He stood with his back leaning against the partition, his long legs stretched out. "If one was really in the know, then I don't say nothing about it; but who of us is ever really in the know?" "I'm not so sure about that," said Mr. Stack. "There's a young man in my mansions that 'as a servant; this servant's cousin, a girl in the country, keeps company with one of the lads in the White House stable. If that ain't good enough, I don't know what is; good enough for my half-crown and another pint of beer too, Mrs. Latch, as you'll be that kind." Esther drew the beer, and Old John, who had said nothing till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. He too had heard of something; he didn't know if it was the same as Stack had heard of; he didn't expect it was. It couldn't very well be, 'cause no one knew of this particular horse, not a soul!--not 'alf-a-dozen people in the world. No, he would tell no one until his money and the stable money was all right. And he didn't care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he couldn't get a sovereign or two on the horse he'd let it alone. This time he'd be a man or a mouse. Every one was listening intently, but old John suddenly assumed an air of mystery and refused to say another word. The conversation worked back whither it had started, and again the best method of backing horses was passionately discussed. Interrupting someone whose theories seemed intolerably ludicrous, Journeyman said-- "Let's 'ear what's the governor's opinion; he ought to know what kind of backer gets the most out of him." Journeyman's proposal to submit the question to the governor met with very general approval. Even the vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter to the bench where he could drink and eat what fragments of food he had collected, came forward, interested to know what kind of backer got most out of the bookmaker. "Well," said William, "I haven't been making a book as long as some of them, but since you ask me what I think I tell you straight. I don't care a damn whether they backs according to their judgment, or their dreams, or their fancy. The cove that follows favourites, or the cove that backs a jockey's mount, the cove that makes an occasional bet when he hears of a good thing, the cove that bets regular, 'cording to a system--the cove, yer know, what doubles every time--or the cove that bets as the mood takes him--them and all the other coves, too numerous to be mentioned, I'm glad to do business with. I cries out to one as 'eartily as to another: 'The old firm, the old firm, don't forget the old firm.... What can I do for you to-day, sir?' There's but one sort of cove I can't abide." "And he is--" said Journeyman. "He is Mr. George Buff." "Who's he? who's he?" asked several; and the vagrant caused some amusement by the question, "Do 'e bet on the course?" "Yes, he do," said William, "an' nowhere else. He's at every meeting as reg'lar as if he was a bookie himself. I 'ates to see his face.... I'd be a rich man if I'd all the money that man 'as 'ad out of me in the last three years." "What should you say was his system?" asked Mr. Stack. "I don't know no more than yerselves." This admission seemed a little chilling; for everyone had thought himself many steps nearer El Dorado. "But did you ever notice," said Mr. Ketley, "that there was certain days on which he bet?" "No, I never noticed that." "Are they outsiders that he backs?" asked Stack. "No, only favourites. But what I can't make out is that there are times when he won't touch them; and when he don't, nine times out of ten they're beaten." "Are the 'orses he backs what you'd call well in?" said Journeyman. "Not always." "Then it must be on information from the stable authorities?" said Stack. "I dun know," said William; "have it that way if you like, but I'm glad there ain't many about like him. I wish he'd take his custom elsewhere. He gives me the solid hump, he do." "What sort of man should you say he was? 'as he been a servant, should you say?" asked old John. "I can't tell you what he is. Always new suit of clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that 'ere hie-glass and that brown beard my heart goes down in my boots. When he don't bet he takes no notice, walks past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn't see the people, and he don't care that for the 'orses. Knowing he don't mean no business, I cries to him, 'The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten to one bar two or three.' He just catches his hie-glass tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his head, and goes on. He is a warm 'un; he is just about as 'ot as they make 'em." "What I can't make out," said Journeyman, "is why he bets on the course. You say he don't know nothing about horses. Why don't he remain at 'ome and save the exes?" "I've thought of all that," said William, "and can't make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, Buff costs not far short of six 'undred a year." At that moment a small blond man came into the bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He had hardly changed at all--a little sallower, a little dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman. "Won't you step round, sir, to the private bar?" said William. "You'll be more comfortable." "Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and I thought I'd come in and have a look round.... I see that you haven't forgotten the old horses," he said, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and Summer's Dean which William had hung on the wall. "That was a great day, wasn't it? Fifty to one chance, started at thirty; and you remember the Gaffer tried him to win with twenty pound more than he had to carry.... Hullo, John! very glad to see you again; growing strong and well, I hope?" The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was not surprised that Ginger did not shake hands with him. She wondered if he would remember her, and as the thought passed through her mind he extended his hand across the bar. "I 'ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with you, sir," said William. Ginger raised no objection, and William told Esther to go down-stairs and fetch up a bottle of champagne. Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened eagerly. To meet the celebrated gentleman-rider was a great event in their lives. But the conversation was confined to the Barfield horses; it was carried on by the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of streetfaring, came in and ordered four ale. They spoke to the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in preparation for a last search for charity. William cut the wires of the champagne, and at that moment Charles, who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for two-and-six. "Do you know him?" said William. "Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the other night--Bill Evans, the cove that wears the blue Melton." The swing doors were opened, and a man between thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, picturesque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue Melton jacket and billycock hat. "You'd better 'ave the coat," he said; "you won't better it;" and coming into the bar he planked down a penny as if it were a sovereign. "Glass of porter; nice warm weather, good for the 'arvest. Just come up from the country--a bit dusty, ain't I?" "Ain't you the chap," said William, "what laid Mr. Ketley six 'alf-crowns to one against Cross Roads?" Charles nodded, and William continued-- "I like your cheek coming into my bar." "No harm done, gov'nor; no one was about; wouldn't 'ave done it if they had." "That'll do," said William. "... No, he don't want the coat. We likes to know where our things comes from." Bill Evans finished his glass. "Good-night, guv'nor; no ill-feeling." The flower-girls laughed; one offered him a flower. "Take it for love," she said. He was kind enough to do so, and the three went out together. "I don't like the looks of that chap," said William, and he let go the champagne cork. "Yer health, sir." They raised their glasses, and the conversation turned on next week's racing. "I dun know about next week's events," said old John, "but I've heard of something for the Leger--an outsider will win." "Have you backed it?" "I would if I had the money, but things have been going very unlucky with me lately. But I'd advise you, sir, to have a trifle on. It's the best tip I 'ave had in my life." "Really!" said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, "so I will, and so shall you. I'm damned if you shan't have your bit on. Come, what is it? William will lay the odds. What is it?" "Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir." "Why, I thought that--" "No such thing, sir; Briar Rose's the one." Ginger took up the paper. "Twenty-five to one Briar Rose taken." "You see, sir, it was taken." "Will you lay the price, William--twenty-five half-sovereigns to one?" "Yes, I'll lay it." Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and handed it to the bookmaker. "I never take money over this bar. You're good for a thin 'un, sir," William said, with a smile, as he handed back the money. "But I don't know when I shall see you again," said Ginger. "It will be very inconvenient. There's no one in the bar." "None but the match-seller and them two flower-girls. I suppose they don't matter?" Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would be hopeless. XXXI Never had a Derby excited greater interest. Four hot favourites, between which the public seemed unable to choose. Two to one taken and offered against Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand; four to one taken and offered against Signet-ring, who, half-trained, had run Fly-leaf to a head. Four to one against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plate and the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dewberry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket stakes. The chances of these horses were argued every night at the "King's Head." Ketley's wife used to wear a string of yellow beads when she was a girl, but she wasn't certain what had become of them. Ketley did not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make much of that--not being much of a reader. So what with one thing and another Ketley didn't believe much in this 'ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked that, omens or no omens, one horse was bound to win. Why didn't Herbert look for an omen among the outsiders? Old John's experiences led him to think that the race lay between Fly-leaf and Signet-ring. He had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. "When they begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had about enough of it." Stack nodded approval. He had five bob on Dewberry. He didn't know much about his staying powers, but all the stable is on him; "and when I know the stable-money is right I says, 'That's good enough for me!'" Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on Necklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of the century. He was listened to with awed attention, and there was a death-like silence in the bar when he described how she had won the One Thousand. He wouldn't have ridden her quite that way himself; but then what was a steeplechase rider's opinion worth regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and old John alluded to Ginger's magnificent riding when he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up with a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, who had persevered all the way, on the very post by a head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that evening, said that he would not be surprised to see all the four favourites bowled out by an outsider. He had heard something that was good enough for him. He didn't suppose the guv'nor would take him on the nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good for three ten. "Turn it up, old mate," said William. "All right, guv'nor, I never presses my goods on them that don't want 'em. If there's any other gentleman who would like to look at this 'ere timepiece, or a pair of sleeve links, they're in for fifteen shillings. Here's the ticket. I'm a bit short of money, and have a fancy for a certain outsider. I'd like to have my bit on, and I'll dispose of the ticket for--what do you say to a thin 'un, Mr. Ketley?" "Did you 'ear me speak just now?" William answered angrily, "or shall I have to get over the counter?" "I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal of racing?" said Ginger. "No, sir. I've heard a great deal about racing, but I never saw a race run." "How's that, shouldn't you care?" "You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, and there's the house to look after." "I never thought of it before," said William. "You've never seen a race run, no more you haven't. Would you care to come and see the Derby run next week, Esther?" "I think I should." At that moment the policeman stopped and looked in. All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said, "We shall lose our licence if----" "If we don't get out," said Ginger. William apologised. "The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; should be sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, finish your drink. No, Walter, can't serve any more liquor to-night.... Charles, close the private bar, let no one else in.... Now, gentlemen, gentlemen." Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William held the door for them. A few minutes after the house was closed. A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting away glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour's work before bed-time, and then they lighted their candle in the little parlour and went upstairs. William flung off his coat. "I'm dead beat," he said, "and all this to lose----" He didn't finish the sentence. Esther said-- "You've a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an outsider'll win." "I 'ope so.... But if you'd care to see the race, I think it can be managed. I shall be busy, but Journeyman or Ketley will look after you." "I don't know that I should care to walk about all day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither." They were both tired, and with an occasional remark they undressed and got into bed. Esther laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes.... "I wonder if there's any one going who you'd care for?" "I don't care a bit about it, Bill." The conversation paused. At the end of a long silence William said-- "It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up in it so much should never have seen a race." Esther didn't answer. She was falling asleep, and William's voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Suddenly she felt him give her a great shove. "Wake up, old girl, I've got it. Why not ask your old pal, Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she's out of situation. It'll be a nice treat for her." "Ah.... I should like to see Sarah again." "You're half asleep." "No, I'm not; you said we might ask Sarah to come to the Derby with us." William regretted that he had not a nice trap to drive them down. To hire one would run into a deal of money, and he was afraid it might make him late on the course. Besides, the road wasn't what it used to be; every one goes by train now. They dropped off to sleep talking of how they should get Sarah's address. Three or four days passed, and one morning William jumped out of bed and said-- "I think it will be a fine day, Esther." He took out his best suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk scarf for the occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no notice of her, William went on dressing; then he said-- "Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here presently to pack up my clothes." "Is it time to get up?" "Yes, I should think it was. For God's sake, get up." She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been bought in Tottenham Court Road, and had only come home last night. A real summer dress! A lilac pattern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace; a nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock came at the door. "All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife's not dressed yet. Do make haste, Esther." Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her hair, and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr. Blamy entered. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but there isn't no time to lose if the governor don't want to lose his place on the 'ill." "Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; don't stand there talking." The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the floor and took a suit of checks from the chest of drawers, each square of black and white nearly as large as a sixpence. "You'll wear the green tie, sir?" William nodded. The green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. "I've got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?" William glanced at the bouquet. "They look a bit loud," he said; "I'll wait till we get on the course; put them in the bag." The card to be worn in the white hat--"William Latch, London," in gold letters on a green ground--was laid on top. The boots with soles three inches high went into the box on which William stood while he halloaed his prices to the crowd. Then there were the two poles which supported a strip of white linen, on which was written in gold letters, "William Latch, 'The King's Head,' London. Fair prices, prompt payment." It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming through, and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, London, various embankments and St. Paul's on one side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared in grey curves and straight silhouettes. The pavements were lined with young men--here and there a girl's dress was a spot of colour in the grey morning. At the station they met Journeyman and old John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William said-- "We shall be late; we shall have to go without her." Esther's face clouded. "We can't go without her; don't be so impatient." At that moment a white muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said, "I think that that's Sarah." "You can chatter in the train--you'll have a whole hour to talk about each other's dress; get in, get in," and William pressed them into a third-class carriage. They had not seen each other for so long a while, and there was so much to say that they did not know where to begin. Sarah was the first to speak. "It was kind of you to think of me. So you've married, and to him after all!" she added, lowering her voice. Esther laughed. "It do seem strange, don't it?" "You'll tell me all about it," she said. "I wonder we didn't run across one another before." They rolled out of the grey station into the light, and the plate-glass drew the rays together till they burnt the face and hands. They sped alongside of the upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yellow chimney-pots; they passed open spaces filled with cranes, old iron, and stacks of railway sleepers, pictorial advertisements, sky signs, great gasometers rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping or nearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a hundred-arched viaduct; and along a black embankment the other trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to their city toil. The excursion jogged on, stopping for long intervals before strips of sordid garden where shirts and pink petticoats were blowing. Little streets ascended the hillsides; no more trams, 'buses, too, had disappeared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham Junction betting men had crowded the platform; they all wore grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their shoulders. And the train still rolled through the brick wilderness which old John said was all country forty years ago. The men puffed at their pipes, and old John's anecdotes about the days when he and the Gaffer, in company with all the great racing men of the day, used to drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. Esther had finished telling the circumstances in which she had met Margaret; and Sarah questioned her about William and how her marriage had come about. The train had stopped outside of a little station, and the blue sky, with its light wispy clouds, became a topic of conversation. Old John did not like the look of those clouds, and the women glanced at the waterproofs which they carried on their arms. They passed bits of common with cows and a stray horse, also a little rural cemetery; but London suddenly began again parish after parish, the same blue roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had passed the first cedar and the first tennis lawn. And knowing it to be a Derby excursion the players paused in their play and looked up. Again the line was blocked; the train stopped again and again. But it had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in front of a beautiful June landscape. A thick meadow with a square weather-beaten church showing between the spreading trees; miles of green corn, with birds flying in the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, making way for the endless blue of a long summer's day. XXXII It had been arranged that William should don his betting toggery at the "Spread Eagle Inn." It stood at the cross-roads, only a little way from the station--a square house with a pillared porch. Even at this early hour the London pilgrimage was filing by. Horses were drinking in the trough; their drivers were drinking in the bar; girls in light dresses shared glasses of beer with young men. But the greater number of vehicles passed without stopping, anxious to get on the course. They went round the turn in long procession, a policeman on a strong horse occupied the middle of the road. The waggonettes and coaches had red-coated guards, and the air was rent with the tooting of the long brass horns. Every kind of dingy trap went by, sometimes drawn by two, sometimes by only one horse--shays half a century old jingled along; there were even donkey-carts. Esther and Sarah were astonished at the number of costers, but old John told them that that was nothing to what it was fifty years ago. The year that Andover won the block began seven or eight miles from Epsom. They were often half-an-hour without moving. Such chaffing and laughing, the coster cracked his joke with the duke, but all that was done away with now. "Gracious!" said Esther, when William appeared in his betting toggery. "I shouldn't have known you." He did seem very wonderful in his checks, green necktie, yellow flowers, and white hat with its gold inscription, "Mr. William Latch, London." "It's all right," he said; "you never saw me before in these togs--fine, ain't they? But we're very late. Mr. North has offered to run me up to the course, but he's only two places. Teddy and me must be getting along--but you needn't hurry. The races won't begin for hours yet. It's only about a mile--a nice walk. These gentlemen will look after you. You know where to find me," he said, turning to John and Walter. "You'll look after my wife and Miss Tucker, won't you?" and forthwith he and Teddy jumped into a waggonette and drove away. "Well, that's what I calls cheek," said Sarah. "Going off by himself in a waggonette and leaving us to foot it." "He must look after his place on the 'ill or else he'll do no betting," said Journeyman. "We've plenty of time; racing don't begin till after one." Recollections of what the road had once been had loosened John's tongue, and he continued his reminiscences of the great days when Sir Thomas Hayward had laid fifteen thousand to ten thousand three times over against the favourite. The third bet had been laid at this very spot, but the Duke would not accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then being backed on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas had only lost thirty thousand pounds on the race. Journeyman was deeply interested in the anecdote; but Sarah looked at the old man with a look that said, "Well, if I'm to pass the day with you two I never want to go to the Derby again.... Come on in front," she whispered to Esther, "and let them talk about their racing by themselves." The way led through a field ablaze with buttercups; it passed by a fish-pond into which three drunkards were gazing. "Do you hear what they're saying about the fish?" said Sarah. "Don't pay no attention to them," said Esther. "If you knew as much about drunkards as I do, you'd want no telling to give them a wide berth.... Isn't the country lovely? Isn't the air soft and warm?" "Oh, I don't want no more country. I'm that glad to get back to town. I wouldn't take another situation out of London if I was offered twenty a year." "But look," said Esther, "at the trees. I've hardly been in the country since I left Woodview, unless you call Dulwich the country--that's where Jackie was at nurse." The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane overhung with chestnut and laburnum trees. The spring had been late, and the white blossoms stood up like candles--the yellow dropped like tassels, and the streaming sunlight filled the leaves with tints of pale gold, and their light shadows patterned the red earth of the pathway. But very soon this pleasant pathway debouched on a thirsting roadway where tired horses harnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill leading to the Downs. The trees intercepted the view, and the blown dust whitened the foliage and the wayside grass, now in possession of hawker and vagrant. The crowd made way for the traps; and the young men in blue and grey trousers, and their girls in white dresses, turned and watched the four horses bringing along the tall drag crowned with London fashion. There the unwieldly omnibus and the brake filled with fat girls in pink dresses and yellow hats, and there the spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage gates were crowded with folk come to see London going to the Derby. Outhouses had been converted into refreshment bars, and from these came a smell of beer and oranges; further on there was a lamentable harmonium--a blind man singing hymns to its accompaniment, and a one-legged man holding his hat for alms; and not far away there stood an earnest-eyed woman offering tracts, warning folk of their danger, beseeching them to retrace their steps. At last the trees ceased and they found themselves on the hilltop in a glare of sunlight, on a space of worn ground where donkeys were tethered. "Is this the Derby?" said Sarah. "I hope you're not disappointed?" "No, dear; but where's all the people--the drags, the carriages?" "We'll see them presently," said old John, and he volunteered some explanations. The white building was the Grand Stand. The winning-post was a little further this way. "Where do they start?" said Sarah. "Over yonder, where you see that clump. They run through the furze right up to Tattenham Corner." A vast crowd swarmed over the opposite hill, and beyond the crowd the women saw a piece of open downland dotted with bushes, and rising in gentle incline to a belt of trees which closed the horizon. "Where them trees are, that's _Tattenham Corner_." The words seemed to fill old John with enthusiasm, and he described how the horses came round this side of the trees. "They comes right down that 'ere 'ill--there's the dip--and they finishes opposite to where we is standing. Yonder, by Barnard's Ring." "What, all among the people?" said Sarah. "The police will get the people right back up the hill." "That's where we shall find William," said Esther. "I'm getting a bit peckish; ain't you, dear? He's got the luncheon-basket.... but, lor', what a lot of people! Look at that." What had attracted Sarah's attention was a boy walking through the crowd on a pair of stilts fully eight feet high. He uttered short warning cries from time to time, held out his wide trousers and caught pennies in his conical cap. Drags and carriages continued to arrive. The sweating horses were unyoked, and grooms and helpers rolled the vehicles into position along the rails. Lackeys drew forth cases of wine and provisions, and the flutter of table-cloths had begun to attract vagrants, itinerant musicians, fortune-tellers, begging children. All these plied their trades round the fashion of grey frock-coats and silk sun-shades. Along the rails rough fellows lay asleep; the place looked like a vast dormitory; they lay with their hats over their faces, clay pipes sticking from under the brims, their brown-red hands upon the grey grass. Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was to meet a friend who would give him the very latest news respecting a certain horse; and Esther, Sarah, and Journeyman wandered along the course in search of William. Along the rails strangely-dressed men stood on stools, satchels and race-glasses slung over their shoulders, great bouquets in their button-holes. Each stood between two poles on which was stretched a piece of white-coloured linen, on which was inscribed their name in large gold letters. Sarah read some of these names out: "Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All bets paid." "Tom Wood's famous boxing rooms, Epsom." "James Webster, Commission Agent, London." And these betting men bawled the prices from the top of their high stools and shook their satchels, which were filled with money, to attract custom. "What can I do for you to-day, sir?" they shouted when they caught the eye of any respectably-dressed man. "On the Der-by, on the Der-by, I'll bet the Der-by.... To win or a place, to win or a place, to win or a place--seven to one bar two or three, seven to one bar two or three.... the old firm, the old firm,"--like so many challenging cocks, each trying to outshrill the other. Under the hill-side in a quiet hollow had been pitched a large and commodious tent. Journeyman mentioned that it was the West London Gospel-tent. He thought the parson would have it pretty well all to himself, and they stopped before a van filled with barrels of Watford ales. A barrel had been taken from the van and placed on a small table; glasses of beer were being served to a thirsty crowd; and all around were little canvas shelters, whence men shouted, "'Commodation, 'commodation." The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained floated away like filaments of white cotton. The Grand Stand, dotted like a ceiling with flies, stood out distinct and harsh upon a burning plain of blue. The light beat fiercely upon the booths, the carriages, the vehicles, the "rings," the various stands. The country around was lost in the haze and dazzle of the sunlight; but a square mile of downland fluttered with flags and canvas, and the great mob swelled, and smoked, and drank, shied sticks at Aunt Sally, and rode wooden horses. And through this crush of perspiring, shrieking humanity Journeyman, Esther, and Sarah sought vainly for William. The form of the ground was lost in the multitude and they could only tell by the strain in their limbs whether they were walking up or down hill. Sarah declared herself to be done up, and it was with difficulty that she was persuaded to persevere a little longer. At last Journeyman caught sight of the bookmaker's square shoulders. "Well, so here you are. What can I do for you, ladies? Ten to one bar three or four. Will that suit you?" "The luncheon-basket will suit us a deal better," said Sarah. At that moment a chap came up jingling two half-crowns in his hand. "What price the favourite?" "Two to one," cried William. The two half-crowns were dropped into the satchel, and, thus encouraged, William called out louder than ever, "The old firm, the old firm; don't forget the old firm." There was a smile on his lips while he halloaed--a cheery, good-natured smile, which made him popular and brought him many a customer. "On the Der-by, on the Der-by, on the Der-by!" All kinds and conditions of men came to make bets with him; custom was brisk; he could not join the women, who were busy with the lunch-basket, but he and Teddy would be thankful for the biggest drink they could get them. "Ginger beer with a drop of whiskey in it, that's about it, Teddy?" "Yes, guv'nor, that'll do for me.... We're getting pretty full on Dewberry; might come down a point, I think." "All right, Teddy.... And if you'd cut us a couple each of strong sandwiches--you can manage a couple, Teddy?" "I think I can, guv'nor." There was a nice piece of beef in the basket, and Esther cut several large sandwiches, buttering the bread thickly and adding plenty of mustard. When she brought them over William bent down and whispered-- "My own duck of a wife, there's no one like her." Esther blushed and laughed with pleasure, and every trace of the resentment for the suffering he had occasioned her dropped out of her heart. For the first time he was really her husband; for the first time she felt that sense of unity in life which is marriage, and knew henceforth he was the one thing that she had to live for. After luncheon Journeyman, who was making no way with Sarah, took his leave, pleading that he had some friends to meet in Barnard's Ring. They were glad to be rid of him. Sarah had many a tale to tell; and while listening to the matrimonial engagements that had been broken off, Esther shifted her parasol from time to time to watch her tall, gaunt husband. He shouted the odds, willing to bet against every horse, distributed tickets to the various folk that crowded round him, each with his preference, his prejudice, his belief in omens, in tips, or in the talent and luck of a favourite jockey. Sarah continued her cursive chatter regarding the places she had served in. She felt inclined for a snooze, but was afraid it would not look well. While hesitating she ceased speaking, and both women fell asleep under the shade of their parasols. It was the shallow, glassy sleep of the open air, through which they divined easily the great blur that was the race-course. They could hear William's voice, and they heard a bell ring and shouts of "Here they come!" Then a lull came, and their perceptions grew a little denser, and when they awoke the sky was the same burning blue, and the multitude moved to and fro like puppets. Sarah was in no better temper after than before her sleep. "It's all very well for you," she said. "You have your husband to look after.... I'll never come to the Derby again without a young man... I'm tired of sitting here, the grass is roasting. Come for a walk." They were two nice-looking English women of the lower classes, prettily dressed in light gowns with cheap sunshades in their cotton-gloved hands. Sarah looked at every young man with regretful eyes. In such moods acquaintanceships are made; and she did not allow Esther to shake off Bill Evans, who, just as if he had never been turned out of the bar of the "King's Head," came up with his familiar, "Good morning, ma'am--lovely weather for the races." Sarah's sidelong glances at the blue Melton jacket and the billycock hat defined her feelings with sufficient explicitness, and it was not probable that any warning would have been heeded. Soon they were engaged in animated conversation, and Esther was left to follow them if she liked. She walked by Sarah's side, quite ignored, until she was accosted by Fred Parsons. They were passing by the mission tent, and Fred was calling upon the folk to leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill Evans was about to answer some brutal insult; but seeing that "the Christian" knew Esther he checked himself in time. Esther stopped to speak to Fred, and Bill seized the opportunity to slip away with Sarah. "I didn't expect to meet you here, Esther." "I'm here with my husband. He said a little pleasure----" "This is not innocent pleasure, Esther; this is drunkenness and debauchery. I hope you'll never come again, unless you come with us," he said, pointing to some girls dressed as bookmakers, with Salvation and Perdition written on the satchels hung round their shoulders. They sought to persuade the passers-by to come into the tent. "We shall be very glad to see you," they said, and they distributed mock racing cards on which was inscribed news regarding certain imaginary racing. "The Paradise Plate, for all comers," "The Salvation Stakes, an Eternity of Happiness added." Fred repeated his request. "I hope the next time you come here it will be with us; you'll strive to collect some of Christ's lost sheep." "And my husband making a book yonder?" An awkward silence intervened, and then he said-- "Won't you come in; service is going on?" Esther followed him. In the tent there were some benches, and on a platform a grey-bearded man with an anxious face spoke of sinners and redemption. Suddenly a harmonium began to play a hymn, and, standing side by side, Esther and Fred sang together. Prayer was so inherent in her that she felt no sense of incongruity, and had she been questioned she would have answered that it did not matter where we are, or what we are doing, we can always have God in our hearts. Fred followed her out. "You have not forgotten your religion, I hope?" "No, I never could forget that." "Then why do I find you in such company? You don't come here like us to find sinners." "I haven't forgotten God, but I must do my duty to my husband. It would be like setting myself up against my husband's business, and you don't think I ought to do that? A wife that brings discord into the family is not a good wife, so I've often heard." "You always thought more of your husband than of Christ, Esther." "Each one must follow Christ as best he can! It would be wrong of me to set myself against my husband." "So he married you?" Fred answered bitterly. "Yes. You thought he'd desert me a second time; but he's been the best of husbands." "I place little reliance on those who are not with Christ. His love for you is not of the Spirit. Let us not speak of him. I loved you very deeply, Esther. I would have brought you to Christ.... But perhaps you'll come to see us sometimes." "I do not forget Christ. He's always with me, and I believe you did care for me. I was sorry to break it off, you know I was. It was not my fault." "Esther, it was I who loved you." "You mustn't talk like that. I'm a married woman." "I mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of the past." "You must forget all that... Good-bye; I'm glad to have seen you, and that we said a prayer together." Fred didn't answer, and Esther moved away, wondering where she should find Sarah. XXXIII The crowd shouted. She looked where the others looked, but saw only the burning blue with the white stand marked upon it. It was crowded like the deck of a sinking vessel, and Esther wondered at the excitement, the cause of which was hidden from her. She wandered to the edge of the crowd until she came to a chalk road where horses and mules were tethered. A little higher up she entered the crowd again, and came suddenly upon a switchback railway. Full of laughing and screaming girls, it bumped over a middle hill, and then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It was shot back again into the midst of its fictitious perils, and this mock voyaging was accomplished to the sound of music from a puppet orchestra. Bells and drums, a fife and a triangle, cymbals clashed mechanically, and a little soldier beat the time. Further on, under a striped awning, were the wooden horses. They were arranged so well that they rocked to and fro, imitating as nearly as possible the action of real horses. Esther watched the riders. A blue skirt looked like a riding habit, and a girl in salmon pink leaned back in her saddle just as if she had been taught how to ride. A girl in a grey jacket encouraged a girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before Esther could make out for certain that the man in the blue Melton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of sight, and she had to wait until his horse came round the second time. At that moment she caught sight of the red poppies in Sarah's hat. The horses began to slacken speed. They went slower and slower, then stopped altogether. The riders began to dismount and Esther pressed through the bystanders, fearing she would not be able to overtake her friends. "Oh, here you are," said Sarah. "I thought I never should find you again. How hot it is!" "Were you on in that ride? Let's have another, all three of us. These three horses." Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing nobly up and down to the sound of fifes, drums and cymbals. They passed the winning-post many times; they had to pass it five times, and the horse that stopped nearest it won the prize. A long-drawn-out murmur, continuous as the sea, swelled up from the course--a murmur which at last passed into words: "Here they come; blue wins, the favourite's beat." Esther paid little attention to these cries; she did not understand them; they reached her indistinctly and soon died away, absorbed in the strident music that accompanied the circling horses. These had now begun to slacken speed.... They went slower and slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by side, seemed like winning, but at the last moment they glided by the winning-post. Esther's steed stopped in time, and she was told to choose a china mug from a great heap. "You've all the luck to-day," said Bill. "Hayfield, who was backed all the winter, broke down a month ago.... 2 to 1 against Fly-leaf, 4 to 1 against Signet-ring, 4 to 1 against Dewberry, 10 to 1 against Vanguard, the winner at 50 to 1 offered. Your husband must have won a little fortune. Never was there such a day for the bookies." Esther said she was very glad, and was undecided which mug she should choose. At last she saw one on which "Jack" was written in gold letters. They then visited the peep-shows, and especially liked St. James's Park with the Horse Guards out on parade; the Spanish bull-fight did not stir them, and Sarah couldn't find a single young man to her taste in the House of Commons. Among the performing birds they liked best a canary that climbed a ladder. Bill was attracted by the American strength-testers, and he gave an exhibition of his muscle, to Sarah's very great admiration. They all had some shies at cocoa-nuts, and passed by J. Bilton's great bowling saloon without visiting it. Once more the air was rent with the cries of "Here they come! Here they come!" Even the 'commodation men left their canvas shelters and pressed forward inquiring which had won. A moment after a score of pigeons floated and flew through the blue air and then departed in different directions, some making straight for London, others for the blue mysterious evening that had risen about the Downs--the sun-baked Downs strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men and women, a screaming and disordered animality. "Well, so you've come back at last," said William. "The favourite was beaten. I suppose you know that a rank outsider won. But what about this gentleman?" "Met these 'ere ladies on the 'ill an' been showing them over the course. No offence, I hope, guv'nor?" William did not answer, and Bill took leave of Sarah in a manner that told Esther that they had arranged to meet again. "Where did you pick up that bloke?" "He came up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped to speak to the parson." "To the parson. What do you mean?" The circumstance was explained, and William asked them what they thought of the racing. "We didn't see no racing," said Sarah; "we was on the 'ill on the wooden 'orses. Esther's 'orse won. She got a mug; show the mug, Esther." "So you saw no Derby after all?" said William. "Saw no racin'!" said his neighbour; "ain't she won the cup?" The joke was lost on the women, who only perceived that they were being laughed at. "Come up here, Esther," said William; "stand on my box. The 'orses are just going up the course for the preliminary canter. And you, Sarah, take Teddy's place. Teddy, get down, and let the lady up." "Yes, guv'nor. Come up 'ere, ma'am." "And is those the 'orses?" said Sarah. "They do seem small." The ringmen roared. "Not up to those on the 'ill, ma'am," said one. "Not such beautiful goers," said another. There were two or three false starts, and then, looking through a multitude of hats, Esther saw five or six thin greyhound-looking horses. They passed like shadows, flitted by; and she was sorry for the poor chestnut that trotted in among the crowd. This was the last race. Once more the favourite had been beaten; there were no bets to pay, and the bookmakers began to prepare for departure. It was the poor little clerks who were charged with the luggage. Teddy did not seem as if he would ever reach the top of the hill. With Esther and Sarah on either arm, William struggled with the crowd. It was hard to get through the block of carriages. Everywhere horses waited with their harness on, and Sarah was afraid of being bitten or kicked. A young aristocrat cursed them from the box-seat, and the groom blew a blast as the drag rolled away. It was like the instinct of departure which takes a vast herd at a certain moment. The great landscape, half country, half suburb, glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun; and through the white dust, and the drought of the warm roads, the brakes and carriages and every crazy vehicle rolled towards London; orange-sellers, tract-sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made for their various quarters--roadside inns, outhouses, hayricks, hedges, or the railway station. Down the long hill the vast crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage folk, all together, as far as the cross-roads. At the "Spread Eagle" there would be stoppage for a parting drink, there the bookmakers would change their clothes, and there division would happen in the crowd--half for the railway station, half for the London road. It was there that the traditional sports of the road began. A drag, with a band of exquisites armed with pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were getting angry, and threatening to drive over the leaders. A brake with two poles erected, and hanging on a string quite a line of miniature chamber-pots. A horse, with his fore-legs clothed in a pair of lady's drawers. Naturally unconscious of the garment, the horse stepped along so absurdly that Esther and Sarah thought they'd choke with laughter. At the station William halloaed to old John, whom he caught sight of on the platform. He had backed the winner--forty to one about Sultan. It was Ketley who had persuaded him to risk half a sovereign on the horse. Ketley was at the Derby; he had met him on the course, and Ketley had told him a wonderful story about a packet of Turkish Delight. The omen had come right this time, and Journeyman took a back seat. "Say what you like," said William, "it is damned strange; and if anyone did find the way of reading them omens there would be an end of us bookmakers." He was only half in earnest, but he regretted he had not met Ketley. If he had only had a fiver on the horse--200 to 5! They met Ketley at Waterloo, and every one wanted to hear from his own lips the story of the packet of Turkish Delight. So William proposed they should all come up to the "King's Head" for a drink. The omnibus took them as far as Piccadilly Circus; and there the weight of his satchel tempted William to invite them to dinner, regardless of expense. "Which is the best dinner here?" he asked the commissionaire. "The East Room is reckoned the best, sir." The fashion of the shaded candles and the little tables, and the beauty of an open evening bodice and the black and white elegance of the young men at dinner, took the servants by surprise, and made them feel that they were out of place in such surroundings. Old John looked like picking up a napkin and asking at the nearest table if anything was wanted. Ketley proposed the grill room, but William, who had had a glass more than was good for him, declared that he didn't care a damn--that he could buy up the whole blooming show. The head-waiter suggested a private room; it was abruptly declined, and William took up the menu. "Bisque Soup, what's that? You ought to know, John." John shook his head. "Ris de veau! That reminds me of when----" William stopped and looked round to see if his former wife was in the room. Finally, the head-waiter was cautioned to send them up the best dinner in the place. Allusion was made to the dust and heat. Journeyman suggested a sluice, and they inquired their way to the lavatories. Esther and Sarah were away longer than the men, and stood dismayed at the top of the room till William called for them. The other guests seemed a little terrified, and the head-waiter, to reassure them, mentioned that it was Derby Day. William had ordered champagne, but it had not proved to any one's taste except, perhaps, to Sarah, whom it rendered unduly hilarious; nor did the delicate food afford much satisfaction; the servants played with it, and left it on their plates; and it was not until William ordered up the saddle of mutton and carved it himself that the dinner began to take hold of the company. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices, and the men stuck to the cheese, a fine Stilton, which was much appreciated. Coffee no one cared for, and the little glasses of brandy only served to augment the general tipsiness. William hiccupped out an order for a bottle of Jamieson eight-year-old; but pipes were not allowed, and cigars were voted tedious, so they adjourned to the bar, where they were free to get as drunk as they pleased. William said, "Now let's 'ear the blo----the bloody omen that put ye on to Sultan--that blood--packet of Turkish Delight." "Most extra--most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life, so yer 'ere?" said Ketley, staring at William and trying to see him distinctly. William nodded. "How was it? We want to 'ear all about it. Do hold yer tongue, Sarah. I beg pardon, Ketley is go--going to tell us about the bloody omen. Thought you'd like to he--ar, old girl." Allusion was made to a little girl coming home from school, and a piece of paper on the pavement. But Ketley could not concentrate his thoughts on the main lines of the story, and it was lost in various dissertations. But the company was none the less pleased with it, and willingly declared that bookmaking was only a game for mugs. Get on a winner at forty to one, and you could make as much in one bet as a poor devil of a bookie could in six months, fagging from race-course to race-course. They drank, argued, and quarrelled, until Esther noticed that Sarah was looking very pale. Old John was quite helpless; Journeyman, who seemed to know what he was doing, very kindly promised to look after him. Ketley assured the commissionaire that he was not drunk; and when they got outside Sarah felt obliged to step aside; she came back, saying that she felt a little better. They stood on the pavement's edge, a little puzzled by the brilliancy of the moonlight. And the three men who followed out of the bar-room were agreed regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, "I don't think much of it; all I live for is beer and women." The phrase caught on William's ear, and he said, "Quite right, old mate," and he held out his hand to Bill Evans. "Beer and women, it always comes round to that in the end, but we mustn't let them hear us say it." The men shook hands, and Bill promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to interpose, but William could not be made to understand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together in a hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, and it was difficult to awaken her when the cab stopped before a house whose respectability took Bill by surprise. XXXIV Things went well enough as long as her savings lasted. When her money was gone Bill returned to the race-course in the hope of doing a bit of welshing. Soon after he was "wanted" by the police; they escaped to Belgium, and it devolved on Sarah to support him. The hue and cry over, they came back to London. She had been sitting up for him; he had come home exasperated and disappointed. A row soon began; and she thought that he would strike her. But he refrained, for fear, perhaps, of the other lodgers. He took her instead by the arm, dragged her down the broken staircase, and pushed her into the court. She heard the retreating footsteps, and saw a cat slink through a grating, and she wished that she too could escape from the light into the dark. A few belated women still lingered in the Strand, and the city stood up like a prison, hard and stark in the cold, penetrating light of morning. She sat upon a pillar's base, her eyes turned towards the cabmen's shelter. The horses munched in their nose-bags, and the pigeons came down from their roosts. She was dressed in an old black dress, her hands lay upon her knees, and the pose expressed so perfectly the despair and wretchedness in her soul that a young man in evening clothes, who had looked sharply at her as he passed, turned and came back to her, and he asked her if he could assist her. She answered, "Thank you, sir." He slipped a shilling into her hand. She was too broken-hearted to look up in his face, and he walked away wondering what was her story. The disordered red hair, the thin, freckled face, were expressive, and so too was the movement of her body when she got up and walked, not knowing and not caring where she was going. There was sensation of the river in her thoughts; the river drew her, and she indistinctly remembered that she would find relief there if she chose to accept that relief. The water was blue beneath the sunrise, and it seemed to offer to end her life's trouble. She could not go on living. She could not bear with her life any longer, and yet she knew that she would not drown herself that morning. There was not enough will in her to drown herself. She was merely half dead with grief. He had turned her out, he had said that he never wanted to see her again, but that was because he had been unlucky. She ought to have gone to bed and not waited up for him; he didn't know what he was doing; so long as he didn't care for another woman there was hope that he might come back to her. The spare trees rustled their leaves in the bright dawn air, and she sat down on a bench and watched the lamps going out, and the river changing from blue to brown. Hours passed, and the same thoughts came and went, until with sheer weariness of thinking she fell asleep. She was awakened by the policeman, and she once more continued her walk. The omnibuses had begun; women were coming from market with baskets on their arms; and she wondered if their lovers and husbands were unfaithful to them, if they would be received with blows or knocks when they returned. Her slightest mistakes had often, it seemed, merited a blow; and God knows she had striven to pick out the piece of bacon that she thought he would like, and it was not her fault that she couldn't get any money nowhere. Why was he cruel to her? He never would find another woman to care for him more than she did.... Esther had a good husband, Esther had always been lucky. Two hours more to wait, and she felt so tired, so tired. The milk-women were calling their ware--those lusty short-skirted women that bring an air of country into the meanest alley. She sat down on a doorstep and looked on the empty Haymarket, vaguely conscious of the low vice which still lingered there though the morning was advancing. She turned up Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the beginning of Dean Street she watched to see if the shutters were yet down. She thought they were, and then saw that she was mistaken. There was nothing to do but to wait, and on the steps of the Royalty Theatre she waited. The sun was shining, and she watched the cab horses, until the potboy came through and began cleaning the street lamp. She didn't care to ask him any questions; dressed as she was, he might answer her rudely. She wanted to see Esther first. Esther would pity and help her. So she did not go directly to the "King's Head," but went up the street a little way and came back. The boy's back was turned to her; she peeped through the doors. There was no one in the bar, she must go back to the steps of the theatre. A number of children were playing there, and they did not make way for her to sit down. She was too weary to argue the point, and walked up and down the street. When she looked through the doors a second time Esther was in the bar. "Is that you, Sarah?" "Yes, it is me." "Then come in.... How is it that we've not seen you all this time? What's the matter?" "I've been out all night. Bill put me out of doors this morning, and I've been walking about ever since." "Bill put you out of doors? I don't understand." "You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the race-course, the day we went to the Derby.... It began there. He took me home after your dinner at the 'Criterion.'... It has been going on ever since." "Good Lord! ...Tell me about it." Leaning against the partition that separated the bars, Sarah told how she had left her home and gone to live with him. "We got on pretty well at first, but the police was after him, and we made off to Belgium. There we was very hard up, and I had to go out on the streets." "He made you do that?" "He couldn't starve, could he?" The women looked at each other, and then Sarah continued her story. She told how they had come to London, penniless. "I think he wants to turn honest," she said, "but luck's been dead against him.... It's that difficult for one like him, and he's been in work, but he can't stick to it; and now I don't know what he's doing--no good, I fancy. Last night I got anxious and couldn't sleep, so I sat up. It was about two when he came in. We had a row and he dragged me downstairs and he put me out. He said he never wanted to see my ugly face again. I don't think I'm as bad as that; I've led a hard life, and am not what I used to be, but it was he who made me what I am. Oh, it don't matter now, it can't be helped, it is all over with me. I don't care what becomes of me, only I thought I'd like to come and tell you. We was always friends." "You mustn't give way like that, old girl. You must keep yer pecker up. You're dead beat.... You've been walking about all night, no wonder. You must come and have some breakfast with us." "I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never touches spirits now. I got over that." "Come into the parlour. You'll be better when you've had breakfast. We'll see what we can do for you." "Oh, Esther, not a word of what I've been telling you to your husband. I don't want to get Bill into trouble. He'd kill me. Promise me not to mention a word of it. I oughtn't to have told you. I was so tired that I didn't know what I was saying." There was plenty to eat--fried fish, a nice piece of steak, tea and coffee. "You seem to live pretty well," said Sarah, "It must be nice to have a servant of one's own. I suppose you're doing pretty well here." "Yes, pretty well, if it wasn't for William's health." "What's the matter? Ain't he well?" "He's been very poorly lately. It's very trying work going about from race-course to race-course, standing in the mud and wet all day long.... He caught a bad cold last winter and was laid up with inflammation of the lungs, and I don't think he ever quite got over it." "Don't he go no more to race meetings?" "He hasn't been to a race meeting since the beginning of the winter. It was one of them nasty steeplechase meetings that laid him up." "Do 'e drink?" "He's never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits don't suit him. He thought he could do what he liked, great strong-built fellow that he is, but he's found out his mistake." "He does his betting in London now, I suppose?" "Yes," said Esther, hesitating--"when he has any to do. I want him to give it up; but trade is bad in this neighbourhood, leastways, with us, and he don't think we could do without it." "It's very hard to keep it dark; some one's sure to crab it and bring the police down on you." Esther did not answer; the conversation paused, and William entered. "Halloa! is that you, Sarah? We didn't know what had become of you all this time." He noticed that she looked like one in trouble, and was very poorly dressed. She noticed that his cheeks were thinner than they used to be, and that his broad chest had sunk, and that there seemed to be strangely little space between it and his back. Then in brief phrases, interrupting each other frequently, the women told the story. William said-- "I knew he was a bad lot. I never liked to see him inside my bar." "I thought," said Esther, "that Sarah might remain here for a time." "I can't have that fellow coming round my place." "There's no fear of his coming after me. He don't want to see my ugly face again. Well, let him try to find some one who will do for him all I have done." "Until she gets a situation," said Esther. "I think that'll be the best, for you to stop here until you get a situation." "And what about a character?" "You needn't say much about what you've been doing this last twelve months; if many questions are asked, you can say you've been stopping with us. But you mustn't see that brute again. If he ever comes into that 'ere bar, I'll give him a piece of my mind. I'd give him more than a piece of my mind if I was the man I was a twelvemonth ago." William coughed, and Esther looked at him anxiously. XXXV Lacking a parlour on the ground floor for the use of special customers, William had arranged a room upstairs where they could smoke and drink. There were tables in front of the windows and chairs against the walls, and in the middle of the room a bagatelle board. When William left off going to race-courses he had intended to refrain from taking money across the bar and to do all his betting business in this room. He thought that it would be safer. But as his customers multiplied he found that he could not ask them all upstairs; it attracted more attention than to take the money quietly across the bar. Nevertheless the room upstairs had proved a success. A man spent more money if he had a room where he could sit quietly among his friends than he would seated on a high stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about; so it had come to be considered a sort of club room; and a large part of the neighbourhood came there to read the papers, to hear and discuss the news. And specially useful it had proved to Journeyman and Stack. Neither was now in employment; they were now professional backers; and from daylight to dark they wandered from public-house to public-house, from tobacconist to barber's shop, in the search of tips, on the quest of stable information regarding the health of the horses and their trials. But the room upstairs at the "King's Head" was the centre of their operations. Stack was the indefatigable tipster, Journeyman was the scientific student of public form. His memory was prodigious, and it enabled him to note an advantage in the weights which would escape an ordinary observer. He often picked out horses which, if they did not actually win, nearly always stood at a short price in the betting before the race. The "King's Head" was crowded during the dinner-hour. Barbers and their assistants, cabmen, scene-shifters, if there was an afternoon performance at the theatre, servants out of situation and servants escaped from their service for an hour, petty shopkeepers, the many who grow weary of the scant livelihood that work brings them, came there. Eleven o'clock! In another hour the bar and the room upstairs would be crowded. At present the room was empty, and Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet time to do a bit of work at his handicap. All the racing of the last three years lay within his mind's range; he recalled at will every trifling selling race; hardly ever was he obliged to refer to the Racing Calendar. Wanderer had beaten Brick at ten pounds. Snow Queen had beaten Shoemaker at four pounds, and Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. The problem was further complicated by the suspicion that Brick could get a distance of ground better than Snow Queen. Journeyman was undecided. He stroked his short brown moustache with his thin, hairy hand, and gnawed the end of his pen. In this moment of barren reflection Stack came into the room. "Still at yer 'andicap, I see," said Stack. "How does it work out?" "Pretty well," said Journeyman. "But I don't think it will be one of my best; there is some pretty hard nuts to crack." "Which are they?" said Stack. Journeyman brightened up, and he proceeded to lay before Stack's intelligence what he termed a "knotty point in collateral running." Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged, Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distributions of weight which he said seemed to him difficult to beat. "Anyone what knows the running would say there wasn't a pin to choose between them at the weights. If this was the real 'andicap, I'd bet drinks all around that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that's more than anyone will be able to say for Courtney's 'andicap. The weights will be out to-morrow; we shall see." "What do you say to 'alf a pint," said Stack, "and we'll go steadily through your 'andicap? You've nothing to do for the next 'alf-hour." Journeyman's dingy face lit up. When the potboy appeared in answer to the bell he was told to bring up two half-pints, and Journeyman read out the weights. Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons for what might seem to be superficial, an unmerited severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; he had often been made to feel that his handicapping was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much pleasure, that Stack's attention seemed to increase rather than to diminish as he approached the end. When he had finished Stack said, "I see you've given six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell me why you did that?" "He was a good 'orse once; he's broken down and aged; he can't be trained, so six-seven seems just the kind of weight to throw him in at. You couldn't give him less, however old and broken down he may be. He was a good horse when he won the Great Ebor Grand Cup." "Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit and well as he was the day he won the Ebor that he'd win?" "What, fit and well as he was when he won the Great Ebor, and with six-seven on his back? He'd walk away with it." "You don't think any of the three-year-olds would have a chance with him? A Derby winner with seven stone on his back might beat him." "Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old Ben would make a race of it. A nailing good horse once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, as compact as a leg of Welsh mutton.... But there's no use in thinking of him. They've been trying for years to train him. Didn't they used to get the flesh off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton's notion. He used to say that it didn't matter 'ow you got the flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post limp as old rags. If a 'orse 'asn't the legs you can't train him. Every pound of flesh yer take off must put a pound 'o 'ealth on. They'll do no good with old Ben, unless they've found out a way of growing on him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won't do for my money." "But do you think that Courtney will take the same view of his capabilities as you do--do you think he'll let him off as easily as you have?" "He can't give him much more.... The 'orse is bound to get in at seven stone, rather under than over." "I'm glad to 'ear yer say so, for I know you've a headpiece, and 'as all the running in there." Stack tapped his forehead. "Now, I'd like to ask you if there's any three-year-olds that would be likely to interfere with him?" "Derby and Leger winners will get from eight stone to eight stone ten, and three-year-olds ain't no good over the Cesarewitch course with more than eight on their backs." The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack's silence, Journeyman said-- "Is there anything up? Have you heard anything particular about old Ben?" Stack bent forward. "Yes, I've heard something, and I'm making inquiries." "How did you hear it?" Stack drew his chair a little closer. "I've been up at Chalk Farm, the 'Yarborough Arms'; you know, where the 'buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of business up there. He pays the landlord's rent for the use of the bar--Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the biggest part of the business. They say he's taken as much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he's an ounce. He's a warm 'un, can put it on thick." "I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; he has the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know him. I've heard that he 'as moved up that way. Used at one time to keep a tobacconist's shop in Great Portland Street." "That's him," said Stack. "I thought you'd heard of him." "There ain't many about that I've not heard of. Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I knew--she wouldn't hear his name mentioned. But he lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade." "'As a nice 'ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. I've seen her with him at Kempton." "You was up there this morning?" "Yes." "It wasn't Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?" "Not likely." The men laughed, and then Stack said-- "You know Bill Evans? You've seen him here, always wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat; a dark, stout, good-looking fellow; generally had something to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with for a trifle." "Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah Tucker, a friend of the missis, was dead gone on him." "Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, and now, I believe, they're together again; they was seen out walking. They're friends, anyhow. Bill has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, but one of them sort often hears of a good thing." "So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it." "Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from Eastbourne, where he 'as been about on the Downs a great deal. I don't know if it was the horses he was after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard from a shepherd that Ben Jonson was doing seven hours' walking exercise a day. This seemed to have fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise do seem a bit odd, and being at the same time after one of the servants in the training stable--as pretty a bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Bill says--he thought he'd make an inquiry or two about all this walking exercise. One of the lads in the stable is after the girl, too, so Bill found out very soon all he wanted to know. As you says, the 'orse is dicky on 'is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exercise." "And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post and win the Cesarewitch with him by walking him all day?" "I don't say they don't gallop him at all; they do gallop him, but not as much as if his legs was all right." "That won't do. I don't believe in a 'orse winning the Cesarewitch that ain't got four sound legs, and old Ben ain't got more than two." "He's had a long rest, and they say he is sounder than ever he was since he won the Great Ebor. They don't say he'd stand no galloping, but they don't want to gallop him more than's absolutely necessary on account of the suspensory ligament; it ain't the back sinew, but the suspensory ligament. Their theory is this, that it don't so much matter about bringing him quite fit to the post, for he's sure to stay the course; he'd do that three times over. What they say is this, that if he gets in with seven stone, and we brings him well and three parts trained, there ain't no 'orse in England that can stand up before him. They've got another in the race, Laurel Leaf, to make the running for him; it can't be too strong for old Ben. You say to yourself that he may get let off with six-seven. If he do there'll be tons of money on him. He'll be backed at the post at five to one. Before the weights come out they'll lay a hundred to one on the field in any of the big clubs. I wouldn't mind putting a quid on him if you'll join me." "Better wait until the weights come out," said Journeyman, "for if it happened to come to Courtney's ears that old Ben could be trained he'd clap seven-ten on him without a moment's hesitation." "You think so?" said Stack. "I do," said Journeyman. "But you agree with me that if he got let off with anything less than seven stone, and be brought fit, or thereabouts, to the post, that the race is a moral certainty for him?" "A thousand to a brass farthing." "Mind, not a word." "Is it likely?" The conversation paused a moment, and Journeyman said, "You've not seen my 'andicap for the Cambridgeshire. I wonder what you'd think of that?" Stack said he would be glad to see it another time, and suggested that they go downstairs. "I'm afraid the police is in," said Stack, when he opened the door. "Then we'd better stop where we are; I don't want to be took to the station." They listened for some moments, holding the door ajar. "It ain't the police," said Stack, "but a row about some bet. Latch had better be careful." The cause of the uproar was a tall young English workman, whose beard was pale gold, and whose teeth were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tied round his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with drink, and his comrades strove to quieten him. "Leave me alone," he exclaimed; "the bet was ten half-crowns to one. I won't stand being welshed." William's face flushed up. "Welshed!" he said. "No one speaks in this bar of welshing." He would have sprung over the counter, but Esther held him back. "I know what I'm talking about; you let me alone," said the young workman, and he struggled out of the hands of his friends. "The bet was ten half-crowns to one." "Don't mind what he says, guv'nor." "Don't mind what I says!" For a moment it seemed as if the friends were about to come to blows, but the young man's perceptions suddenly clouded, and he said, "In this blo-ody bar last Monday... horse backed in Tattersall's at twelve to one taken and offered." "He don't know what he's talking about; but no one must accuse me of welshing in this 'ere bar." "No offence, guv'nor; mistakes will occur." William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy upstairs for Monday's paper. He pointed out that eight to one was being asked for about the horse on Monday afternoon at Tattersall's. The stage door-keeper and a scene-shifter had just come over from the theatre, and had managed to force their way into the jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles had been selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, but the disputed bet had caused the company to forget their glasses. "Just one more drink," said the young man. "Take the ten half-crowns out in drinks, guv'nor, that's good enough. What do you say, guv'nor?" "What, ten half-crowns?" William answered angrily. "Haven't I shown you that the 'orse was backed at Tattersall's the day you made the bet at eight to one?" "Ten to one, guv'nor." "I've not time to go on talking.... You're interfering with my business. You must get out of my bar." "Who'll put me out?" "Charles, go and fetch a policeman." At the word "policeman" the young man seemed to recover his wits somewhat, and he answered, "You'll bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman! and what about your blooming betting--what will become of it?" William looked round to see if there was any in the bar whom he could not trust. He knew everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. There was but one thing to do, and that was to put on a bold face and trust to luck. "Now out you go," he said, springing over the counter, "and never you set your face inside my bar again." Charles followed the guv'nor over the counter like lightning, and the drunkard was forced into the street. "He don't mean no 'arm," said one of the friends; "he'll come round to-morrow and apologise for what he's said." "I don't want his apology," said William. "No one shall call me a welsher in my bar.... Take your friend away, and never let me see him in my bar again." Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized with a fit of coughing, and this great strong man leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Esther led him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the customers. His hand trembled like a leaf, and she sat by his side holding it. Mr. Blamy came in to ask if he should lay one of the young gentlemen from the tutor's thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther said that William could attend to no more customers that day. Mr. Blamy returned ten minutes after to say that there was quite a number of people in the bar; should he refuse to take their money? "Do you know them all?" said William. "I think so, guv'nor." "Be careful to bet with no one you don't know; but I'm so bad I can hardly speak." "Much better send them away," said Esther. "Then they'll go somewhere else." "It won't matter; they'll come back to where they're sure of their money." "I'm not so sure of that," William answered, feebly. "I think it will be all right, Teddy; you'll be very careful." "Yes, guv'nor, I'll keep down the price." XXXVI One afternoon Fred Parsons came into the bar of the "King's Head." He wore the cap and jersey of the Salvation Army; he was now Captain Parsons. The bars were empty. It was a time when business was slackest. The morning's betting was over; the crowd had dispersed, and would not collect again until the _Evening Standard_ had come in. William had gone for a walk. Esther and the potboy were alone in the house. The potman was at work in the backyard, Esther was sewing in the parlour. Hearing steps, she went into the bar. Fred looked at her abashed, he was a little perplexed. He said-- "Is your husband in? I should like to speak to him." "No, my husband is out. I don't expect him back for an hour or so. Can I give him any message?" She was on the point of asking him how he was. But there was something so harsh and formal in his tone and manner that she refrained. But the idea in her mind must have expressed itself in her face, for suddenly his manner softened. He drew a deep breath, and passed his hand across his forehead. Then, putting aside the involuntary thought, he said-- "Perhaps it will come through you as well as any other way. I had intended to speak to him, but I can explain the matter better to you.... It is about the betting that is being carried on here. We mean to put a stop to it. That's what I came to tell him. It must be put a stop to. No right-minded person--it cannot be allowed to go on." Esther said nothing; not a change of expression came upon her grave face. Fred was agitated. The words stuck in his throat, and his hands were restless. Esther raised her calm eyes, and looked at him. His eyes were pale, restless eyes. "I've come to warn you," he said, "that the law will be set in motion.... It is very painful for me, but something must be done. The whole neighbourhood is devoured by it." Esther did not answer, and he said, "Why don't you answer, Esther?" "What is there for me to answer? You tell me that you are going to get up a prosecution against us. I can't prevent you. I'll tell my husband what you say." "This is a very serious matter, Esther." He had come into command of his voice, and he spoke with earnest determination. "If we get a conviction against you for keeping a betting-house, you will not only be heavily fined, but you will also lose your licence. All we ask is that the betting shall cease. No," he said, interrupting, "don't deny anything; it is quite useless, we know everything. The whole neighbourhood is demoralized by this betting; nothing is thought of but tips; the day's racing--that is all they think about--the evening papers, and the latest information. You do not know what harm you're doing. Every day we hear of some new misfortune--a home broken up, the mother in the workhouse, the daughter on the streets, the father in prison, and all on account of this betting. Oh, Esther, it is horrible; think of the harm you're doing." Fred Parsons' high, round forehead, his weak eyes, his whole face, was expressive of fear and hatred of the evil which a falsetto voice denounced with much energy. Suddenly he seemed to grow nervous and perplexed. Esther was looking at him, and he said, "You don't answer, Esther?" "What would you have me answer?" "You used to be a good, religious woman. Do you remember how we used to speak when we used to go for walks together, when you were in service in the Avondale road? I remember you agreeing with me that much good could be done by those who were determined to do it. You seem to have changed very much since those days." For a moment Esther seemed affected by these remembrances. Then she said in a low, musical voice-- "No, I've not changed, Fred, but things has turned out different. One doesn't do the good that one would like to in the world; one has to do the good that comes to one to do. I've my husband and my boy to look to. Them's my good. At least, that's how I sees things." Fred looked at Esther, and his eyes expressed all the admiration and love that he felt for her character. "One owes a great deal," he said, "to those who are near to one, but not everything; even for their sakes one should not do wrong to others, and you must see that you are doing a great wrong to your fellow-creatures by keeping on this betting. Public-houses are bad enough, but when it comes to gambling as well as drink, there's nothing for us to do but to put the law in motion. Look you, Esther, there isn't a shop-boy earning eighteen shillings a week that hasn't been round here to put his half-crown on some horse. This house is the immoral centre of the neighbourhood. No one's money is refused. The boy that pawned his father's watch to back a horse went to the 'King's Head' to put his money on. His father forgave him again and again. Then the boy stole from the lodgers. There was an old woman of seventy-five who got nine shillings a week for looking after some offices; he had half-a-crown off her. Then the father told the magistrate that he could do nothing with him since he had taken to betting on horse-races. The boy is fourteen. Is it not shocking? It cannot be allowed to go on. We have determined to put a stop to it. That's what I came to tell your husband." "Are you sure," said Esther, and she bit her lips while she spoke, "that it is entirely for the neighbourhood that you want to get up the prosecution?" "You don't think there's any other reason, Esther? You surely don't think that I'm doing this because--because he took you away from me?" Esther didn't answer. And then Fred said, and there was pain and pathos in his voice, "I am sorry you think this of me; I'm not getting up the prosecution. I couldn't prevent the law being put in motion against you even if I wanted to.... I only know that it is going to be put in motion, so for the sake of old times I would save you from harm if I could. I came round to tell you if you did not put a stop to the betting you'd get into trouble. I have no right to do what I have done, but I'd do anything to save you and yours from harm." "I am sorry for what I said. It was very good of you." "We have not any proofs as yet; we know, of course, all about the betting, but we must have sworn testimony before the law can be set in motion, so you'll be quite safe if you can persuade your husband to give it up." Esther did not answer. "It is entirely on account of the friendship I feel for you that made me come to warn you of the danger. You don't bear me any ill-will, Esther, I hope?" "No, Fred, I don't. I think I understand." The conversation paused again. "I suppose we have said everything." Esther turned her face from him. Fred looked at her, and though her eyes were averted from him she could see that he loved her. In another moment he was gone. In her plain and ignorant way she thought on the romance of destiny. For if she had married Fred her life would have been quite different. She would have led the life that she wished to lead, but she had married William and--well, she must do the best she could. If Fred, or Fred's friends, got the police to prosecute them for betting, they would, as he said, not only have to pay a heavy fine, but would probably lose their licence. Then what would they do? William had not health to go about from race-course to race-course as he used to. He had lost a lot of money in the last six months; Jack was at school--they must think of Jack. The thought of their danger lay on her heart all that evening. But she had had no opportunity of speaking to William alone, she had to wait until they were in their room. Then, as she untied the strings of her petticoats, she said-- "I had a visit from Fred Parsons this afternoon." "That's the fellow you were engaged to marry. Is he after you still?" "No, he came to speak to me about the betting." "About the betting--what is it to do with him?" "He says that if it isn't stopped that we shall be prosecuted." "So he came here to tell you that, did he? I wish I had been in the bar." "I'm glad you wasn't. What good could you have done? To have a row and make things worse!" William lit his pipe and unlaced his boots. Esther slipped on her night-dress and got into a large brass bedstead, without curtains. On the chest of drawers Esther had placed the books her mother had given her, and William had hung some sporting prints on the walls. He took his night-shirt from the pillow and put it on without removing his pipe from his mouth. He always finished his pipe in bed. "It is revenge," he said, pulling the bed-clothes up to his chin, "because I got you away from him." "I don't think it is that; I did think so at first, and I said so." "What did he say?" "He said he was sorry I thought so badly of him; that he came to warn us of our danger. If he had wanted to do us an injury he wouldn't have said nothing about it. Don't you think so?" "It seems reasonable. Then what do you think they're doing it for?" "He says that keeping a betting-house is corruption in the neighbourhood." "You think he thinks that?" "I know he do; and there is many like him. I come of them that thinks like that, so I know. Betting and drink is what my folk, the Brethren, holds as most evil." "But you've forgot all about them Brethren?" "No, one never forgets what one's brought up in." "But what do you think now?" "I've never said nothing about it. I don't believe in a wife interfering with her husband; and business was that bad, and your 'ealth 'asn't been the same since them colds you caught standing about in them betting rings, so I don't see how you could help it. But now that business is beginning to come back to us, it might be as well to give up the betting." "It is the betting that brings the business; we shouldn't take five pounds a week was it not for the betting. What's the difference between betting on the course and betting in the bar? No one says nothing against it on the course; the police is there, and they goes after the welshers and persecutes them. Then the betting that's done at Tattersall's and the Albert Club, what is the difference? The Stock Exchange, too, where thousands and thousands is betted every day. It is the old story--one law for the rich and another for the poor. Why shouldn't the poor man 'ave his 'alf-crown's worth of excitement? The rich man can have his thousand pounds' worth whenever he pleases. The same with the public 'ouses--there's a lot of hypocritical folk that is for docking the poor man of his beer, but there's no one that's for interfering with them that drink champagne in the clubs. It's all bloody rot, and it makes me sick when I think of it. Them hypocritical folk. Betting! Isn't everything betting? How can they put down betting? Hasn't it been going on since the world began? Rot, says I! They can just ruin a poor devil like me, and that's about all. We are ruined, and the rich goes scot-free. Hypocritical, mealy-mouthed lot. 'Let's say our prayers and sand the sugar'; that's about it. I hate them that is always prating out religion. When I hears too much religion going about I says now's the time to look into their accounts." William leaned out of bed to light his pipe from the candle on the night-table. "There's good people in the world, people that never thinks but of doing good, and do not live for pleasure." "'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,' Esther. Their only pleasure is a bet. When they've one on they've something to look forward to; whether they win or lose they 'as their money's worth. You know what I say is true; you've seen them, how they look forward to the evening paper to see how the 'oss is going on in betting. Man can't live without hope. It is their only hope, and I says no one has a right to take it from them." "What about their poor wives? Very little good their betting is to them. It's all very well to talk like that, William, but you know, and you can't say you don't, that a great deal of mischief comes of betting; you know that once they think of it and nothing else, they neglect their work. There's Stack, he's lost his place as porter; there's Journeyman, too, he's out of work." "And a good thing for them; they've done a great deal better since they chucked it." "For the time, maybe; but who says it will go on? Look at old John; he's going about in rags; and his poor wife, she was in here the other night, a terrible life she's 'ad of it. You says that no 'arm comes of it. What about that boy that was 'ad up the other day, and said that it was all through betting? He began by pawning his father's watch. It was here that he made the first bet. You won't tell me that it is right to bet with bits of boys like that." "The horse he backed with me won." "So much the worse.... The boy'll never do another honest day's work as long as he lives.... When they win, they 'as a drink for luck; when they loses, they 'as a drink to cheer them up." "I'm afraid, Esther, you ought to have married the other chap. He'd have given you the life that you'd have been happy in. This public-'ouse ain't suited to you." Esther turned round and her eyes met her husband's. There was a strange remoteness in his look, and they seemed very far from each other. "I was brought up to think so differently," she said, her thoughts going back to her early years in the little southern seaside home. "I suppose this betting and drinking will always seem to me sinful and wicked. I should 'ave liked quite a different kind of life, but we don't choose our lives, we just makes the best of them. You was the father of my child, and it all dates from that." "I suppose it do." William lay on his back, and blew the smoke swiftly from his mouth. "If you smoke much more we shan't be able to breathe in this room." "I won't smoke no more. Shall I blow the candle out?" "Yes, if you like." When the room was in darkness, just before they settled their faces on the pillow for sleep, William said-- "It was good of that fellow to come and warn us. I must be very careful for the future with whom I bet." XXXVII On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had intended to go to East Dulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. But as she closed the door behind her, she saw Sarah coming up the street. "Ah, I see you're going out." "It don't matter; won't you come in, if it's only for a minute?" "No, thank you, I won't keep you. But which way are you going? We might go a little way together." They walked down Waterloo Place and along Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Square there was a demonstration, and Sarah lingered in the crowd so long that when they arrived at Charing Cross, Esther found that she could not get to Ludgate Hill in time to catch her train, so they went into the Embankment Gardens. It had been raining, and the women wiped the seats with their handkerchiefs before sitting down. There was no fashion to interest them, and the band sounded foolish in the void of the grey London Sunday. Sarah's chatter was equally irrelevant, and Esther wondered how Sarah could talk so much about nothing, and regretted her visit to East Dulwich more and more. Suddenly Bill's name came into the conversation. "But I thought you didn't see him any more; you promised us you wouldn't." "I couldn't help it.... It was quite an accident. One day, coming back from church with Annie--that's the new housemaid--he came up and spoke to us." "What did he say?" "He said, 'How are ye?... Who'd thought of meeting you!'" "And what did you say?" "I said I didn't want to have nothing to do with him. Annie walked on, and then he said he was very sorry, that it was bad luck that drove him to it." "And you believed him?" "I daresay it is very foolish of me. But one can't help oneself. Did you ever really care for a man?" And without waiting for an answer, Sarah continued her babbling chatter. She had asked him not to come after her; she thought he was sorry for what he had done. She mentioned incidentally that he had been away in the country and had come back with very particular information regarding a certain horse for the Cesarewitch. If the horse won he'd be all right. At last Esther's patience was tired out. "It must be getting late," she said, looking towards where the sun was setting. The river rippled, and the edges of the warehouses had perceptibly softened; a wind, too, had come up with the tide, and the women shivered as they passed under the arch of Waterloo Bridge. They ascended a flight of high steps and walked through a passage into the Strand. "I was miserable enough with him; we used to have hardly anything to eat; but I'm more miserable away from him. Esther, I know you'll laugh at me, but I'm that heart-broken... I can't live without him... I'd do anything for him." "He isn't worth it." "That don't make no difference. You don't know what love is; a woman who hasn't loved a man who don't love her, don't. We used to live near here. Do you mind coming up Drury Lane? I should like to show you the house." "I'm afraid it will be out of our way." "No, it won't. Round by the church and up Newcastle Street.... Look, there's a shop we used to go to sometimes. I've eaten many a good sausage and onions in there, and that's a pub where we often used to go for a drink." The courts and alleys had vomited their population into the Lane. Fat girls clad in shawls sat around the slum opening nursing their babies. Old women crouched in decrepit doorways, fumbling their aprons; skipping ropes whirled in the roadway. A little higher up a vendor of cheap ices had set up his store and was rapidly absorbing all the pennies of the neighborhood. Esther and Sarah turned into a dilapidated court, where a hag argued the price of trotters with a family leaning one over the other out of a second-floor window. This was the block in which Sarah had lived. A space had been cleared by the builder, and the other side was shut in by the great wall of the old theatre. "That's where we used to live," said Sarah, pointing up to the third floor. "I fancy our house will soon come down. When I see the old place it all comes back to me. I remember pawning a dress over the way in the lane; they would only lend me a shilling on it. And you see that shop--the shutters is up, it being Sunday; it is a sort of butcher's, cheap meat, livers and lights, trotters, and such-like. I bought a bullock's heart there, and stewed it down with some potatoes; we did enjoy it, I can tell you." Sarah talked so eagerly of herself that Esther had not the heart to interrupt her. They made their way out into Catherine Street, and then to Endell Street, and then going round to St. Giles' Church, they plunged into the labyrinth of Soho. "I'm afraid I'm tiring you. I don't see what interest all this can be to you." "We've known each other a long time." Sarah looked at her, and then, unable to resist the temptation, she continued her narrative--Bill had said this, she had said that. She rattled on, until they came to the corner of Old Compton Street. Esther, who was a little tired of her, held out her hand. "I suppose you must be getting back; would you like a drop of something?" "It is going on for seven o'clock; but since you're that kind I think I'd like a glass of beer." "Do you listen much to the betting talk here of an evening?" Sarah asked, as she was leaving. "I don't pay much attention, but I can't help hearing a good deal." "Do they talk much about Ben Jonson for the Cesarewitch?" "They do, indeed; he's all the go." Sarah's face brightened perceptibly, and Esther said-- "Have you backed him?' "Only a trifle; half-a-crown that a friend put me on. Do they say he'll win?" "They say that if he don't break down he'll win by 'alf a mile; it all depends on his leg." "Is he coming on in the betting?" "Yes, I believe they're now taking 12 to 1 about him. But I'll ask William, if you like." "No, no, I only wanted to know if you'd heard anything new." XXXVIII During the next fortnight Sarah came several times to the "King's Head." She came in about nine in the evening, and stayed for half-an-hour or more. The ostensible object of her visit was to see Esther, but she declined to come into the private bar, where they would have chatted comfortably, and remained in the public bar listening to the men's conversation, listening and nodding while old John explained the horse's staying power to her. On the following evening all her interest was in Ketley. She wanted to know if anything had happened that might be considered as an omen. She said she had dreamed about the race, but her dream was only a lot of foolish rubbish without head or tail. Ketley argued earnestly against this view of a serious subject, and in the hope of convincing her of her error offered to walk as far as Oxford Street with her and put her into her 'bus. But on the following evening all her interest was centered in Mr. Journeyman, who declared that he could prove that according to the weight it seemed to him to look more and more like a certainty. He had let the horse in at six stone ten pounds, the official handicapper had only given him six stone seven pounds. "They is a-sending of him along this week, and if the leg don't go it is a hundred pound to a brass farthing on the old horse." "How many times will they gallop him?" Sarah asked. "He goes a mile and a 'arf every day now.... The day after to-morrow they'll try him, just to see that he hasn't lost his turn of speed, and if he don't break down in the trial you can take it from me that it will be all right." "When will you know the result of the trial?" "I expect a letter on Friday morning," said Stack. "If you come in in the evening I'll let you know about it." "Thank you very much, Mr. Stack. I must be getting home now." "I'm going your way, Miss Tucker.... If you like, we'll go together, and I'll tell you," he whispered, "all about the 'orse." When they had left the bar the conversation turned on racing as an occupation for women. "Fancy my wife making a book on the course. I bet she'd overlay it and then turn round and back the favourite at a shorter price than she'd been laying." "I don't know that we should be any foolisher than you," said Esther; "don't you never go and overlay your book? What about Syntax and the 'orse you told me about last week?" William had been heavily hit last week through overlaying his book against a horse he didn't believe in, and the whole bar joined in the laugh against him. "I don't say nothing about bookmaking," said Journeyman; "but there's a great many women nowadays who is mighty sharp at spotting a 'orse that the handicapper had let in pretty easy." "This one," said Ketley, jerking his thumb in the direction that Stack and Sarah had gone, "seems to 'ave got hold of something." "We must ask Stack when he comes back," and Journeyman winked at William. "Women do get that excited over trifles," old John remarked, sarcastically. "She ain't got above 'alf-a-crown on the 'orse, if that. She don't care about the 'orse or the race--no woman ever did; it's all about some sweetheart that's been piling it on." "I wonder if you're right," said Esther, reflectively. "I never knew her before to take such an interest in a horse-race." On the day of the race Sarah came into the private bar about three o'clock. The news was not yet in. "Wouldn't you like to step into the parlour; you'll be more comfortable?" said Esther. "No thank you, dear; it is not worth while. I thought I'd like to know which won, that's all." "Have you much on?" "No, five shillings altogether.... But a friend of mine stands to win a good bit. I see you've got a new dress, dear. When did you get it?" "I've had the stuff by me some time. I only had it made up last month. Do you like it?" Sarah answered that she thought it very pretty. But Esther could see that she was thinking of something quite different. "The race is over now. It's run at half-past two." "Yes, but they're never quite punctual; there may be a delay at the post." "I see you know all about it." "One never hears of anything else." Esther asked Sarah when her people came back to town, and was surprised at the change of expression that the question brought to her friend's face. "They're expected back to-morrow," she said. "Why do you ask?" "Oh, nothing; something to say, that's all." The conversation paused, and the two women looked at each other. At that moment a voice coming rapidly towards them was heard calling, "Win-ner, win-ner!" "I'll send out for the paper," said Esther. "No, no... Suppose he shouldn't have won?" "Well, it won't make any difference." "Oh, Esther, no; some one will come in and tell us. The race can't be over yet; it is a long race, and takes some time to run." By this time the boy was far away, and fainter and fainter the terrible word, "Win-ner, win-ner, win-ner." "It's too late now," said Sarah; "some one'll come in presently and tell us about it.... I daresay it ain't the paper at all. Them boys cries out anything that will sell." "Win-ner, win-ner." The voice was coming towards them. "If he has won, Bill and I is to marry.... Somehow I feel as if he hasn't." "Win-ner." "We shall soon know." Esther took a halfpenny from the till. "Don't you think we'd better wait? It can't be printed in the papers, not the true account, and if it was wrong--" Esther didn't answer; she gave Charles the halfpenny; he went out, and in a few minutes came back with the paper in his hand. "Tornado first, Ben Jonson second, Woodcraft third," he read out. "That's a good thing for the guv'nor. There was very few what backed Tornado.... He's only lost some place-money." "So he was only second," said Sarah, turning deadly pale. "They said he was certain to win." "I hope you've not lost much," said Esther. "It wasn't with William that you backed him." "No, it wasn't with William. I only had a few shillings on. It don't matter. Let me have a drink." "What will you have?" "Some whisky." Sarah drank it neat. Esther looked at her doubtfully. The bars would be empty for the next two hours; Esther wished to utilize this time; she had some shopping to do, and asked Sarah to come with her. But Sarah complained of being tired, and said she would see her when she came back. Esther went out a little perplexed. She was detained longer than she expected, and when she returned Sarah was staggering about in the bar-room, asking Charles for one more drink. "All bloody rot; who says I'm drunk? I ain't... look at me. The 'orse did not win, did he? I say he did; papers all so much bloody rot." "Oh, Sarah, what is this?" "Who's this? Leave go, I say." "Mr. Stack, won't you ask her to come upstairs?... Don't encourage her." "Upstairs? I'm a free woman. I don't want to go upstairs. I'm a free woman; tell me," she said, balancing herself with difficulty and staring at Esther with dull, fishy eyes, "tell me if I'm not a free woman? What do I want upstairs for?" "Oh, Sarah, come upstairs and lie down. Don't go out." "I'm going home. Hands off, hands off!" she said, slapping Esther's hands from her arm. "'For every one was drunk last night, And drunk the night before; And if we don't get drunk to-night, We don't get drunk no more. (Chorus.) "'Now you will have a drink with me, And I will drink with you; For we're the very rowdiest lot Of the rowdy Irish crew.' "That's what we used to sing in the Lane, yer know; should 'ave seen the coster gals with their feathers, dancing and clinking their pewters. Rippin Day, Bank 'oliday, Epping, under the trees--'ow they did romp, them gals! "'We all was roaring drunk last night, And drunk the night before; And if we don't get drunk to-night, We won't get drunk no more.' "Girls and boys, you know, all together." "Sarah, listen to me." "Listen! Come and have a drink, old gal, just another drink." She staggered up to the counter. "One more, just for luck; do yer 'ear?" Before Charles could stop her she had seized the whisky that had just been served. "That's my whisky," exclaimed Journeyman. He made a rapid movement, but was too late. Sarah had drained the glass and stood vacantly looking into space. Journeyman seemed so disconcerted at the loss of his whisky that every one laughed. A few moments after Sarah staggered forward and fell insensible into his arms. He and Esther carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed in the spare room. "She'll be precious bad to-morrow," said Journeyman. "I don't know how you could have gone on helping her," Esther said to Charles when she got inside the bar; and she seemed so pained that out of deference to her feelings the subject was dropped out of the conversation. Esther felt that something shocking had happened. Sarah had deliberately got drunk. She would not have done that unless she had some great trouble on her mind. William, too, was of this opinion. Something serious must have happened. As they went up to their room Esther said-- "It is all the fault of this betting. The neighbourhood is completely ruined. They're losing their 'omes and their furniture, and you'll bear the blame of it." "It do make me so wild to hear you talkin' that way, Esther. People will bet, you can't stop them. I lays fair prices, and they're sure of their money. Yet you says they're losin' their furniture, and that I shall have to bear the blame." When they got to the top of the stairs she said-- "I must go and see how Sarah is." "Where am I? What's happened?... Take that candle out of my eyes.... Oh, my head is that painful." She fell back on the pillow, and Esther thought she had gone to sleep again. But she opened her eyes. "Where am I? ...That's you, Esther?" "Yes. Can't you remember?" "No, I can't. I remember that the 'orse didn't win, but don't remember nothing after.... I got drunk, didn't I? It feels like it." "The 'orse didn't win, and then you took too much. It's very foolish of you to give way." "Give way! Drunk, what matter? I'm done for." "Did you lose much?" "It wasn't what I lost, it was what I took. I gave Bill the plate to pledge; it's all gone, and master and missis coming back tomorrow. Don't talk about it. I got drunk so that I shouldn't think of it." "Oh, Sarah, I didn't think it was as bad as that. You must tell me all about it." "I don't want to think about it. They'll come soon enough to take me away. Besides, I cannot remember nothing now. My mouth's that awful--Give me a drink. Never mind the glass, give me the water-bottle." She drank ravenously, and seemed to recover a little. Esther pressed her to tell her about the pledged plate. "You know that I'm your friend. You'd better tell me. I want to help you out of this scrape." "No one can help me now, I'm done for. Let them come and take me. I'll go with them. I shan't say nothing." "How much is it in for? Don't cry like that," Esther said, and she took out her handkerchief and wiped Sarah's eyes. "How much is it in for? Perhaps I can get my husband to lend me the money to get it out." "It's no use trying to help me.... Esther, I can't talk about it now; I shall go mad if I do." "Tell me how much you got on it." "Thirty pounds." It took a long time to undress her. Every now and then she made an effort, and another article of clothing was got off. When Esther returned to her room William was asleep, and Esther took him by the shoulder. "It is more serious than I thought," she shouted. "I want to tell you about it." "What about it?" he said, opening his eyes. "She has pledged the plate for thirty pounds to back that 'orse." "What 'orse?" "Ben Jonson." "He broke down at the bushes. If he hadn't I should have been broke up. The whole neighbourhood was on him. So she pledged the plate to back him. She didn't do that to back him herself. Some one must have put her up to it." "Yes, it was Bill Evans." "Ah, that blackguard put her up to it. I thought she'd left him for good. She promised us that she'd never speak to him again." "You see, she was that fond of him that she couldn't help herself. There's many that can't." "How much did they get on the plate?" "Thirty pounds." William blew a long whistle. Then, starting up in the bed, he said, "She can't stop here. If it comes out that it was through betting, it won't do this house any good. We're already suspected. There's that old sweetheart of yours, the Salvation cove, on the lookout for evidence of betting being carried on." "She'll go away in the morning. But I thought that you might lend her the money to get the plate out." "What! thirty pounds?" "It's a deal of money, I know; but I thought that you might be able to manage it. You've been lucky over this race." "Yes, but think of all I've lost this summer. This is the first bit of luck I've had for a long while." "I thought you might be able to manage it." Esther stood by the bedside, her knee leaned against the edge. She seemed to him at that moment as the best woman in the world, and he said-- "Thirty pounds is no more to me than two-pence-halfpenny if you wish it, Esther." "I haven't been an extravagant wife, have I?" she said, getting into bed and taking him in her arms. "I never asked you for money before. She's my friend--she's yours too--we've known her all our lives. We can't see her go to prison, can we, Bill, without raising a finger to save her?" She had never called him Bill before, and the familiar abbreviation touched him, and he said-- "I owe everything to you, Esther; everything that's mine is yours. But," he said, drawing away so that he might see her better, "what do you say if I ask something of you?" "What are you going to ask me?" "I want you to say that you won't bother me no more about the betting. You was brought up to think it wicked. I know all that, but you see we can't do without it." "Do you think not?" "Don't the thirty pounds you're asking for Sarah come out of betting?" "I suppose it do." "Most certainly it do." "I can't help feeling, Bill, that we shan't always be so lucky as we have been." "You mean that you think that one of these days we shall have the police down upon us?" "Don't you sometimes think that we can't always go on without being caught? Every day I hear of the police being down on some betting club or other." "They've been down on a great number lately, but what can I do? We always come back to that. I haven't the health to work round from race-course to race-course as I used to. But I've got an idea, Esther. I've been thinking over things a great deal lately, and--give me my pipe--there, it's just by you. Now, hold the candle, like a good girl." William pulled at his pipe until it was fully lighted. He threw himself on his back, and then he said-- "I've been thinking things over. The betting 'as brought us a nice bit of trade here. If we can work up the business a bit more we might, let's say in a year from now, be able to get as much for the 'ouse as we gave.... What do you think of buying a business in the country, a 'ouse doing a steady trade? I've had enough of London, the climate don't suit me as it used to. I fancy I should be much better in the country, somewhere on the South Coast. Bournemouth way, what do you think?" Before Esther could reply William was taken with a fit of coughing, and his great broad frame was shaken as if it were so much paper. "I'm sure," said Esther, when he had recovered himself a little, "that a good deal of your trouble comes from that pipe. It's never out of your mouth.... I feel like choking myself." "I daresay I smoke too much.... I'm not the man I was. I can feel it plain enough. Put my pipe down and blow out the candle.... I didn't ask you how Sarah was." "Very bad. She was half dazed and didn't tell me much." "She didn't tell you where she had pledged the plate?" "No, I will ask her about that to-morrow morning." Leaning forward she blew out the candle. The wick smouldered red for a moment, and they fell asleep happy in each other's love, seeming to find new bonds of union in pity for their friend's misfortune. XXXIX "Sarah, you must make an effort and try to dress yourself." "Oh, I do feel that bad, I wish I was dead!" "You must not give way like that; let me help you put on your stockings." Sarah looked at Esther. "You're very good to me, but I can manage." When she had drawn on her stockings her strength was exhausted, and she fell back on the pillow. Esther waited a few minutes. "Here're your petticoats. Just tie them round you; I'll lend you a dressing-gown and a pair of slippers." William was having breakfast in the parlour. "Well, feeling a bit poorly?" he said to Sarah. "What'll you have? There's a nice bit of fried fish. Not feeling up to it?" "Oh, no! I couldn't touch anything." She let herself drop on the sofa. "A cup of tea'll do you good," said Esther. "You must have a cup of tea, and a bit of toast just to nibble. William, pour her out a cup of tea." When she had drunk the tea she said she felt a little better. "Now," said William, "let's 'ear all about it. Esther has told you, no doubt, that we intend to do all we can to help you." "You can't help me.... I'm done for," she replied dolefully. "I don't know about that," said William. "You gave that brute Bill Evans the plate to pawn, so far as I know." "There isn't much more to tell. He said the horse was sure to win. He was at thirty to one at that time. A thousand to thirty. Bill said with that money we could buy a public-house in the country. He wanted to settle down, he wanted to get out of--I don't want to say nothing against him. He said if I would only give him this chance of leading a respectable life, we was to be married immediately after." "He told you all that, did he? He said he'd give you a 'ome of your own, I know. A regular rotter; that man is about as bad as they make 'em. And you believed it all?" "It wasn't so much what I believed as what I couldn't help myself. He had got that influence over me that my will wasn't my own. I don't know how it is--I suppose men have stronger natures than women. I 'ardly knew what I was doing; it was like sleep-walking. He looked at me and said, 'You'd better do it.' I did it, and I suppose I'll have to go to prison for it. What I says is just the truth, but no one believes tales like that. How long do you think they'll give me?" "I hope we shall be able to get you out of this scrape. You got thirty pounds on the plate. Esther has told you that I'm ready to lend you the money to get it out." "Will you do this? You're good friends indeed.... But I shall never be able to pay you back such a lot of money." "We won't say nothing about paying back; all we want you to do is to say that you'll never see that fellow again." A change of expression came over Sarah's face, and William said, "You're surely not still hankering after him?" "No, indeed I'm not. But whenever I meets him he somehow gets his way with me. It's terrible to love a man as I love him. I know he don't really care for me--I know he is all you say, and yet I can't help myself. It is better to be honest with you." William looked puzzled. At the end of a long silence he said, "If it's like that I don't see that we can do anything." "Have patience, William. Sarah don't know what she's saying. She'll promise not to see him again." "You're very kind to me. I know I'm very foolish. I promised before not to see him, and I couldn't keep my promise." "You can stop with us until you get a situation in the country," said Esther, "where you'll be out of his way." "I might do that." "I don't like to part with my money," said William, "if it is to do no one any good." Esther looked at him, and he added, "It is just as Esther wishes, of course; I'm not giving you the money, it is she." "It is both of us," said Esther; "you'll do what I said, Sarah?" "Oh, yes, anything you say, Esther," and she flung herself into her friend's arms and wept bitterly. "Now we want to know where you pawned the plate," said William. "A long way from here. Bill said he knew a place where it would be quite safe. I was to say that my mistress left it to me; he said that would be sufficient.... It was in the Mile End Road." "You'd know the shop again?" said William. "But she's got the ticket," said Esther. "No, I ain't got the ticket; Bill has it." "Then I'm afraid the game's up." "Do be quiet," said Esther, angrily. "If you want to get out of lending the money say so and have done with it." "That's not true, Esther. If you want another thirty to pay him to give up the ticket, you can have it." Esther thanked her husband with one quick look. "I'm sorry," she said, "my temper is that hasty. But you know where he lives," she said, turning to the wretched woman who sat on the sofa pale and trembling. "Yes, I know where he lives--13 Milward Square, Mile End Road." "Then we've no time to lose; we must go after him at once." "No, William dear; you must not; you'd only lose your temper, and he might do you an injury." "An injury! I'd soon show him which was the best man of the two." "I'll not hear of it, Sarah. He mustn't go with you." "Come, Esther, don't be foolish. Let me go." He had taken his hat from the peg. Esther got between him and the door. "I forbid it," she said; "I will not let you go--perhaps to have a fight, and with that cough." William was coughing. He had turned pale, and he said, leaning against the table, "Give me something to drink, a little milk." Esther poured some into a cup. He sipped it slowly. "I'll go upstairs," she said, "for my hat and jacket. You've got your betting to attend to." William smiled. "Sarah, mind, he's not to go with you." "You forget what you said last night about the betting." "Never mind what I said last night about the betting; what I say now is that you're not to leave the bar. Come upstairs, Sarah, and dress yourself, and let's be off." Stack and Journeyman were waiting to speak to him. They had lost heavily over old Ben and didn't know how they'd pull through; and the whole neighbourhood was in the same plight; the bar was filled with gloomy faces. And as William scanned their disconcerted faces--clerks, hair-dressers, waiters from the innumerable eating houses--he could not help thinking that perhaps more than one of them had taken money that did not belong to them to back Ben Jonson. The unexpected disaster had upset all their plans, and even the wary ones who had a little reserve fund could not help backing outsiders, hoping by the longer odds to retrieve yesterday's losses. At two the bar was empty, and William waited for Esther and Sarah to return from Mile End. It seemed to him that they were a long time away. But Mile End is not close to Soho; and when they returned, between four and five, he saw at once that they had been unsuccessful. He lifted up the flap in the counter and all three went into the parlour. "He left Milward Square yesterday," Esther said. "Then we went to another address, and then to another; we went to all the places Sarah had been to with him, but no tidings anywhere." Sarah burst into tears. "There's no more hope," she said. "I'm done for; they'll come and take me away. How much do you think I'll get? They won't give me ten years, will they?" "I can see nothing else for you to do," said Esther, "but to go straight back to your people and tell them the whole story, and throw yourself on their mercy." "Do you mean that she should say that she pawned the plate to get money to back a horse?" "Of course I do." "It will make the police more keen than ever on the betting houses." "That can't be helped." "She'd better not be took here," said William; "it will do a great deal of harm.... It don't make no difference to her where she's took, do it?" Esther did not answer. "I'll go away. I don't want to get no one into trouble," Sarah said, and she got up from the sofa. At that moment Charles opened the door, and said, "You're wanted in the bar, sir." William went out quickly. He returned a moment after. There was a scared look on his face. "They're here," he said. He was followed by two policemen. Sarah uttered a little cry. "Your name is Sarah Tucker?" said the first policeman. "Yes." "You're charged with robbery by Mr. Sheldon, 34, Cumberland Place." "Shall I be taken through the streets?" "If you like to pay for it, you can go in a cab," the police-officer replied. "I'll go with you, dear," Esther said. William plucked her by the sleeve. "It will do no good. Why should you go?" XL The magistrate of course sent the case for trial, and the thirty pounds which William had promised to give to Esther went to pay for the defence. There seemed at first some hope that the prosecution would not be able to prove its case, but fresh evidence connecting Sarah with the abstraction of the plate was forthcoming, and in the end it was thought advisable that the plea of not guilty should be withdrawn. The efforts of counsel were therefore directed towards a mitigation of sentence. Counsel called Esther and William for the purpose of proving the excellent character that the prisoner had hitherto borne; counsel spoke of the evil influence into which the prisoner had fallen, and urged that she had no intention of actually stealing the plate. Tempted by promises, she had been persuaded to pledge the plate in order to back a horse which she had been told was certain to win. If that horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed and returned to its proper place in the owner's house, and the prisoner would have been able to marry. Possibly the marriage on which the prisoner had set her heart would have turned out more unfortunate for the prisoner than the present proceedings. Counsel had not words strong enough to stigmatise the character of a man who, having induced a girl to imperil her liberty for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough to abandon her in the hour of her deepest distress. Counsel drew attention to the trusting nature of the prisoner, who had not only pledged her employer's plate at his base instigation, but had likewise been foolish enough to confide the pawn-ticket to his keeping. Such was the prisoner's story, and he submitted that it bore on the face of it the stamp of truth. A very sad story, but one full of simple, foolish, trusting humanity, and, having regard to the excellent character the prisoner had borne, counsel hoped that his lordship would see his way to dealing leniently with her. His Lordship, whose gallantries had been prolonged over half a century, and whose betting transactions were matters of public comment, pursed up his ancient lips and fixed his dead glassy eyes on the prisoner. He said he regretted that he could not take the same view of the prisoner's character as learned counsel had done. The police had made every effort to apprehend the man Evans who, according to the prisoner's story, was the principal culprit. But the efforts of the police had been unavailing; they had, however, found traces of the man Evans, who undoubtedly did exist, and need not be considered to be a near relative of our friend Mrs. Harris. And the little joke provoked some amusement in the court; learned counsel settled their robes becomingly and leant forward to listen. They were in for a humorous speech, and the prisoner would get off with a light sentence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it was clear that lordship was determined to make the law a terror to evil-doers. Lordship drew attention to the fact that during the course of their investigations the police had discovered that the prisoner had been living for some considerable time with the man Evans, during which time several robberies had been effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to connect the prisoner with these robberies. The prisoner had left the man Evans and had obtained a situation in the house of her present employers. When the characters she had received from her former employers were being examined she had accounted for the year she had spent with the man Evans by saying that she had been staying with the Latches, the publicans who had given evidence in her favour. It had also come to the knowledge of the police that the man Evans used to frequent the "King's Head," that was the house owned by the Latches; it was probable that she had made there the acquaintance of the man Evans. The prisoner had referred her employers to the Latches, who had lent their sanction to the falsehood regarding the year she was supposed to have spent with them, but which she had really spent in cohabitation with a notorious thief. Here lordship indulged in severe remarks against those who enabled not wholly irreproachable characters to obtain situations by false pretences, a very common habit, and one attended with great danger to society, one which society would do well to take precautions to defend itself against. The plate, his Lordship remarked, was said to have been pawned, but there was nothing to show that it had been pawned, the prisoner's explanation being that she had given the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. She could not tell where she had pawned the plate, her tale being that she and the man Evans had gone down to Whitechapel together and pawned it in the Mile End Road. But she did not know the number of the pawnbroker's, nor could she give any indications as to its whereabouts--beyond the mere fact that it was in the Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the pawnbrokers in the Mile End Road had been searched, but no plate answering to the description furnished by the prosecution could be found. Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it had been in a measure unpremeditated, that it was the result of a passing but irresistible temptation. Learned counsel had endeavoured to introduce some element of romance into the case; he had described the theft as the outcome of the prisoner's desire of marriage, but lordship could not find such purity of motive in the prisoner's crime. There was nothing to show that there was any thought of marriage in the prisoner's mind; the crime was the result, not of any desire of marriage, but rather the result of vicious passion, concubinage. Regarding the plea that the crime was unpremeditated, it was only necessary to point out that it had been committed for a distinct purpose and had been carried out in conjunction with an accomplished thief. "There is now only one more point which I wish to refer to, and that is the plea that the prisoner did not intend to steal the plate, but only to obtain money upon it to enable her and the partner in her guilt to back a horse for a race which they believed to be--" his Lordship was about to say a certainty for him; he stopped himself, however, in time--"to be, to be, which they believed him to be capable of winning. The race in question is, I think, called the Cesarewitch, and the name of the horse (lordship had lost three hundred on Ben Jonson), if my memory serves me right (here lordship fumbled amid papers), yes, the name is, as I thought, Ben Jonson. Now, the learned counsel for the defence suggested that, if the horse had won, the plate would have been redeemed and restored to its proper place in the pantry cupboards. This, I venture to point out, is a mere hypothesis. The money might have been again used for the purpose of gambling. I confess that I do not see why we should condone the prisoner's offence because it was committed for the sake of obtaining money for gambling purposes. Indeed, it seems to me a reason for dealing heavily with the offence. The vice among the poorer classes is largely on the increase, and it seems to me that it is the duty of all in authority to condemn rather than to condone the evil, and to use every effort to stamp it out. For my part I fail to perceive any romantic element in the vice of gambling. It springs from the desire to obtain wealth without work, in other words, without payment; work, whether in the past or the present, is the natural payment for wealth, and any wealth that is obtained without work is in a measure a fraud committed upon the community. Poverty, despair, idleness, and every other vice spring from gambling as naturally, and in the same profusion, as weeds from barren land. Drink, too, is gambling's firmest ally." At this moment a certain dryness in his Lordship's throat reminded him of the pint of excellent claret that lordship always drank with his lunch, and the thought enabled lordship to roll out some excellent invective against the evils of beer and spirits. And lordship's losses on the horse whose name he could hardly recall helped to a forcible illustration of the theory that drink and gambling mutually uphold and enforce each other. When the news that Ben Jonson had broken down at the bushes came in, lordship had drunk a magnum of champagne, and memory of this champagne inspired a telling description of the sinking feeling consequent on the loss of a wager, and the natural inclination of a man to turn to drink to counteract it. Drink and gambling are growing social evils; in a great measure they are circumstantial, and only require absolute legislation to stamp them out almost entirely. This was not the first case of the kind that had come before him; it was one of many, but it was a typical case, presenting all the familiar features of the vice of which he had therefore spoken at unusual length. Such cases were on the increase, and if they continued to increase, the powers of the law would have to be strengthened. But even as the law stood at present, betting-houses, public-houses in which betting was carried on, were illegal, and it was the duty of the police to leave no means untried to unearth the offenders and bring them to justice. Lordship then glanced at the trembling woman in the dock. He condemned her to eighteen months' hard labour, and gathering up the papers on the desk, dismissed her for ever from his mind. The court adjourned for lunch, and Esther and William edged their way out of the crowd of lawyers and their clerks. Neither spoke for some time. William was much exercised by his Lordship's remarks on betting public-houses, and his advice that the police should increase their vigilance and leave no means untried to uproot that which was the curse and the ruin of the lower classes. It was the old story, one law for the rich, another for the poor. William did not seek to probe the question any further, this examination seemed to him to have exhausted it; and he remembered, after all that the hypocritical judge had said, how difficult it would be to escape detection. When he was caught he would be fined a hundred pounds, and probably lose his licence. What would he do then? He did not confide his fears to Esther. She had promised to say no more about the betting; but she had not changed her opinion. She was one of those stubborn ones who would rather die than admit they were wrong. Then he wondered what she thought of his Lordship's speech. Esther was thinking of the thin gruel Sarah would have to eat, the plank bed on which she would have to sleep, and the miserable future that awaited her when she should be released from gaol. It was a bright winter's day; the City folk were walking rapidly, tightly buttoned up in top-coats, and in a windy sky a flock of pigeons floated on straightened wings above the telegraph wires. Fleet Street was full of journalists going to luncheon-bars and various eating-houses. Their hurry and animation were remarkable, and Esther noticed how laggard was William's walk by comparison, how his clothes hung loose about him, and that the sharp air was at work on his lungs, making him cough. She asked him to button himself up more closely. "Is not that old John's wife?" Esther said. "Yes, that's her," said William. "She'd have seen us if that cove hadn't given her the shilling.... Lord, I didn't think they was as badly off as that. Did you ever see such rags? and that thick leg wrapped up in that awful stocking." The morning had been full of sadness, and Mrs. Randal's wandering rags had seemed to Esther like a foreboding. She grew frightened, as the cattle do in the fields when the sky darkens and the storm draws near. She suddenly remembered Mrs. Barfield, and she heard her telling her of the unhappiness that she had seen come from betting. Where was Mrs. Barfield? Should she ever see her again? Mr. Barfield was dead, Miss May was forced to live abroad for the sake of her health; all that time of long ago was over and done with. Some words that Mrs. Barfield had said came back to her; she had never quite understood them, but she had never quite forgotten them; they seemed to chime through her life. "My girl," Mrs. Barfield had said, "I am more than twenty years older than you, and I assure you that time has passed like a little dream; life is nothing. We must think of what comes after." "Cheer up, old girl; eighteen months is a long while, but it ain't a lifetime. She'll get through it all right; and when she comes out we'll try to see what we can do for her." William's voice startled Esther from the depth of her dream; she looked at him vaguely, and he saw that she had been thinking of something different from what he had suspected. "I thought it was on account of Sarah that you was looking so sad." "No," she said, "I was not thinking of Sarah." Then, taking it for granted that she was thinking of the wickedness of betting, his face darkened. It was aggravating to have a wife who was always troubling about things that couldn't be helped. The first person they saw on entering the bar was old John; and he sat in the corner of the bar on a high stool, his grey, death-like face sunk in the old unstarched shirt collar. The thin, wrinkled throat was hid with the remains of a cravat; it was passed twice round, and tied according to the fashions of fifty years ago. His boots were broken; the trousers, a grey, dirty brown, were torn as high up as the ankle; they had been mended and the patches hardly held together; the frock coat, green with age, with huge flaps over the pockets, frayed and torn, and many sizes too large, hung upon his starveling body. He seemed very feeble, and there was neither light nor expression in his glassy, watery eyes. "Eighteen months; a devil of a stiff sentence for a first offence," said William. "I just dropped in. Charles said you'd sure to be back. You're later than I expected." "We stopped to have a bit of lunch. But you heard what I said. She got eighteen months." "Who got eighteen months?" "Sarah." "Ah, Sarah. She was tried to-day. So she got eighteen months." "What's the matter? Wake up; you're half asleep. What will you have to drink?" "A glass of milk, if you've got such a thing." "Glass of milk! What is it, old man--not feeling well?" "Not very well. The fact is, I'm starving." "Starving! ...Then come into the parlour and have something to eat. Why didn't you say so before?" "I didn't like to." He led the old chap into the parlour and gave him a chair. "Didn't like to tell me that you was as hard up as all that? What do you mean? You didn't use to mind coming round for half a quid." "That was to back a horse; but I didn't like coming to ask for food--excuse me, I'm too weak to speak much." When old John had eaten, William asked how it was that things had gone so badly with him. "I've had terrible bad luck lately, can't get on a winner nohow. I have backed 'orses that 'as been tried to win with two stone more on their backs than they had to carry, but just because I was on them they didn't win. I don't know how many half-crowns I've had on first favourites. Then I tried the second favourites, but they gave way to outsiders or the first favourites when I took to backing them. Stack's tips and Ketley's omens was all the same as far as I was concerned. It's a poor business when you're out of luck." "It is giving way to fancy that does for the backers. The bookmaker's advantage is that he bets on principle and not on fancy." Old John told how unlucky he had been in business. He had been dismissed from his employment in the restaurant, not from any fault of his own, he had done his work well. "But they don't like old waiters; there's always a lot of young Germans about, and customers said I smelt bad. I suppose it was my clothes and want of convenience at home for keeping one's self tidy. We've been so hard up to pay the three and sixpence rent which we've owed, that the black coat and waistkit had to go to the pawnshop, so even if I did meet with a job in the Exhibition places, where they ain't so particular about yer age, I should not be able to take it. It's terrible to think that I should have to come to this and after having worked round the table this forty years, fifty pounds a year and all found, and accustomed always to a big footman and page-boy under me. But there's plenty more like me. It's a poor game. You're well out of it. I suppose the end of it will be the work'us. I'm pretty well wore out, and--" The old man's voice died away. He made no allusion to his wife. His dislike to speak of her was part and parcel of his dislike to speak of his private affairs. The conversation then turned on Sarah; the severity of the sentence was alluded to, and William spoke of how the judge's remarks would put the police on the watch, and how difficult it would be to continue his betting business without being found out. "There's no doubt that it is most unfortunate," said old John. "The only thing for you to do is to be very particular about yer introductions, and to refuse to bet with all who haven't been properly introduced." "Or to give up betting altogether," said Esther. "Give up betting altogether!" William answered, his face flushed, and he gradually worked himself into a passion. "I give you a good 'ome, don't I? You want for nothing, do yer? Well, that being so, I think you might keep your nose out of your husband's business. There's plenty of prayer-meetings where you can go preaching if you like." William would have said a good deal more, but his anger brought on a fit of coughing. Esther looked at him contemptuously, and without answering she walked into the bar. "That's a bad cough of yours," said old John. "Yes," said William, and he drank a little water to pass it off. "I must see the doctor about it. It makes one that irritable. The missis is in a pretty temper, ain't she?" Old John did not reply; it was not his habit to notice domestic differences of opinion, especially those in which women had a share--queer cattle that he knew nothing about. The men talked for a long time regarding the danger the judge's remarks had brought the house into; and they considered all the circumstances of the case. Allusion was made to the injustice of the law, which allowed the rich and forbade the poor to bet; anecdotes were related, but nothing they said threw new light on the matter in hand, and when Old John rose to go William summed up the situation in these few words-- "Bet I must, if I'm to get my living. The only thing I can do is to be careful not to bet with strangers." "I don't see how they can do nothing to you if yer makes that yer principle and sticks to it," said old John, and he put on the huge-rimmed, greasy hat, three sizes too large for him, looking in his square-cut tattered frock-coat as queer a specimen of humanity as you would be likely to meet with in a day's walk. "If you makes that yer principle and sticks to it," thought William. But practice and principle are never reduced to perfect agreement. One is always marauding the other's territory; nevertheless for several months principle distinctly held the upper hand; William refused over and over again to make bets with comparative strangers, but the day came when his principle relaxed, and he took the money of a man whom he thought was all right. It was done on the impulse of the moment, but the two half-crowns wrapped up in the paper, with the name of the horse written on the paper, had hardly gone into the drawer than he felt that he had done wrong. He couldn't tell why, but the feeling came across him that he had done wrong in taking the man's money--a tall, clean-shaven man dressed in broadcloth. It was too late to draw back. The man had finished his beer and had left the bar, which in itself was suspicious. Three days afterwards, between twelve and one, just the busiest time, when the bar was full of people, there came a cry of "Police!" An effort was made to hide the betting plant; a rush was made for the doors. It was all too late; the sergeant and a constable ordered that no one was to leave the house; other police were outside. The names and addresses of all present were taken down; search was made, and the packets of money and the betting books were discovered. Then they all had to go to Marlborough Street. XLI Next day the following account was given in most of the daily papers:--"Raid on a betting man in the West End. William Latch, 35, landlord of the 'King's Head,' Dean Street, Soho, was charged that he, being a licensed person, did keep and use his public-house for the purpose of betting with persons resorting thereto. Thomas William, 35, billiard marker, Gaulden Street, Battersea; Arthur Henry Parsons, 25, waiter, Northumberland Street, Marylebone; Joseph Stack, 52, gentleman; Harold Journeyman, 45, gentleman, High Street, Norwood; Philip Hutchinson, grocer, Bisey Road, Fulham; William Tann, piano-tuner, Standard Street, Soho; Charles Ketley, butterman, Green Street, Soho; John Randal, Frith Street, Soho; Charles Muller, 44, tailor, Marylebone Lane; Arthur Bartram, stationer, East Street Buildings; William Burton, harness maker, Blue Lion Street, Bond Street, were charged with using the 'King's Head' for the purpose of betting. Evidence was given by the police regarding the room upstairs, where a good deal of drinking went on after hours. There had been cases of disorder, and the magistrate unfortunately remembered that a servant-girl, who had pledged her master's plate to obtain money to back a horse, had been arrested in the 'King's Head.' Taking these facts into consideration, it seemed to him that he could not do less than inflict a fine of £100. The men who were found in Latch's house he ordered to be bound over." Who had first given information? That was the question. Old John sat smoking in his corner. Journeyman leaned against the yellow-painted partition, his legs thrust out. Stack stood square, his dark, crimson-tinted skin contrasting with sallow-faced little Ketley. "Don't the omens throw no light on this 'ere matter?" said Journeyman. Ketley started from his reverie. "Ah," said William, "if I only knew who the b---- was." "Ain't you got no idea of any sort?" said Stack. "There was a Salvation chap who came in some months ago and told my wife that the betting was corrupting the neighbourhood. That it would have to be put a stop to. It may 'ave been 'e." "You don't ask no one to bet with you. They does as they like." "Does as they like! No one does that nowadays. There's a temperance party, a purity party, and a hanti-gambling party, and what they is working for is just to stop folk from doing as they like." "That's it," said Journeyman. Stack raised his glass to his lips and said, "Here's luck." "There's not much of that about," said William. "We seem to be losing all round. I'd like to know where the money goes. I think it is the 'ouse; it's gone unlucky, and I'm thinking of clearing out." "We may live in a 'ouse a long while before we find what its luck really is," said Ketley. "I've been in my old 'ouse these twenty years, and it ain't nothing like what I thought it." "You are that superstitious," said Journeyman. "If there was anything the matter with the 'ouse you'd've know'd it before now." "Ain't you doing the trade you was?" said Stack. "No, my butter and egg trade have fallen dreadful lately." The conversation paused. It was Stack who broke the silence. "Do you intend to do no more betting 'ere?" he asked. "What, after being fined £100? You 'eard the way he went on about Sarah, and all on account of her being took here. I think he might have left Sarah out." "It warn't for betting she took the plate," said Journeyman; "it was 'cause her chap said if she did he'd marry her." "I wonder you ever left the course," said Stack. "It was on account of my 'ealth. I caught a dreadful cold at Kempton, standing about in the mud. I've never quite got over that cold." "I remember," said Ketley; "you couldn't speak above a whisper for two months." "Two months! more like three." "Fourteen weeks," said Esther. She was in favour of disposing of the house and going to live in the country. But it was soon found that the conviction for keeping a betting-house had spoiled their chance of an advantageous sale. If, however, the licence were renewed next year, and the business did not in the meantime decline, they would be in a position to obtain better terms. So all their energies should be devoted to the improvement of their business. Esther engaged another servant, and she provided the best meat and vegetables that money could buy; William ordered beer and spirits of a quality that could be procured nowhere else in the neighbourhood; but all to no purpose. As soon as it became known that it was no longer possible to pass half a crown or a shilling wrapped up in a piece of paper across the bar, their custom began to decline. At last William could stand it no longer, and he obtained his wife's permission to once more begin book-making on the course. His health had begun to improve with the spring weather, and there was no use keeping him at home eating his heart out with vexation because they were doing no business. So did Esther reason, and it reminded her of old times when he came back with his race-glasses slung round his shoulder. "Favourites all beaten today; what have you got for me to eat, old girl?" Esther forgot her dislike of racing in the joy of seeing her husband happy, if he'd only pick up a bit of flesh; but he seemed to get thinner and thinner, and his food didn't seem to do him any good. One day he came home complaining that the ring was six inches of soft mud; he was wet to the skin, and he sat shivering the whole evening, with the sensation of a long illness upon him. He was laid up for several weeks, and his voice seemed as if it would never return to him again. There was little or no occupation for him in the bar; and instead of laying he began to take the odds. He backed a few winners, it is true; but they could not rely on that. Most of their trade had slipped from them, so it did not much matter to them if they were found out. He might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb, and surreptitiously at first, and then more openly, he began to take money across the bar, and with every shilling he took for a bet another shilling was spent in drink. Custom came back in ripples, and then in stronger waves, until once again the bar of the "King's Head" was full to overflowing. Another conviction meant ruin, but they must risk it, so said William; and Esther, like a good wife, acquiesced in her husband's decision. But he took money only from those whom he was quite sure of. He required an introduction, and was careful to make inquiries concerning every new backer. "In this way," he said to Ketley, "so long as one is content to bet on a small scale, I think it can be kept dark; but if you try to extend your connection you're bound to come across a wrong 'un sooner or later. It was that room upstairs that did for me." "I never did think much of that room upstairs," said Ketley. "There was a something about it that I didn't like. Be sure you never bet in that jug and bottle bar, whatever you do. There's just the same look there as in the room upstairs. Haven't you noticed it?" "Can't say I've, nor am I sure that I know exactly what you mean." "If you don't see it, you don't see it; but it's plain enough to me, and don't you bet with nobody standing in that bar. I wouldn't go in there for a sovereign." William laughed. He thought at first that Ketley was joking, but he soon saw that Ketley regarded the jug and bottle entrance with real suspicion. When pressed to explain, he told Journeyman that it wasn't that he was afraid of the place, he merely didn't like it. "There's some places that you likes better than others, ain't they?" Journeyman was obliged to confess that there were. "Well, then, that's one of the places I don't like. Don't you hear a voice talking there, a soft, low voice, with a bit of a jeer in it?" On another occasion he shaded his eyes and peered curiously into the left-hand corner. "What are you looking at?" asked Journeyman. "At nothing that you can see," Ketley answered; and he drank his whisky as if lost in consideration of grave and difficult things. A few weeks later they noticed that he always got as far from the jug and bottle entrance as possible, and he was afflicted with a long story concerning a danger that awaited him. "He's waiting; but nothing will happen if I don't go in there. He can't follow me; he is waiting for me to go to him." "Then keep out of his way," said Journeyman. "You might ask your bloody friend if he can tell us anything about the Leger." "I'm trying to keep out of his way, but he's always watching and a-beckoning of me." "Can you see him now?" asked Stack. "Yes," said Ketley; "he's a-sitting there, and he seems to say that if I don't come to him worse will happen." "Don't say nothing to him," William whispered to Journeyman. "I don't think he's quite right in 'is 'ead; he's been losing a lot lately." One day Journeyman was surprised to see Ketley sitting quite composedly in the jug and bottle bar. "He got me at last; I had to go, the whispering got so loud in my head as I was a-coming down the street. I tried to get out into the middle of the street, but a drunken chap pushed me across the pavement, and he was at the door waiting, and he said, 'Now, you'd better come in; you know what will happen if you don't.'" "Don't talk rot, old pal; come round and have a drink with us." "I can't just at present--I may later on." "What do he mean?" said Stack. "Lord, I don't know," said Journeyman. "It's only his wandering talk." They tried to discuss the chances of the various horses they were interested in, but they could not detach their thoughts from Ketley, and their eyes went back to the queer little sallow-faced man who sat on a high stool in the adjoining bar paring his nails. They felt something was going to happen, and before they could say the word he had plunged the knife deep into his neck, and had fallen heavily on the floor. William vaulted over the counter. As he did so he felt something break in his throat, and when Stack and Journeyman came to his assistance he was almost as white as the corpse at his feet. Blood flowed from his mouth and from Ketley's neck in a deep stream that swelled into a great pool and thickened on the sawdust. "It was jumping over that bar," William replied, faintly. "I'll see to my husband," said Esther. A rush of blood cut short his words, and, leaning on his wife, he walked feebly round into the back parlour. Esther rang the bell violently. "Go round at once to Doctor Green," she said; "and if he isn't in inquire which is the nearest. Don't come back without a doctor." William had broken a small blood-vessel, and the doctor said he would have to be very careful for a long time. It was likely to prove a long case. But Ketley had severed the jugular at one swift, keen stroke, and had died almost instantly. Of course there was an inquest, and the coroner asked many questions regarding the habits of the deceased. Mrs. Ketley was one of the witnesses called, and she deposed that he had lost a great deal of money lately in betting, and that he went to the "King's Head" for the purpose of betting. The police deposed that the landlord of the "King's Head" had been fined a hundred pounds for keeping a betting-house, and the foreman of the jury remarked that betting-houses were the ruin of the poorer classes, and that they ought to be put a stop to. The coroner added that such places as the "King's Head" should not be licensed. That was the simplest and most effectual way of dealing with the nuisance. "There never was no luck about this house," said William, "and what there was has left us; in three months' time we shall be turned out of it neck and crop. Another conviction would mean a fine of a couple of hundred, or most like three months, and that would just about be the end of me." "They'll never license us again," said Esther, "and the boy at school and doing so well." "I'm sorry, Esther, to have brought this trouble on you. We must do the best we can, get the best price we can for the 'ouse. I may be lucky enough to back a few winners. That's all there is to be said--the 'ouse was always an unlucky one. I hate the place, and shall be glad to get out of it." Esther sighed. She didn't like to hear the house spoken ill of, and after so many years it did seem a shame. XLII Esther kept William within doors during the winter months. If his health did not improve it got no worse, and she had begun to hope that the breakage of the blood-vessel did not mean lung disease. But the harsh winds of spring did not suit him, and there was business with his lawyer to which he was obliged to attend. A determined set was going to be made against the renewal of his licence, and he was determined to defeat his opponents. Counsel was instructed, and a great deal of money was spent on the case. But the licence was nevertheless refused, and the north-east wind did not cease to rattle; it seemed resolved on William's death, and with a sick husband on her hands, and all the money they had invested in the house irreparably lost, Esther began to make preparations for moving. William had proved a kind husband, and in the seven years she had spent in the "King's Head" there had been some enjoyment of life. She couldn't say that she had been unhappy. She had always disapproved of the betting. They had tried to do without it. There was a great deal in life which one couldn't approve of. But Ketley had never been very right in his head, and Sarah's misfortune had had very little to do with the "King's Head." They had all tried to keep her from that man; it was her own fault. There were worse places than the "King's Head." It wasn't for her to abuse it. She had lived there seven years; she had seen her boy growing up--he was almost a young man now, and had had the best education. That much good the "King's Head" had done. But perhaps it was no longer suited to William's health. The betting, she was tired thinking about that; and that constant nipping, it was impossible for him to keep from it with every one asking him to drink with them. A look of fear and distress passed across her face, and she stopped for a moment.... She was rolling up a pair of curtains. She did not know how they were to live, that was the worst of it. If they only had back the money they had sunk in the house she would not so much mind. That was what was so hard to bear; all that money lost, just as if they had thrown it into the river. Seven years of hard work--for she had worked hard--and nothing to show for it. If she had been doing the grand lady all the time it would have been no worse. Horses had won and horses had lost--a great deal of trouble and fuss and nothing to show for it. That was what stuck in her throat. Nothing to show for it. She looked round the dismantled walls, and descended the vacant staircase. She would never serve another pint of beer in that bar. What a strong, big fellow he was when she first went to live with him! He was sadly changed. Would she ever see him strong and well again? She remembered he had told her that he was worth nearly £3000. She hadn't brought him luck. He wasn't worth anything like that to-day. "How much have we in the bank, dear?" "A bit over six hundred pounds. I was reckoning of it up yesterday. But what do you want to know for? To remind me that I've been losing. Well, I have been losing. I hope you're satisfied." "I wasn't thinking of such a thing." "Yes, you was, there's no use saying you wasn't. It ain't my fault if the 'orses don't win; I do the best I can." She did not answer him. Then he said, "It's my 'ealth that makes me irritable, dear; you aren't angry, are you?" "No, dear, I know you don't mean it, and I don't pay no attention to it." She spoke so gently that he looked at her surprised, for he remembered her quick temper, and he said, "You're the best wife a man ever had." "No, I'm not, Bill, but I tries to do my best." The spring was the harshest ever known, and his cough grew worse and the blood-spitting returned. Esther grew seriously alarmed. Their doctor spoke of Brompton Hospital, and she insisted on his going there to be examined. William would not have her come with him; and she did not press the point, fearing to irritate him, but sat at home waiting anxiously for him to return, hoping against hope, for their doctor had told her that he feared very long trouble. And she could tell from his face and manner that he had bad news for her. All her strength left her, but she conquered her weakness and said-- "Now tell me what they said. I've a right to know; I want to know." "They said it was consumption." "Oh, did they say that?" "Yes, but they don't mean that I'm going to die. They said they hoped they could patch me up; people often live for years with only half a lung, and it is only the left one that's gone." He coughed slightly and wiped the blood from his lips. Esther was quite overcome. "Now, don't look like that," he said, "or I shall fancy I'm going to die to-morrow." "They said they thought that they could patch you up?" "Yes; they said I might go on a long while yet, but that I would never be the man I was." This was so obvious she could not check a look of pity. "If you're going to look at me like that I'd sooner go into the hospital at once. It ain't the cheerfulest of places, but it will be better than here." "I'm sorry it was consumption. But if they said they could patch you up, it will be all right. It was a great deal for them to say." Her duty was to overcome her grief and speak as if the doctors had told him that there was nothing the matter that a little careful nursing would fail to put right. William had faith in the warm weather, and she resolved to put her trust in it. It was hard to see him wasting away before her eyes and keep cheerful looks in her face and an accent of cheerfulness in heir voice. The sunshine which had come at last seemed to suck up all the life that was in him; he grew paler, and withered like a plant. Then ill-luck seemed to have joined in the hunt; he could not "touch" a winner, and their fortune drained away with his life. Favourites and outsiders, it mattered not; whatever he backed lost; and Esther dreaded the cry "Win-ner, all the win-ner!" He sat on the little balcony in the sunny evenings looking down the back street for the boy to appear with the "special." Then she had to go and fetch the paper. On the rare occasions when he won, the spectacle was even more painful. He brightened up, his thin arm and hand moved nervously, and he began to make projects and indulge in hopes which she knew were vain. She insisted, however, on his taking regularly the medicine they gave him at the hospital, and this was difficult to do. For his irritability increased in measure as he perceived the medicine was doing him no good; he found fault with the doctors, railed against them unjustly, and all the while the little; cough continued, and the blood-spitting returned at the end of cruel intervals, when he had begun to hope that at least that trouble was done with. One morning he told his wife that he was going to ask the doctors to examine him again. They had spoken of patching up; but he wanted to know whether he was going to live or die. There was a certain relief in hearing him speak so plainly; she had had enough of the torture of hope, and would like to know the worst. He liked better to go to the hospital alone, but she felt that she could not sit at home counting the minutes for him to return, and begged to be allowed to go with him. To her surprise, he offered no opposition. She had expected that her request would bring about quite a little scene, but he had taken it so much as a matter of course that she should accompany him that she was doubly glad that she had proposed to go with him; if she hadn't he might have accused her of neglecting him. She put on her hat; the day was too hot for a jacket; it was the beginning of August; the town was deserted, and the streets looked as if they were about to evaporate or lie down exhausted, and the poor, dry, dusty air that remained after the season was too poor even for Esther's healthy lungs; it made William cough, and she hoped the doctors would order him to the seaside. From the top of their omnibus they could see right across the plateau of the Green Park, dry and colourless like a desert; as they descended the hill they noticed that autumn was already busy in the foliage; lower down the dells were full of fallen leaves. At Hyde Park Corner the blown dust whirled about the hill-top; all along St. George's Place glimpses of the empty Park appeared through the railings. The wide pavements, the Brompton Road, and a semi-detached public-house at the cross-roads, announced suburban London to the Londoner. "You see," said William, "where them trees are, where the road turns off to the left. That 'ouse is the 'Bell and Horns.' That's the sort of house I should like to see you in." "It's a pity we didn't buy it when we had the money." "Buy it! That 'ouse is worth ten thousand pounds if it's worth a penny." "I was once in a situation not far from here. I like the Fulham Road; it's like a long village street, ain't it?" Her first service was with Mrs. Dunbar, in Sydney Street, and she remembered the square church tower at the Chelsea end; a little further on there was the Vestry Hall in the King's Road, and then Oakley Street on the left, leading down to Battersea. Mrs. Dunbar used to go to some gardens at the end of the King's Road. Cremorne Gardens, that was the name; there used to be fire-works there, and she often spent the evening at the back window watching the rockets go up. That was just before Lady Elwin had got her the situation as kitchen-maid at Woodview. She remembered the very shops--there was Palmer's the butterman, and there was Hyde's the grocer's. Everything was just as she had left it. How many years ago? Fifteen or sixteen. So enwrapped was she in memories that William had to touch her. "Here we are," he said; "don't you remember the place?" She remembered very well that great red brick building, a centrepiece with two wings, surrounded by high iron railings lined with gloomy shrubs. The long straight walks, the dismal trees arow, where pale-faced men walked or rested feebly, had impressed themselves on her young mind--thin, patient men, pacing their sepulchre. She had wondered who they were, if they would get well; and then, quick with sensation of lingering death, she had hurried away on her errands. The low wooden yellow-painted gates were unchanged. She had never before seen them open, and it was new to her to see the gardens filled with bright sunshine and numerous visitors. There were flowers in the beds, and the trees were beautiful in their leafage. A little yellow was creeping through, and from time to time a leaf fell exhausted from the branches. William, who was already familiar with the custom of the place, nodded to the porter and was let pass without question. He did not turn to the principal entrance in the middle of the building, but went towards a side entrance. The house physician was standing near it talking with a young man whom Esther recognised as Mr. Alden. The thought that he, too, might be dying of consumption crossed her mind, but his appearance and his healthy, hearty laugh reassured her. A stout, common girl, healthy too, came out of the building with a child, a little thing of twelve or thirteen, with death in her face. Mr. Alden stopped her, and in his cheerful, kind manner hoped the little one was better. She answered that she was. The doctor bade him good-bye and beckoned William and Esther to follow him. Esther would have liked to have spoken to Mr. Alden. But he did not see her, and she followed her husband, who was talking with the doctor, through the doorway into a long passage. At the end of the passage there were a number of girls in print dresses. The gaiety of the dresses led Esther to think that they must be visitors. But the little cough warned her that death was amongst them. As she went past she caught sight of a wasted form in a bath-chair. The thin hands were laid on the knees, on a little handkerchief, and there were spots on the whiteness deeper than the colour of the dress. They passed down another passage, meeting a sister on their way; pretty and discreet she was in her black dress and veil, and she raised her eyes, glancing affectionately at the young doctor. No doubt they loved each other. The eternal love-story among so much death! Esther wished to be present at the examination, but a sudden whim made William say that he would prefer to be alone with the doctor, and she returned to the gardens. Mr. Alden had not yet gone. He stood with his back turned to her. The little girl she had seen him speaking to was sitting on a bench under the trees; she held in her hands a skein of yellow worsted which her companion was winding into a ball. Two other young women were with them and all four were smiling and whispering and looking towards Mr. Alden. They evidently sought to attract his attention, and wished him to come and speak to them. Just the natural desire of women to please, and moved by the pathos of this poor coquetting, he went to them, and Esther could see that they all wanted to talk to him. She too would have liked to have spoken to him; he was an old friend. And she walked up the grounds, intending to pass by him as she walked back. His back was still turned to her, and they were all so interested that they gave no heed to anything else. One of the young women had an exceedingly pretty face. A small oval, perfectly snow-white, and large blue eyes shaded with long dark lashes; a little aquiline nose; and Esther heard her say, "I should be well enough if it wasn't for the cough. It isn't no better since--" The cough interrupted the end of the sentence, and affecting to misunderstand her, Mr. Alden said-- "No better than it was a week ago." "A week ago!" said the poor girl. "It is no better since Christmas." There was surprise in her voice, and the pity of it took Mr. Alden in the throat, and it was with difficulty that he answered that "he hoped that the present fine weather would enable her to get well. Such weather as this," he said, "is as good as going abroad." This assertion was disputed. One of the women had been to Australia for her health, and the story of travel was interspersed by the little coughs, terrible in their apparent insignificance. But it was Mr. Alden that the others wished to hear speak; they knew all about their companion's trip to Australia, and in their impatience their eyes went towards Esther. So Mr. Alden became aware of a new presence, and he turned. "What! is it you, Esther?" "Yes, sir." "But there doesn't seem much the matter with you. You're all right." "Yes, I'm all right, sir; it's my husband." They walked a few yards up the path. "Your husband! I'm very sorry." "He's been an out-door patient for some time; he's being examined by the doctors now." "Whom did you marry, Esther?" "William Latch, a betting man, sir." "You married a betting man, Esther? How curiously things do work out! I remember you were engaged to a pious young man, the stationer's foreman. That was when you were with Miss Rice; you know, I suppose, that she's dead." "No, sir, I didn't know it. I've had so much trouble lately that I've not been to see her for nearly two years. When did she die, sir?" "About two months ago. So you married a betting man! Miss Rice did say something about it, but I don't think I understood that he was a betting man; I thought he was a publican." "So he was, sir. We lost our licence through the betting." "You say he's being examined by the doctor. Is it a bad case?" "I'm afraid it is, sir." They walked on in silence until they reached the gate. "To me this place is infinitely pathetic. That little cough never silent for long. Did you hear that poor girl say with surprise that her cough is no better than it was last Christmas?" "Yes, sir. Poor girl, I don't think she's long for this world." "But tell me about your husband, Esther," he said, and his face filled with an expression of true sympathy. "I'm a subscriber, and if your husband would like to become an in-door patient, I hope you'll let me know." "Thank you, sir; you was always the kindest, but there's no reason why I should trouble you. Some friends of ours have already recommended him, and it only rests with himself to remain out or go in." He pulled out his watch and said, "I am sorry to have met you in such sad circumstances, but I'm glad to have seen you. It must be seven years or more since you left Miss Rice. You haven't changed much; you keep your good looks." "Oh, sir." He laughed at her embarrassment and walked across the road hailing a hansom, just as he used to in old times when he came to see Miss Rice. The memory of those days came back upon her. It was strange to meet him again after so many years. She felt she had seen him now for the last time. But it was foolish and wicked, too, to think of such things; her husband dying.... But she couldn't help it; he reminded her of so much of what was past and gone. A moment after she dashed these personal tears aside and walked open-hearted to meet William. What had the doctor said? She must know the truth. If she was to lose him she would lose everything. No, not everything; her boy would still remain to her, and she felt that, after all, her boy was what was most real to her in life. These thoughts had passed through her mind before William had had time to answer her question. "He said the left lung was gone, that I'd never be able to stand another winter in England. He said I must go to Egypt." "Egypt," she repeated. "Is that very far from here?" "What matter how far it is! If I can't live in England I must go where I can live." "Don't be cross, dear. I know it's your health that makes you that irritable, but it's hard to bear at times." "You won't care to go to Egypt with me." "How can you think that, Bill? Have I ever refused you anything?" "Quite right, old girl, I'm sorry. I know you'd do anything for me. I've always said so, haven't I? It's this cough that makes me sharp tempered and fretful. I shall be different when I get to Egypt." "When do we start?" "If we get away by the end of October it will be all right. It will cost a lot of money; the journey is expensive, and we shall have to stop there six months. I couldn't think of coming home before the end of April." Esther did not answer. They walked some yards in silence. Then he said-- "I've been very unlucky lately; there isn't much over a hundred pounds in the bank." "How much shall we want?" "Three or four hundred pounds at least. We won't take the boy with us, we couldn't afford that; but I should like to pay a couple of quarters in advance." "That won't be much." "Not if I have any luck. The luck must turn, and I have some splendid information about the Great Ebor and the Yorkshire Stakes. Stack knows of a horse or two that's being kept for Sandown. Unfortunately there is not much doing in August. I must try to make up the money: it's a matter of life and death." It was for his very life that her husband was now gambling on the race-course, and a sensation of very great wickedness came up in her mind, but she stifled it instantly. William had noticed the look of fear that appeared in her eyes, and he said-- "It's my last chance. I can't get the money any other way; and I don't want to die yet awhile. I haven't been as good to you as I'd like, and I want to do something for the boy, you know." He had been told not to remain out after sundown, but he was resolved to leave no stone unturned in his search for information, and often he returned home as late as nine and ten o'clock at night coughing--Esther could hear him all up the street. He came in ready to drop with fatigue, his pockets filled with sporting papers, and these he studied, spreading them on the table under the lamp, while Esther sat striving to do some needlework. It often dropped out of her hands, and her eyes filled with tears. But she took care that he should not see these tears; she did not wish to distress him unnecessarily. Poor chap! he had enough to put up with as it was. Sometimes he read out the horses' names and asked her which she thought would win, which seemed to her a likely name. But she begged of him not to ask her; they had many quarrels on this subject, but in the end he understood that it was not fair to ask her. Sometimes Stack and Journeyman came in, and they argued about weights and distances, until midnight; old John came to see them, and every day he had heard some new tip. It often rose to Esther's lips to tell William to back his fancy and have done with it; she could see that these discussions only fatigued him, that he was no nearer to the truth now than he was a fortnight ago. Meanwhile the horse he had thought of backing had gone up in the betting. But he said that he must be very careful. They had only a hundred pounds left; he must be careful not to risk this money foolishly--it was his very life-blood. If he were to lose all this money, he wouldn't only sign his own death warrant, but also hers. He might linger on a long while--there was no knowing, but he would never be able to do any work, that was certain (unless he went out to Egypt); the doctor had said so, and then it would be she who would have to support him. And if God were merciful enough to take him off at once he would leave her in a worse plight than he had found her in, and the boy growing up! Oh, it was terrible! He buried his face in his hands, and seemed quite overcome. Then the cough would take him, and for a few minutes he could only think of himself. Esther gave him a little milk to drink, and he said-- "There's a hundred pounds left, Esther. It isn't much, but it's something. I don't believe that there's much use in my going to Egypt. I shall never get well. It is better that I should pitch myself into the river. That would be the least selfish way out of it." "William, I will not have you talk in that way," Esther said, laying down her work and going over to him. "If you was to do such a thing I should never forgive you. I could never think the same of you." "All right, old girl, don't be frightened. I've been thinking too much about them horses, and am a bit depressed. I daresay it will come out all right. I think that Mahomet is sure to win the Great Ebor, don't you?" "I don't think there's no better judge than yourself. They all say if he don't fall lame that he's bound to win." "Then Mahomet shall carry my money. I'll back him to-morrow." Now that he had made up his mind what horse to back his spirits revived. He was able to dismiss the subject from his mind, and they talked of other things, of their son, and they laid projects for his welfare. But on the day of the race, from early morning, William could barely contain himself. Usually he took his winnings and losings very quietly. When he had been especially unlucky he swore a bit, but Esther had never seen any great excitement before a race was run. The issues of this race were extraordinary, and it was heart-breaking to see him suffer; he could not remain still a moment. A prey to all the terrors of hope, exhausted with anticipation, he rested himself against the sideboard and wiped drops of sweat from his forehead. A broiling sunlight infested their window-panes, the room grew oven-like, and he was obliged at last to go into the back parlour and lie down. He lay there in his shirt sleeves quite exhausted, hardly able to breathe; the arm once so strong and healthy was shrunken to a little nothing. He seemed quite bloodless, and looking at him Esther could hardly hope that any climate would restore him to health. He just asked her what the time was, and said, "The race is being run now." A few minutes after he said, "I think Mahomet has won. I fancied I saw him get first past the post." He spoke as if he were sure, and said nothing about the evening paper. If he were disappointed, Esther felt that it would kill him, and she knelt down by the bedside and prayed that God would allow the horse to win. It meant her husband's life, that was all she knew. Oh, that the horse might win! Presently he said, "There's no use praying, I feel sure it is all right. Go into the next room, stand on the balcony so that you may see the boy coming along." A pale yellow sky rose behind the brick neighbourhood, and with agonised soul the woman viewed its plausive serenity. There seemed to be hope in its quietness. At that moment the cry came up, "Win-ner, Win-ner." It came from the north, from the east, and now from the west. Three boys were shouting forth the news simultaneously. Ah, if it should prove bad news! But somehow she too felt that the news was good. She ran to meet the boy. She had a half-penny ready in her hand; he fumbled, striving to detach a single paper from the quire under his arm. Seeing her impatience, he said, "Mahomet's won." Then the pavement seemed to slide beneath her feet, and the setting sun she could hardly see, so full was her heart, so burdened with the happiness that she was bringing to the poor sick fellow who lay in his shirt sleeves on the bed in the back room. "It's all right," she said. "I thought so too; it seemed like it." His face flushed, life seemed to come back. He sat up and took the paper from her. "There," he said, "I've got my place-money, too. I hope Stack and Journeyman come in tonight. I'd like to have a chat about this. Come, give me a kiss, dear. I'm not going to die, after all. It isn't a pleasant thing to think that you must die, that there's no hope for you, that you must go under ground." The next thing to do was to pick the winner of the Yorkshire Handicap. In this he was not successful, but he backed several winners at Sandown Park, and at the close of the week had made nearly enough to take him to Egypt. The Doncaster week, however, proved disastrous. He lost most of his winnings, and had to look forward to retrieving his fortunes at Newmarket. "The worst of it is, if I don't make up the money by October, it will be no use. They say the November fogs will polish me off." Between Doncaster and Newmarket he lost a bet, and this bet carried him back into despondency. He felt it was no use struggling against fate. Better remain in London and be taken away at the end of November or December; he couldn't last much longer than that. This would allow him to leave Esther at least fifty pounds to go on with. The boy would soon be able to earn money. It would be better so. No use wasting all this money for the sake of his health, which wasn't worth two-pence-three-farthings. It was like throwing sovereigns after farthings. He didn't want to do any betting; he was as hollow as a shell inside, he could feel it. Egypt could do nothing for him, and as he had to go, better sooner than later. Esther argued with him. What should she have to live for if he was taken from her. The doctors had said that Egypt might set him right. She didn't know much about such things, but she had always heard that it was extraordinary how people got cured out there. "That's true," he said. "I've heard that people who couldn't live a week in England, who haven't the length of your finger of lung left, can go on all right out there. I might get something to do out there, and the boy might come out after us." "That's the way I like to hear you talk. Who knows, at Newmarket we might have luck! Just one big bet, a winner at fifty to one, that's all we want." "That's just what has been passing in my mind. I've got particular information about the Cesarewitch and Cambridgeshire. I could get the price you speak of--fifty to one against the two, Matchbox and Chasuble--the double event, you know. I'm inclined to go it. It's my last chance." XLIII When Matchbox galloped home the winner of the Cesarewitch by five lengths, William was lying in his bed, seemingly at death's door. He had remained out late one evening, had caught cold, and his mouth was constantly filled with blood. He was much worse, and could hardly take notice of the good news. When he revived a little he said, "It has come too late." But when Chasuble was backed to win thousands at ten to one, and Journeyman and Stack assured him that the stable was quite confident of being able to pull it off, his spirits revived. He spoke of hedging. "If," he said to Esther, "I was to get out at eight or nine to one I should be able to leave you something, you know, in case of accidents." But he would not entrust laying off his bet to either Stack of Journeyman; he spoke of a cab and seeing to it himself. If he did this the doctor assured him that it would not much matter whether Chasuble won or lost. "The best thing he could do," the doctor said, "would be to become an in-door patient at once. In the hospital he would be in an equable temperature, and he would receive an attention which he could not get at home." William did not like going into the hospital; it would be a bad omen. If he did, he felt sure that Chasuble would not win. "What has going or not going to the hospital to do with Chasuble's chance of winning the Cambridgeshire?" said the doctor. "This window is loose in its sash, a draught comes under the door, and if you close out the draughts the atmosphere of the room becomes stuffy. You're thinking of going abroad; a fortnight's nice rest is just what you want to set you up for your journey." So he allowed himself to be persuaded; he was taken to the hospital, and Esther remained at home waiting for the fateful afternoon. Now that the dying man was taken from her she had no work to distract her thought. The unanswerable question--would Chasuble win?--was always before her. She saw the slender greyhound creatures as she had seen them at Epsom, through a sea of heads and hats, and she asked herself if Chasuble was the brown horse that had galloped in first, or the chestnut that had trotted in last. She often thought she was going mad--her head seemed like it--a sensation of splitting like a piece of calico.... She went to see her boy. Jack was a great tall fellow of fifteen, and had happily lost none of his affection for his mother, and great sweetness rose up within her. She looked at his long, straight, yellow-stockinged legs; she settled the collar of his cloak, and slipped her fingers into his leathern belt as they walked side by side. He was bare-headed, according to the fashion of his school, and she kissed the wild, dark curls with which his head was run over; they were much brighter in colour when he was a little boy--those days when she slaved seventeen hours a day for his dear life! But he paid her back tenfold for the hardship she had undergone. She listened to the excellent report his masters gave of his progress, and walked through the quadrangles and the corridors with him, thinking of the sound of his voice as he told her the story of his classes and his studies. She must live for him; though for herself she had had enough of life. But, thank God, she had her darling boy, and whatever unhappiness there might be in store for her she would bear it for his sake. He knew that his father was ill, but she refrained and told him no word of the tragedy that was hanging over them. The noble instincts which were so intrinsically Esther Waters' told her that it were a pity to soil at the outset a young life with a sordid story, and though it would have been an inexpressible relief to her to have shared her trouble with her boy, she forced back her tears and courageously bore her cross alone, without once allowing its edge to touch him. And every day that visitors were allowed she went to the hospital with the newspaper containing the last betting. "Chasuble, ten to one taken," William read out. The mare had advanced three points, and William looked at Esther inquiringly, and with hope in his eyes. "I think she'll win," he said, raising himself in his cane chair. "I hope so, dear," she murmured, and she settled his cushions. Two days after the mare was back again at thirteen to one taken and offered; she went back even as far as eighteen to one, and then returned for a while to twelve to one. This fluctuation meant that something was wrong, and William began to lose hope. But on the following day the mare was backed to win a good deal of money at Tattersall's, and once more she stood at ten to one. Seeing her back at the old price made William look so hopeful that a patient stopped as he passed down the corridor, and catching sight of the _Sportsman_ on William's lap, he asked him if he was interested in racing. William told him that he was, and that if Chasuble won he would be able to go to Egypt. "Them that has money can buy health as well as everything else. We'd all get well if we could get out there." William told him how much he stood to win. "That'll keep you going long enough to set you straight. You say the mare's backed at ten to one--two hundred to twenty. I wonder if I could get the money. I might sell up the 'ouse." But before he had time to realise the necessary money the mare was driven back to eighteen to one, and he said-- "She won't win. I might as well leave the wife in the 'ouse. There's no luck for them that comes 'ere." On the day of the race Esther walked through the streets like one daft, stupidly interested in the passers-by and the disputes that arose between the drivers of cabs and omnibuses. Now and then her thoughts collected, and it seemed to her impossible that the mare should win. If she did they would have £2,500, and would go to Egypt. But she could not imagine such a thing; it seemed so much more natural that the horse should lose, and that her husband should die, and that she should have to face the world once more. She offered up prayers that Chasuble might win, although it did not seem right to address God on the subject, but her heart often felt like breaking, and she had to do something. And she had no doubt that God would forgive her. But now that the day had come she did not feel as if he had granted her request. At the same time it did not seem possible that her husband was going to die. It was all so hard to understand. She stopped at the "Bell and Horns" to see what the time was, and was surprised to find it was half-an-hour later than she had expected. The race was being run, Chasuble's hoofs were deciding whether her husband was to live or die. It was on the wire by this time. The wires were distinct upon a blue and dove-coloured sky. Did that one go to Newmarket, or the other? Which? The red building came in sight, and a patient walked slowly up the walk, his back turned to her; another had sat down to rest. Sixteen years ago patients were walking there then, and the leaves were scattering then just as now.... Without transition of thought she wondered when the first boy would appear with the news. William was not in the grounds; he was upstairs behind those windows. Poor fellow, she could fancy him sitting there. Perhaps he was watching for her out of one of those windows. But there was no use her going up until she had the news; she must wait for the paper. She walked up and down listening for the cry. Every now and then expectation led her to mistake some ordinary cry for the terrible "Win-ner, all the win-ner," with which the whole town would echo in a few minutes. She hastened forward. No, it was not it. At last she heard the word shrieked behind her. She hastened after the boy, but failed to overtake him. Returning, she met another, gave him a half-penny and took a paper. Then she remembered she must ask the boy to tell her who won. But heedless of her question he had run across the road to sell papers to some men who had come out of a public-house. She must not give William the paper and wait for him to read the news to her. If the news were bad the shock might kill him. She must learn first what the news was, so that her face and manner might prepare him for the worst if need be. So she offered the paper to the porter and asked him to tell her. "Bramble, King of Trumps, Young Hopeful," he read out. "Are you sure that Chasuble hasn't won?" "Of course I'm sure, there it is." "I can't read," she said as she turned away. The news had stunned her; the world seemed to lose reality; she was uncertain what to do, and several times repeated to herself, "There's nothing for it but to go up and tell him. I don't see what else I can do." The staircase was very steep; she climbed it slowly, and stopped at the first landing and looked out of the window. A poor hollow-chested creature, the wreck of a human being, struggled up behind her. He had to rest several times, and in the hollow building his cough sounded loud and hollow. "It isn't generally so loud as that," she thought, and wondered how she could tell William the news. "He wanted to see Jack grow up to be a man. He thought that we might all go to Egypt, and that he'd get quite well there, for there's plenty of sunshine there, but now he'll have to make up his mind to die in the November fogs." Her thoughts came strangely clear, and she was astonished at her indifference, until a sudden revulsion of feeling took her as she was going up the last flight. She couldn't tell him the news; it was too cruel. She let the patient pass her, and when alone on the landing she looked down into the depth. She thought she'd like to fall over; anything rather than to do what she knew she must do. But her cowardice only endured for a moment, and with a firm step she walked into the corridor. It seemed to cross the entire building, and was floored and wainscotted with the same brown varnished wood as the staircase. There were benches along the walls; and emaciated and worn-out men lay on the long cane chairs in the windowed recesses by which the passage was lighted. The wards, containing sometimes three, sometimes six or seven beds, opened on to this passage. The doors of the wards were all open, and as she passed along she started at the sight of a boy sitting up in bed. His head had been shaved and only a slight bristle covered the crown. The head and face were a large white mass with two eyes. At the end of the passage there was a window; and William sat there reading a book. He saw her before she saw him, and when she caught sight of him she stopped, holding the paper loose before her between finger and thumb, and as she approached she saw that her manner had already broken the news to him. "I see that she didn't win," he said. "No, dear, she didn't win. We wasn't lucky this time: next time--" "There is no next time, at least for me. I shall be far away from here when flat racing begins again. The November fogs will do for me, I feel that they will. I hope there'll be no lingering, that's all. Better to know the worst and make up your mind. So I have to go, have I? So there's no hope, and I shall be under ground before the next meeting. I shall never lay or take the odds again. It do seem strange. If only that mare had won. I knew damned well she wouldn't if I came here." Then, catching sight of the pained look on his wife's face, he said, "I don't suppose it made no difference; it was to be, and what has to be has to be. I've got to go under ground. I felt it was to be all along. Egypt would have done me no good; I never believed in it--only a lot of false hope. You don't think what I say is true. Look 'ere, do you know what book this is? This is the Bible; that'll prove to you that I knew the game was up. I knew, I can't tell you how, but I knew the mare wouldn't win. One always seems to know. Even when I backed her I didn't feel about her like I did about the other one, and ever since I've been feeling more and more sure that it wasn't to be. Somehow it didn't seem likely, and to-day something told me that the game was up, so I asked for this book.... There's wonderful beautiful things in it." "There is, indeed, Bill; and I hope you won't get tired of it, but will go on reading it." "It's extraordinary how consoling it is. Listen to this. Isn't it beautiful; ain't them words heavenly?" "They is, indeed. I knew you'd come to God at last." "I'm afraid I've not led a good life. I wouldn't listen to you when you used to tell me of the lot of harm the betting used to bring on the poor people what used to come to our place. There's Sarah, I suppose she's out of prison by this. You've seen nothing of her, I suppose?" "No, nothing." "There was Ketley." "No, Bill, don't let's think about it. If you're truly sorry, God will forgive." "Do you think He will--and the others that we know nothing about? I wouldn't listen to you; I was headstrong, but I understand it all now. My eyes 'ave been opened. Them pious folk that got up the prosecution knew what they was about. I forgive them one and all." William coughed a little. The conversation paused, and the cough was repeated down the corridor. Now it came from the men lying on the long cane chairs; now from the poor emaciated creature, hollow cheeks, brown eyes and beard, who had just come out of his ward and had sat down on a bench by the wall. Now it came from an old man six feet high, with snow-white hair. He sat near them, and worked assiduously at a piece of tapestry. "It'll be better when it's cut," he said to one of the nurses, who had stopped to compliment him on his work; "it'll be better when it's cut." Then the cough came from one of the wards, and Esther thought of the fearsome boy sitting bolt up, his huge tallow-like face staring through the silence of the room. A moment after the cough came from her husband's lips, and they looked at each other. Both wanted to speak, and neither knew what to say. At last William spoke. "I was saying that I never had that feeling about Chasuble as one 'as about a winner. Did she run second? Just like my luck if she did. Let me see the paper." Esther handed it to him. "Bramble, a fifty to one chance, not a man in a hundred backed her; King of Trumps, there was some place money lost on him; Young Hopeful, a rank outsider. What a day for the bookies!" "You mustn't think of them things no more," said Esther. "You've got the Book; it'll do you more good." "If I'd only have thought of Bramble... I could have had a hundred to one against Matchbox and Bramble coupled." "What's the use of thinking of things that's over? We should think of the future." "If I'd only been able to hedge that bet I should have been able to leave you something to go on with, but now, when everything is paid for, you'll have hardly a five-pound note. You've been a good wife to me, and I've been a bad husband to you." "Bill, you mustn't speak like that. You must try to make your peace with God. Think of Him. He'll think of us that you leave behind. I've always had faith in Him. He'll not desert me." Her eyes were quite dry; the instinct of life seemed to have left her. They spoke some little while longer, until it was time for visitors to leave the hospital. It was not until she got into the Fulham Road that tears began to run down her cheeks; they poured faster and faster, like rain after long dry weather. The whole world disappeared in a mist of tears. And so overcome was she by her grief that she had to lean against the railings, and then the passers-by turned and looked at her curiously. XLIV With fair weather he might hold on till Christmas, but if much fog was about he would go off with the last leaves. One day Esther received a letter asking her to defer her visit from Friday to Sunday. He hoped to be better on Sunday, and then they would arrange when she should come to take him away. He begged of her to have Jack home to meet him. He wanted to see his boy before he died. Mrs. Collins, a woman who lived in the next room, read the letter to Esther. "If you can, do as he wishes. Once they gets them fancies into their heads there's no getting them out." "If he leaves the hospital on a day like this it'll be the death of him." Both women went to the window. The fog was so thick that only an outline here and there was visible of the houses opposite. The lamps burnt low, mournful, as in a city of the dead, and the sounds that rose out of the street added to the terror of the strange darkness. "What do he say about Jack? That I'm to send for him. It's natural he should like to see the boy before he goes, but it would be cheerfuller to take him to the hospital." "You see, he wants to die at home; he wants you to be with him at the last." "Yes, I want to see the last of him. But the boy, where's he to sleep?" "We can lay a mattress down in my room--an old woman like me, it don't matter." Sunday morning was harsh and cold, and when she came out of South Kensington Station a fog was rising in the squares, and a great whiff of yellow cloud drifted down upon the house-tops. In the Fulham road the tops of the houses disappeared, and the light of the third gas-lamp was not visible. "This is the sort of weather that takes them off. I can hardly breathe it myself." Everything was shadow-like; those walking in front of her passed out of sight like shades, and once she thought she must have missed her way, though that was impossible, for her way was quite straight.... Suddenly the silhouette of the winged building rose up enormous on the sulphur sky. The low-lying gardens were full of poisonous vapour, and the thin trees seemed like the ghosts of consumptive men. The porter coughed like a dead man as she passed, and he said, "Bad weather for the poor sick ones upstairs." She was prepared for a change for the worse, but she did not expect to see a living man looking so like a dead one. He could no longer lie back in bed and breathe, so he was propped up with pillows, and he looked even as shadow-like as those she had half seen in the fog-cloud. There was fog even in the ward, and the lights burned red in the silence. There were five beds--low iron bedsteads--and each was covered with a dark red rug. In the furthest corner lay the wreck of a great working man. He wore his hob-nails and his corduroys, and his once brawny arm lay along his thigh, shrivelled and powerless as a child's. In the middle of the room a little clerk, wasted and weary, without any strength at all, lay striving for breath. The navvy was alone; the little clerk had his family round him, his wife and his two children, a baby in arms and a little boy three years old. The doctor had just come in, and the woman was prattling gaily about her confinement. She said-- "I was up the following week. Wonderful what we women can go through. No one would think it.... brought the childer to see their father; they is a little idol to him, poor fellow." "How are you to-day, dearie?" Esther said, as she took a seat by her husband's bed. "Better than I was on Friday, but this weather'll do for me if it continues much longer.... You see them two beds? They died yesterday, and I've 'eard that three or four that left the hospital are gone, too." The doctor came to William's bed. "Well, are you still determined to go home?" he said. "Yes; I'd like to die at home. You can't do nothing for me.... I'd like to die at home; I want to see my boy." "You can see Jack here," said Esther. "I'd sooner see him at 'ome.... I suppose you don't want the trouble of a death in the 'ouse." "Oh, William, how can you speak so!" The patient coughed painfully, and leaned against the pillows, unable to speak. Esther remained with William till the time permitted to visitors had expired. He could not speak to her but she knew he liked her to be with him. When she came on Thursday to take him away, he was a little better. The clerk's wife was chattering; the great navvy lay in the corner, still as a block of stone. Esther often looked at him and wondered if he had no friend who could spare an hour to come and see him. "I was beginning to think that you wasn't coming," said William. "He's that restless," said the clerk's wife; "asking the time every three or four minutes." "How could you think that?" said Esther. "I dun know... you're a bit late, aren't you?" "It often do make them that restless," said the clerk's wife. "But my poor old man is quiet enough--aren't you, dear?" The dying clerk could not answer, and the woman turned again to Esther. "And how do you find him to-day?" "Much the same.... I think he's a bit better; stronger, don't yer know. But this weather is that trying. I don't know how it was up your way, but down my way I never seed such a fog. I thought I'd have to turn back." At that moment the baby began to cry, and the woman walked up and down the ward, rocking it violently, talking loud, and making a great deal of noise. But she could not quiet him.... "Hungry again," she said. "I never seed such a child for the breast," and she sat down and unbuttoned her dress. When the young doctor entered she hurriedly covered herself; he begged her to continue, and spoke about her little boy. She showed him a scar on his throat. He had been suffering, but it was all right now. The doctor glanced at the breathless father. "A little better to-day, thank you, doctor." "That's all right;" and the doctor went over to William. "Are you still determined to leave the hospital?" he said. "Yes, I want to go home. I want to--" "You'll find this weather very trying; you'd better--" "No, thank you, sir. I should like to go home. You've been very kind; you've done everything that could be done for me. But it's God's will.... My wife is very grateful to you, too." "Yes, indeed, I am, sir. However am I to thank you for your kindness to my husband?' "I'm sorry I couldn't do more. But you'll want the sister to help you to dress him. I'll send her to you." When they got him out of bed, Esther was shocked at the spectacle of his poor body. There was nothing left of him. His poor chest, his wasted ribs, his legs gone to nothing, and the strange weakness, worst of all, which made it so hard for them to dress him. At last it was nearly done: Esther laced one boot, the nurse the other, and, leaning on Esther's arm, he looked round the room for the last time. The navvy turned round on his bed and said-- "Good-bye, mate." "Good-bye.... Good-bye, all." The clerk's little son clung to his mother's skirt, frightened at the weakness of so big a man. "Go and say good-bye to the gentleman." The little boy came forward timidly, offering his hand. William looked at the poor little white face; he nodded to the father and went out. As he went downstairs he said he would like to go home in a hansom. The doctor and nurse expostulated, but he persisted until Esther begged of him to forego the wish for her sake. "They do rattle so, these four-wheelers, especially when the windows are up. One can't speak." The cab jogged up Piccadilly, and as it climbed out of the hollow the dying man's eyes were fixed on the circle of lights that shone across the Green Park. They looked like a distant village, and Esther wondered if William was thinking of Shoreham--she had seen Shoreham look like that sometimes--or if he was thinking that he was looking on London for the last time. Was he saying to himself, "I shall never, never see Piccadilly again"? They passed St. James's Street. The Circus, with its mob of prostitutes, came into view; the "Criterion" bar, with its loafers standing outside. William leaned a little forward, and Esther was sure he was thinking that he would never go into that bar again. The cab turned to the left, and Esther said that it would cross Soho, perhaps pass down Old Compton Street, opposite their old house. It happened that it did, and Esther and William wondered who were the new people who were selling beer and whisky in the bar? All the while boys were crying, "Win-ner, all the win-ner!" "The ---- was run to-day. Flat racing all over, all over for this year." Esther did not answer. The cab passed over a piece of asphalte, and he said-- "Is Jack waiting for us?" "Yes, he came home yesterday." The fog was thick in Bloomsbury, and when he got out of the cab he was taken with a fit of coughing, and had to cling to the railings. She had to pay the cab, and it took some time to find the money. Would no one open the door? She was surprised to see him make his way up the steps to the bell, and having got her change, she followed him into the house. "I can manage. Go on first; I'll follow." And stopping every three or four steps for rest, he slowly dragged himself up to the first landing. A door opened and Jack stood on the threshold of the lighted room. "Is that you, mother?" "Yes, dear; your father is coming up." The boy came forward to help, but his mother whispered, "He'd rather come up by himself." William had just strength to walk into the room; they gave him a chair, and he fell back exhausted. He looked around, and seemed pleased to see his home again. Esther gave him some milk, into which she had put a little brandy, and he gradually revived. "Come this way, Jack; I want to look at you; come into the light where I can see you." "Yes, father." "I haven't long to see you, Jack. I wanted to be with you and your mother in our own home. I can talk a little now: I may not be able to to-morrow." "Yes, father." "I want you to promise me, Jack, that you'll never have nothing to do with racing and betting. It hasn't brought me or your mother any luck." "Very well, father." "You promise me, Jack. Give me your hand. You promise me that, Jack." "Yes, father, I promise." "I see it all clearly enough now. Your mother, Jack, is the best woman in the world. She loved you better than I did. She worked for you--that is a sad story. I hope you'll never hear it." Husband and wife looked at each other, and in that look the wife promised the husband that the son should never know the story of her desertion. "She was always against the betting, Jack; she always knew it would bring us ill-luck. I was once well off, but I lost everything. No good comes of money that one doesn't work for." "I'm sure you worked enough for what you won," said Esther; "travelling day and night from race-course to race-course. Standing on them race-courses in all weathers; it was the colds you caught standing on them race-courses that began the mischief." "I worked hard enough, that's true; but it was not the right kind of work.... I can't argue, Esther.... But I know the truth now, what you always said was the truth. No good comes of money that hasn't been properly earned." He sipped the brandy-and-milk and looked at Jack, who was crying bitterly. "You mustn't cry like that, Jack; I want you to listen to me. I've still something on my mind. Your mother, Jack, is the best woman that ever lived. You're too young to understand how good. I didn't know how good for a long time, but I found it all out in time, as you will later, Jack, when you are a man. I'd hoped to see you grow up to be a man, Jack, and your mother and I thought that you'd have a nice bit of money. But the money I hoped to leave you is all gone. What I feel most is that I'm leaving you and your mother as badly off as she was when I married her." He heaved a deep sigh, and Esther said-- "What is the good of talking of these things, weakening yourself for nothing?" "I must speak, Esther. I should die happy if I knew how you and the boy was going to live. You'll have to go out and work for him as you did before. It will be like beginning it all again." The tears rolled down his cheeks; he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, until the sobbing brought on a fit of coughing. Suddenly his mouth filled with blood. Jack went for the doctor, and all remedies were tried without avail. "There is one more remedy," the doctor said, "and if that fails you must prepare for the worst." But this last remedy proved successful, and the hæmorrhage was stopped, and William was undressed and put to bed. The doctor said, "He mustn't get up to-morrow." "You lie in bed to-morrow, and try to get up your strength. You've overdone yourself to-day." She had drawn his bed into the warmest corner, close by the fire, and had made up for herself a sort of bed by the window, where she might doze a bit, for she did not expect to get much sleep. She would have to be up and down many times to settle his pillows and give him milk or a little weak brandy-and-water. Night wore away, the morning grew into day, and about twelve o'clock he insisted on getting up. She tried to persuade him, but he said he could not stop in bed; and there was nothing for it but to ask Mrs. Collins to help her dress him. They placed him comfortably in a chair. The cough had entirely ceased and he seemed better. And on Saturday night he slept better than he had done for a long while and woke up on Sunday morning refreshed and apparently much stronger. He had a nice bit of boiled rabbit for his dinner. He didn't speak much; Esther fancied that he was still thinking of them. When the afternoon waned, about four o'clock, he called Jack; he told him to sit in the light where he could see him, and he looked at his son with such wistful eyes. These farewells were very sad, and Esther had to turn aside to hide her tears. "I should have liked to have seen you a man, Jack." "Don't speak like that--I can't bear it," said the poor boy, bursting into tears. "Perhaps you won't die yet." "Yes, Jack; I'm wore out. I can feel," he said, pointing to his chest, "that there is nothing here to live upon.... It is the punishment come upon me." "Punishment for what, father?" "I wasn't always good to your mother, Jack." "If to please me, William, you'll say no more." "The boy ought to know; it will be a lesson for him, and it weighs upon my heart." "I don't want my boy to hear anything bad about his father, and I forbid him to listen." The conversation paused, and soon after William said that his strength was going from him, and that he would like to go back to bed. Esther helped him off with his clothes, and together she and Jack lifted him into bed. He sat up looking at them with wistful, dying eyes. "It is hard to part from you," he said. "If Chasuble had won we would have all gone to Egypt. I could have lived out there." "You must speak of them things no more. We all must obey God's will." Esther dropped on her knees; she drew Jack down beside her, and William asked Jack to read something from the Bible. Jack read where he first opened the book, and when he had finished William said that he liked to listen. Jack's voice sounded to him like heaven. About eight o'clock William bade his son good-night. "Good-night, my boy; perhaps we shan't see each other again. This may be my last night." "I won't leave you, father." "No, my boy, go to your bed. I feel I'd like to be alone with mother." The voice sank almost to a whisper. "You'll remember what you promised me about racing.... Be good to your mother--she's the best mother a son ever had." "I'll work for mother, father, I'll work for her." "You're too young, my son, but when you're older I hope you'll work for her. She worked for you.... Good-bye, my boy." The dying man sweated profusely, and Esther wiped his face from time to time. Mrs. Collins came in. She had a large tin candlestick in her hand in which there was a fragment of candle end. He motioned to her to put it aside. She put it on the table out of the way of his eyes. "You'll help Esther to lay me out.... I don't want any one else. I don't like the other woman." "Esther and me will lay you out, make your mind easy; none but we two shall touch you." Once more Esther wiped his forehead, and he signed to her how he wished the bed-clothes to be arranged, for he could no longer speak. Mrs. Collins whispered to Esther that she did not think that the end could be far off, and compelled by a morbid sort of curiosity she took a chair and sat down. Esther wiped away the little drops of sweat as they came upon his forehead; his chest and throat had to be wiped also, for they too were full of sweat. His eyes were fixed on the darkness and he moved his hand restlessly, and Esther always understood what he wanted. She gave him a little brandy-and-water, and when he could not take it from the glass she gave it to him with a spoon. The silence grew more solemn, and the clock on the mantelpiece striking ten sharp strokes did not interrupt it; and then, as Esther turned from the bedside for the brandy, Mrs. Collins's candle spluttered and went out; a little thread of smoke evaporated, leaving only a morsel of blackened wick; the flame had disappeared for ever, gone as if it had never been, and Esther saw darkness where there had been a light. Then she heard Mrs. Collins say-- "I think it is all over, dear." The profile on the pillow seemed very little. "Hold up his head, so that if there is any breath it may come on the glass." "He's dead, right enough. You see, dear, there's not a trace of breath on the glass." "I'd like to say a prayer. Will you say a prayer with me?" "Yes, I feel as if I should like to myself; it eases the heart wonderful." XLV She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating in the grey evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out of sight. The white gates swung slowly forward and closed over the line. An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the seat beside her. A woman of seven or eight and thirty, stout and strongly built, short arms and hard-worked hands, dressed in dingy black skirt and a threadbare jacket too thin for the dampness of a November day. Her face was a blunt outline, and the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the Saxon. The porter told her that he would try to send her box up to Woodview to-morrow.... That was the way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would find the lodge gate behind that clump of trees. And thinking how she could get her box to Woodview that evening, she looked at the barren strip of country lying between the downs and the shingle beach. The little town clamped about its deserted harbour seemed more than ever like falling to pieces like a derelict vessel, and when Esther passed over the level crossing she noticed that the line of little villas had not increased; they were as she had left them eighteen years ago, laurels, iron railing, antimacassars. It was about eighteen years ago, on a beautiful June day, that she had passed up this lane for the first time. At the very spot she was now passing she had stopped to wonder if she would be able to keep the place of kitchen-maid. She remembered regretting that she had not a new dress; she had hoped to be able to brighten up the best of her cotton prints with a bit of red ribbon. The sun was shining, and she had met William leaning over the paling in the avenue smoking his pipe. Eighteen years had gone by, eighteen years of labour, suffering, disappointment. A great deal had happened, so much that she could not remember it all. The situations she had been in; her life with that dear good soul, Miss Rice, then Fred Parsons, then William again; her marriage, the life in the public-house, money lost and money won, heart-breakings, death, everything that could happen had happened to her. Now it all seemed like a dream. But her boy remained to her. She had brought up her boy, thank God, she had been able to do that. But how had she done it? How often had she found herself within sight of the workhouse? The last time was no later than last week. Last week it had seemed to her that she would have to accept the workhouse. But she had escaped, and now here she was back at the very point from which she started, going back to Woodview, going back to Mrs. Barfield's service. William's illness and his funeral had taken Esther's last few pounds away from her, and when she and Jack came back from the cemetery she found that she had broken into her last sovereign. She clasped him to her bosom--he was a tall boy of fifteen--and burst into tears. But she did not tell him what she was crying for. She did not say, "God only knows how we shall find bread to eat next week;" she merely said, wiping away her tears, "We can't afford to live here any longer. It's too expensive for us now that father's gone." And they went to live in a slum for three-and-sixpence a week. If she had been alone in the world she would have gone into a situation, but she could not leave the boy, and so she had to look out for charing. It was hard to have to come down to this, particularly when she remembered that she had had a house and a servant of her own; but there was nothing for it but to look out for some charing, and get along as best she could until Jack was able to look after himself. But the various scrubbings and general cleaning that had come her way had been so badly paid that she soon found that she could not make both ends meet. She would have to leave her boy and go out as a general servant. And as her necessities were pressing, she accepted a situation in a coffee-shop in the London Road. She would give all her wages to Jack, seven shillings a week, and he would have to live on that. So long as she had her health she did not mind. It was a squat brick building with four windows that looked down on the pavement with a short-sighted stare. On each window was written in letters of white enamel, "Well-aired beds." A board nailed to a post by the side-door announced that tea and coffee were always ready. On the other side of the sign was an upholsterer's, and the vulgar brightness of the Brussels carpets seemed in keeping with the slop-like appearance of the coffeehouse. Sometimes a workman came in the morning; a couple more might come in about dinner-time. Sometimes they took rashers and bits of steak out of their pockets. "Won't you cook this for me, missis?" But it was not until about nine in the evening that the real business of the house began, and it continued till one, when the last straggler knocked for admittance. The house lived on its beds. The best rooms were sometimes let for eight shillings a night, and there were four beds which were let at fourpence a night in the cellar under the area where Esther stood by the great copper washing sheets, blankets, and counterpanes, when she was not cleaning the rooms upstairs. There was a double-bedded room underneath the kitchen, and over the landings, wherever a space could be found, the landlord, who was clever at carpentering work, had fitted up some sort of closet place that could be let as a bedroom. The house was a honeycomb. The landlord slept under the roof, and a corner had been found for his housekeeper, a handsome young woman, at the end of the passage. Esther and the children--the landlord was a widower--slept in the coffee-room upon planks laid across the tops of the high backs of the benches where the customers mealed. Mattresses and bedding were laid on these planks and the sleepers lay, their faces hardly two feet from the ceiling. Esther slept with the baby, a little boy of five; the two big boys slept at the other end of the room by the front door. The eldest was about fifteen, but he was only half-witted; and he helped in the housework, and could turn down the beds and see quicker than any one if the occupant had stolen sheet or blanket. Esther always remembered how he would raise himself up in bed in the early morning, rub the glass, and light a candle so that he could be seen from below. He shook his head if every bed was occupied, or signed with his fingers the prices of the beds if they had any to let. The landlord was a tall, thin man, with long features and hair turning grey. He was very quiet, and Esther was surprised one night at the abruptness with which he stopped a couple who were going upstairs. "Is that your wife?" he said. "Yes, she's my wife all right." "She don't look very old." "She's older than she looks." Then he said, half to Esther, half to his housekeeper, that it was hard to know what to do. If you asked them for their marriage certificates they'd be sure to show you something. The housekeeper answered that they paid well, and that was the principal thing. But when an attempt was made to steal the bedclothes the landlord and his housekeeper were more severe. As Esther was about to let a most respectable woman out of the front door, the idiot boy called down the stairs, "Stop her! There's a sheet missing." "Oh, what in the world is all this? I haven't got your sheet. Pray let me pass; I'm in a hurry." "I can't let you pass until the sheet is found." "You'll find it upstairs under the bed. It's got mislaid. I'm in a hurry." "Call in the police," shouted the idiot boy. "You'd better come upstairs and help me to find the sheet," said Esther. The woman hesitated a moment, and then walked up in front of Esther. When they were in the bedroom she shook out her petticoats, and the sheet fell on the floor. "There, now," said Esther, "a nice botheration you'd 've got me into. I should've had to pay for it." "Oh, I could pay for it; it was only because I'm not very well off at present." "Yes, you _will_ pay for it if you don't take care," said Esther. It was very soon after that Esther had her mother's books stolen from her. They had not been doing much business, and she had been put to sleep in one of the bedrooms. The room was suddenly wanted, and she had no time to move all her things, and when she went to make up the room she found that her mother's books and a pair of jet earrings that Fred had given her had been stolen. She could do nothing; the couple who had occupied the room were far away by this time. There was no hope of ever recovering her books and earrings, and the loss of these things caused her a great deal of unhappiness. The only little treasure she possessed were those earrings; now they were gone, she realised how utterly alone she was in the world. If her health were to break down to-morrow she would have to go to the workhouse. What would become of her boy? She was afraid to think; thinking did no good. She must not think, but must just work on, washing the bedclothes until she could wash no longer. Wash, wash, all the week long; and it was only by working on till one o'clock in the morning that she sometimes managed to get the Sabbath free from washing. Never, not even in the house in Chelsea, had she had such hard work, and she was not as strong now as she was then. But her courage did not give way until one Sunday Jack came to tell her that the people who employed him had sold their business. Then a strange weakness came over her. She thought of the endless week of work that awaited her in the cellar, the great copper on the fire, the heaps of soiled linen in the corner, the steam rising from the wash-tub, and she felt she had not sufficient strength to get through another week of such work. She looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She had whispered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a tiny infant, "There is nothing for us, my poor boy, but the workhouse," and the same thought rose up in her mind as she looked at him, a tall lad with large grey eyes and dark curling hair. But she did not trouble him with her despair. She merely said-- "I don't know how we shall pull through, Jack. God will help us." "You're washing too hard, mother. You're wasting away. Do you know no one, mother, who could help us?" She looked at Jack fixedly, and she thought of Mrs. Barfield. Mrs. Barfield might be away in the South with her daughter. If she were at Woodview Esther felt sure that she would not refuse to help her. So Jack wrote at Esther's dictation, and before they expected an answer, a letter came from Mrs. Barfield saying that she remembered Esther perfectly well. She had just returned from the South. She was all alone at Woodview, and wanted a servant. Esther could come and take the place if she liked. She enclosed five pounds, and hoped that the money would enable Esther to leave London at once. But this returning to former conditions filled Esther with strange trouble. Her heart beat as she recognised the spire of the church between the trees, and the undulating line of downs behind the trees awakened painful recollections. She knew the white gate was somewhere in this plantation, but could not remember its exact position; and she took the road to the left instead of taking the road to the right, and had to retrace her steps. The gate had fallen from its hinge, and she had some difficulty in opening it. The lodge where the blind gatekeeper used to play the flute was closed; the park paling had not been kept in repair; wandering sheep and cattle had worn away the great holly hedge; and Esther noticed that in falling an elm had broken through the garden wall. When she arrived at the iron gate under the bunched evergreens, her steps paused. For this was where she had met William for the first time. He had taken her through the stables and pointed out to her Silver Braid's box. She remembered the horses going to the downs, horses coming from the downs--stabling and the sound of hoofs everywhere. But now silence. She could see that many a roof had fallen, and that ruins of outhouses filled the yard. She remembered the kitchen windows, bright in the setting sun, and the white-capped servants moving about the great white table. But now the shutters were up, nowhere a light; the knocker had disappeared from the door, and she asked herself how she was to get in. She even felt afraid.... Supposing she should not find Mrs. Barfield. She made her way through the shrubbery, tripping over fallen branches and trunks of trees; rooks rose out of the evergreens with a great clatter, her heart stood still, and she hardly dared to tear herself through the mass of underwood. At last she gained the lawn, and, still very frightened, sought for the bell. The socket plate hung loose on the wire, and only a faint tinkle came through the solitude of the empty house. At last footsteps and a light; the chained door was opened a little, and a voice asked who it was. Esther explained; the door was opened, and she stood face to face with her old mistress. Mrs. Barfield stood, holding the candle high, so that she could see Esther. Esther knew her at once. She had not changed very much. She kept her beautiful white teeth and her girlish smile; the pointed, vixen-like face had not altered in outline, but the reddish hair was so thin that it had to be parted on the side and drawn over the skull; her figure was delicate and sprightly as ever. Esther noticed all this, and Mrs. Barfield noticed that Esther had grown stouter. Her face was still pleasant to see, for it kept that look of blunt, honest nature which had always been its charm. She was now the thick-set working woman of forty, and she stood holding the hem of her jacket in her rough hands. "We'd better put the chain up, for I'm alone in the house." "Aren't you afraid, ma'am?" "A little, but there's nothing to steal. I asked the policeman to keep a look-out. Come into the library." There was the round table, the little green sofa, the piano, the parrot's cage, and the yellow-painted presses; and it seemed only a little while since she had been summoned to this room, since she had stood facing her mistress, her confession on her lips. It seemed like yesterday, and yet seventeen years and more had gone by. And all these years were now a sort of a blur in her mind--a dream, the connecting links of which were gone, and she stood face to face with her old mistress in the old room. "You've had a cold journey, Esther; you'd like some tea?" "Oh, don't trouble, ma'am." "It's no trouble; I should like some myself. The fire's out in the kitchen. We can boil the kettle here." They went through the baize door into the long passage. Mrs. Barfield told Esther where was the pantry, the kitchen, and the larder. Esther answered that she remembered quite well, and it seemed to her not a little strange that she should know these things. Mrs. Barfield said-- "So you haven't forgotten Woodview, Esther?" "No, ma'am. It seems like yesterday.... But I'm afraid the damp has got into the kitchen, ma'am, the range is that neglected----" "Ah, Woodview isn't what it was." Mrs. Barfield told how she had buried her husband in the old village church. She had taken her daughter to Egypt; she had dwindled there till there was little more than a skeleton to lay in the grave. "Yes, ma'am, I know how it takes them, inch by inch. My husband died of consumption." They sat talking for hours. One thing led to another and Esther gradually told Mrs. Barfield the story of her life from the day they bade each other good-bye in the room they were now sitting in. "It is quite a romance, Esther." "It was a hard fight, and it isn't over yet, ma'am. It won't be over until I see him settled in some regular work. I hope I shall live to see him settled." They sat over the fire a long time without speaking. Mrs. Barfield said-- "It must be getting on for bedtime." "I suppose it must, ma'am." She asked if she should sleep in the room she had once shared with Margaret Gale. Mrs. Barfield answered with a sigh that as all the bedrooms were empty Esther had better sleep in the room next to hers. XLVI Esther seemed to have quite naturally accepted Woodview as a final stage. Any further change in her life she did not seem to regard as possible or desirable. One of these days her boy would get settled; he would come down now and again to see her. She did not want any more than that. No, she did not find the place lonely. A young girl might, but she was no longer a young girl; she had her work to do, and when it was done she was glad to sit down to rest. And, dressed in long cloaks, the women went for walks together; sometimes they went up the hill, sometimes into Southwick to make some little purchases. On Sundays they walked to Beeding to attend meeting. And they came home along the winter roads, the peace and happiness of prayer upon their faces, holding their skirts out of the mud, unashamed of their common boots. They made no acquaintances, seeming to find in each other all necessary companionship. Their heads bent a little forward, they trudged home, talking of what they were in the habit of talking, that another tree had been blown down, that Jack was now earning good money--ten shillings a week. Esther hoped it would last. Or else Esther told her mistress that she had heard that one of Mr. Arthur's horses had won a race. He lived in the North of England, where he had a small training stable, and his mother never heard of him except through the sporting papers. "He hasn't been here for four years," Mrs. Barfield said; "he hates the place; he wouldn't care if I were to burn it down to-morrow.... However, I do the best I can, hoping that one day he'll marry and come and live here." Mr. Arthur--that was how Mrs. Barfield and Esther spoke of him--did not draw any income from the estate. The rents only sufficed to pay the charges and the widow's jointure. All the land was let; the house he had tried to let, but it had been found impossible to find a tenant, unless Mr. Arthur would expend some considerable sum in putting the house and grounds into a state of proper repair. This he did not care to do; he said that he found race-horses a more profitable speculation. Besides, even the park had been let on lease; nothing remained to him but the house and lawn and garden; he could no longer gallop a horse on the hill without somebody's leave, so he didn't care what became of the place. His mother might go on living there, keeping things together as she called it; he did not mind what she did as long as she didn't bother him. So did he express himself regarding Woodview on the rare occasion of his visits, and when he troubled to answer his mother's letters. Mrs. Barfield, whose thoughts were limited to the estate, was pained by his indifference; she gradually ceased to consult him, and when Beeding was too far for her to walk she had the furniture removed from the drawing-room and a long deal table placed there instead. She had not asked herself if Arthur would object to her inviting a few brethren of the neighbourhood to her house for meeting, or publishing the meetings by notices posted on the lodge gate. One day Mrs. Barfield and Esther were walking in the avenue, when, to their surprise, they saw Mr. Arthur open the white gate and come through. The mother hastened forward to meet her son, but paused, dismayed by the anger that looked out of his eyes. He did not like the notices, and she was sorry that he was annoyed. She didn't think that he would mind them, and she hastened by his side, pleading her excuses. But to her great sorrow Arthur did not seem to be able to overcome his annoyance. He refused to listen, and continued his reproaches, saying the things that he knew would most pain her. He did not care whether the trees stood or fell, whether the cement remained upon the walls or dropped from them; he didn't draw a penny of income from the place, and did not care a damn what became of it. He allowed her to live there, she got her jointure out of the property, and he didn't want to interfere with her, but what he could not stand was the snuffy little folk from the town coming round his house. The Barfields at least were county, and he wished Woodview to remain county as long as the walls held together. He wasn't a bit ashamed of all this ruin. You could receive the Prince of Wales in a ruin, but he wouldn't care to ask him into a dissenting chapel. Mrs. Barfield answered that she didn't see how the mere assembling of a few friends in prayer could disgrace a house. She did not know that he objected to her asking them. She would not ask them any more. The only thing was that there was no place nearer than Beeding where they could meet, and she could no longer walk so far. She would have to give up meeting. "It seems to me a strange taste to want to kneel down with a lot of little shop-keepers.... Is this where you kneel?" he said, pointing to the long deal table. "The place is a regular little Bethel." "Our Lord said that when a number should gather together for prayer that He would be among them. Those are true words, and as we get old we feel more and more the want of this communion of spirit. It is only then that we feel that we're really with God.... The folk that you despise are equal in His sight. And living here alone, what should I be without prayer? and Esther, after her life of trouble and strife, what would she be without prayer?... It is our consolation." "I think one should choose one's company for prayer as for everything else. Besides, what do you get out of it? Miracles don't happen nowadays." "You're very young, Arthur, and you cannot feel the want of prayer as we do--two old women living in this lonely house. As age and solitude overtake us, the realities of life float away and we become more and more sensible to the mystery which surrounds us. And our Lord Jesus Christ gave us love and prayer so that we might see a little further." An expression of great beauty came upon her face, that unconscious resignation which, like the twilight, hallows and transforms. In such moments the humblest hearts are at one with nature, and speaks out of the eternal wisdom of things. So even this common racing man was touched, and he said-- "I'm sorry if I said anything to hurt your religious feelings." Mrs. Barfield did not answer. "Do you not accept my apologies, mother?" "My dear boy, what do I care for your apologies; what are they to me? All I think of now is your conversion to Christ. Nothing else matters. I shall always pray for that." "You may have whom you like up here; I don't mind if it makes you happy. I'm ashamed of myself. Don't let's say any more about it. I'm only down for the day. I'm going home to-morrow." "Home, Arthur! this is your home. I can't bear to hear you speak of any other place as your home." "Well, mother, then I shall say that I'm going back to business to-morrow." Mrs. Barfield sighed. XLVII Days, weeks, months passed away, and the two women came to live more and more like friends and less like mistress and maid. Not that Esther ever failed to use the respectful "ma'am" when she addressed her mistress, nor did they ever sit down to a meal at the same table. But these slight social distinctions, which habit naturally preserved, and which it would have been disagreeable to both to forego, were no check on the intimacy of their companionship. In the evening they sat in the library sewing, or Mrs. Barfield read aloud, or they talked of their sons. On Sundays they had their meetings. The folk came from quite a distance, and sometimes as many as five-and-twenty knelt round the deal table in the drawing room, and Esther felt that these days were the happiest of her life. She was content in the peaceful present, and she knew that Mrs. Barfield would not leave her unprovided for. She was almost free from anxiety. But Jack did not seem to be able to obtain regular employment in London, and her wages were so small that she could not help him much. So the sight of his handwriting made her tremble, and she sometimes did not show the letter to Mrs. Barfield for some hours after. One Sunday morning, after meeting, as the two women were going for their walk up the hill, Esther said-- "I've a letter from my boy, ma'am. I hope it is to tell me that he's got back to work." "I'm afraid I shan't be able to read it, Esther. I haven't my glasses with me." "It don't matter, ma'am--it'll keep." "Give it to me--his writing is large and legible. I think I can read it. 'My dear mother, the place I told you of in my last letter was given away, so I must go on in the toy-shop till something better turns up. I only get six shillings a week and my tea, and can't quite manage on that.' Then something--something--'pay three and sixpence a week'--something--'bed' --something--something." "I know, ma'am; he shares a bed with the eldest boy." "Yes, that's it; and he wants to know if you can help him. 'I don't like to trouble you, mother; but it is hard for a boy to get his living in London.'" "But I've sent him all my money. I shan't have any till next quarter." "I'll lend you some, Esther. We can't leave the boy to starve. He can't live on two and sixpence a week." "You're very good, ma'am; but I don't like to take your money. We shan't be able to get the garden cleared this winter." "We shall manage somehow, Esther. The garden must wait. The first thing to do is to see that your boy doesn't want for food." The women resumed their walk up the hill. When they reached the top Mrs. Barfield said-- "I haven't heard from Mr. Arthur for months. I envy you, Esther, those letters asking for a little money. What's the use of money to us except to give it to our children? Helping others, that is the only happiness." At the end of the coombe, under the shaws, stood the old red-tiled farmhouse in which Mrs. Barfield had been born. Beyond it, downlands rolled on and on, reaching half-way up the northern sky. Mrs. Barfield was thinking of the days when her husband used to jump off his cob and walk beside her through those gorse patches on his way to the farmhouse. She had come from the farmhouse beneath the shaws to go to live in an Italian house sheltered by a fringe of trees. That was her adventure. She knew it, and she turned from the view of the downs to the view of the sea. The plantations of Woodview touched the horizon, then the line dipped, and between the top branches of a row of elms appeared the roofs of the town. Over a long spider-legged bridge a train wriggled like a snake, the bleak river flowed into the harbour, and the shingle banks saved the low land from inundation. Then the train passed behind the square, dogmatic tower of the village church. Her husband lay beneath the chancel; her father, mother, all her relations, lay in the churchyard. She would go there in a few years.... Her daughter lay far away, far away in Egypt. Upon this downland all her life had been passed, all her life except the few months she had spent by her daughter's bedside in Egypt. She had come from that coombe, from that farmhouse beneath the shaws, and had only crossed the down. And this barren landscape meant as much to Esther as to her mistress. It was on these downs that she had walked with William. He had been born and bred on these downs; but he lay far away in Brompton Cemetery; it was she who had come back! and in her simple way she too wondered at the mystery of destiny. As they descended the hill Mrs. Barfield asked Esther if she ever heard of Fred Parsons. "No, ma'am, I don't know what's become of him." "And if you were to meet him again, would you care to marry him?" "Marry and begin life over again! All the worry and bother over again! Why should I marry?--all I live for now is to see my boy settled in life." The women walked on in silence, passing by long ruins of stables, coach-houses, granaries, rickyards, all in ruin and decay. The women paused and went towards the garden; and removing some pieces of the broken gate they entered a miniature wilderness. The espalier apple-trees had disappeared beneath climbing weeds, and long briars had shot out from the bushes, leaving few traces of the former walks--a damp, dismal place that the birds seemed to have abandoned. Of the greenhouse only some broken glass and a black broken chimney remained. A great elm had carried away a large portion of the southern wall, and under the dripping trees an aged peacock screamed for his lost mate. "I don't suppose that Jack will be able to find any more paying employment this winter. We must send him six shillings a week; that, with what he is earning, will make twelve; he'll be able to live nicely on that." "I should think he would indeed. But, then, what about the wages of them who was to have cleared the gardens for us?" "We shan't be able to get the whole garden cleared, but Jim will be able to get a piece ready for us to sow some spring vegetables, not a large piece, but enough for us. The first thing to do will be to cut down those apple-trees. I'm afraid we shall have to cut down that walnut; nothing could grow beneath it. Did any one ever see such a mass of weed and briar? Yet it is only about ten years since we left Woodview, and the garden was let run to waste. Nature does not take long, a few years, a very few years." XLVIII All the winter the north wind roamed on the hills; many trees fell in the park, and at the end of February Woodview seemed barer and more desolate than ever; broken branches littered the roadway, and the tall trunks showed their wounds. The women sat over their fire in the evening listening to the blast, cogitating the work that awaited them as soon as the weather showed signs of breaking. Mrs. Barfield had laid by a few pounds during the winter; and the day that Jim cleared out the first piece of espalier trees she spent entirely in the garden, hardly able to take her eyes off him. But the pleasure of the day was in a measure spoilt for her by the knowledge that on that day her son was riding in the great steeplechase. She was full of fear for his safety; she did not sleep that night, and hurried down at an early hour to the garden to ask Jim for the newspaper which she had told him to bring her. He took some time to extract the paper from his torn pocket. "He isn't in the first three," said Mrs. Barfield. "I always know that he's safe if he's in the first three. We must turn to the account of the race to see if there were any accidents." She turned over the paper. "Thank God, he's safe," she said; "his horse ran fourth." "You worry yourself without cause, ma'am. A good rider like him don't meet with accidents." "The best riders are often killed, Esther. I never have an easy moment when I hear he's going to ride in these races. Supposing one day I were to read that he was carried back on a shutter." "We mustn't let our thoughts run on such things, ma'am. If a war was to break out to-morrow, what should I do? His regiment would be ordered out. It is sad to think that he had to enlist. But, as he said, he couldn't go on living on me any longer. Poor boy! ...We must keep on working, doing the best we can for them. There are all sorts of chances, and we can only pray that God may spare them." "Yes, Esther, that's all we can do. Work on, work on to the end.... But your boy is coming to see you to-day." "Yes, ma'am, he'll be here by twelve o'clock.'" "You're luckier than I am. I wonder if I shall ever see my boy again." "Yes, ma'am, of course you will. He'll come back to you right enough one of these days. There's a good time coming; that's what I always says.... And now I've got work to do in the house. Are you going to stop here, or are you coming in with me? It'll do you no good standing about in the wet clay." Mrs. Barfield smiled and nodded, and Esther paused at the broken gate to watch her mistress, who stood superintending the clearing away of ten years' growth of weeds, as much interested in the prospect of a few peas and cabbages as in former days she had been in the culture of expensive flowers. She stood on what remained of a gravel walk, the heavy clay clinging to her boots, watching Jim piling weeds upon his barrow. Would he be able to finish the plot of ground by the end of the week? What should they do with that great walnut-tree? Nothing would grow underneath it. Jim was afraid that he would not be able to cut it down and remove it without help. Mrs. Barfield suggested sawing away some of the branches, but Jim was not sure that the expedient would prove of much avail. In his opinion the tree took all the goodness out of the soil, and that while it stood they could not expect a very great show of vegetables. Mrs. Barfield asked if the sale of the tree trunk would indemnify her for the cost of cutting it down. Jim paused in his work, and, leaning on his spade, considered if there was any one in the town, who, for the sake of the timber, would cut the tree down and take it away for nothing. There ought to be some such person in town; if it came to that, Mrs. Barfield ought to receive something for the tree. Walnut was a valuable wood, was extensively used by cabinetmakers, and so on, until Mrs. Barfield begged him to get on with his digging. At twelve o'clock Esther and Mrs. Barfield walked out on the lawn. A loud wind came up from the sea, and it shook the evergreens as if it were angry with them. A rook carried a stick to the tops of the tall trees, and the women drew their cloaks about them. The train passed across the vista, and the women wondered how long it would take Jack to walk from the station. Then another rook stooped to the edge of the plantation, gathered a twig, and carried it away. The wind was rough; it caught the evergreens underneath and blew them out like umbrellas; the grass had not yet begun to grow, and the grey sea harmonised with the grey-green land. The women waited on the windy lawn, their skirts blown against their legs, keeping their hats on with difficulty. It was too cold for standing still. They turned and walked a few steps towards the house, and then looked round. A tall soldier came through the gate. He wore a long red cloak, and a small cap jauntily set on the side of his close-clipped head. Esther uttered a little exclamation, and ran to meet him. He took his mother in his arms, kissed her, and they walked towards Mrs. Barfield together. All was forgotten in the happiness of the moment--the long fight for his life, and the possibility that any moment might declare him to be mere food for powder and shot. She was only conscious that she had accomplished her woman's work--she had brought him up to man's estate; and that was her sufficient reward. What a fine fellow he was! She did not know he was so handsome, and blushing with pleasure and pride she glanced shyly at him out of the corners of her eyes as she introduced him to her mistress. "This is my son, ma'am." Mrs. Barfield held out her hand to the young soldier. "I have heard a great deal about you from your mother." "And I of you, ma'am. You've been very kind to my mother. I don't know how to thank you." And in silence they walked towards the house. 
12958	----	PAMELA Volume II By Samuel Richardson AUTHOR'S ORIGINAL PREFACE TO VOLUME II The First part of PAMELA met with a success greatly exceeding the most sanguine expectations: and the Editor hopes, that the Letters which compose this Part will be found equally written to NATURE, avoiding all romantic nights, improbable surprises, and irrational machinery; and the passions are touched, where requisite; and rules, equally _new_ and _practicable_, inculcated throughout the whole, for the _general conduct of life_; and, therefore, he flatters himself, that they may expect the good fortune, which _few continuations_ have met with, to be judged not unworthy the _First_ Part; nor disproportioned to the more exalted condition in which PAMELA was destined to shine as an affectionate _wife_, a faithful _friend_, a polite and kind _neighbour_, an indulgent _mother_, and a beneficent _mistress_; after having in the former Part supported the character of a dutiful _child_, a spotless _virgin_, and a modest and amiable _bride_. The reader will easily see, that in so great a choice of materials, as must arise from a multitude of important subjects, in a married life, to such geniuses and friendships as those of Mr. and Mrs. B. the Editor's greatest difficulty was how to bring them within the compass which he was determined not to exceed. And it having been left to his own choice, in what manner to digest and publish the letters, and where to close the work, he had intended, at first, in regard to his other avocations, to have carried the piece no farther than the First Part. It may be expected, therefore, that he should enter into an explanation of the reasons whereby he was provoked into a necessity of altering his intention. But he is willing to decline saying any thing upon so well-known a subject. The Editor has been much pressed with importunities and conjectures, in relation to the person and family of the gentleman, who are the principal persons in the work; all he thinks himself at liberty to say, or is necessary to be said, is only to repeat what has already been hinted, that the story has its foundation in truth; and that there was a necessity, for obvious reasons, to vary and disguise some facts and circumstances, as also the names of persons, places, &c. LETTER I My dear father and mother, We arrived here last night, highly pleased with our journey, and the occasion of it. May God bless you both with long life and health, to enjoy your sweet farm, and pretty dwelling, which is just what I wished it to be. And don't make your grateful hearts too uneasy in the possession of it, by your modest diffidence of your own unworthiness: for, at the same time, that it is what will do honour to the best of men, it is not so _very_ extraordinary, considering his condition, as to cause any one to censure it as the effect of a too partial and injudicious kindness for the parents of one whom he _delighteth to honour_. My dear master (why should I not still call him so, bound to reverence him as I am, in every light he can shine in to the most obliging and sensible heart?) still proposes to fit up the large parlour, and three apartments in the commodious dwelling he calls yours, for his entertainment and mine, when I pay my duty to you both, for a few happy days; and he has actually given orders to that effect; and that the three apartments be _so_ fitted up, as to be rather suitable to _your_ condition, than his own; for, he says, the plain simple elegance, which he will have observed in the rooms, as well as the furniture, will be a variety in his retirement to this place, that will make him return to his own with the greater pleasure; and, at the same time, when we are not there, will be of use for the reception of any of your friends; and so he shall not, as he kindly says, rob the good couple of any of their accommodations. The old bow-windows he will have preserved, but will not have them sashed, nor the woodbines, jessamines, and vines, that run up against them, destroyed: only he will have larger panes of glass, and more convenient casements to let in the sweet air and light, and make amends for that obstructed by the shades of those fragrant climbers. For he has mentioned, three or four times, how gratefully they dispensed their intermingled odours to us, when, the last evening we stood at the window, to hear the responsive songs of two warbling nightingales, one at a distance, the other near, which delighted us for above two hours, and the more, as we thought their season had been over. And when they had done, he made _me_ sing him one, for which he rewarded me with a kiss, saying, "How greatly do the innocent pleasures I now hourly taste, exceed the guilty tumults that used formerly to agitate my unequal mind!--Never talk, my Pamela, as you frequently do, of obligation to me: one such hour as I now enjoy is an ample reward for all the benefits I can confer on you and yours in my whole life!" The parlour will indeed be more elegant; though that is to be rather plain than rich, as well in its wainscot as furniture, and to be new-floored. The dear gentleman has already given orders, and you will soon have workmen to put them in execution. The parlour-doors are to have brass-hinges and locks, and to shut as close, he tells them, as a watch-case: "For who knows," said he, "my dear, but we shall have still added blessings, in two or three charming boys and girls, to place there in their infancy, before they can be of age to be benefited by your lessons and example? And besides, I shall no doubt entertain there some of my chosen friends, in their excursions for a day or two." How am I, every hour of my life, overwhelmed with instances of God Almighty's goodness and his! O spare, blessed Father of Mercies, the precious life of this excellent man; increase my thankfulness, and my worthiness;--and then--But what shall I say?--Only that I may _continue_ to be what I am; for more blessed and happy, in my own mind, I cannot be. The beds he will have of cloth, as he thinks the situation a little cold, especially when the wind is easterly, and purposes to be down in the early spring season, now and then, as well as in the latter autumn; and the window curtains of the same, in one room red, in the other green; but plain, lest you should be afraid to use them occasionally. The carpets for them will be sent with the other furniture; for he will not alter the old oaken floors of the bed-chamber, nor the little room he intends for my use, when I choose not to join in such company as may happen to fall in: "Which, my dear," says he, "shall be as little as is possible, only particular friends, who may be disposed, once in a year or two, to see when I am there, how I live with my Pamela and her parents, and how I pass my time in my retirement, as I shall call this: or, perhaps, they will be apt to think me ashamed of company I shall always be pleased with. Nor are you, my dear, to take this as a compliment to yourself, but a piece of requisite policy in me: for who will offer to reproach me with marrying, as the world thinks, below me, when they shall see that I not only pride myself in my Pamela, but take pleasure in owning her relations as mine, and visiting them, and receiving visits from them: and yet offer not to set them up in such a glaring light, as if I would have the world forget (who in that case would always take the more pleasure in remembering) what they were! And how will it anticipate low reflection, when they shall see, I can bend my mind to partake with them the pleasure of their humble but decent life?--Ay," continued he, "and be rewarded for it too, with better health, better spirits, and a better mind; so that, my dear," added he, "I shall reap more benefit by what I propose to do, than I shall confer." In this generous manner does this best of men endeavour to disclaim (though I must be very ungrateful, if, with me, it did not enhance) the proper merit of a beneficence natural to him; and which, indeed, as I tell him, may be in one respect deprecated, inasmuch as (so excellent is his nature) he cannot help it if he would. O that it was in my power to recompense him for it! But I am poor, as I have often said, in every thing but will--and that is wholly his: and what a happiness is it to me, a happiness I could not so early have hoped for, that I can say so without reserve; since the dear object of it requires nothing of me but what is consistent with my duty to the Supreme Benefactor, the first mover and cause of all his own happiness, of my happiness, and that of my dear, my ever dear parents. _Your dutiful and happy daughter._ LETTER II MY DEAREST DAUGHTER, I need not repeat to you the sense your good mother and I have of our happiness, and of our obligations to your honoured spouse; you both were pleased witnesses of it every hour of the happy fortnight you passed with us. Yet, my dear, we hardly know how to address ourselves even to _you_, much less to the _'squire_, with the freedom he so often invited us to take: for I don't know how it is, but though you are our daughter, and so far from being lifted up by your high condition, that we see no difference in your behaviour to us, your poor parents, yet, viewing you as the lady of so fine a gentleman, we cannot forbear having a kind of respect, and--I don't know what to call it--that lays a little restraint upon us. And yet, we should not, methinks, let our minds be run away with the admiration of worldly grandeur, so as to set too much by it. But your merit and prudence are so much above all we could ever have any notion of: and to have gentry come only to behold and admire you, not so much for your gentleness, and amiableness, or for your behaviour, and affability to poor as well as rich, and to hear every one calling you an angel, and saying, you deserve to be what you are, make us hardly know how to look upon you, but as an angel indeed! I am sure you have been a good angel to us; since, for your sake, God Almighty has put it into your honoured husband's heart to make us the happiest couple in the world. But little less we should have been, had we only in some far distant land heard of our dear child's happiness and never partaken of the benefits of it ourselves. But thus to be provided for! thus kindly to be owned, and called Father and Mother by such a brave gentleman! and so placed as to have nothing to do but to bless God, him, and you, and hourly pray for you _both_, is a providence too mighty to be borne by us, with equalness of temper: we kneel together every morning, noon, and night, and weep and rejoice, and rejoice and weep, to think how our unworthiness is distinguished, and how God has provided for us in our latter days; when all our fear was, that, as we grew older and more infirm, and worn out by hard labour, we should be troublesome where, not our pride, but our industrious wills, would have made us wish not to be so;--but to be entitled to a happier lot: for this would have grieved us the more, for the sake of you, my dear child, and your unhappy brother's children: for it is well known, that, though we pretend not to boast of our family, and indeed have no reason, yet none of us were ever sunk so low as I was: to be sure, partly by my own fault; for, had it been for your poor aged mother's sake only, I ought not to have done what I did for John and William; for so unhappy were they, poor lads! that what I could do, was but as a drop of water to a bucket. You command me--Let me, as writing to Mr. B.'s lady, say _command_, though, as to my dear _daughter_, I will only say _desire_: and, indeed, I will not, as you wish me not to do, let the one condition, which was accidental, put the other, which was natural, out of my thought: you spoke it in better words, but this was the sense. But you have the gift of utterance; and education is a fine thing, where it meets with such talents to improve upon, as God has given you. Yet let me not forget what I was going to say--You _command_--or, if you please--you _desire_ me to write long letters, and often--And how can I help it, if I would? For when here, in this happy dwelling, and this well-stocked farm, in these rich meadows, and well-cropt acres, we look around us, and which way soever we turn our head, see blessings upon blessings, and plenty upon plenty, see barns well stored, poultry increasing, the kine lowing and crowding about us: and are bid to call them our own. Then think, that all is the reward of our child's virtue!--O my dear daughter, who can bear these things!--Excuse me! I must break off a little! For my eyes are as full as my heart: and I will retire to bless God, and your honoured husband. So, my dear child, I now again take up my pen: but reading what I had written, in order to carry on the thread, I can hardly forbear again being in one sort affected. But do you think I will call all these things my own?--Do you think I would live rent-free? Can the honoured 'squire believe, that having such a generous example before me, if I had no gratitude in my temper before, I could help being touched by such an one as he sets me? If this goodness makes him know no mean in giving, shall I be so greedy as to know none in receiving? Come, come, my dear child, your poor father is not so sordid a wretch, neither. He will shew the world that all these benefits are not thrown away upon one, who will disgrace you as much by his temper, as by his condition. What though I cannot be as worthy of all these favours as I wish, I will be as worthy as I can. And let me tell you, my dear child, if the king and his royal family (God bless 'em!) be not ashamed to receive taxes and duties from his subjects; if dukes and earls, and all the top gentry, cannot support their bravery, without having their rents paid; I hope I shall not affront the 'squire, to pay to his steward, what any other person would pay for his noble stock, and improving farm: and I will do it, if it please God to bless me with life and health. I should not be worthy to crawl upon the earth, if I did not. And what did I say to Mr. Longman, the faithful Mr. Longman! Sure no gentleman had ever a more worthy steward than he: it was as we were walking over the grounds together, and observing in what good order every thing was, he was praising some little contrivances of my own, for the improvement of the farm, and saying, how comfortably he hoped we might live upon it. "Ay, Mr. Longman," said I, "comfortably indeed: but do you think I could be properly said to _live_, if I was not to pay as much rent for it as another?" --"I can tell you," said he, "the 'squire will not receive any thing from you, Goodman Andrews. Why, man, he has no occasion for it: he's worth a power of money, besides a noble and clear estate in land. Ad's-heartlikens, you must not affront him, I can tell you that: he's as generous as a prince, where he takes; but he is hasty, and will have his own way."--"Why, for that reason, Mr. Longman," said I, "I was thinking to make _you_ my friend!"--"Make _me_ your friend! You have not a better in the world, to my power, I can tell you that, nor your dame neither; for I love such honest hearts: I wish my own brother would let me love him as well; but let that pass. What I can do for you, I will, and here's my hand upon it." "Well, then," said I, "it is this: let me account to you at the rent Farmer Dickens offered, and let me know what the stock cost, and what the crops are valued at; and pay the one as I can, and the other quarterly; and not let the 'squire know it till you can't choose; and I shall be as happy as a prince; for I doubt not, by God's blessing, to make a comfortable livelihood of it besides."--"Why, dost believe, Goodman Andrews," said he, "that I would do such a thing? Would not his honour think if I hid one thing from him, I might hide another? Go to, honest heart, I love thee dearly; but can Mr. B. do too much for his lady, think'st thou? Come, come" (and he jeered me so, I knew not what to say), "I wish at bottom there is not some pride in this. What, I warrant, you would not be too much beholden to his honour, would you?"--"No," said I, "it is not that, I'm sure. If I have any pride, it is only in my dear child--to whom, under God, all this is owing. But some how or other it shall be so." And so, my dear daughter, I resolve it shall; and it will be, over and above, one of the greatest pleasures to me, to do the good 'squire service, as well as to be so much benefited and obliged by him. Our eldest grandson Thomas desires to come and live with us: the boy is honest, and, I hear, industrious. And cousin Borroughs wants me to employ his son Roger, who understands the business of a farm very well. It is no wonder, that all one's relations should wish to partake of our happy lot; and if they _can_ and _will_ do their business as well as others, I see not why relationship should be an objection: but, yet, I think, one should not _beleaguer_, as one may say, your honoured husband with one's relations. You, my best child, will give me always your advice, as to my carriage in this my new lot; for I would not for the world be thought an encroacher. And you have so followed than yours. Our blessing (I am sure you have blessed us!) attend you, my dearest child; and may you be as happy as you have made us (I cannot wish you to be happier, because I have no notion how it can be in this life). Conclude us, _your ever-loving father and mother_, JOHN _and_ ELIZ. ANDREWS. May we hope to be favoured now and then with a letter from you, my dear child, like some of your former, to let us know how you go on? It would be a great joy to us; indeed it would. But we know you'll have enough to do without obliging us in this way. So must acquiesce. LETTER III MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, I have shewed your letter to my beloved. Don't be uneasy that I have; for you need not be ashamed of it, since it is my pride to have such honest and grateful parents: and I'll tell you what he said to it, as the best argument I can use, why you should not be uneasy, but enjoy without pain or anxiety all the benefits of your happy lot. "Dear good souls!" said he, "now every thing they say and write manifests the worthiness of their hearts! No wonder, Pamela, you love and revere such honest minds; for that you would do, were they not your parents: and tell them, that I am so far from having them believe what I have done for them were only from my affection for their daughter, that let 'em find out another couple as worthy as they are, and I will do as much for them. I would not place them," he continued, "in the _same_ county, because I would wish _two_ counties to be blessed for their sakes. Tell them, my dear, that they have a right to what they enjoy on the foot of their own _proper_ merit; and _bid_ them enjoy it as their patrimony; and if any thing arise that is more than they themselves can wish for, in their way of life, let them look among their own relations, where it may be acceptable, and communicate to them the like solid reasons for rejoicing in the situation they are pleased with: and do you, my dear, still farther enable them, as you shall judge proper, to gratify their enlarged hearts, for fear they should deny any comfort to themselves, in order to do good to others." I could only fly to his generous bosom (for this is a subject which most affects me), and, with my eyes swimming in tears of grateful joy, and which overflowed as soon as my bold lips touched his dear face, bless God, and bless him, with my whole heart; for speak I could not! But, almost chok'd with my joy, sobb'd to him my grateful acknowledgments. He clasped me in his arms, and said, "How, my dearest, do you overpay me for the little I have done for your parents! If it be thus to be bless'd for conferring benefits so insignificant to a man of my fortune, what joys is it not in the power of rich men to give themselves, whenever they please!--Foretastes, indeed, of those we are bid to hope for: which can surely only exceed these, as _then_ we shall be all intellect, and better fitted to receive them."--"'Tis too much!--too much," said I, in broken accents: "how am I oppressed with the pleasure you give me!--O, Sir, bless me more gradually, and more cautiously--for I cannot bear it!" And, indeed, my heart went flutter, flutter, flutter, at his dear breast, as if it wanted to break its too narrow prison, to mingle still more intimately with his own. Surely, my beloved parents, nobody's happiness is so great as mine!--If it proceeds thus from degree to degree, and is to be augmented by the charming hope, that the dear second author of our blessings, be the uniformly good as well as the partially kind man to us, what a felicity will this be! and if our prayers shall be heard, and we shall have the pleasure to think, that his advances in piety are owing not a little to them, and to the example God shall give us grace to set; then, indeed, may we take the pride to think, we have repaid his goodness to us, and that we have satisfied the debt, which nothing less can discharge. Forgive me, my worthy parents, if my style on this subject be raised above the natural simplicity, more suited to my humble talents. But how can I help it! For when the mind is elevated, ought not the sense we have of our happiness to make our expressions soar equally? Can the affections be so highly raised as mine are on these occasions, and the thoughts creep grovelling like one's ordinary self? No, indeed!--Call not this, therefore, the gift of utterance, if it should appear to you in a better light than it deserves. It is the gift of gratitude; a gift which makes you and me to _speak_ and _write_, as I hope it will make us _act_, above ourselves. Thus will our gratitude be the inspirer of joy to our common benefactor; and his joy will heighten our gratitude; and so we shall proceed, as cause and effect to each other's happiness, to bless the dear man who blesses us. And will it be right then to say, you are uneasy under such (at least as to your wills) returned and discharged obligations? God Almighty requires only a thankful heart for all the mercies he heaps upon the children of men; my dear Mr. B., who in these particulars imitates Divinity, desires no more. You _have_ this thankful heart; and that to such a high degree of gratitude, that nobody can exceed you. But yet, when your worthy minds would be too much affected with your gratitude, so as to lay under the restraints you mention, to the dear gentleman, and for his sake, to your dependent daughter; let me humbly advise you, with more particular, more abstracted aspirations, than at other times, to raise your thoughts upwards, and consider who it is that gives _him_ the opportunity; and pray for him and for me; for _him_, that all his future actions may be of a piece with this noble disposition of mind; for _me_, that I may continue humble, and consider myself blest for your sakes, and in order that I may be, in some sort, a rewarder, in the hands of Providence, of this its dear excellent agent; and then we shall look forward, all of us, with pleasure, _indeed_, to that state, where there is no distinction of degree, and where the humble cottager shall be upon a par with the proudest monarch. O my dear parents, how can you, as in your _postscript_, say, "May we not be _favoured_ now-and-then with a letter?" Call _me_ your daughter, your Pamela--I am no lady to you. I have more pleasure to be called your comfort, and thought to act worthy of the sentiments with which your example and instructions have inspired me, than in any other thing in this life; my determined duty to our common benefactor, the best of gentlemen and husbands, excepted. God has blessed me for your sakes, and has thus answered for me all your prayers; nay, _more_ than answered all you or I could have wished or hoped for. We only prayed, only hoped, that God would preserve _you_ honest, and _me_ virtuous: and, O see, my excellent parents, how we are crowned with blessings upon blessings, till we are the talk of all that know us. Hence, my dear parents (I mean, from the delight I have in writing to you, which transports me far above my own sphere), you'll see, that I _must_ write, and cannot help it, if I would. And _will_ it be a great joy to you?--And is there any thing that can add to your joy, think you, in the power of your Pamela, that she would not _do_? O that the lives and healths of my dearest Mr. B. and you, my parents, may be continued to me! And who can then be so blest as your Pamela? I _will_ write, _depend_ upon it, on every occasion--and you augment my joys to think it is in my power to add to your comforts. Nor can you conceive my pleasure in hoping that this your new happy lot may, by relieving you from corroding care, and the too wearying effects of hard labour, add, in these your advanced years, to both your days. For, so happy am I, I can have no grief, no pain, in looking forward, but from reflecting, that one day we must be separated. But it is fit that we so comport ourselves as not to embitter our present happiness with prospects too gloomy--but bring our minds to be cheerfully thankful for the present, wisely to enjoy that _present_ as we go along--and at last, when all is to be wound up--lie down, and say, "_Not mine_, but _Thy will be done_." I have written much; yet have still more to say relating to other parts of your kind acceptable letter; and so will soon write again: for I must think every opportunity happy, whereby I can assure you, how much I am, and will ever be, without any addition to my name, if it will make you easier, _your dutiful_ PAMELA. LETTER IV MY DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER, I now write again, as I told you I should in my last; but I am half afraid to look at the copy of it; for your worthy hearts, so visible in your letter and my beloved's kind deportment upon shewing it to him, raised me into a frame of mind, bordering on ecstasy: yet I wrote my heart. But you must not, my dear father, write to your Pamela so affectingly. Your _steadier_ mind could hardly bear your own moving strain, and you were forced to lay down your pen, and retire: how then could I, who love you so dearly, if you had not _increased_ that love by fresh and stronger instances of your worthiness, forbear being affected, and raised above myself! But I will not again touch upon this subject. You must know then, that my dearest spouse commands me, with his kind respects, to tell you, he has thought of a method to make your _worthy hearts_ easy; those were his words: "And this is," said he, "by putting that whole estate, with the new purchase, under your father's care, as I at first intended: he shall receive and pay, and order every thing as he pleases: and Longman, who grows in years, shall be eased of that burden. Your father writes a very legible hand, and shall take what assistants he pleases; and do you, Pamela, see that this new task be made as easy and pleasant to him as possible. He shall make up his accounts only to you, my dear. And there will be several pleasures arise to me upon it: first, that it will be a relief to honest Longman, who has business enough on his hands. Next, it will make the good couple easy, to have an opportunity of enjoying that as their due, which now their too grateful hearts give them so many causeless scruples about. Thirdly, it will employ your father's time, more suitably to _your_ liking and mine, because with more ease to himself; for you see his industrious will cannot be satisfied without doing something. In the fourth place, the management of this estate will gain him more respect and reverence among the tenants and his neighbours: and yet be all in his own way. For," added he, "you'll see, that it is always one point in view with me, to endeavour to convince every one, that I esteem and value them for their own intrinsic merit, and want not any body to distinguish them in any other light than that in which they have been accustomed to appear." So, my dear father, the instrument will be drawn, and brought you by honest Mr. Longman, who will be with you in a few days to put the last hand to the new purchase, and to give you possession of your new commission, if you accept it, as I hope you will; and the rather, for my dear Mr. B.'s third reason; and knowing that this trust will be discharged as worthily and as sufficiently, after you are used to it, as if Mr. Longman himself was in it--and better it cannot be. Mr. Longman is very fond of this relief, and longs to be down to settle every thing with you, as to the proper powers, the method, &c. And he says, in his usual phrase, that he'll make it as easy to you as a glove. If you do accept it, my dear Mr. B. will leave every thing to you, as to rent, where not already fixed, and, likewise, as to acts of kindness and favour to be done where you think proper; and he says, that, with his bad qualities, he was ever deemed a kind landlord; and that I can confirm in fifty instances to his honour: "So that the old gentleman," said he, "need not be afraid of being put upon severe or harsh methods of proceeding, where things will do without; and he can always befriend an honest man; by which means the province will be entirely such a one as suits with his inclination. If any thing difficult or perplexing arises," continued he, "or where a little knowledge in law-matters is necessary, Longman shall do all that: and your father will see that he will not have in those points a coadjutor too hard-hearted for his wish; for it was a rule my father set me, and I have strictly followed, that although I have a lawyer for my steward, it was rather to know how to do _right_ things, than oppressive ones; and Longman has so well answered this intention, that he was always more noted for composing differences, than promoting lawsuits." I dare say, my dear father, this will be acceptable to you, on the several accounts my dearest Mr. B. was pleased to mention: and what a charming contrivance is here! God for ever bless his considerate heart for it! To make you useful to him, and easy to yourself: as well as respected by, and even a benefactor to all around you! What can one say to all things? But what signifies exulting on one's gratitude for _one_ benefit;--every hour the dear man heaps new ones upon us, and we can hardly thank him for one, but a second, and a third, and so on to countless degrees, confound one, and throw back our words upon our hearts before they are well formed, and oblige us to sit down under all with profound silence and admiration. As to the desire of cousin Thomas, and Roger, to live with you, I endeavoured to sound what our dear benefactor's opinion was. He was pleased to say, "I have no choice in this case, my dear. Your father is his own master: he may employ whom he pleases; and, if they shew respect to him and your mother, I think, as he rightly observes, relationship should rather have the preference; and as he can remedy inconveniences, if he finds any, by all means to let every branch of your family have reason to rejoice with him." But I have thought of this matter a good deal, since I had the favour of your letter; and I hope, since you condescend to ask my advice, you will excuse me, if I give it freely; yet entirely submitting all to your liking. First, then, I think it better to have _any body_ than relations; and for these reasons: One is apt to expect more regard from them, and they more indulgence than strangers can hope for. That where there is such a difference in the expectations of both, uneasiness cannot but arise. That this will subject you to bear it, or to resent it, and to part with them. If you bear it, you will know no end of impositions: if you dismiss them, it will occasion ill-will. They will call you unkind; and you them ungrateful: and as your prosperous lot may raise you enviers, such will be apt to believe _them_ rather than _you_. Then the world will be inclined to think that we are crowding upon a generous gentleman a numerous family of indigent people; and it will be said, "The girl is filling every place with her relations, and _beleaguering_," as you significantly express it, "a worthy gentleman;" should one's kindred behave ever so worthily. So, in the next place, one would not, for _their_ sakes, that this should be done; who may live with _less_ reproach, and _equal_ benefit, any where else; for I would not wish any one of them to be lifted out of his station, and made independent, at Mr. B.'s expense, if their industry will not do it; although I would never scruple to do any thing reasonable to promote or assist that industry, in the way of their callings. Then, my dear father, I apprehend, that our honoured benefactor would be under some difficulty, from his natural politeness, and regard for you and me. You see how kindly, on all occasions, he treats you both, not only as the parents of his Pamela, but as if you were his own; and if you had any body as your servants there, who called you cousin, or grandfather, or uncle, he would not care, when he came down, to treat them on the foot of common servants, though they might think themselves honoured (as they would be, and as I shall always think _myself_) with his commands. And would it not, if they are modest and worthy, be as great a difficulty upon _them_, to be thus distinguished, as it would be to _him_ and to _me_, for _his_ sake? For otherwise (believe me, I hope you will, my dear father and mother), I could sit down and rejoice with the meanest and remotest relation I have. But in the world's eye, to every body but my best of parents, I must, if ever so reluctant to it, appear in a light that may not give discredit to his choice. Then again, as I hinted, you will be able, without the least injury to our common benefactor, to do kinder things by any of our relations, when _not_ with you, than you can do, if they _live_ with you. You may lend them a little money to put them in a way, if any thing offers that you think will be to their advantage. You can fit out my she-cousins to good reputable places. The younger you can put to school, or, when fit, to trades, according to their talents; and so they will be of course in a way to get an honest and creditable livelihood. But, above all things, one would discourage such a proud and ambitious spirit in any of them, as should want to raise itself by favour instead of merit; and this the rather, for, undoubtedly, there are many more happy persons in low than in high life, take number for number all the world over. I am sure, although four or five years of different life had passed with me, I had so much pride and pleasure in the thought of working for my living with you, if I could but get honest to you, that it made my confinement the more grievous, and, if possible, aggravated the apprehensions attending it. But I beg of you, not to think these my reasons proceed from the bad motives of a heart tainted with pride on its high condition. Indeed there can be no reason for it, to one who thinks after this manner--the greatest families on earth have some among them who are unhappy and low in life; and shall such a one reproach me with having twenty low relations, because they have, peradventure, not above five? Let us then, my dear parents, endeavour to judge of one another, as God, at the last day, will judge of us all: and then the honest peasant will stand fairer in our esteem than the guilty peer. In short, this shall be my own rule--Every one who acts justly and honestly, I will look upon as my relation, whether so or not; and the more he wants my assistance, the more entitled to it he shall be, as well as to my esteem; while those who deserve it not, must expect only compassion from me, and my prayers were they my brothers or sisters. 'Tis true had I not been poor and lowly, I might not have thought thus; but if it be a right way of thinking, it is a blessing that I was so; and that shall never be matter of reproach to me, which one day will be matter of justification. Upon the whole, I should think it advisable, my dear father and mother, to make such kind excuses to the offered service of my cousins, as your better reason shall suggest to you; and to do any thing else for them of _more_ value, as their circumstances may require, or occasions offer to serve them. But if the employing and having them about you, will add comfort to your lives, I give up entirely my own opinion, and doubt not every thing will be thought well of, that you shall think fit to do. And so I conclude with assuring you, that I am, my ever-dear parents, _your dutiful and happy daughter_. The copy of this letter I will keep to myself, till I have your answer, that you may be under no difficulty how to act in either of the cases mentioned in it. LETTER V MY DEAREST DAUGHTER, How shall I do to answer, as they deserve, your two last letters? Sure no happy couple ever had such a child as we have! But it is in vain to aim at words like yours: and equally in vain for us to offer to set forth the thankfulness of our hearts, on the kind office your honoured husband has given us; for no reason but to favour us still more, and to quiet our minds in the notion of being useful to him. God grant I may be able to be so!--Happy shall I be, if I can! But I see the generous drift of his proposal; it is only to make me more easy from the nature of my employment, and, in my mind too, over-loaded as I may say, with benefits; and at the same time to make me more respected in my new neighbourhood. I can only say, I most gratefully accept of the kind offer; and since it will ease the worthy Mr. Longman, shall with still greater pleasure do all I can in it. But I doubt I shall want ability; but I will be just and honest, however. That, by God's grace, will be within my own capacity; and that, I hope, I may answer for. It is kind, indeed, to put it in my power to do good to those who shall deserve it; and I will take _double_ pains to find out the true merit of such as I shall recommend to favour, and that their circumstances be really such as I shall represent them. But one thing let me desire, that I make up my accounts to Mr. Longman, or to his honour himself, when he shall be here with us. I don't know how-but it will make me uneasy, if I am to make up my accounts to you: for so well known is your love to us, that though you would no more do an unjust thing, than, by God's grace, we should desire you; yet this same ill-willing world might think it was like making up accounts to one's self. Do, my dearest child, get me off this difficulty, and I can have no other; for already I am in hopes I have hit upon a contrivance to improve the estate, and to better the condition of the tenants, at least not to worst them, and which, I hope, will please every body; but I will acquaint Mr. Longman with this, and take his advice; for I will not be too troublesome either to you, my dear child, or to your spouse.--If I could act so for his interest, as not to be a burden, what happy creatures should we both be in our own minds!--We find ourselves more and more respected by every one; and so far as shall be consistent with our new trust, we will endeavour to deserve it, that we may interest as many as know us in our own good wishes and prayers for the happiness of you both. But let me say, how much convinced I am by your reasons for not taking to us any of our relations. Every one of those reasons has its force with us. How happy are we to have so prudent a daughter to advise with! And I think myself obliged to promise this, that whatever I do for any of them above the amount of--forty shillings at one time, I will take your direction in it, that your wise hints, of making every one continue their industry, and not to rely upon favour instead of merit, may be followed. I am sure this is the way to make them _happier_ as well as _better_ men and women; for, as I have often thought, if one were to have a hundred pounds a year, it would not do without industry; and with it, one may do with a quarter of it, and less. In short, my dear child, your reasons are so good, that I wonder they came not into my head before, and then I needed not to have troubled you about the matter: but yet it ran in my own thought, that I could not like to be an encroacher:--for I hate a dirty thing; and, in the midst of my distresses, never could be guilty of one. Thank God for it. You rejoice our hearts beyond expression at the hope you give us of receiving letters from you now-and-then: it will be the chief comfort of our lives, next to seeing you, as we expect we sometimes shall. But yet, my dear child, don't let us inconvenience you neither. Pray don't; you'll have enough upon your hands without--to be sure you will. The workmen have made a good progress, and wish for Mr. Longman to come down; as we also do. You need not be afraid we should think you proud, or lifted up with your condition. You have weathered the first dangers, and but for your fine clothes and jewels, we should not see any difference between our dear Pamela and the much respected Mrs. B. But God has given you too much sense to be proud or lifted up. I remember, in your former writings, a saying of your 'squire's, speaking of you, that it was for persons not used to praise, and who did not deserve it, to be proud of it. Every day brings us instances of the good name his honour and you, my dear child, have left behind you in this country. Here comes one, and then another, and a third, and a fourth; "Goodman Andrews," cries one, and, "Goody Andrews," cries another--(and some call us Mr. and Mrs., but we like the other full as well) "when heard you from his honour? How does his lady do?--What a charming couple are they!--How lovingly do they live!--What an example do they give to all about them!" Then one cries, "God bless them both," and another cries, "Amen;" and so says a third and a fourth; and all say, "But when do you expect them down again?--Such-a-one longs to see 'em--and will ride a day's journey, to have but a sight of 'em at church." And then they say, "How this gentleman praises them, and that lady admires them."--O what a happiness is this! How do your poor mother and I stand fixed to the earth to hear both your praises, our tears trickling down our cheeks, and our hearts heaving as if they would burst with joy, till we are forced to take leave in half words, and hand-in-hand go in together to bless God, and bless you both. O my daughter, what a happy couple have God and you made us! Your poor mother is very anxious about her dear child. I will not touch upon a matter so very irksome to you to hear of. But, though the time may be some months off, she every hour prays for your safety and happiness, and all the increase of felicity that his honour's generous heart can wish for.--That is all we will say at present; only, that we are, with continued prayers and blessings, my dearest child, _your loving father and mother_, J. _and_ E. ANDREWS. LETTER VI _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR PAMELA, I intended to have been with you before this: but my lord has been a little indisposed with the gout, and Jackey has had an intermitting fever: but they are pretty well recovered, and it shall not be long before I see you, now I understand you are returned from your Kentish expedition. We have been exceedingly diverted with your papers. You have given us, by their means, many a delightful hour, that otherwise would have hung heavy upon us; and we are all charmed with you. Lady Betty, and her noble mamma, has been of our party, whenever we have read your accounts. She is a dear generous lady, and has shed with us many a tear over them; and my lord has not been unmoved, nor Jackey neither, at some of your distresses and reflections. Indeed, Pamela, you are a charming creature, and an ornament to your sex. We wanted to have had you among us a hundred times, as we read, that we might have loved, and kissed, and thanked you. But after all, my brother, generous and noble as he seemed, when your trials were over, was a strange wicked young fellow; and happy it was for you both, that he was so cleverly caught in the trap he had laid for your virtue. I can assure you, my lord longs to see you, and will accompany me; for, he says, he has but a faint idea of your person. I tell him, and them all, that you are the finest girl, and the most improved in person and mind, I ever beheld; and I am not afraid although they should imagine all they can in your favour, from my account, that they will be disappointed when they see and converse with you. But one thing more you must do, and then we will love you still more; and that is, send us the rest of your papers, down to your marriage at least; and farther, it you have written farther; for we all long to see the rest, as you relate it, though we know in general what has passed. You leave off with an account of an angry letter I wrote to my brother, to persuade him to give you your liberty, and a sum of money; not doubting but his designs would end in your ruin, and, I own, not wishing he would marry you; for little did I know of your merit and excellence, nor could I, but for your letters so lately sent me, have had any notion of either. I don't question, but if you have recited my passionate behaviour to you, when at the hall, I shall make a ridiculous figure enough; but I will forgive all that, for the sake of the pleasure you _have_ given me, and will still farther give me, if you comply with my request. Lady Betty says, it is the best story she has heard, and the most instructive; and she longs to have the conclusion of it in your own words. She says now and then, "What a hopeful brother you have, Lady Davers! O these intriguing gentlemen!--What rogueries do they not commit! I should have had a fine husband of him, had I received your proposal! The _dear_ Pamela would have run in his head, and had I been the first lady in the kingdom, I should have stood but a poor chance in his esteem; for, you see, his designs upon her began early." She says, you had a good heart to go back again to him, when the violent wretch had driven you from him on such a slight occasion: but yet, she thinks the reasons you give in your relation, and your love for him (which then you began to discover was your case), as well as the event, shewed you did right. But we'll tell you all our judgments, when we have read the rest of your accounts. So pray send them as soon as you can, to (I won't write myself _sister_ till then) _your affectionate_, &c. B. DAVERS. LETTER VII My good dear Lady, You have done me great honour in the letter your ladyship has been pleased to send me; and it is a high pleasure to me, now all is so happily over, that my poor papers in the least diverted you, and such honourable and worthy persons as your ladyship mentions. I could wish I might be favoured with such remarks on my conduct, so nakedly set forth (without any imagination that they would ever appear in such an assembly), as may be of use to me in my future life, and thus make me more worthy than it is otherwise possible I can be, of the honour to which I am raised. Do, dearest lady, favour me so far. I am prepared to receive blame, and to benefit by it, and cannot expect praise so much from my _actions_ as from my _intentions_; for indeed, these were always just and honourable: but why, even for these do I talk of praise, since, being prompted by impulses I could not resist, it can be no merit in me to have been governed by them? As to the papers following those in your hands, when I say, that they must needs appear impertinent to such judges, after what you know, I dare say, your ladyship will not insist upon them: yet I will not scruple briefly to mention what they contain. All my dangers and trials were happily at an end: so that they only contain the conversations that passed between your ladyship's generous brother and me; his kind assurances of honourable love to me; my acknowledgments of unworthiness to him; Mrs. Jewkes's respectful change of behaviour towards me; Mr. B.'s reconciliation to Mr. Williams; his introducing me to the good families in the neighbourhood, and avowing before them his honourable intentions. A visit from my honest father, who (not knowing what to conclude from my letter to him before I returned to your honoured brother, desiring my papers from him) came in great anxiety of heart to know the worst, doubting I had at last been caught by a stratagem, ending in my ruin. His joyful surprise to find how happy I was likely to be. All the hopes given me, answered by the private celebration of our nuptials--an honour so much above all that my utmost ambition could make me aspire to, and which I never can deserve! Your ladyship's arrival, and anger, not knowing I was actually married, but supposing me a vile wicked creature; in which case I should have deserved the worst of usage. Mr. B.'s angry lessons to me, for daring to interfere; though I thought in the tenderest and most dutiful manner, between your ladyship and himself. The most acceptable goodness and favour of your ladyship afterwards to me, of which, as becomes me, I shall ever retain the most grateful sense. My return to this sweet mansion in a manner so different from my quitting it, where I had been so happy for four years, in paying my duty to the best of mistresses, your ladyship's excellent mother, to whose goodness, in taking me from my poor honest parents, and giving me what education I have, I owe, under God, my happiness. The joy of good Mrs. Jervis, Mr. Longman, and all the servants, on this occasion. Mr. B.'s acquainting me with Miss Godfrey's affair, and presenting to me the pretty Miss Goodwin, at the dairy-house. Our appearance at church; the favour of the gentry in the neighbourhood, who, knowing your ladyship had not disdained to look upon me, and to be favourable to me, came the more readily into a neighbourly intimacy with me, and still so much the more readily, as the continued kindness of my dear benefactor, and his condescending deportment to me before them (as if I had been worthy of the honour done me), did credit to his own generous act. These, my lady, down to my good parents setting out to this place, in order to be settled, by my honoured benefactor's bounty, in the Kentish farm, are the most material contents of my remaining papers: and though they might be the most agreeable to those for whom only they were written, yet, _as_ they were principally matters of course, after what your ladyship has with you; _as_ the joy of my fond heart can be better judged of by your ladyship than described by me; and as you are acquainted with all the particulars that can be worthy of any other person's notice but my dear parents: I am sure your ladyship will dispense with your commands; and I make it my humble request that you will. For, Madam, you must needs think, that _when_ my doubts were dispelled; _when_ confident all my trials were over; _when_ I had a prospect of being so abundantly rewarded for what I suffered: _when every_ hour rose upon me with new delight, and fraught with fresh instances of generous kindness from such a dear gentleman, my master, my benefactor, the son of my honoured lady: your ladyship must needs think, I say, that I must be _too_ much affected, my heart _too_ much opened; and especially as it then (relieved from its past anxieties and fears, which had kept down and damped the latent flame) first discovered impressions of which before I hardly thought it susceptible.--So that it is scarce possible, that my _joy_ and my _prudence_, if I were to be tried by such judges of delicacy and decorum as Lord and Lady Davers, the honoured countess, and Lady Betty, could be so _intimately_, so _laudably_ coupled, as were to be wished: although the continued sense of my unworthiness, and the disgrace the dear gentleman would bring upon himself by his generous goodness to me, always went hand in hand with my _joy_ and my _prudence_; and what these considerations took from the _former_, being added to the _latter_, kept me steadier and more equal to myself, than otherwise it was possible such a young creature as I could have been. Wherefore my good lady, I hope I stand excused, and shall not bring upon myself the censure of being disobedient to your commands. Besides, Madam, since you inform me that my good Lord Davers will attend you hither, I should never dare to look his lordship in the face, if all the emotions of my heart, on such affecting occasions, stood confessed to his lordship; and if I am ashamed they should to your ladyship, to the countess, and Lady Betty, whose goodness must induce you all three to think favourably, in such circumstances, of one who is of your own sex, how would it concern me, for the same to appear before such gentlemen as my lord and his nephew?--Indeed I could not look up to either of them in the sense of this.--And give me leave to hope, that some of the scenes, in the letters your ladyship had, were not read to gentlemen; your ladyship must needs know which I mean, and will think of my two grand trials of all. For though I was the innocent subject of wicked attempts, and so cannot, I hope, suffer in any one's opinion for what I could not help; yet, for your dear brother's sake, as well as for the decency of the matter, one would not, when having the honour to appear before my lord and his nephew, he looked upon, methinks, with that levity of eye and thought, which, perhaps, hard-hearted gentlemen may pass upon one, by reason of those very scenes, which would move pity and concern in a good lady's breast, for a poor creature so attempted. So, my dear lady, be pleased to tell me, if the gentlemen _have_ heard all--I hope not--and also to point out to me such parts of my conduct as deserve blame: indeed, I will try to make a good use of your censure, and am sure I shall be thankful for it; for it will make me hope to be more and more worthy of the honour I have, of being exalted into such a distinguished family, and the right the best of gentlemen has given me to style myself _your ladyship's most humble, and most obliged servant_, P.B. LETTER VIII _From Lady Davers, in reply._ MY DEAR PAMELA, You have given us all a great disappointment in declining to oblige me with the sequel of your papers. I was a little out of humour with you at first;--I must own I was:--for I cannot bear denial, when my heart is set upon any thing. But Lady Betty became your advocate, and said, she thought you very excusable: since, no doubt, there might be many tender things, circumstanced as you were, well enough for your parents to see, but for nobody else; and relations of our side, the least of all, whose future intimacy, and frequent visits, might give occasions for raillery and remarks, not otherwise agreeable. I regard her apology for you the more, because I knew it was a great baulk to her, that you did not comply with my request. But now, child, when you know me more, you'll find, that if I am obliged to give up one point, I always insist on another, as near it as I can, in order to see if it be only _one_ thing I am to be refused, or _every_ thing; in which last case, I know how to take my measures, and resent. Now this is what I insist upon; that you correspond with me the same as you did with your parents, and acquaint me with every passage that is of concern to you; beginning with your account how both of you spent your time when in Kent; for you must know we are all taken with your duty to your parents, and the discretion of the good couple, and think you have given a very edifying example of filial piety to all who shall hear your story; for if so much duty is owing to parents, where nothing can be done for one, how much more is it to be expected, where there is power to add to the natural obligation, all the comforts and conveniences of life? We people in upper life love to hear how gratitude and unexpected benefits operate upon honest minds, who have little more than plain artless nature for their guide; and we flatter ourselves with the hopes of many a delightful hour, by your means, in this our solitary situation, if obliged to pass the next winter in it, as my lord and the earl threaten me, and the countess, and Lady Betty, that we shall. Then let us hear of every thing that gives you joy or trouble: and if my brother carries you to town, for the winter, while he attends parliament, the advices you can give us of what passes in London, and of the public entertainments and diversions he will take you to, related in your own artless and natural observations, will be as diverting to us, as if at them ourselves. For a young creature of your good understanding, to whom all these things will be quite new, will give us, perhaps, a better taste of them, their beauties and defects, than we might have before; for we people of quality go to those places, dressed out and adorned in such a manner, outvying one another, as if we considered ourselves as so many parts of the public entertainment, and are too much pleased with ourselves to be able so to attend to what we see, as to form a right judgment of it; but some of us behave with so much indifference to the entertainment, as if we thought ourselves above being diverted by what we come to see, and as if our view was rather to trifle away our time, than improve ourselves by attending to the story of the action. See, Pamela, I shall not make an unworthy correspondent altogether, for I can get into thy grave way, and moralize a little now and then: and if you'll promise to oblige me by your constant correspondence in this way, and divest yourself of all restraint, as if you were writing to your parents (and I can tell you, you'll write to one who will be as candid and as favourable to you as they can be), then I am sure we shall have truth and nature from you; and these are things which we are generally so much lifted above, by our conditions, that we hardly know what they are. But I have written enough for one letter; and yet, having more to say, I will, after this, send another, without waiting for your answer, which you may give to both together; and am, _yours_, &c. B. DAVERS. LETTER IX DEAR PAMELA, I am very glad thy honest man has let thee into the affair of Sally Godfrey. But pr'ythee, Pamela, tell us how he did it, and thy thoughts upon it, for that is a critical case, and as he has represented it, so shall I know what to say of it before you and him: for I would not make mischief between you for the world. This, let me tell you, will be a trying part of your conduct. For he loves the child, and will judge of you by your conduct towards it. He dearly loved her mother; and notwithstanding her fault, she well deserved it: for she was a sensible, ay, and a modest lady, and of an ancient and genteel family. But he was heir to a noble estate, was of a bold and enterprising spirit, fond of intrigue--Don't let this concern you--You'll have the greater happiness, and merit too, if you can hold him; and, 'tis my opinion, if any body can, you will. Then he did not like the young lady's mother, who sought artfully to entrap him. So that the poor girl, divided between her inclination for him, and her duty to her designing mother, gave into the plot upon him: and he thought himself--vile wretch as he was for all that!--at liberty to set up plot against plot, and the poor lady's honour was the sacrifice. I hope you spoke well of her to him--I hope you received the child kindly--I hope you had presence of mind to do this--For it is a nice part to act; and all his observations were up, I dare say, on the occasion--Do let me hear how it was. And write without restraint; for although I am not your mother, yet am I _his_ eldest sister, you know, and as such--Come, I will say so, in hopes you'll oblige me--_your_ sister, and so entitled to expect a compliance with my request: for is there not a duty, in degree, to elder sisters from younger? As to our remarks upon your behaviour, they have been much to your credit: but nevertheless, I will, to encourage you to enter into this requested correspondence with me, consult Lady Betty, and will go over your papers again, and try to find fault with your conduct, and if we see any thing censurable, will freely let you know our minds. But, before-hand, I can tell you, we shall be agreed in one opinion; and that is, that we know not who would have acted as you have done, upon the whole. So, Pamela, you see I put myself upon the same foot of correspondence with you. Not that I will promise to answer every latter: no, you must not expect that. Your part will be a kind of narrative, purposely designed to entertain us here; and I hope to receive six, seven, eight, or ten letters, as it may happen, before I return one: but such a part I will bear in it, as shall let you know our opinion of your proceedings, and relations of things. And as you wish to be found fault with, you shall freely have it (though not in a splenetic or ill-natured way), as often as you give occasion. Now, Pamela, I have two views in this. One is to see how a man of my brother's spirit, who has not denied himself any genteel liberties (for it must be owned he never was a common town rake, and had always a dignity in his roguery), will behave himself to you, and in wedlock, which used to be freely sneered at by him; the next, that I may love you more and more as by your letters, I shall be more and more acquainted with you, as well as by conversation; so that you can't be off, if you would. 'I know, however, you will have one objection to this; and that is, that your family affairs will require your attention, and not give the time you used to have for this employment. But consider, child, the station you are raised to does not require you to be quite a domestic animal. You are lifted up to the rank of a lady, and you must act up to it, and not think of setting such an example, as will draw upon you the ill-will and censure of other ladies. For will any of our sex visit one who is continually employing herself in such works as either must be a reproach to herself, or to them?--You'll have nothing to do but to give orders. You will consider yourself as the task-mistress, and the common herd of female servants as so many negroes directing themselves by your nod; or yourself as the master-wheel, in some beautiful pieces of mechanism, whose dignified grave motions is to set a-going all the under-wheels, with a velocity suitable to their respective parts. Let your servants, under your direction, do all that relates to household management; they cannot write to entertain and instruct as you can: so what will you have to do?--I'll answer my own question: In the first place, endeavour to please your sovereign lord and master; and let me tell you, any other woman in England, be her quality ever so high, would have found enough to do to succeed in that. Secondly, to receive and pay visits, in order, for his credit as well as your own, to make your fashionable neighbours fond of you. Then, thirdly, you will have time upon your hands (as your monarch himself rises early, and is tolerably regular for such a brazen face as he has been) to write to me in the manner I have mentioned, and expect; and I see plainly, by your style, nothing can be easier for you than to do this. Thus, and with reading, may your time be filled up with reputations to yourself, and delight to others, till a fourth employment puts itself upon you: and that is (shall I tell you boys, [Transcriber's note: text missing in original] to perpetuate a family, for many hundred years esteemed worthy and eminent, which, being now reduced, in the direct line, to him and me, _expects_ it from you; or else let me tell you (nor will I baulk it), my brother, by descending to the wholesome cot--excuse me, Pamela--will want one apology for his conduct, be as excellent as you may. I say this, child, not to reflect upon you, since the thing is done; for I love you dearly, and will love you more and more--but to let you know what is expected from you, and encourage you in the prospect already opening to you both, and to me, who have the welfare of the family I sprung from so much at heart, although I know this will be attended with some anxieties to a mind so thoughtful and apprehensive as yours seems to be. O but this puts me in mind of your solicitude, lest the gentlemen should have seen every thing contained in your letters-But this I will particularly speak to in a third letter, having filled my paper on all sides: and am, till then,_ yours_, &c. B. DAVERS. You see, and I hope will take it as a favour, that I break the ice, and begin first in the indispensably expected correspondence between us. LETTER X _From the same._ And so, Pamela, you are solicitous to know, if the gentlemen have seen every part of your papers? I can't say but they have: nor, except in regard to the reputation of your saucy man, do I see why the part you hint at might not be read by those to whom the rest might be shewn. I can tell you, Lady Betty, who is a very nice and delicate lady, had no objection to any part, though read before men: only now and then crying out, "O the vile man!--See, Lord Davers, what wretches you men are!" And, commiserating you, "Ah! the poor Pamela!" And expressing her impatience to hear how you escaped at this time, and at that, and rejoicing in your escape. And now-and-then, "O, Lady Davers, what a vile brother you have!--I hate him perfectly. The poor girl cannot be made amends for all this, though he has married her. Who, that knows these things of him, would wish him to be hers, with all his advantages of person, mind, and fortune?" and his wicked attempts. But I can tell you this, that except one had heard every tittle of your danger, how near you were to ruin, and how little he stood upon taking any measures to effect his vile purposes, even daring to attempt you in the presence of a _good_ woman, which was a wickedness that every _wicked_ man could not be guilty of; I say, except one had known these things, one could not have judged of the merit of your resistance, and how shocking those attempts were to your virtue, for that life itself was endangered by them: nor, let me tell you, could I, in particular, have so well justified him for marrying you (I mean with respect to his own proud and haughty temper of mind), if there had been room to think he could have had you upon easier terms. It was necessary, child, on twenty accounts, that we, your and his well-wishers and his relations, should know that he had tried every stratagem to subdue you to his purpose, before he married you: and how would it have answered to his intrepid character, and pride of heart, had we not been particularly led into the nature of those attempts, which you so nobly resisted, as to convince us all, that you have deserved the good fortune you have met with, as well as all the kind and respectful treatment he can possibly shew you? Nor ought you to be concerned who sees any the most tender parts of your story, except, as I said, for his sake; for it must be a very unvirtuous mind that can form any other ideas from what you relate than those of terror and pity for you. Your expressions are too delicate to give the nicest ear offence, except at him. You paint no scenes but such as make his wickedness odious: and that gentleman, much more lady, must have a very corrupt heart, who could from such circumstances of distress, make any reflections, but what should be to your honour, and in abhorrence of such actions. I am so convinced of this, that by this rule I would judge of any man's heart in the world, better than by a thousand declarations and protestations. I do assure you, rakish as Jackey is, and freely as I doubt not that Lord Davers has formerly lived (for he has been a man of pleasure), they gave me, by their behaviour on these tender occasions, reason to think they had more virtue than not to be very apprehensive for your safety; and my lord often exclaimed, that he could not have thought his brother such a libertine, neither. Besides, child, were not these things written in confidence had not recited all you could recite, would there not have been room for any one, who saw what you wrote, to imagine they had been still worse? And how could the terror be supposed to have had such effects upon you, as to endanger your life, without imagining you had undergone the worst a vile man _could_ offer, unless you had told us what that was which he _did_ offer, and so put a bound, as it were, to one's fears of what you suffered, which otherwise must have been injurious to your purity, though you could not help it? Moreover, Pamela, it was but doing justice to the libertine himself to tell your mother the whole truth, that she might know he was not so very abandoned, but he could stop short of the execution of his wicked purposes, which he apprehended, if pursued, would destroy the life, that, of all lives, he would choose to preserve; and you owed also thus much to your parents' peace of mind, that, after all their distracting fears for you, they might see they had reason to rejoice in an uncontaminated daughter. And one cannot but reflect, now he has made you his wife, that it must be satisfaction to the wicked man, as well as to yourself, that he was not more guilty than he _was_, nor took more liberties than he _did_. For my own part, I must say, that I could not have accounted for your fits, by any descriptions short of those you give; and had you been less particular in the circumstances, I should have judged he had been still _worse_, and your person, though not your mind, less pure, than his pride would expect from the woman he should marry; for this is the case of all rakes, that though they indulge in all manner of libertinism themselves, there is no class of men who exact greater delicacy from the persons they marry, though they care not how bad they make the wives, the sisters, and daughters of others. I will only add (and send all my three letters together), that we all blame you in some degree for bearing the wicked Jewkes in your sight, after her most impudent assistance in his lewd attempt; much less, we think, ought you to have left her in her place, and rewarded her; for her vileness could hardly be equalled by the worst actions of the most abandoned procuress. I know the difficulties you labour under, in his arbitrary will, and intercession for her: but Lady Betty rightly observes, that he knew what a vile woman she was, when he put you into her power, and no doubt employed her, being sure she would answer all his purposes: and that therefore she should have had very little opinion of the sincerity of his reformation, while he was so solicitous in keeping her, and having her put upon a foot, in the present on your nuptials, with honest Jervis. She would, she says, had she been in your case, have had _one_ struggle for her dismission, let it have been taken as it would; and he that was so well pleased with your virtues, must have thought this a natural consequence of it, if he was in earnest to reclaim. I know not whether you shew him all I write: but I have written this last part in the cover, as well for want of room, as that you may keep it from him, if you please. Though if you think it will serve any good end, I am not against shewing to him all I write. For I must ever speak my mind, though I were to smart for it; and that nobody can or has the heart to make me do, but my bold brother. So, Pamela, for this time, _Adieu_. LETTER XI MY GOOD LADY, I am honoured with your ladyship's three letters, the contents of which are highly obliging to me: and I should be inexcusable if I did not comply with your injunctions, and be very proud and thankful for your ladyship's condescension in accepting of my poor scribble, and promising such a rich and valuable return; of which you have already given such ample and delightful instances. I will not plead my defects, to excuse my obedience. I only fear that the awe which will be always upon me, when I write to your ladyship, will lay me under so great a restraint, that I shall fall short even of the merit my papers have already made for me, through your kind indulgence.--Yet, sheltering myself under your goodness, I will cheerfully comply with every thing your ladyship expects from me, that it is in my power to do. You will give me leave, Madam, to put into some little method, the particulars of what you desire of me, that I may speak to them all: for, since you are so good as to excuse me from sending the rest of my papers (which indeed would not bear in many places), I will omit nothing that shall tend to convince you of my readiness to obey you in every thing else. First, then, your ladyship would have the particulars of the happy fortnight we passed in Kent, on one of the most agreeable occasions that could befall me. Secondly, an account of the manner in which your dear brother acquainted me with the affecting story of Miss Godfrey, and my behaviour upon it. And, thirdly, I presume your ladyship, and Lady Betty, expect me to say something upon your welcome remarks on my conduct towards Mrs. Jewkes. The other particulars your ladyship mentions, will naturally fall under one or other of these three heads--But expect not, my lady, though I begin in method thus, that I shall keep up to it. If you will not allow for me, and keep in view the poor Pamela Andrews in all I write, but have Mrs. B. in your eye, what will become of me?--But I promise myself so much improvement from this correspondence, that I enter upon it with a greater delight than I can express, notwithstanding the mingled awe and diffidence that will accompany me, in every part of the agreeable task. To begin with the first article: Your dear brother and my honest parents (I know your ladyship will expect from me, that on all occasions I should speak of them with the duty that becomes a good child) with myself, set out on the Monday morning for Kent, passing through St. Albans to London, at both which places we stopped a night; for our dear benefactor would make us take easy journeys: and on Wednesday evening we arrived at the sweet place allotted for the good couple. We were attended only by Abraham and John, on horseback: for Mr. Colbrand, having sprained his foot, was in the travelling-coach, with the cook, the housemaid, and Polly Barlow, a genteel new servant, whom Mrs. Brooks recommended to wait on me. Mr. Longman had been there a fortnight, employed in settling the terms of an additional purchase of this pretty well-wooded and well-watered estate: and his account of his proceedings was very satisfactory to his honoured principal. He told us, he had much ado to dissuade the tenants from pursuing a formed resolution of meeting their landlord on horseback, at some miles distance; for he had informed them when he expected us; but knowing how desirous Mr. B. was of being retired, he had ventured to assure them, that when every thing was settled, and the new purchase actually entered upon, they would have his presence among them often; and that he would introduce them all at different times to their worthy landlord, before we left the country. The house is large, and very commodious; and we found every thing about it, and in it, exceeding neat and convenient; owing to the worthy Mr. Longman's care and direction. The ground is well-stocked, the barns and outhouses in excellent repair; and my poor parents have only to wish, that they and I may be deserving of half the goodness we experience from your bountiful brother. But, indeed. Madam, I have the pleasure of discovering every day more and more, that there is not a better disposed and more generous man in the world than himself, for I verily think he has not been so careful to conceal his _bad_ actions as his _good_ ones. His heart is naturally beneficent, and his beneficence is the gift of God for the most excellent purposes, as I have often freely told him. Pardon me, my dear lady; I wish I may not be impertinently grave: but I find a great many instances of his considerate charity, which few knew of, and which, since I have been his almoner, could not avoid coming to my knowledge. But this, possibly, is no news to your ladyship. Every body knows the generous goodness of your _own_ heart: every one wanting relief tasted the bounty of your excellent _mother_ my late honoured lady: so that 'tis a _family grace_, and I have no need to speak of it to you. Madam. This cannot, I hope, be construed as if I would hereby suppose ourselves less obliged. I know nothing so godlike in human nature as this disposition to do good to our fellow-creatures: for is it not following immediately the example of that generous Providence which every minute is conferring blessings upon us all, and by giving power to the rich, makes them but the dispensers of its benefits to those that want them? Yet, as there are but too many objects of compassion, and as the most beneficent cannot, like Omnipotence, do good to all, how much are they obliged who are distinguished from others!-And this being kept in mind, will always contribute to make the benefited receive, as thankfully as they _ought_, the favours of the obliger. I know not if I write to be understood, in all I mean; but my grateful heart is so over-filled when on this subject, that methinks I want to say a great deal more at the same time that I am apprehensive I say too much. Yet, perhaps, the copies of the letters I here inclose (that marked [I.] written by me to my parents, on our return to Kent; that marked [II.] from my dear father in answer to it; and that marked [III.] mine in reply to his) will (at the same time that they may convince your ladyship that I will conceal nothing from you in the course of this correspondence, which may in the least amuse and divert you, or better explain our grateful sentiments), in a great measure, answer what your ladyship expects from me, as to the happy fortnight we passed in Kent. I will now conclude, choosing to suspend the correspondence, till I know from your ladyship, whether it will not be too low, too idle for your attention; whether you will not dispense with your own commands when you see I am so little likely to answer what you may possibly expect from me: or whether, if you insist upon my scribbling, you would have me write in any other way, be less tedious, less serious-in short, less or more any thing. For all that is in my power, your ladyship may command from, _Madam, your obliged and faithful servant_. P.B. Your dearest brother, from whose knowledge I would not keep any thing that shall take up any considerable portion of my time, gives me leave to proceed in this correspondence, if you command it; and is pleased to say, he will content himself to see such parts of it, and _only_ such parts, as I shall shew him, or read to him.--Is not this very good, Madam?--O, my lady, you don't know how happy I am! LETTER XII _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ My dear Pamela, You very much oblige me by your cheerful compliance with my request: I leave it entirely to you to write as you shall be in the humour, when you take up your pen; and then I shall have you write with less restraint: for, you must know, that what we admire in _you_, are truth and nature, not studied or elaborate epistles. We can hear at church, or read in our closets, fifty good things that we expect not from you: but we cannot receive from any body else the pleasure of sentiments flowing with that artless ease, which so much affects us when we read your letters. Then, my sweet girl, your gratitude, prudence, integrity of heart, your humility, shine so much in all your letters and thoughts, that no wonder my brother loves you as he does. But I shall make you proud, I doubt, and so by praise ruin those graces which we admire, and, but for that, cannot praise you too much. In my conscience, if thou canst hold as thou hast begun, I believe thou wilt have him _all to thyself_; and that was more than I once thought any woman on this side the seventieth year of his age would ever be able to say. The letters to and from your parents, we are charmed with, and the communicating of them to me, I take to be as great an instance of your confidence in me, as it is of your judgment and prudence; for you cannot but think, that we, his relations, are a little watchful over your conduct, and have our eyes upon you, to observe what use you are likely to make of your power over your man, with respect to your own relations. Hitherto all is unexampled prudence, and you take the right method to reconcile even the proudest of us to your marriage, and make us not only love you, but respect your parents: for their honesty will, I perceive, be their distinguishing character, and they will not forget themselves, nor their former condition. I can tell you, you are exactly right; for if you were to be an _encroacher_, as the good old man calls it, my brother would be the first to see it, and would gradually think less and less of you, till possibly he might come to despise you, and to repent of his choice: for the least shadow of an imposition, or low cunning, or mere selfishness, he cannot bear. In short, you are a charming girl; and Lady Betty says so too; and moreover adds, that if he makes you not the best and _faithfullest_ of husbands, he cannot deserve you, for all his fortune and birth. And in my heart, I begin to think so too. But won't you oblige me with the sequel of your letter to your father? For, you promise, my dear charming scribbler, in that you sent me, to write again to his letter; and I long to see how you answer the latter part of it, about your relations desiring already to come and live with him. I know what I _expect_ from you. But let it be what it will, send it to me exactly as you wrote it; and I shall see whether I have reason to praise or reprove you. For surely, Pamela, you must leave one room to blame you for something. Indeed I can hardly bear the thought, that you should so much excel as you do, and have more prudence, by nature, as it were, than the best of us get in a course of the genteelest educations and with fifty advantages, at least, in conversation, that _you_ could not have, by reason of my mother's retired life, while you were with her, and your close attendance on her person. But I'll tell you what has been a great improvement to you; it is your own writings. This itch of scribbling has been a charming help. For here, having a natural fund of good sense, and prudence above your years, you have, with the observations these have enabled you to make, been flint and steel too, as I may say, to yourself: so that you have struck _fire_ when you pleased, wanting nothing but a few dry leaves, like the first pair in old Du Bartas, to serve as tinder to catch your animating sparks. So that reading constantly, and thus using yourself to write, and enjoying besides a good memory, every thing you heard and read became your own; and not only so, but was improved by passing through more salubrious ducts and vehicles; like some fine fruit grafted upon a common free-stock, whose more exuberant juices serve to bring to quicker and greater perfection the downy peach, or the smooth nectarine, with its crimson blush. Really, Pamela, I believe, I, too, shall improve by writing to you-Why, you dear saucy-face, at this rate, you'll make every one that converses with you, better, and wiser, and _wittier_ too, as far as I know, than they ever before thought there was _room_ for 'em to be. As to my own part, I begin to like what I have written myself, I think; and your correspondence may revive the poetical ideas that used to fire my mind, before I entered into the drowsy married life; for my good Lord Davers's turn happens not to be to books; and so by degrees my imagination was in a manner quenched, and I, as a dutiful wife should, endeavoured to form my taste by that of the man I chose.--But, after all, Pamela, you are not to be a little proud of my correspondence; and I could not have thought it ever would have come to this; but you will observe, that I am the more free and unreserved, to encourage _you_ to write without restraint: for already you have made us a family of writers and readers; so that Lord Davers himself is become enamoured of your letters, and desires of all things he may hear read every one that passes between us. Nay, Jackey, for that matter, who was the most thoughtless, whistling, sauntering fellow you ever knew, and whose delight in a book ran no higher than a song or a catch, now comes in with an enquiring face, and vows he'll set pen to paper, and turn letter-writer himself; and intends (if my brother won't take it amiss, he says) to begin to _you_, provided he could be sure of an answer. I have twenty things still to say; for you have unlocked all our bosoms. And yet I intended not to write above ten or a dozen lines when I began; only to tell you, that I would have you take your own way, in your subjects, and in your style. And if you will but give me hope, that you are in the way I so much wish to have you in, I will then call myself your affectionate sister; but till then, it shall only barely be _your correspondent_, B. DAVERS. You'll proceed with the account of your Kentish affair, I doubt not. LETTER XIII MY DEAR GOOD LADY, What kind, what generous things are you pleased to say of your happy correspondent! And what reason have I to value myself on such an advantage as is now before me, if I am capable of improving it as I ought, from a correspondence with so noble and so admired a lady! To be praised by such a genius, and my honoured benefactor's worthy sister, whose favour, next to his, it was always my chief ambition to obtain, is what would be enough to fill with vanity a steadier and a more equal mind than mine. I have heard from my late honoured lady, what a fine pen her beloved daughter was mistress of, when she pleased to take it up. But I never could have presumed, but from your ladyship's own motion, to hope to be in any manner the subject of it, much less to be called your correspondent. Indeed, Madam, I _am_ very proud of this honour, and consider it as such a heightening to my pleasures, as only _that_ could give; and I will set about obeying your ladyship without reserve. But, first, permit me to disclaim any merit, from my own poor writings, to that improvement which your goodness imputes to me. What I have to boast, of that sort, is owing principally, if it deserves commendation, to my late excellent lady. It is hard to be imagined what pains her ladyship took with her poor servant. Besides making me keep a book of her charities dispensed by me, I always set down, in my way, the cases of the distressed, their griefs from misfortunes, and their joys of her bountiful relief; and so I entered early into the various turns that affected worthy hearts, and was taught the better to regulate my own, especially by the help of her fine observations, when I read what I wrote. For many a time has her generous heart overflowed with pleasure at my remarks, and with praises; and I was her good girl, her dear Pamela, her hopeful maiden; and she would sometimes snatch my hand with transport, and draw me to her, and vouchsafe to kiss me; and always was saying, what she would do for me, if God spared her, and I continued to be deserving. O my dear lady! you cannot think what an encouragement this condescending behaviour and goodness was to me. Madam, you _cannot_ think it. I used to throw myself at her feet, and embrace her knees; and, my eyes streaming with tears of joy, would often cry, "O continue to me, my dearest lady, the blessing of your favour, and kind instructions, and it is all your happy Pamela can wish for." But I will proceed to obey your ladyship, and write with as much freedom as I possibly _can_: for you must not expect, that I can entirely divest myself of that awe which will necessarily lay me under a greater restraint, than if writing to my parents, whose partiality for their daughter made me, in a manner, secure of their good opinions. To shorten the work before me, in the account I am to give of the sweet fortnight that we passed in Kent, I enclose not only the copy of the letter your ladyship requested, but my father's answer to it. The letters I sent before, and those I now send, will afford several particulars; such as a brief description of the house and farm, and your honoured brother's intentions of retiring thither now-and-then; of the happiness and gratitude of my dear parents, and their wishes to be able to deserve the comfort his goodness has heaped upon them; and that in stronger lights than I am able to set them; I will only, in a summary manner, mention the rest; and, particularly, the behaviour of my dear benefactor to me, and my parents. He seemed always to delight in being particularly kind to them before strangers, and before the tenants, and before Mr. Sorby, Mr. Bennet, and Mr. Shepherd, three of the principal gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who, with their ladies, came to visit us, and whose visits we _all_ returned; for your dear brother would not permit my father and mother to decline the invitation of those worthy families. Every day we rode out, or walked a little about the grounds; and while we were there, he employed hands to cut a vista through a coppice, as they call it, or rather a little wood, to a rising ground, which, fronting an old-fashioned balcony, in the middle of the house, he ordered it to be planted like a grove, and a pretty alcove to be erected on its summit, of which he has sent them a draught, drawn by his own hand. This and a few other alterations, mentioned in my letter to my father, are to be finished against we go down next. The dear gentleman was every hour pressing me, while there, to take one diversion or other, frequently upbraiding me, that I seemed not to _choose_ any thing, urging me to propose sometimes what I could _wish_ he should oblige me in, and not always to leave it to him to choose for me: saying, he was half afraid that my constant compliance with every thing he proposed, laid me sometimes under a restraint: and he would have me have a will of my own, since it was impossible, that it could be such as he should not take a delight in conforming to it. I will not trouble your ladyship with any further particulars relating to this happy fortnight, which was made up all of white and unclouded days, to the very last; and your ladyship will judge better than I can describe, of the parting between my dear parents, and their honoured benefactor and me. We set out, attended with the good wishes of crowds of persons of all degrees; for your dear brother left behind him noble instances of his bounty; it being the _first_ time, as he bid Mr. Longman say, that he had been down among them since that estate had been in his hands. But permit me to observe, that I could not forbear often, very often, in this happy period, to thank God in private, for the blessed terms upon which I was there, to what I should have been, had I gracelessly accepted of those which formerly were tendered to me; for your ladyship will remember, that the Kentish estate was to be part of the purchase of my infamy. We returned through London, by the like easy journeys, but tarried not to see any thing of that vast metropolis, any more than we did in going through it before; your beloved brother only stopping at his banker's, and desiring him to look out for a handsome house, which he proposes to take for his winter residence. He chooses it to be about the new buildings called Hanover Square; and he left Mr. Longman there to see one, which his banker believed would be fit for him. And thus, my dear lady, I have answered your first commands, by the help of the letters which passed between my dear parents and me; and conclude this with the assurance that I am, with high respect, _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XIV MY DEAREST LADY, I now set myself to obey your ladyship's second command, which is, to give an account in what manner your dear brother broke to me the affair of the unfortunate Miss Godfrey, with my behaviour upon it; and this I cannot do better, than by transcribing scribing the relation I gave at that time, in letters to my dear parents, which your ladyship has not seen, in these very words. [See Vol. I, p. 431, beginning "My dear Mr. B.," down to p. 441.] Thus far, my dear lady, the relation I gave to my parents, at the time of my being first acquainted with this melancholy affair. It is a great pleasure to me, that I can already flatter myself, from the hints you kindly gave me, that I behaved as you wished I should behave. Indeed, Madam, I could not help it, for I pitied most sincerely the unhappy lady; and though I could not but rejoice, that I had had the grace to escape the dangerous attempts of the dear intriguer, yet never did the story of any unfortunate lady make such an impression upon me as hers did: she loved _him_, and believed, no doubt, he loved _her_ too well to take ungenerous advantages of her soft passion for him: and so, by degrees, put herself into his power; and too seldom, alas I have the noblest-minded of the seducing sex the mercy or the goodness to spare the poor creatures that do! Then 'tis another misfortune of people in love; they always think highly of the beloved object, and lowly of themselves, such a dismal mortifier is love! I say not this, Madam, to excuse the poor lady's fall; nothing can do that; because virtue is, and ought to be, preferable to all considerations, and to life itself. But, methinks, I love this dear lady so well for the sake of her edifying penitence, that I would fain extenuate her crime, if I could; and the rather, as in all probability, it was a _first love_ on _both_ sides; and so he could not appear to her as a _practised_ deceiver. Your ladyship will see, by what I have transcribed, how I behaved myself to the dear Miss Goodwin; and I am so fond of the little charmer, as well for the sake of her unhappy mother, though personally unknown to me, as for the relation she bears to the dear gentleman whom I am bound to love and honour, that I must beg your ladyship's interest to procure her to be given up to my care, when it shall be thought proper. I am sure I shall act by her as tenderly as if I was her own mother. And glad I am, that the poor unfaulty baby is so justly beloved by Mr. B. But I will here conclude this letter, with assuring your ladyship, and I am _your obliged and humble servant,_ P.B. LETTER XV MY GOOD LADY, I now come to your ladyship's remarks on my conduct to Mrs. Jewkes: which you are pleased to think too kind and forgiving considering the poor woman's baseness. Your ladyship says, that I ought not to have borne her in my sight, after the impudent assistance she gave to his lewd attempts; much less to have left her in her place, and rewarded her. Alas! my dear lady, what could I do? a poor prisoner as I was made, for weeks together, in breach of all the laws of civil society; without a soul who durst be my friend; and every day expecting to be ruined and undone, by one of the haughtiest and most determined spirits in the world!--and when it pleased God to turn his heart, and incline him to abandon his wicked attempts, and to profess honourable love to me, his poor servant, can it be thought I was to insist upon conditions with such a gentleman, who had me in his power; and who, if I had provoked him, might have resumed all his wicked purposes against me? Indeed, I was too much overjoyed, after all my dangers past (which were so great, that I could not go to rest, nor rise, but with such apprehensions, that I wished for death rather than life), to think of refusing any terms that I could yield to, and keep my honour. And though such noble ladies, as your ladyship and Lady Betty, who are born to independency, and are hereditarily, as I may say, on a foot with the highest-descended gentleman in the land, might have exerted a spirit, and would have a right to choose your own servants, and to distribute rewards and punishments to the deserving and undeserving, at your own good pleasure; yet what had I, a poor girl, who owed even my title to common notice, to the bounty of my late good lady, and had only a kind of imputed sightliness of person, though enough to make me the subject of vile attempts; who, from a situation of terror and apprehension, was lifted up to an hope, beyond my highest ambition, and was bid to pardon the bad woman, as an instance, that I could forgive his own hard usage of me; who had experienced so often the violence and impetuosity of his temper, which even his beloved mother never ventured to oppose till it began to subside, and then, indeed, he was all goodness and acknowledgment; of which I could give your ladyship more than one instance. What, I say, had I to do, to take upon me lady-airs, and to resent? But, my dear ladies (let me, in this instance, bespeak the attention of you both), I should be inexcusable, if I did not tell you all the truth; and that is, that I not only forgave the poor wretch, in regard to _his commands_, but from _my own inclination_ also. If I am wrong in saying this, I must submit it to your ladyships; and, as I pretend not to perfection, am ready to take the blame I deserve in your ladyships' judgments: but indeed, were it to be again, I verily think, I could not help forgiving her.--And were I not able to say this, I should be thought to have made a mean court to my master's passions, and to have done a wrong thing with my eyes open: which I humbly conceive, no one should do. When full power was given me over this poor creature (seemingly at least, though it might possibly have been resumed, and I might have been re-committed to hers, had I given him reason to think I made an arrogant use of it), you cannot imagine what a triumph I had in my mind over the mortified guilt, which (from the highest degree of insolence and imperiousness, that before had hardened her masculine features) appeared in her countenance, when she found the tables likely to be soon turned upon her. This change of behaviour, which at first discovered itself in a sullen awe, and afterwards in a kind of silent respect, shewed me, what an influence power had over her: and that when she could treat her late prisoner, when taken into favour, so obsequiously, it was the less wonder the bad woman could think it her duty to obey commands so unjust, when her obedience to them was required from her master. To be sure, if a look could have killed her, after some of her bad treatment, she had been slain over and over, as I may say: but to me, who was always taught to distinguish between the person and the action, I could not hold my resentment against the poor passive machine of mischief one day together, though her actions were so odious to me. I should indeed except that time of my grand trial when she appeared so much a wretch to me, that I saw her not (even after two days that she was kept from me) without great flutter and emotion of heart: and I had represented to your brother before, how hard a condition it was for me to forgive so much unwomanly wickedness. But, my dear ladies, when I considered the latter in _one_ particular light, I could the more easily forgive her; and _having_ forgiven her, _bear her in my sight_, and act by her (as a consequence of that forgiveness) as if she had not so horridly offended. Else how would it have been forgiveness? especially as she was ashamed of her crime, and there was no fear of her repeating it. Thus then I thought on the occasion: "Poor wretched agent, for purposes little less than infernal! I _will_ forgive thee, since _thy_ master and _my_ master will have it so. And indeed thou art beneath the resentment even of such a poor girl as I. I will _pity_ thee, base and abject as thou art. And she who is the object of my _pity_ is surely beneath my _anger_." Such were then my thoughts, my proud thoughts, so far was I from being guilty of _intentional_ meanness in forgiving, at Mr. B.'s interposition, the poor, low, creeping, abject _self_-mortified, and _master_-mortified, Mrs. Jewkes. And do you think, ladies, when you revolve in your thoughts, _who_ I was, and _what_ I was, and what I had been _designed_ for; when you revolve the amazing turn in my favour, and the prospects before me (so much above my hopes, that I left them entirely to Providence to direct for me, as it pleased, without daring to look forward to what those prospects seemed naturally to tend); when I could see my haughty persecutor become my repentant protector; the lofty spirit that used to make me tremble, and to which I never could look up without awe, except in those animating cases, where his guilty attempts, and the concern I had to preserve my innocence, gave a courage more than natural to my otherwise dastardly heart: when this impetuous spirit could stoop to request one whom he had sunk beneath even her usual low character of his servant, who was his prisoner, under sentence of a ruin worse than death, as he had intended it, and had seized her for that very purpose, could stoop to acknowledge the vileness of that purpose; could say, at one time, that my forgiveness of Mrs. Jewkes should stand me in greater stead than I was aware of: could tell her, before me, that she must for the future shew me all the respect due to one he must love; at another, acknowledged before her, that he had been stark naught, and that I was very forgiving; again, to Mrs. Jewkes, putting himself on a level with her, as to guilt, "We are both in generous hands: and, indeed, if Pamela did not pardon _you_, I should think she but half forgave _me_, because you acted by my instructions:" another time to the same, "We have been both sinners, and must be both included in one act of grace:"--when I was thus lifted up to the state of a sovereign forgiver, and my lordly master became a petitioner for himself, and the guilty creature, whom he put under my feet; what a triumph was here for the poor Pamela? and could I have been guilty of so mean a pride, as to trample upon the poor abject creature, when I found her thus lowly, thus mortified, and wholly in my power? Then, my dear ladies, while I was enjoying the soul-charming fruits of that innocence which the Divine Grace had enabled me to preserve, in spite of so many plots and contrivances on my master's side, and such wicked instigations and assistances on hers, and all my prospects were improving upon me beyond my wishes; when all was unclouded sunshine, and I possessed my mind in peace, and had only to be thankful to Providence, which had been so gracious to my unworthiness; when I saw my persecutor become my protector, my active enemy no longer my enemy, but creeping with slow, doubtful feet, and speaking to me with awful hesitating doubt of my acceptance; a stamp of an insolent foot now turned into curtseying half-bent knees; threatening hands into supplicating folds; and the eye unpitying to innocence, running over with the sense of her own guilt; a faltering accent on her late menacing tongue, and uplifted handkerchief, "I see she will be my lady: and then I know how it will go with me!"--Was not this, my ladies, a triumph of triumphs to the late miserable, now exalted, Pamela!--could I do less than pardon her? And having declared that I did so, was I not to shew the sincerity of my declaration? Would it not have shewn my master, that the low-born Pamela was incapable of a generous action, had she refused the only request her humble condition had given her the opportunity of granting, at that time, with innocence? Would he not have thought the humble cottager as capable of insolence, and vengeance too, in her turn, as the better born? and that she wanted but the power, to shew the like unrelenting temper, by which she had so grievously suffered? And might not this have given him room to think me (and to have resumed and prosecuted his purposes accordingly) fitter for an arrogant kept mistress, than an humble and obliged wife! "I see" (might he not have said?), "the girl has strong passions and resentments; and she that has, will be sometimes _governed_ by them. I will improve upon the hint she herself has now given me, by her inexorable temper: I will gratify her revenge, till I turn it upon herself: I will indulge her pride, till I make it administer to her fall; for a wife I cannot think of in the low-born cottager, especially when she has lurking in her all the pride and arrogance" (you know, my ladies, his haughty way of speaking of our sex) "of the better descended. And by a little perseverance, and watching her unguarded hours, and applying temptations to her passions, I shall first discover them, and then make my advantage of them." Might not this have been the language, and this the resolution, of such a dear wicked intriguer?--For, my lady, you can hardly conceive the struggles he apparently had to bring down his high spirit to so humble a level. And though, I hope, all would have been, even in this _worst_ case, ineffectual, through Divine Grace, yet how do I know what lurking vileness might have appeared by degrees in this frail heart, to encourage his designs, and to augment my trials and my dangers? And perhaps downright violence might have been used, if he could not, on one hand, have subdued his passions, nor, on the other, have overcome his pride--a pride, that every one, reflecting upon the disparity of birth and condition between us, would have dignified with the name of _decency_; a pride that was become such an essential part of the dear gentleman's character, in this instance of a wife, that although he knew he could not keep it up, if he made _me_ happy, yet it was no small motive of his choosing me, in one respect, because he expected from me more humility, more submission, than he thought would be paid him by a lady equally born and educated; and of this I will send you an instance, in a transcription from that part of my journal you have not seen, of his lessons to me, on my incurring his displeasure by interposing between yourself and him in your misunderstanding at the Hall: for, Madam, I intend to send, at times, any thing I think worthy of your ladyship's attention, out of those papers you were so kind as to excuse me from sending you in a lump, and many of which must needs have appeared very impertinent to such judges. Thus (could your ladyship have thought it?) have I ventured upon a strange paradox, that even this strongest instance of his debasing himself, is not the weakest of his pride: and he ventured once at Sir Simon Darnford's to say, in your hearing, as you may remember, that, in his conscience, he thought he should hardly have made a tolerable husband to any body but Pamela: and why? For the reasons you will see in the inclosed papers, which give an account of the noblest and earliest curtain-lecture that ever girl had: one of which is, that he expects to be _borne_ with (_complied_ with, he meant) even when in the wrong: another, that a wife should never so much as expostulate with him, though he was in the wrong, till, by complying with all he insisted upon, she should have shewn him, she designed rather to convince him, for his _own_ sake, than for _contradiction's_ sake; and then, another time, perhaps he might take better resolutions. I hope, from what I have said, it will appear to your lady-ship, and to Lady Betty too, that I am justified, or at least excused, in pardoning Mrs. Jewkes. But your dear brother has just sent me word, that supper waits for me: and the post being ready to go off, I defer till the next opportunity which I have to say as to these good effects: and am, in the mean time, _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XVI MY DEAR LADY, I will now acquaint you with the good effects my behaviour to Mrs. Jewkes has had upon her, as a farther justification of my conduct towards the poor woman. That she began to be affected as I wished, appeared to me before I left the Hall, not only in the conversations I had with her after my happiness was completed; but in her general demeanour also to the servants, to the neighbours, and in her devout behaviour at church: and this still further appears by a letter I have received from Miss Darnford. I dare say your ladyship will be pleased with the perusal of the whole letter, although a part of it would answer my present design; and in confidence, that you will excuse, for the sake of its other beauties, the high and undeserved praises which she so lavishly bestows upon me, I will transcribe it all. _From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B._ "MY DEAR NEIGHBOUR THAT WAS, "I must depend upon your known goodness to excuse me for not writing before now, in answer to your letter of compliment to us, for the civilities and favours, as you call them, which you received from us in Lincolnshire, where we were infinitely more obliged to you than you to us. "The truth is, my papa has been much disordered with a kind of rambling rheumatism, to which the physicians, learnedly speaking, give the name of _arthritici vaga_, or the flying gout; and when he ails ever so little (it signifies nothing concealing his infirmities, where they are so well known, and when he cares not who knows them), he is so peevish, and wants so much attendance, that my mamma, and her two girls (one of which is as waspish as her papa; you may be sure I don't mean myself) have much ado to make his worship keep the peace; and I being his favourite, when he is indisposed, having most patience, if I may give myself a good word, he calls upon me continually, to read to him when he is grave, which is not often, and to tell him stories, and sing to him when he is merry; and so I have been employed as a principal person about him, till I have frequently become sad to make him cheerful, and happy when I could do it at any rate. For once, in a pet, he flung a book at my head, because I had not attended him for two hours, and he could not bear to be slighted by little bastards, that was his word, that were fathered upon him for his vexation! O these men! Fathers or husbands, much alike! the one tyrannical, the other insolent: so that, between one and t'other, a poor girl has nothing for it, but a few weeks' courtship, and perhaps a first month's bridalry, if that: and then she is as much a slave to her husband, as she was a vassal to her father--I mean if the father be a Sir Simon Darnford, and the spouse a Mr. B. "But I will be a little more grave; for a graver occasion calls for it, yet such as will give you real pleasure. It is the very great change that your example has had upon your housekeeper. "You desired her to keep up as much regularity as she could among the servants there; and she is next to exemplary in it, so that she has every one's good word. She speaks of her lady not only with respect, but reverence; and calls it a blessed day for all the family, and particularly for herself, that you came into Lincolnshire. She reads prayers, or makes one of the servants read them, every Sunday night; and never misses being at church, morning and afternoon; and is preparing herself, by Mr. Peters's advice and direction, for receiving the sacrament; which she earnestly longs to receive, and says it will be the seal of her reformation. "Mr. Peters gives us this account of her, and says she is full of contrition for her past mis-spent life, and is often asking him, if such and such sins can be forgiven? and among them, names her vile behaviour to her angel lady, as she calls you. "It seems she has written a letter to you, which passed Mr. Peters's revisal, before she had the courage to send it; and prides herself that you have favoured her with an answer to it, which, she says, when she is dead, will be found in a cover of black silk next her heart; for any thing from your hand, she is sure, will contribute to make her keep her good purposes: and for that reason she places it there; and when she has had any bad thoughts, or is guilty of any faulty word, or passionate expression, she recollects her lady's letter, which recovers her to a calm, and puts her again into a better frame. "As she has written to you 'tis possible I might have spared you the trouble of reading this account of her; but yet you will not be displeased, that so free a liver and speaker should have some testimonial besides her own assurances, to vouch for the sincerity of her reformation. "What a happy lady are you, that persuasion dwells upon your tongue, and reformation follows your example!" Your ladyship will forgive me what may appear like vanity in this communication. Miss Darnford is a charming young lady. I always admired her; but her letters are the sweetest, kindest!--Yet I am too much the subject of her encomiums, and so will say no more; but add here a copy of the poor woman's letter to me; and your ladyship will see what an ample correspondence you have opened to yourself, if you go on to countenance it. "HONOURED MADAM, "I have been long labouring under two difficulties; the desire I had to write to you, and the fear of being thought presumptuous if I did. But I will depend on your goodness, so often tried; and put pen to paper, in that very closet, and on that desk, which once were so much used by yourself, when I was acting a part that now cuts me to the heart to think of. But you forgave me. Madam, and shewed me you had too much goodness to revoke your forgiveness; and could I have silenced the reproaches of my heart, I should have had no cause to think I had offended. "But, Oh I Madam, how has your goodness to me, which once filled me with so much gladness, now, on reflection, made me sorrowful, and at times, miserable.--To think I should act so barbarously as I did, by so much sweetness, and so much forgiveness. Every place that I remember to have used you hardly in, how does it now fill me with sadness, and makes me often smite my breast, and sit down with tears and groans, bemoaning my vile actions, and my hard heart!--How many places are there in this melancholy fine house, that call one thing or other to my remembrance, that give me remorse! But the pond, and the woodhouse, whence I dragged you so mercilously, after I had driven you to despair almost, what thoughts do they bring to my remembrance! Then my wicked instigations.--What an odious wretch was I! "Had his honour been as abandoned as myself, what virtue had been destroyed between _his_ orders and _my_ too rigorous execution of them; nay, stretching them to shew my wicked zeal, to serve a master, whom, though I honoured, I should not (as you more than once hinted to me, but with no effect at all, so resolutely wicked was my heart) have so well obeyed in his unlawful commands! "His honour has made you amends, has done justice to your merits, and so atoned for _his_ fault. But as for _me_, it is out of my power ever to make reparation.--All that is left me, is, to let your ladyship see, that your pious example has made such an impression upon me, that I am miserable now in the reflection upon my past guilt. "_You_ have forgiven me, and _GOD_ will, I hope; for the creature cannot be more merciful than the Creator; that is all my hope!--Yet, sometimes, I dread that I am forgiven here, at least not punished, in order to be punished the more hereafter!--What then will become of the unhappy wretch, that has thus lived in a state of sin, and so qualified herself by a course of wickedness, as to be thought a proper instrument for the worst of purposes! "Pray your ladyship, let not my honoured master see this letter. He will think I have the boldness to reflect upon him: when, God knows my heart, I only write to condemn myself, and my _unwomanly_ actions, as you were pleased often most justly to call them. "But I might go on thus for ever accusing myself, not considering whom I am writing to, and whose precious time I am taking up. But what I chiefly write for is, to beg your ladyship's prayers for me. For, oh! Madam, I fear I shall else be ever miserable! We every week hear of the good you do, and the charity you extend to the bodies of the miserable. Extend, I beseech you, good Madam, to the unhappy Jewkes, the mercy of your prayers, and tell me if you think I have not sinned beyond hope of pardon; for there is a woe denounced against the presumptuous sinner. "Your ladyship assured me, at your departure, on the confession of my remorse for my misdoings, and my promise of amendment, that you would take it for proof of my being in earnest, if I would endeavour to keep up a regularity among the servants here; if I would subdue them with kindness, as I had owned myself subdued; and if I would endeavour to make every one think, that the best security they could give of doing their duty to their master in his _absence_, was by doing it to God Almighty, from whose all-seeing eye nothing can be hid. This, I remember, your ladyship told me, was the best test of fidelity and duty, that any servants could shew; since it was impossible, without religion, but that worldly convenience, or self-interest, must be the main tie; and so the worst actions might succeed, if servants thought they should find their sordid advantage in sacrificing their duty. "So well am I convinced of this truth, that I hope I have begun the example to good effect: and as no one in the family was so wicked as I, it was therefore less difficult to reform them; and you will have the pleasure to know, that you have now servants here, whom you need not be ashamed to call yours. "'Tis true, I found it a little difficult at first to keep them within sight of their duty, after your ladyship departed: but when they saw I was in earnest, and used them courteously, as you advised, and as your usage of me convinced me was the rightest usage; when they were told I had your commands to acquaint you how they conformed to your injunctions; the task became easy: and I hope we shall all be still more and more worthy of the favour of so good a lady and so bountiful a master. "I dare not presume upon the honour of a line to your unworthy servant. Yet it would pride me much, if I could have it. But I shall ever pray for your ladyship's and his honour's felicity, as becomes _your undeserving servant_, "K. JEWKES." I have already, with these transcribed letters of Miss Darnford and Mrs. Jewkes, written a great deal: but nevertheless, as there yet remains one passage in your ladyship's letter, relating to Mrs. Jewkes, that seems to require an answer, I will take notice of it, if I shall not quite tire your patience. That passage is this; Lady Betty rightly observes, says your ladyship, that he knew what a vile woman she [Mrs. Jewkes] was, when he put you into her power; and no doubt, employed her, because he was sure she would answer all his purposes: and therefore she should have had very little opinion of the sincerity of his reformation, while he was so solicitous in keeping her there. She would, she says, had she been in your case, have had one struggle for her dismission, let it have been taken as it would; and he that was so well pleased with your virtue, must have thought this a natural consequence of it, if in earnest to become virtuous himself. But, alas! Madam, he was not so well pleased with my virtue for virtue's sake, as Lady Betty thinks he was.--He would have been glad, even then, to have found me less resolved on that score. He did not so much as _pretend_ to any disposition to virtue. No, not he! He had entertained, as it proved, a strong passion for me, which had been heightened by my _resisting_ it. His pride, and his advantages both of person and fortune, would not let him brook control; and when he could not have me upon his own terms, God turned his evil purposes to good ones; and he resolved to submit to mine, or rather to such as he found I would not yield to him without. But Lady Betty thinks, I was to blame to put Mrs. Jewkes upon a foot, in the present I made on my nuptials, with Mrs. Jervis. But I rather put Mrs. Jervis on a foot with Mrs. Jewkes; for the dear gentleman had _named_ the sum for me to give Mrs. Jewkes, and I would not give Mrs. Jervis _less_, because I loved her better; nor _more_ could I give her, on that occasion, without making such a difference between two persons equal in station, on a solemnity too where one was present and assisting, the other not, as would have shewn such a partiality, as might have induced their master to conclude, I was not so sincere in my forgiveness, as he hoped from me, and as I really was. But a stronger reason still was behind; that I could, much more agreeably, both to Mrs. Jervis and myself, shew my love and gratitude to the dear good woman: and this I have taken care to do, in the manner I will submit to your ladyship; at the tribunal of whose judgment I am willing all my actions, respecting your dear brother, shall be tried. And I hope you will not have reason to think me a too profuse or lavish creature; yet, if you have, pray, my dear lady, don't spare me; for if you shall judge me profuse in one article, I will endeavour to save it in another. But I will make what I have to say on this head the subject of a letter by itself: and am, mean time, _your ladyship's most obliged and obedient servant_, P.B. LETTER XVII MY DEAR LADY, It is needful, in order to let you more intelligibly into the subject where I left off in my last, for your ladyship to know that your generous brother has made me his almoner, as I was my late dear lady's; and ordered Mr. Longman to pay me fifty pounds quarterly, for purposes of which he requires no account, though I have one always ready to produce. Now, Madam, as I knew Mrs. Jervis was far from being easy in her circumstances, thinking herself obliged to pay old debts for two extravagant children, who are both dead, and maintaining in schooling and clothes three of their children, which always keeps her bare, I said to her one day, as she and I sat together, at our needles (for we are always running over old stories, when alone)--"My good Mrs. Jervis, will you allow me to ask you after your own private affairs, and if you are tolerably, easy in them?" "You are very good, Madam," said she, "to concern yourself about my poor matters, so much as your thoughts are employed, and every moment of your time is taken up, from the hour you rise, to the time of your rest. But I can with great pleasure attribute it to your bounty, and that of my honoured master, that I am easier and easier every day." "But tell me, my dear Mrs. Jervis," said I, "how your matters _particularly_ stand. I love to mingle concerns with my friends, and as I hide nothing from _you_, I hope you'll treat me with equal freedom; for I always loved you, and always will; and nothing but death shall divide our friendship." She had tears of gratitude in her eyes, and taking off her spectacles, "I cannot bear," she said, "so much goodness!--Oh! my lady!" "Oh! my Pamela, say," replied I. "How often must I chide you for calling me any thing but your Pamela, when we are alone together?" "My heart," said she, "will burst with your goodness! I cannot bear it!" "But you _must_ bear it, and bear still greater exercises to your grateful heart, I can tell you that. A pretty thing, truly! Here I, a poor helpless girl, raised from poverty and distress by the generosity of the best of men, only because I was young and sightly, shall put on lady-airs to a gentlewoman born, the wisdom of whose years, her faithful services, and good management, make her a much greater merit in this family, than I can pretend to have! And shall I return, in the day of my power, insult and haughtiness for the kindness and benevolence I received from her in that of my indigence!--Indeed, I won't forgive you, my dear Mrs. Jervis, if I think you capable of looking upon me in any other light than as your daughter; for you have been a mother to me, when the absence of my own could not afford me the comfort and good counsel I received every day from you." Then moving my chair nearer, and taking her hand, and wiping, with my handkerchief in my other, her reverend cheek, "Come, my dear second mother," said I, "call me your daughter, your Pamela: I have passed many sweet hours with you under that name; and as I have but too seldom such an opportunity as this, open to me your worthy heart, and let me know, if I cannot make my _second_ mother as easy and happy as our dear master has made my _first_." She hung her head, and I waited till the discharge of her tears gave time for utterance to her words; provoking only her speech, by saying, "You used to have three grand-children to provide for in clothes and schooling. They are all living, I hope?" "Yes, Madam, they are living: and your last bounty (twenty guineas was a great sum, and all at once!) made me very easy and very happy!" "How easy and how happy, Mrs. Jervis?" "Why, my dear lady, I paid five to one old creditor of my unhappy sons; five to a second; and two and a half to two others, in proportion to their respective demands; and with the other five I paid off all arrears of the poor children's schooling and maintenance; and all are satisfied and easy, and declare they will never do harsh things by me, if they are paid no more." "But tell me, Mrs. Jervis, the whole you owe in the world; and you and I will contrive, with justice to our best friend, to do all we can to make you quite easy; for, at your time of life, I cannot bear that you shall have any thing to disturb you, which I can remove, and so, my dear Mrs. Jervis, let me know all. I know your debts (dear, just, good woman, as you are!) like David's sins, are ever before you: so come," putting my hand in her pocket, "let me be a friendly pick-pocket; let me take out your memorandum-book, and we will see how all matters stand, and what can be done. Come, I see you are too much moved; your worthy heart is too much affected" (pulling out her book, which she always had about her); "I will go to my closet, and return presently." So I left her, to recover her spirits, and retired with the good woman's book to my closet. Your dear brother stepping into the parlour just after I had gone out, "Where's your lady, Mrs. Jervis?" said he. And being told, came up to me:--"What ails the good woman below, my dear?" said he: "I hope you and she have had no words?" "No, indeed, Sir," answered I. "If we had, I am sure it would have been my fault: but I have picked her pocket of her memorandum-book, in order to look into her private affairs, to see if I cannot, with justice to our common benefactor, make her as easy as you. Sir, have made my other dear parents." "A blessing," said he, "upon my charmer's benevolent heart!--I will leave every thing to your discretion, my dear.--Do all the good you prudently can to your Mrs. Jervis." I clasped my bold arms about him, the starting tear testifying my gratitude.--"Dearest Sir," said I, "you affect me as much as I did Mrs. Jervis; and if any one but you had a right to ask, what ails your Pamela? as you do, what ails Mrs. Jervis? I must say, I am hourly so much oppressed by your goodness, that there is hardly any bearing one's own joy." He saluted me, and said, I was a dear obliging creature. "But," said he, "I came to tell you, that after dinner we'll take a turn, if you please, to Lady Arthur's: she has a family of London friends for her guests, and begs I will prevail upon you to give her your company, and attend you myself, only to drink tea with her; for I have told her we are to have friends to sup with us." "I will attend you, Sir," replied I, "most willingly; although I doubt I am to be made a shew of." "Something like it," said he, "for she has promised them this favour." "I need not dress otherwise than I am?" "No," he was pleased to say, I was always what he wished me to be. So he left me to my _good works_ (those were his kind words) and I ran over Mrs. Jervis's accounts, and found a balance drawn of all her matters in one leaf, and a thankful acknowledgment to God, for her master's last bounty, which had enabled her to give satisfaction to others, and to do herself great pleasure, written underneath. The balance of all was thirty-five pounds eleven shillings and odd pence; and I went to my escritoir, and took out forty pounds, and down I hasted to my good Mrs. Jervis, and I said to her, "Here, my dear good friend, is your pocket-book; but are thirty-five or thirty-six pounds all you owe, or are bound for in the world?" "It is, Madam," said she, "and enough too. It is a great sum; but 'tis in four hands, and they are all in pretty good circumstances, and so convinced of my honesty, that they will never trouble me for it; for I have reduced the debt every year something, since I have been in my master's service." "Nor shall it ever be in any body's _power_," said I, "to trouble you: I'll tell you how we'll order it." So I sat down, and made her sit by me. "Here, my dear Mrs. Jervis, is forty pounds. It is not so much to me now, as the two guineas were to you, that you would have given me at my going away from this house to my father's, as I thought. I will not _give_ it you neither, at least at _present_, as you shall hear: indeed I won't make you so uneasy as that comes to. But take this, and pay the thirty-five pounds odd money to the utmost farthing; and the remaining four pounds odd will be a little fund in advance towards the children's schooling. And thus you shall repay it; I always designed, as our dear master added five guineas per annum to your salary, in acknowledgement of the pleasure he took in your services, when I was Pamela Andrews, to add five pounds per annum to it from the time I became Mrs. B. But from that time, for so many years to come, you shall receive no more than you did, till the whole forty pounds be repaid. So, my dear Mrs. Jervis, you won't have any obligation to me, you know, but for the advance; and that is a poor matter, not to be spoken of: and I will have leave for it, for fear I should die." Had your ladyship seen the dear good woman's behaviour, on this occasion, you would never have forgotten it. She could not speak; tears ran down her cheeks in plentiful currents: her modest hand put gently from her my offering hand, her bosom heav'd, and she sobb'd with the painful tumult that seemed to struggle within her, and which, for some few moments, made her incapable of speaking. At last, I rising, and putting my arm round her neck, wiping her eyes, and kissing her cheek, she cried, "My excellent lady! 'tis too much! I cannot bear all this."--She then threw herself at my feet; for I was not strong enough to hinder it; and with uplifted hands--"May God Almighty," said she--I kneeled by her, and clasping her hands in mine, both uplifted together--"May God Almighty," said I, drowning her voice with my louder voice, "bless us both together, for many happy years! And bless and reward the dear gentleman, who has thus enabled me to make _the widow's heart to sing for joy!_" And thus, my lady, did I force upon the good woman's acceptance the forty pounds. Permit me, Madam, to close this letter here, and to resume the subject in my next: till when I have the honour to be _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XVIII MY DEAR LADY, I now resume my last subject where I left off, that your ladyship may have the whole before you at one view. I went after dinner, with my dear benefactor, to Lady Arthur's; and met with fresh calls upon me for humility, having the two natural effects of the praises and professed admiration of that lady's guests, as well as my dear Mr. B.'s, and those of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur, to guard myself against: and your good brother was pleased to entertain me in the chariot, going and coming, with an account of the orders he had given in relation to the London house, which is actually taken, and the furniture he should direct for it; so that I had no opportunity to tell him what I had done in relation to Mrs. Jervis. But after supper, retiring from company to my closet, when his friends were gone, he came up to me about our usual bedtime: he enquired kindly after my employment, which was trying to read in the French Telemachus: for, my lady, I'm learning French, I'll assure you! And who, do you think, is my master?--Why, the best I _could_ have in the world, your dearest brother, who is pleased to say, I am no dunce: how inexcusable should I be, if I was, with such a master, who teaches me on his knee, and rewards me with a kiss whenever I do well, and says, I have already nearly mastered the accent and pronunciation, which he tells me is a great difficulty got over. I requested him to render for me into English two or three places that were beyond my reach; and when he had done it, he asked me, in French, what I had done for Mrs. Jervis. I said, "Permit me, Sir (for I am not proficient enough to answer you in my new tongue), in English, to say, I have made the good woman quite happy; and if I have your approbation, I shall be as much so myself in this instance, as I am in all others." "I dare answer for your prudence, my dear," he was pleased to say: "but this is your favourite: let me know, when you have so bountiful a heart to strangers, what you do for your favourites?" I then said, "Permit my bold eye, Sir, to watch yours, as I obey you; and you know you must not look full upon me then; for if you do, how shall I look at you again; how see, as I proceed, whether you are displeased? for you will not chide me in words, so partial have you the goodness to be to all I do." He put his arm round me, and looked down now and then, as I desired! for O! Madam, he is all condescension and goodness to his unworthy, yet grateful Pamela! I told him all I have written to you about the forty pounds.--"And now, dear Sir," said I, half hiding my face on his shoulder, "you have heard what I have done, chide or beat your Pamela, if you please: it shall be all kind from you, and matter of future direction and caution." He raised my head, and kissed me two or three times, saying, "Thus then I chide, I beat, my angel!--And yet I have one fault to find with you, and let Mrs. Jervis, if not in bed, come up to us, and hear what it is; for I will _expose_ you, as you deserve before her."--My Polly being in hearing, attending to know if I wanted her assistance to undress, I bade her call Mrs. Jervis. And though I thought from his kind looks, and kind words, as well as tender behaviour, that I had not much to fear, yet I was impatient to know what my fault was, for which I was to be exposed. The good woman came; and as she entered with all that modesty which is so graceful in her, he moved his chair further from me, and, with a set aspect, but not unpleasant, said, "Step in, Mrs. Jervis: your lady" (for so, Madam, he will always call me to Mrs. Jervis, and to the servants) "has incurred my censure, and I would not tell her in what, till I had you face to face." She looked surprised--now on me, now on her dear master; and I, not knowing what he would say, looked a little attentive. "I am sorry--I am very sorry for it, Sir," said she, curtseying low:--"but should be more sorry, if _I_ were the unhappy occasion." "Why, Mrs. Jervis, I can't say but it is on your account that I must blame her." This gave us both confusion, but especially the good woman; for still I hoped much from his kind behaviour to me just before--and she said, "Indeed, Sir, I could never deserve----" He interrupted her--"My charge against you, Pamela," said he, "is that of niggardliness, and no other; for I will put you both out of your pain: you ought not to have found out the method of repayment. "The dear creature," said he, to Mrs. Jervis, "seldom does any thing that can be mended; but, I think, when your good conduct deserved an annual acknowledgment from me, in addition to your salary, the lady should have shewed herself no less pleased with your service than the gentleman. Had it been for old acquaintance-sake, for sex-sake, she should not have given me cause to upbraid her on this head. But I will tell you, that you must look upon the forty pounds you have, as the effect of just distinction on many accounts: and your salary from last quarter-day shall be advanced, as the dear niggard intended it some years hence; and let me only add, that when my Pamela first begins to shew a coldness to her Mrs. Jervis, I shall then suspect she is beginning to decline in that humble virtue, which is now peculiar to herself and makes her the delight of all who converse with her." He was thus pleased to say: thus, with the most graceful generosity, and a nobleness of mind _truly_ peculiar to himself, was he pleased to _act_: and what could Mrs. Jervis or I say to him?--Why, indeed, nothing at all!--We could only look upon one another, with our eyes and our hearts full of a gratitude that would not permit either of us to speak, but which expressed itself at last in a manner he was pleased to call more elegant than words--with uplifted folded hands, and tears of joy. O my dear lady! how many opportunities have the beneficent _rich_ to make _themselves_, as well as their _fellow-creatures_, happy! All that I could think, or say, or act, was but my duty before; what a sense of obligation then must I lie under to this most generous of men! But here let me put an end to this tedious subject; the principal part of which can have no excuse, if it may not serve as a proof of my cheerful compliance with your ladyship's commands, that I recite _every_ thing of concern to me, and with the same freedom as I used to do to my dear parents. I have done it, and at the same time offered what I had to plead in behalf of my conduct to the two housekeepers, which you expected from me; and I shall therefore close this my humble defence, if I may so call it, with the assurance that I am, _my dearest lady, your obliged and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER XIX _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B. in answer to the six last Letters._ "_Where she had it, I can't tell I but I think I never met with the fellow of her in my life, at any age_;" are, as I remember, my brother's words, speaking of his Pamela in the early part of your papers. In truth, thou art a surprising creature; and every letter we have from you, we have new subjects to admire you for.--"Do you think, Lady Betty," said I, when I had read to the end of the subject about Mrs. Jervis, "I will not soon set out to hit this charming girl a box of the ear or two?"--"For what, Lady Davers?" said she. "For what!" replied I.--"Why, don't you see how many slaps of the face the bold slut hits me! _I'll_ LADY-AIRS her! I will. _I'll_ teach her to reproach me, and so many of her betters, with her cottage excellencies, and improvements, that shame our education." Why, you dear charming Pamela, did you only excel me in _words_, I could forgive you: for there may be a knack, and a volubility, as to _words_, that a natural talent may supply; but to be thus out-done in _thought_ and in _deed_, who can bear it? And in so young an insulter too! Well, Pamela, look to it, when I see you: you shall feel the weight of my hand, or--the pressure of my lip, one or t'other, depend on it, very quickly; for here, instead of my stooping, as I thought I would be, to call _you_ sister, I shall be forced to think, in a little while, that you ought not to own _me as yours_, till I am nearer your standard. But to come to business, I will summarily take notice of the following particulars in all your obliging letters, in order to convince you of my friendship, by the freedom of my observations on the subjects you touch upon. First, then, I am highly pleased with what you write of the advantages you received from the favour of my dear mother; and as you know many things of her by your attendance upon her the last three or four years of her life, I must desire you will give me, as opportunity shall offer, all you can recollect in relation to the honoured lady, and of her behaviour and kindness to you, and with a retrospect to your own early beginnings, the dawnings of this your bright day of excellence: and this not only I, but the countess, and Lady Betty, with whom I am going over your papers again, and her sister, Lady Jenny, request of you. 2. I am much pleased with your Kentish account; though we wished you had been more particular in some parts of it; for we are greatly taken with your descriptions: and your conversation pieces: yet I own, your honest father's letters, and yours, a good deal supply that _defect_. 3. I am highly delighted with your account of my brother's breaking to you the affair of Sally Godfrey, and your conduct upon it. 'Tis a sweet story as he brought it in, and as you relate it. The wretch has been very just in his account of it. We are in love with your charitable reflections in favour of the poor lady; and the more, as she certainly deserved them, and a better mother too than she had, and a faithfuller lover than she met with. 4. You have exactly hit his temper in your declared love of Miss Goodwill. I see, child, you know your man; and never fear but you'll hold him, if you can go on thus to act, and outdo your sex. But I should think you might as well not insist upon having her with you; you'd better see her now and then at the dairy-house, or at school, than have her with you. But this I leave to your own discretion. 5. You have satisfactorily answered our objections to your behaviour to Mrs. Jewkes. We had not considered your circumstances quite so thoroughly as we ought to have done. You are a charming girl, and all your motives are so just, that we shall be a little more cautious for the future how we censure you. In short, I say with the countess, "This good girl is not without her pride; but it is the pride that becomes, and can only attend the innocent heart; and I'll warrant," said her ladyship, "nobody will become her station so well, as one who is capable of so worthy a pride as this." But what a curtain-lecture hadst thou, Pamela! A noble one, dost thou call it?--Why, what a wretch hast thou got, to expect thou shouldst never expostulate against his lordly will, even when in the wrong, till thou hast obeyed it, and of consequence, joined in the evil he imposes! Much good may such a husband do you, says Lady Betty!--Every body will _admire_ you, but no one will have reason to _envy_ you upon those principles. 6. I am pleased with your promise of sending what you think I shall like to see, out of those papers you choose not to shew me collectively: this is very obliging. You're a good girl; and I love you dearly. 7. We have all smiled at your paradox, Pamela, that his marrying you was an instance of his pride.--The thought, though, is pretty enough, and ingenious; but whether it will hold or not, I won't just now examine. 8. Your observation on the _forget_ and _forgive_ we are much pleased with. 9. You are very good in sending me a copy of Miss Darnford's letter. She is a charming young lady. I always had a great opinion of her merit; her letter abundantly confirms me in it. I hope you'll communicate to me every letter that passes between you, and pray send in your next a copy of your answer to her letter: I must insist upon it, I think. 10. I am glad, with all my heart, to hear of poor Jewkes's reformation: Your example carries all before it. But pray oblige me with your answer to her letter, don't think me unreasonable: 'tis all for your sake. Pray--have you shewn Jewkes's letter to your good friend?--Lady Betty wants to know (if you _have_) what he could say to it? For, she says, it cuts him to the quick. And I think so too, if he takes it as he ought: but, as you say, he's above loving virtue for _virtue's sake_. 11. Your manner of acting by Mrs. Jervis, with so handsome a regard to my brother's interest, her behaviour upon it, and your relation of the whole, and of his generous spirit in approving, reproving, and improving, your prudent generosity, make no inconsiderable figure in your papers. And Lady Betty says, "Hang him, he has some excellent qualities too.--It is impossible not to think well of him; and his good actions go a great way towards atoning for his bad." But you, Pamela, have the glory of all. 12. I am glad you are learning French: thou art a happy girl in thy teacher, and he is a happy man in his scholar. We are pleased with your pretty account of his method of instructing and rewarding. 'Twould be strange, if you did not thus learn any language quickly, with such encouragements, from the man you love, were your genius less apt than it is. But we wished you had enlarged on that subject: for such fondness of men to their wives, who have been any time married, is so rare, and so unexpected from _my_ brother, that we thought you should have written a side upon that subject at least. What a bewitching girl art thou! What an exemplar to wives now, as well as thou wast before to maidens! Thou canst tame lions, I dare say, if thoud'st try.--Reclaim a rake in the meridian of his libertinism, and make such an one as my brother, not only marry thee, but love thee better at several months' end, than he did the first day, if possible! Now, my dear Pamela, I think I have taken notice of the most material articles in your letters, and have no more to say to you; but write on, and oblige us; and mind to send me the copy of your letter to Miss Darnford, of that you wrote to poor penitent Jewkes, and every article I have written about, and all that comes into your head, or that passes, and you'll oblige _yours, &c,_ B. DAVERS. LETTER XX MY DEAR LADY, I read with pleasure your commands, in your last kind and obliging letter: and you may be sure of a ready obedience in every one of them, that is in my power. That which I can most easily do, I will first do; and that is, to transcribe the answer I sent to Miss Darnford, and that to Mrs. Jewkes, the former of which, (and a long one it is) is as follows: "DEAR MISS DARNFORD, "I begin now to be afraid I shall not have the pleasure and benefit I promised myself of passing a fortnight or three weeks at the Hall, in your sweet conversation, and that of your worthy family, as well as those others in your agreeable neighbourhood, whom I must always remember with equal honour and delight. "The occasion will be principally, that we expect, very soon, Lord and Lady Davers, who propose to tarry here a fortnight at least; and after that, the advanced season will carry us to London, where Mr. B. has taken a house for his winter residence, and in order to attend parliament: a service he says, which he has been more deficient in hitherto, than he can either answer to his constituents, or to his own conscience; for though he is but one, yet if any good motion should be lost by one, every absent member, who is independent, has to reproach himself with the consequence of the loss of that good which might otherwise redound to the commonwealth. And besides, he says, such excuses as he could make, _every one_ might plead; and then public affairs might as well be left to the administration, and no parliament be chosen. "See you, my dear Miss Darnford, from the humble cottager, what a public person your favourite friend is grown! How easy is it for a bold mind to look forward, and, perhaps, forgetting what she was, now she imagines she has a stake in the country, takes upon herself to be as important, as significant, as if, like my dear Miss Darnford, she had been born to it! "Well; but may I not ask, whether, if the mountain cannot come to Mahomet, Mahomet will not come to the mountain? Since Lady Davers's visit is so uncertain as to its beginning and duration, and so great a favour as I am to look upon it, and really shall, it being her first visit to _me_:--and since we must go and take possession of our London residence, why can't Sir Simon spare to us the dear lady whom he could use hardly, and whose attendance (though he is indeed entitled to all her duty) he did not, just in that instance, quite so much deserve? "'Well, but after all, Sir Simon,' would I say, if I had been in presence at his peevish hour, 'you are a fine gentleman, are you not? to take such a method to shew your good daughter, that because she did not come _soon enough_ to you, she came _too soon_! And did ever papa before you put a _good book_ (for such I doubt not it was, _because_ you were in affliction, though so little affected by its precepts) to such a _bad use_? As parents' examples are so prevalent, suppose your daughter had taken it, and flung it at her sister; Miss Nancy at her waiting-maid; and so it had gone through the family; would it not have been an excuse for every one to say, that the father, and head of the family had set the example? "'You almost wish, my dear Miss tells me, that I would undertake _you_!--This is very good of you. Sir Simon,' I might (would his patience have suffered me to run on thus) have added; 'but I hope, since you are so sensible that you _want_ to be undertaken, (and since this peevish rashness convinces me that you _do_) that you will undertake _yourself_; that you will not, when your indisposition requires the attendance and duty of your dear lady and daughter, make it more uncomfortable to them, by _adding_ a difficulty of being pleased, and an impatience of spirit, to the concern their duty and affection make them have for you; and, _at least_, resolve never to take a book into your hand again, if you cannot make a better use of it, than you did then.' "But Sir Simon will say, I have _already undertaken_ him, were he to see this. Yet my Lady Darnford once begged I would give him a hint or two on this subject, which, she was pleased to say, would be better received from me than from any body: and if it be a little too severe, it is but a just reprisal made by one whose ears, he knows, he has cruelly wounded more than once, twice, or thrice, besides, by what he calls his _innocent_ double entendres, and who, if she had not resented it, when an opportunity offered, must have been believed, by him, to be neither more nor less than a hypocrite. There's for you, Sir Simon: and so here ends all my malice; for now I have spoken my mind. "Yet I hope your dear papa will not be so angry as to deny me, for this my freedom, the request I make to _him_, to your _mamma_, and to your _dear self_, for your beloved company, for a month or two in Bedfordshire, and at London: and if you might be permitted to winter with us at the latter, how happy should I be! It will be half done the moment you desire it. Sir Simon loves you too well to refuse you, if you are earnest in it. Your honoured mamma is always indulgent to your requests: and Mr. B. as well in kindness to me, as for the great respect he bears you, joins with me to beg this favour of you, and of Sir Simon and my lady. "If it can be obtained, what pleasure and improvement may I not propose to myself, with so polite a companion, when we are carried by Mr. B. to the play, the opera, and other of the town diversions! We will work, visit, read, and sing together, and improve one another; you _me_, in every word you shall speak, in every thing you shall do; I _you_, by my questions, and desire of information, which will make you open all your breast to me: and so unlocking that dear storehouse of virtuous knowledge, improve your own notions the more for communicating them. O my dear Miss Damford I how happy is it in your power to make me! "I am much affected with your account of Mrs. Jewkes's reformation, I could have wished, had I not _other_ and _stronger_ inducements (in the pleasure of so agreeable a neighbourhood, and so sweet a companion), I could have been down at the Hall, in hopes to have confirmed the poor woman in her newly assumed penitence. God give her grace to persevere in it!--To be an humble means of saving a soul from perdition! O my dear Miss Darnford, let me enjoy that heart-ravishing hope!--To pluck such a brand as this out of the fire, and to assist to quench its flaming susceptibility for mischief, and make it useful to edifying purposes, what a pleasure does this afford one! How does it encourage one to proceed in the way one has been guided to pursue! How does it make me hope, that I am raised to my present condition, in order to be an humble instrument in the hand of Providence to communicate great good to others, and so extend to many those benefits I have received, which, were they to go no further than myself, what a vile, what an ungrateful creature should I be! "I see, my dearest Miss Darnford, how useful in every condition of life a virtuous and a serious turn of mind may be! "In hopes of seeing you with us, I will not enlarge on several agreeable subjects, which I could touch upon with pleasure, besides what I gave you in my former (of my reception here, and of the kindness of our genteel neighbours): such, particularly, as the arrival here of my dear parents, and the kind, generous entertainment they met with from my best friend; his condescension in not only permitting me to attend them to Kent, but accompanying us thither, and settling them in a most happy manner, beyond their wishes and my own; but yet so much in character, as I may say, that every one must approve his judicious benevolence; the favours of my good Lady Davers to me, who, pleased with my letters, has vouchsafed to become my correspondent; and a thousand things, which I want personally to communicate to my dear Miss Darnford. "Be pleased to present my humble respects to Lady Darnford, and to Miss Nancy; to good Madam Jones, and to your kind friends at Stamford; also to Mr. and Mrs. Peters, and their kins-woman: and beg of that good gentleman from me to encourage his new proselyte all he can; and I doubt not, she will do credit, poor woman! to the pains he shall take with her. In hopes of your kind compliance with my wishes for your company, I remain, _dearest Miss Darnford, your faithful and obliged friend and servant,_ "P.B." This, my good lady, is the long letter I sent to Miss Darnford, who, at parting, engaged me to keep up a correspondence with her, and put me in hopes of passing a month or two at the Hall, if we came down, and if she could persuade Sir Simon and her mamma to spare her to my wishes. Your ladyship will excuse me for so faintly mentioning the honours you confer upon me: but I would not either add or diminish in the communications I make to you. The following is the copy of what I wrote to Mrs. Jewkes: "You give me, Mrs. Jewkes, very great pleasure, to find, that, at length, God Almighty has touched your heart, and let you see, while health and strength lasted, the error of your ways. Many an unhappy one has not been so graciously touched, till they have smarted under some heavy afflictions, or been confined to the bed of sickness, when, perhaps, they have made vows and resolutions, that have held them no longer than the discipline lasted; but you give me much better hopes of the sincerity of your conversion; as you are so well convinced, before some sore evil has overtaken you: and it ought to be an earnest to you of the Divine favour, and should keep you from despondency. "As to me, it became me to forgive you, as I most cordially did; since your usage of me, as it proved, was but a necessary means in the hand of Providence, to exalt me to that state of happiness, in which I have every day more and more cause given me to rejoice, by the kindest and most generous of gentlemen. "As I have often prayed for you, even when you used me the most unkindly, I now praise God for having heard my prayers, and with high delight look upon you as a reclaimed soul given to my supplication. May the Divine goodness enable you to persevere in the course you have begun! And when you can taste the all-surpassing pleasure that fills the worthy breast, on being placed in a station where your example may be of advantage to the souls of others, as well as to your own--a pleasure that every good mind glories in, and none else can truly relish; then may you be assured, that nothing but your perseverance, and the consequential improvement resulting from it, is wanted to convince you, that you are in a right way, and that the woe that is pronounced against the presumptuous sinner, belongs not to you. "Let me, therefore, dear Mrs. Jewkes (for now _indeed_ you are dear to me), caution you against two things; the one, that you return not to your former ways, and wilfully err after this repentance; for the Divine goodness will then look upon itself as mocked by you, and will withdraw itself from you; and more dreadful will your state then be, than if you had never repented: the other, that you don't despair of the Divine mercy, which has so evidently manifested itself in your favour, and has awakened you out of your deplorable lethargy, without those sharp medicines and operations, which others, and perhaps _not more faulty_ persons, have suffered. But go on cheerfully in the same happy path. Depend upon it, you are now in the right way, and turn not either to the right hand or to the left; for the reward is before you, in reputation and a good fame in this life, and everlasting felicity beyond it. "Your letter is that of a sensible woman, as I always thought you; and of a truly contrite one, as I hope you will prove yourself to be: and I the rather hope it, as I shall be always desirous, then of taking every opportunity that offers of doing you real service, as well with regard to your present as future life: for I am, _good_ Mrs. Jewkes, as I now hope I may call you, _your loving friend to serve you_, P.B. "Whatever good books the worthy Mr. Peters will be so kind as to recommend to you, and to those under your direction, send for them either to Lincoln, Stamford, or Grantham, and place them to my account: and may they be the effectual means of confirming you and them in the good way you are in! I have done as much for all here: and, I hope, to no bad effect: for I shall now tell them, by Mrs. Jervis, if there be occasion, that I hope they will not let me be out-done in Bedfordshire, by Mrs. Jewkes in Lincolnshire; but that the servants of both houses may do credit to the best of masters. Adieu, _good_ woman; as once more I take pleasure to style you." * * * * * Thus, my good lady, have I obeyed you, in transcribing these two letters. I will now proceed to your ladyship's twelve articles. As to the 1. I will oblige your ladyship, as I have opportunity, in my future letters, with such accounts of my dear lady's favour and goodness to me, as I think will be acceptable to you, and to the noble ladies you mention. 2. I am extremely delighted, that your ladyship thinks so well of my dear honest parents: they are good people, and ever had minds that set them above low and sordid actions: and God and your good brother has rewarded them most amply in this world, which is more than they ever expected, after a series of unprosperousness in all they undertook. Your ladyship is pleased to say, that people in upper life love to see how plain nature operates in honest minds, who have hardly any thing else for their guide: and if I might not be thought to descend too low for your ladyship's attention (for, as to myself, I shall, I hope, always look back with pleasure to what I _was_, in order to increase my thankfulness for what I _am_), I would give you a scene of resignation, and contented poverty, of which otherwise you can hardly have a notion. I _will_ give it, because it will be a scene of nature, however low, which your ladyship loves, and it shall not tire you by its length. It was upon occasion of a great loss and disappointment which happened to my dear parents; for though they were never high in life, yet they were not always so low as my honoured lady found them, when she took me. My poor father came home; and as the loss was of such a nature, as that he could not keep it from my mother, he took her hand, and said, after he had acquainted her with it, "Come, my dear, let us take comfort, that we did for the best. We left the issue to Providence, as we ought, and that has turned it as it pleased; and we must be content, though not favoured as we wished.--All the business is, our lot is not cast for this life. Let us resign ourselves to the Divine will, and continue to do our duty, and this short life will soon be past. Our troubles will be quickly overblown; and we shall be happy in a better, I make no doubt." Then my dear mother threw her arms about his neck, and said, with tears, "God's will be done, my dear love! All cannot be rich and happy. I am contented, and had rather say, I have a poor honest husband, than a guilty rich one. What signifies repining: let the world go as it will, we shall have our length and our breadth at last. And Providence, I doubt not, will be a better friend to our good girl here, because she is good, than we could be, if this had not happened," pointing to me, who, then about eleven years old (for it was before my lady took me), sat weeping in the chimney corner, over a few dying embers of a fire, at their moving expressions. I arose, and kissing both their hands, and blessing them, said, "And this length and breadth, my dear parents, will be, one day, all that the rich and the great can possess; and, it may be, their ungracious heirs will trample upon their ashes, and rejoice they are gone: while such a poor girl as I, am honouring the memories of mine, who, in their good names, and good lessons, will have left me the best of portions." And then they both hugged me to their fond bosoms, by turns; and all three were filled with comfort in one another. For a farther proof that _honest poverty_ is not such a deplorable thing as some people imagine, let me ask, what pleasure can those over-happy persons know, who, from the luxury of their tastes, and their affluent circumstances, always eat before they are hungry, and drink before they are thirsty? This may be illustrated by the instance of a certain eastern monarch, who, as I have read, marching at the head of a vast army, through a wide extended desert, which afforded neither river nor spring, for the first time, found himself (in common with his soldiers) overtaken by a craving thirst, which made him pant after a cup of water. And when, after diligent search, one of his soldiers found a little dirty puddle, and carried him some of the filthy water in his nasty helmet, the monarch greedily swallowing it, cried out, that in all his life he never tasted so sweet a draught! But when I talk or write of my worthy parents, how I run on!--Excuse me, my good lady, and don't think me, in this respect, too much like the cat in the fable, turned into a fine lady; for though I would never forget what I was, yet I would be thought to know _how_ gratefully to enjoy my present happiness, as well with regard to my obligations to God, as to your dear brother. But let me proceed to your ladyship's third particular. 3. And you cannot imagine. Madam, how much you have set my heart at rest, when you say, that my dear Mr. B. gave me a just narrative of this affair with Miss Godfrey: for when your ladyship desired to know how he had recounted that story, lest you should make a misunderstanding between us unawares, I knew not what to think. I was afraid some blood had been shed on the occasion by him: for the lady was ruined, and as to her, nothing could have happened worse. The regard I have for Mr. B.'s future happiness, which, in my constant supplication for him in private, costs me many a tear, gave me great apprehensions, and not a little uneasiness. But as your ladyship tells me that he gave me a just account, I am happy again. I now come to your ladyship's fourth particular. And highly delighted I am for having obtained your approbation of my conduct to the child, as well as of my behaviour towards the dear gentleman, on the unhappy lady's score. Your ladyship's wise intimations about having the child with me, make due impressions upon me; and I see in them, with grateful pleasure, your unmerited regard for me. Yet, I don't know how it is, but I have conceived a strange passion for this dear baby; I cannot but look upon her poor mamma as my sister in point of trial; and shall not the prosperous sister pity and love the poor dear sister that, in so slippery a path, has _fallen_, while _she_ had the happiness to keep her feet? The rest of your ladyship's articles give me the greatest pleasure and satisfaction; and if I can but continue myself in the favour of your dear brother, and improve in that of his noble sister, how happy shall I be! I will do all I can to deserve both. And I hope you will take as an instance of it, my cheerful obedience to your commands, in writing to so fine a judge, such crude and indigested stuff, as, otherwise I ought to be ashamed to lay before you. I am impatient for the honour of your presence here; and yet I perplex myself with the fear of appearing so unworthy in your eye when near you, as to suffer in your opinion; but I promise myself, that however this may be the case on your first visit, I shall be so much improved by the benefits I shall reap from your lessons and good example, that whenever I shall be favoured with a _second_ you shall have fewer faults to find with me; till, as I shall be more and more favoured, I shall in time be just what your ladyship will wish me to be, and, of consequence, more worthy than I am of the honour of stiling myself _your ladyship's most humble and obedient servant_, P.B. LETTER XXI _From Miss Darnford, in answer to Mrs. B.'s, p_. 60. MY DEAR MRS. B., You are highly obliging in expressing so warmly your wishes to have me with you. I know not any body in this world, out of our own family, in whose company I should be happier; but my papa won't part with me, I think; though I have secured my mamma in my interest; and I know Nancy would be glad of my absence, because the dear, perversely envious, thinks _me_ more valued than _she_ is; and yet, foolish girl, she don't consider, that if her envy be well grounded, I should return with more than double advantages to what I now have, improved by your charming conversation. My papa affects to be in a fearful pet, at your lecturing of him So justly; for my mamma would show him the letter; and he says he will positively demand satisfaction of Mr. B. for your treating him so freely. And yet he shall hardly think him, he says, on a rank with him, unless Mr. B. will, on occasion of the new commission, take out his Dedimus: and then if he will bring you down to Lincolnshire, and join with him to commit you prisoner for a month at the Hall, all shall be well. It is very obliging in Mr. B. to join in your kind invitation: but--yet I am loth to say it to you--the character of your worthy gentleman, I doubt, stands a little in the way with my papa. My mamma pleaded his being married. "Ads-dines, Madam," said he, "what of all that!" "But, Sir," said I, "I hope, if I may not go to Bedfordshire, you'll permit me to go to London, when Mrs. B. goes?" "No," said he, "positively no!" "Well, Sir, I have done. I could hope, however, you would enable me to give a better reason to good Mrs. B. why I am not permitted to accept of the kind invitation, than that which I understand you have been pleased to assign." He stuck his hands in his sides, with his usual humourous positiveness. "Why, then tell her she is a very saucy lady, for her last letter to you, and her lord and master is not to be trusted; and it is my absolute will and pleasure that you ask me no more questions about it." "I will very faithfully make this report, Sir."--"Do so." And so I have. And your poor Polly Darnford is disappointed of one of the greatest pleasures she could have had. I can't help it--if you truly pity me you can make me easier under the disappointment, than otherwise possible, by favouring me with an epistolary conversation, since I am denied a personal one; and my mamma joins in the request; particularly let us know how Lady Davers's first visit passes; which Mrs. Peters and Mrs. Jones, who know my lady so well, likewise long to hear. And this will make us the best amends in your power for the loss of your good neighbourhood, which we had all promised to ourselves. This denial of my papa comes out, since I wrote the above, to be principally owing to a proposal made him of an humble servant to one of his daughters: he won't say which, he tells us, in his usual humourous way, lest we should fall out about it. "I suppose," I tell him, "the young gentleman is to pick and choose which of the two he likes best." But be he a duke, 'tis all one to Polly, if he is not something above our common Lincolnshire class of fox-hunters. I have shewn Mr. and Mrs. Peters your letter. They admire you beyond expression; and Mr. Peters says, he does not know, that ever he did any thing in his life, that gave him so much inward reproach, as his denying you the protection of his family, which Mr. Williams sought to move him to afford you, when you were confined at the Hall, before Mr. B. came down to you, with his heart bent on mischief; and all he comforts himself with is, that very denial, as well as the other hardships you have met with, were necessary to bring about that work of Providence which was to reward your unexampled virtue. Yet, he says, he doubts he shall not be thought excusable by you, who are so exact in _your_ own duty, since he had the unhappiness to lose such an opportunity to have done honour to his function, had he had the fortitude to have done _his;_ and he has begged of me to hint his concern to you on this head; and to express his hopes, that neither religion nor his cloth may suffer in your opinion, for the fault of one of its professors, who never was wanting in his duty so much before. He had it often upon his mind, he says, to write to you on this very subject; but he had not the courage; and besides, did not know _how_ Mr. B. might take it, if he should see that letter, as the case had such delicate circumstances in it, that in blaming himself, as he should very freely have done, he must, by implication, have cast still greater blame upon him. Mr. Peters is certainly a very good man, and my favourite for that reason; and I hope _you,_ who could so easily forgive the late wicked, but now penitent Jewkes, will overlook with kindness a fault in a good man, which proceeded more from pusillanimity and constitution, than from want of principle: for once, talking of it to my mamma, before me, he accused himself on this score, to her, with tears in his eyes. She, good lady, would have given you this protection at Mr. Williams's desire; but wanted the power to do it. So you see, my dear Mrs. B., how your virtue has shamed every one into such a sense of what they ought to have done, that good, bad, and indifferent, are seeking to make excuses for past misbehaviour, and to promise future amendment, like penitent subjects returning to their duty to their conquering sovereign, after some unworthy defection. Happy, happy lady! May you ever be so! May you always convert your enemies, invigorate the lukewarm, and every day multiply your friends, wishes _your most affectionate,_ POLLY DARNFORD. P.S. How I rejoice in the joy of your honest parents! God bless 'em! I am glad Lady Davers is so wise. Every one I have named desire their best respects. Write oftener, and omit not the minutest thing: for every line of yours carries instruction with it. LETTER XXII From Sir Simon Darnford to Mr. B. SIR, Little did I think I should ever have occasion to make a formal complaint against a person very dear to you, and who I believe deserves to be so; but don't let her be so proud and so vain of obliging and pleasing you, as to make her not care how she affronts every body else. The person is no other than the wife of your bosom, who has taken such liberties with me as ought not to be taken, and sought to turn my own child against me, and make a dutiful girl a rebel. If people will set up for virtue, and all that, let 'em be uniformly virtuous, or I would not give a farthing for their pretences. Here I have been plagued with gouts, rheumatisms, and nameless disorders, ever since you left us, which have made me call for a little more attendance than ordinary; and I had reason to think myself slighted, where an indulgent father can least bear to be so, that is, where he most loves; and that by young upstarts, who are growing up to the enjoyment of those pleasures which have run away from me, fleeting rascals as they are! before I was willing to part with them. And I rung and rung, and "Where's Polly?" (for I honour the slut with too much of my notice), "Where's Polly?" was all my cry, to every one who came up to ask what I rung for. And, at last, in burst the pert baggage, with an air of assurance, as if she thought all must be well the moment she appeared, with "Do you want me, papa?" "Do I want you, Confidence? Yes, I do. Where have you been these two hours, that you never came near me, when you knew 'twas my time to have my foot rubbed, which gives me mortal pain?" For you must understand, Mr. B., that nobody's hand's so soft as Polly's. She gave me a saucy answer, as I was disposed to think it, because I had just then a twinge, that I could scarce bear; for pain is a plaguy thing to a man of my lively spirits. She gave me, I say, a careless answer, and turning upon her heel; and not coming to me at my first word, I flung a book which I had in my hand, at her head. And, this fine lady of your's, this paragon of meekness and humility, in so many words, bids me, or, which is worse, tells my own daughter to bid me, never to take a book into my hands again, if I won't make a better use of it:--and yet, what better use can an offended father make of the best books, than to correct a rebellious child with them, and oblige a saucy daughter to jump into her duty all at once? Mrs. B. reflects upon me for making her blush formerly, and saying things before my daughters, that, truly, I ought to be ashamed of? then avows malice and revenge. Why neighbour, are these things to be borne?--Do you allow your lady to set up for a general corrector of every body's morals but your own?--Do you allow her to condemn the only instances of wit that remain to this generation; that dear polite _double entendre_, which keeps alive the attention, and quickens the apprehension, of the best companies in the world, and is the salt, the sauce, which gives a poignancy to all our genteeler entertainments! Very fine, truly! that more than half the world shall be shut out of society, shall be precluded their share of conversation amongst the gay and polite of both sexes, were your lady to have her will! Let her first find people who can support a conversation with wit and good sense like her own, and then something may be said: but till then, I positively say, and will swear upon occasion, that double entendre shall not be banished from our tables; and where this won't raise a blush, or create a laugh, we will, if we please, for all Mrs. B. and her new-fangled notions, force the one and the other by still plainer hints; and let her help herself how she can. Thus, Sir, you find my complaints are of a high nature, regarding the quiet of a family, the duty of a child to a parent, and the freedom and politeness of conversation; in all which your lady has greatly offended; and I insist upon satisfaction from you, or such a correction of the fair transgressor, as is in your power to inflict, and which may prevent worse consequences from _your offended friend and servant_, SIMON DARNFORD. LETTER XXIII _From Mr. B. in Answer to the preceding one._ DEAR SIR SIMON, You cannot but believe that I was much surprised at your letter, complaining of the behaviour of my wife. I could no more have expected such a complaint from such a gentleman, than I could, that she would have deserved it: and I am very sorry on _both_ accounts. I have talked to her in such a manner, that, I dare say, she will never give you like cause to appeal to me. It happened, that the criminal herself received it from her servant, and brought it to me in my closet; and, making her honours (for I can't say but she is very obliging to me, though she takes such saucy freedoms with my friends) away she tript; and I, inquiring for her, when, with surprise, as you may believe, I had read your charge, found she was gone to visit a poor sick neighbour; of which indeed I knew before because she took the chariot; but I had forgot it in my wrath. At last, in she came, with that sweet composure in her face which results from a consciousness of doing _generally_ just and generous things. I resumed, therefore, that sternness and displeasure which her entrance had almost dissipated. I took her hand; her charming eye (you know what an eye she has, Sir Simon) quivered at my overclouded aspect; and her lips, half drawn to a smile, trembling with apprehension of a countenance so changed from what she left it. And then, all stiff and stately as I could look, did I accost her--"Come along with me, Pamela, to my closet. I want to talk with you." "What have I done? Let me know, good Sir!" looking round, with her half-affrighted eyes, this way and that, on the books, and pictures, and on me, by turns. "You shall know soon," said I, "the _crime_ you have been guilty of."--"_Crime_, Sir! Pray let me--This closet, I hoped, would not be a _second_ time witness to the flutter you put me in." _There_ hangs a tale, Sir Simon, which I am not very fond of relating, since it gave beginning to the triumphs of this little sorceress. I still held one hand, and she stood before me, as criminals ought to do before their judge, but said, "I see, Sir, sure I do,--or what will else become of me!--less severity in your eyes, than you affect to put on in your countenance. Dear Sir, let me but know my fault: I will repent, acknowledge, and amend." "You must have great presence of mind, Pamela, such is the nature of your fault, if you can look me in the face, when I tell it you." "Then let me," said the irresistible charmer, hiding her face in my bosom, and putting her other arm about my neck, "let me thus, my dear Mr. B., hide this guilty face, while I hear my fault told; and I will not seek to extenuate it, by my tears, and my penitence." I could hardly hold out. What infatuating creatures are these women, when they thus soothe and calm the tumults of an angry heart! When, instead of _scornful_ looks darted in return for _angry_ ones, words of _defiance_ for words of _peevishness,_ persisting to defend _one_ error by _another_, and returning _vehement wrath_ for _slight indignation,_ and all the hostile provocations of the marriage warfare; they can thus hide their dear faces in our bosoms, and wish but to _know_ their faults, to _amend_ them! I could hardly, I say, resist the sweet girl's behaviour; nay, I believe, I did, and in defiance to my resolved displeasure, press her forehead with my lips, as the rest of her face was hid on my breast; but, considering it was the cause of my _friend,_ I was to assert, my _injured_ friend, wounded and insulted, in so various a manner by the fair offender, thus haughtily spoke I to the trembling mischief, in a pomp of style theatrically tragic: "I will not, too inadvertent, and undistinguishing Pamela, keep you long in suspense, for the sake of a circumstance, that, on this occasion, ought to give you as much joy, as it has, till now, given me--since it becomes an advocate in your favour, when otherwise you might expect very severe treatment. Know then, that the letter you gave me before you went out, is a letter from a friend, a neighbour, a worthy neighbour, complaining of your behaviour to him;--no other than Sir Simon Darnford" (for I would not amuse her too much), "a gentleman I must always respect, and whom, as my friend, I expected _you_ should: since, by the value a wife expresses for one esteemed by her husband, whether she thinks so well of him herself, or not, a man ought always to judge of the sincerity of her regards to himself." She raised her head at once on this:--"Thank Heaven," said she, "it is no worse!--I was at my wit's end almost, in apprehension: but I know how this must be. Dear Sir, how could you frighten me so?--I know how all this is!--I can now look you in the face, and hear all that Sir Simon can charge me with! For I am sure, I have not so affronted him as to make him angry indeed. And truly" (ran she on, secure of pardon as she seemed to think), "I should respect Sir Simon not only as your friend, but on his own account, if he was not so sad a rake at a time of life--" Then I interrupted her, you must needs think. Sir Simon; for how could I bear to hear my worthy friend so freely treated! "How now, Pamela!" said I; "and is it thus, by _repeating_ your fault, that you _atone_ for it? Do you think I can bear to hear my friend so freely treated?" "Indeed," said she, "I do respect Sir Simon very much as your _friend_, permit me to repeat; but cannot for his wilful failings. Would it not be, in some measure, to approve of faulty conversation, if one can hear it, and not discourage it, when the occasion comes in so pat?--And, indeed, I was glad of an opportunity," continued she, "to give him a little rub; I must needs own it: but if it displeases you, or has made him angry in earnest, I am sorry for it, and will be less bold for the future." "Read then," said I, "the heavy charge, and I'll return instantly to hear your answer to it." So I went from her, for a few minutes. But, would you believe it, Sir Simon? she seemed, on my return, very little concerned at your just complaints. What self-justifying minds have the meekest of these women!--Instead of finding her in repentant tears, as one would expect, she took your angry letter for a jocular one; and I had great difficulty to convince her of the heinousness of _her_ fault, or the reality of your resentment. Upon which, being determined to have justice done to my friend, and a due sense of her own great error impressed upon her, I began thus: "Pamela, take heed that you do not suffer the purity of your own mind, in breach of your charity, to make you too rigorous a censurer of other people's actions: don't be so puffed up with your own perfections, as to imagine, that, because other persons allow themselves liberties you cannot take, _therefore_ they must be wicked. Sir Simon is a gentleman who indulges himself in a pleasant vein, and, I believe, as well as you, _has been_ a great rake and libertine:" (You'll excuse me, Sir Simon, because I am taking your part), "but what then? You see it is all over with him now. He says, that he _must_, and therefore he _will_ be virtuous: and is a man for ever to hear the faults of his youth, when so willing to forget them?" "Ah! but, Sir, Sir," said the bold slut, "can you say he is _willing_ to forget them?--Does he not repine in this very letter, that he _must_ forsake them; and does he not plainly cherish the _inclination_, when he owns--" She hesitated--"Owns what?"--"You know what I mean. Sir, and I need not speak it: and can there well be a more censurable character?--Then before his maiden daughters! his virtuous lady! _before_ any body!--What a sad thing is this, at a time of life, which should afford a better example! "But, dear Sir," continued the bold prattler, (taking advantage of a silence more owing to displeasure than approbation) "let me, for I would not be too _censorious_" (No, not she! in the very act of censoriousness to say this!), "let me offer but one thing: don't you think Sir Simon himself would be loth to be thought a reformed gentleman? Don't you see his delight, when speaking of his former pranks, as if sorry he could not play them over again? See but how he simpers, and _enjoys_, as one may say, the relations of his own rakish actions, when he tells a bad story!" "But," said I, "were this the case" (for I profess, Sir Simon, I was at a grievous loss to defend you), "for you to write all these free things against a father to his daughter, is that right, Pamela?" "O, Sir! the good gentleman himself has taken care, that such a character as I presumed to draw to Miss of her papa, was no strange one to her. You have seen yourself, Mr. B., whenever his arch leers, and his humourous attitude on those occasions, have taught us to expect some shocking story, how his lady and daughters (used to him as they are), have suffered in their apprehensions of what he would say, before he spoke it: how, particularly, dear Miss Darnford has looked at me with concern, desirous, as it were, if possible, to save her papa from the censure, which his faulty expressions must naturally bring upon him. And, dear Sir, is it not a sad thing for a young lady, who loves and honours her papa, to observe, that he is discrediting himself, and _wants_ the example he ought to _give?_ And pardon me, Sir, for smiling on so serious an occasion; but is it not a fine sight to see a gentleman, as we have often seen Sir Simon, when he has thought proper to read a passage in some bad book, pulling off _his spectacles_, to talk filthily upon it? Methinks I see him now," added the bold slut, "splitting his arch face with a broad laugh, shewing a mouth, with hardly a tooth in it, and making obscene remarks upon what he has read." And then the dear saucy-face laughed out, to bear _me_ company; for I could not, for the soul of me, avoid laughing heartily at the figure she brought to my mind, which I have seen my old friend more than once make, with his dismounted spectacles, arch mouth, and gums of shining jet, succeeding those of polished ivory, of which he often boasts, as one ornament of his youthful days.--And I the rather in my heart, Sir Simon, gave you up, because, when I was a sad fellow, it was always my maxim to endeavour to touch a lady's heart without wounding her ears. And, indeed, I found my account sometimes in observing it. But, resuming my gravity--"Hussy, said I, do you think I will have my old friend thus made the object of your ridicule?--Suppose a challenge should have ensued between us on your account--what might have been the issue of it? To see an old gentleman, stumping, as he says, on crutches, to fight a duel in defence of his wounded honour!"--"Very bad, Sir, to be sure: I see that, and am sorry for it: for had you carried off Sir Simon's crutch, as a trophy, he must have lain sighing and groaning like a wounded soldier in the field of battle, till another had been brought him, to have stumped home with." But, dear Sir Simon, I have brought this matter to an issue, that will, I hope, make all easy;--Miss Polly, and my Pamela, shall both be punished as they deserve, if it be not your own fault. I am told, that the sins of your youth don't sit so heavily upon your limbs, as in your imagination; and I believe change of air, and the gratification of your revenge, a fine help to such lively spirits as yours, will set you up. You shall then take coach, and bring your pretty criminal to mine; and when we have them together, they shall humble themselves before us, and you can absolve or punish them, as you shall see proper. For I cannot bear to have my worthy friend insulted in so heinous a manner, by a couple of saucy girls, who, if not taken down in time, may proceed from fault to fault, till there will be no living with them. If (to be still more serious) your lady and you will lend Miss Darnford to my Pamela's wishes, whose heart is set upon the hope of her wintering with us in town, you will lay an obligation upon us both; which will be acknowledged with great gratitude by, dear Sir, _your affectionate and humble servant_. LETTER XXIV _From Sir Simon Darnford in reply._ Hark ye, Mr. B.--A word in your ear:--to be plain: I like neither you nor your wife well enough to trust my Polly with you. But here's war declared against my poor gums, it seems. Well, I will never open my mouth before your lady as long as I live, if I can help it. I have for these ten years avoided to put on my cravat; and for what reason, do you think?--Why, because I could not bear to see what ruins a few years have made in a visage, that used to inspire love and terror as it pleased. And here your--what-shall-I-call-her of a wife, with all the insolence of youth and beauty on her side, follows me with a glass, and would make me look in it, whether I will or not. I'm a plaguy good-humoured old fellow--if I am an old fellow--or I should not bear the insults contained in your letter. Between you and your lady, you make a wretched figure of me, that's certain.--And yet 'tis _taking my part_. But what must I do?--I'd be glad at any rate to stand in your lady's graces, that I would; nor would I be the last rake libertine unreformed by her example, which I suppose will make virtue the fashion, if she goes on as she does. But here I have been used to cut a joke and toss the squib about; and, as far as I know, it has helped to keep me alive in the midst of pains and aches, and with two women-grown girls, and the rest of the mortifications that will attend on _advanced years_; for I won't (hang me if I will) give it up as absolute _old age!_ But now, it seems, I must leave all this off, or I must be mortified with a looking glass held before me, and every wrinkle must be made as conspicuous as a furrow--And what, pray, is to succeed to this reformation?--I can neither fast nor pray, I doubt.--And besides, if my stomach and my jest depart from me, farewell, Sir Simon Darnford! But cannot I pass as one necessary character, do you think: as a foil (as, by-the-bye, some of your own actions have been to your lady's virtue) to set off some more edifying example, where variety of characters make up a feast in conversation? Well, I believe I might have trusted you with my daughter, under your lady's eye, rake as you have been yourself; and fame says wrong, if you have not been, for your time a bolder sinner than ever I was, with your maxim of touching ladies' hearts, without wounding their ears, which made surer work with them, that was all; though 'tis to be hoped you are now reformed; and if you are, the whole country round you, east, west, north, and south, owe great obligations to your fair reclaimer. But here is a fine prim young fellow, coming out of Norfolk, with one estate in one county, another in another, and jointures and settlements in his hand, and more wit in his head, as well as more money in his pocket, than he can tell what to do with, to visit our Polly; though I tell her I much question the former quality, his wit, if he is for marrying. Here then is the reason I cannot comply with your kind Mrs. B.'s request. But if this matter should go off; if he should not like _her_, or she _him_; or if I should not like _his_ terms, or he _mine_;--or still another _or_, if he should like Nancy better why, then perhaps, if Polly be a good girl, I may trust to her virtue, and to your honour, and let her go for a month or two. Now, when I have said this, and when I say, further, that I can forgive your severe lady, and yourself too, (who, however, are less to be excused in the airs you assume, which looks like one chimney-sweeper calling another a sooty rascal) I gave a proof of my charity, which I hope with Mrs. B. will cover a multitude of faults; and the rather, since, though I cannot be a _follower_ of her virtue in the strictest sense, I can be an _admirer_ of it; and that is some little merit: and indeed all that can be at present pleaded by _yourself_, I doubt, any more than _your humble servant_, SIMON DARNFORD. LETTER XXV MY HONOURED AND DEAR PARENTS, I hope you will excuse my long silence, which has been owing to several causes, and having had nothing new to entertain you with: and yet this last is but a poor excuse to you, who think every trifling subject agreeable from your daughter. I daily expect here my Lord and Lady Davers. This gives me no small pleasure, and yet it is mingled with some uneasiness at times; lest I should not, when viewed so intimately near, behave myself answerably to her ladyship's expectations. But I resolve not to endeavour to move out of the sphere of my own capacity, in order to emulate her ladyship. She must have advantages, by conversation, as well as education, which it would be arrogance in me to assume, or to think of imitating. All that I will attempt to do, therefore, shall be, to shew such a respectful obligingness to my lady, as shall be consistent with the condition to which I am raised; so that she may not have reason to reproach me of pride in my exaltation, nor her dear brother to rebuke me for meanness in condescending: and, as to my family arrangement, I am the less afraid of inspection, because, by the natural bias of my own mind, I bless God, I am above dark reserves, and have not one selfish or sordid view, to make me wish to avoid the most scrutinising eye. I have begun a correspondence with Miss Darnford, a young lady of uncommon merit. But yet you know her character from my former writings. She is very solicitous to hear of all that concerns me, and particularly how Lady Davers and I agree together. I loved her from the moment I saw her first; for she has the least pride, and the most benevolence and solid thought, I ever knew in a young lady, and does not envy any one. I shall write to her often: and as I shall have so many avocations besides to fill up my time, I know you will excuse me, if I procure from this lady the return of my letters to her, for your perusal, and for the entertainment of your leisure hours. This will give you, from time to time, the accounts you desire of all that happens here. But as to what relates to our own particulars, I beg you will never spare writing, as I shall not answering; for it is one of my greatest delights, that I have such worthy parents (as I hope in God, I long shall) to bless me and to correspond with me. The papers I send herewith will afford you some diversion, particularly those relating to Sir Simon Darnford; and I must desire, that when you have perused them (as well as what I shall send for the future), you will return them to me. Mr. Longman greatly pleased me, on his last return, in his account of your health, and the satisfaction you take in your happy lot; and I must recite to you a brief conversation on this occasion, which, I dare say, will please you as much as it did me. After having adjusted some affairs with his dear principal, which took up two hours, my best beloved sent for me. "My dear," said he, seating me by him, and making the good old gentleman sit down, (for he will always rise at my approach) "Mr. Longman and I have settled, in two hours, some accounts, which would have taken up as many months with some persons: for never was there an exacter or more methodical accomptant. He gives me (greatly to my satisfaction, because I know it will delight you) an account of the Kentish concern, and of the pleasure your father and mother take in it.--Now, my charmer," said he, "I see your eyes begin to glisten: O how this subject raises your whole soul to the windows of it!--Never was so dutiful a daughter, Mr. Longman; and never did parents better deserve a daughter's duty." I endeavoured before Mr. Longman to rein in a gratitude, that my throbbing heart confessed through my handkerchief, as I perceived: but the good old gentleman could not hinder his from shewing itself at his worthy eyes, to see how much I was favoured--_oppressed_, I should say--with the tenderest goodness to me, and kind expressions.--"Excuse me," said he, wiping his cheeks: "my delight to see such merit so justly rewarded will not be contained, I think." And so he arose and walked to the window. "Well, good Mr. Longman," said I, as he returned towards us, "you give me the pleasure to know that my father and mother are well; and happy then they _must_ be, in a goodness and bounty, that I, and many more, rejoice in." "Well and happy, Madam;--ay, that they are, indeed! A worthier couple never lived. Most nobly do they go on in the farm. Your honour is one of the happiest gentlemen in the world. All the good you do, returns upon you in a trice. It may well be said _you cast your bread upon the waters_; for it presently comes to you again, richer and heavier than when you threw it in. All the Kentish tenants, Madam, are hugely delighted with their good steward: every thing prospers under his management: the gentry love both him and my dame; and the poor people adore them." Thus ran Mr. Longman on, to my inexpressible delight, you may believe; and when he withdrew--"'Tis an honest soul," said my dear Mr. B. "I love him for his respectful love to my angel, and his value for the worthy pair. Very glad I am, that every thing answers _their_ wishes. May they long live, and be happy!" The dear man makes me spring to his arms, whenever be touches this string: for he speaks always thus kindly of you; and is glad to hear, he says, that you don't live only to yourselves; and now and then adds, that he is as much satisfied with your prudence, as he is with mine; that parents and daughter do credit to one another: and that the praises he hears of you from every mouth, make him take as great pleasure in you, as if you were his own relations. How delighting, how transporting rather, my dear parents, must this goodness be to your happy daughter! And how could I forbear repeating these kind things to you, that you may see how well every thing is taken that you do? When the expected visit from Lord and Lady Davers is over, the approaching winter will call us to London; and as I shall then be nearer to you, we may oftener hear from one another, which will be a great heightening to my pleasures. But I hear such an account of the immoralities which persons may observe there, along with the public diversions, that it takes off a little from the satisfaction I should otherwise have in the thought of going thither. For, they say, quarrels, and duels, and gallantries, as they are called, so often happen in London, that those enormities are heard of without the least wonder or surprise. This makes me very thoughtful at times. But God, I hope, will preserve our dearest benefactor, and continue to me his affection, and then I shall be always happy; especially while your healths and felicity confirm and crown the delights of _your ever dutiful daughter,_ P.B. LETTER XXVI MY DEAREST CHILD, It may not be improper to mention ourselves, what the nature of the kindnesses is, which we confer on our poor neighbours, and the labouring people, lest it should be surmised, by any body, that we are lavishing away wealth that is not our own. Not that we fear either your honoured husband or you will suspect so, or that the worthy Mr. Longman would insinuate as much; for he saw what we did, and was highly pleased with it, and said he would make such a report of it as you write he did. What we do is in small things, though the good we hope from them is not small perhaps: and if a very distressful case should happen among our poor neighbours, requiring any thing considerable, and the objects be deserving, we would acquaint you with it, and leave it to you to do as God should direct you. My dear child, you are very happy, and if it _can_ be, may you be happier still! Yet I verily think you cannot be more happy than your father and mother, except in this one thing, that all our happiness, under God, proceeds from you; and, as other parents bless their children with plenty and benefits, you have blessed your parents (or your honoured husband rather for your sake) with all the good things this world can afford. Your papers are the joy of our leisure hours; and you are kind beyond all expression, in taking care to oblige us with them. We know how your time is taken up, and ought to be very well contented, if but now and then you let us hear of your health and welfare. But it is not enough with such a good daughter, that you have made our lives _comfortable_, but you will make them _joyful_ too, by communicating to us, all that befals you: and then you write so piously, and with such a sense of God's goodness to you, and intermix such good reflections in your writings, that whether it be our partial love or not, I cannot tell, but, truly, we think nobody comes up to you: and you make our hearts and eyes so often overflow, as we read, that we join hand in hand, and say to each other, in the same breath--"Blessed be God, and blessed be you, my love,"--"For such a daughter," says the one--"For such a daughter," says the other--"And she has your own sweet temper," cry I.--"And she has your own honest heart," cries she: and so we go on, blessing God, and you, and blessing your spouse, and ourselves!--Is any happiness like ours, my dear daughter? We are really so enraptured with your writings, that when our spirits flag, through the infirmity of years, which hath begun to take hold of us, we have recourse to some of your papers:--"Come, my dear," cry I, "what say you to a banquet now?"--She knows what I mean. "With all my heart," says she. So I read although it be on a Sunday, so good are your letters; and you must know, I have copies of many, and after a little while we are as much alive and brisk, as if we had no nagging at all, and return to the duties of the day with double delight. Consider then, my dear child, what joy your writings give us: and yet we are afraid of oppressing you, who have so much to do of other kinds; and we are heartily glad you have found out a way to save trouble to yourself, and rejoice us, and oblige so worthy a young lady as Miss Darnford, all at one time. I never shall forget her dear goodness, and notice of me at the Hall, kindly pressing my rough hands with her fine hands, and looking in my face with _so_ much kindness in her eyes!--What good people, as well as bad, there are in high stations!--Thank God there are; else our poor child would have had a sad time of it too often, when she was obliged to _step out of herself_, as once I heard you phrase it, into company you could not _live with_. Well, but what shall I say more? and yet how shall I end?--Only, with my prayers, that God will continue to you the blessing and comforts you are in possession of!--And pray now, be not over-thoughtful about London; for why should you let the dread of future evils lessen your present joys?--There is no absolute perfection in this life, that's true; but one would make one's self as easy as one could. 'Tis time enough to be troubled when troubles come--"_Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof_." Rejoice, then, as you have often said you would, in your present blessings, and leave the event of things to the Supreme Disposer of all events. And what have _you_ to do but to rejoice? _You_, who cannot see a sun rise, but it is to bless you, and to raise up from their beds numbers to join in the blessing! _You_ who can bless your high-born friends, and your low-born parents, and obscure relations! the rich by your example, and the poor by your bounty; and bless besides so good and so brave a husband;--O my dear child, what, let me repeat it, have _you_ to do but rejoice?--_For many daughters have done wisely, but you have excelled them all_. I will only add, that every thing the 'squire ordered is just upon the point of being finished. And when the good time comes, that we shall be again favoured with his presence and yours, what a still greater joy will this afford to the already overflowing hearts of _your ever loving father and mother_, JOHN _and_ ELIZ. ANDREWS. LETTER XXVII MY DEAREST MISS DARNFORD, The interest I take in everything that concerns you, makes me very importunate to know how you approve the gentleman, whom some of your best friends and well-wishers have recommended to your favour. I hope he will deserve your good opinion, and then he must excel most of the unmarried gentlemen in England. Your papa, in his humourous manner, mentions his large possessions and riches; but were he as rich as Croesus, he should not have my consent, if he has no greater merit; though that is what the generality of parents look out for first; and indeed an easy fortune is so far from being to be disregarded, that, when attended with equal merit, I think it ought to have a _preference_ given to it, supposing affections disengaged. For 'tis certain, that a man or woman may stand as good a chance for happiness in marriage with a person of fortune, as with one who has not that advantage; and notwithstanding I had neither riches nor descent to boast of, I must be of opinion with those who say, that they never knew any body despise either, that had them. But to permit riches to be the _principal_ inducement, to the neglect of superior merit, that is the fault which many a one smarts for, whether the choice be their own, or imposed upon them by those who have a title to their obedience. Here is a saucy body, might some who have not Miss Darnford's kind consideration for her friend, be apt to say, who being thus meanly descended, nevertheless presumes to give her opinion, in these high cases, unasked.--But I have this to say; that I think myself so entirely divested of partiality to my own case, that, as far as my judgment shall permit, I will never have that in view, when I am presuming to hint my opinion of general rules. For, most surely, the honours I have received, and the debasement to which my best friend had subjected himself, have, for their principal excuse, that the gentleman was entirely independent, had no questions to ask, and had a fortune sufficient to make himself, as well as the person he chose, happy, though she brought him nothing at all; and that he had, moreover, such a character for good sense, and knowledge of the world, that nobody could impute to him any other inducement, but that of a noble resolution to reward a virtue he had so frequently, and, I will say, so wickedly, tried, and could not subdue. My dear Miss, let me, as a subject very pleasing to me, touch upon your kind mention of the worthy Mr. Peters's sentiments to that part of his conduct to me, which (oppressed by the terrors and apprehensions to which I was subjected) once I censured; and the readier, as I had so great an honour for his cloth, that I thought, to be a clergyman, and all that was compassionate, good, and virtuous, was the same thing. But when I came to know Mr. Peters, I had a high opinion of his worthiness, and as no one can be perfect in this life, thus I thought to myself: How hard was then my lot, to be the cause of stumbling to so worthy a heart. To be sure, a gentleman, one who knows, and practises so well, his duty, in every other instance, and preaches it so efficaciously to others, must have been _one day_ sensible, that it would not have mis-become his function and character to have afforded that protection to oppressed innocence, which was requested of him: and how would it have grieved his considerate mind, had my ruin been completed, that he did not! But as he had once a namesake, as one may say, that failed in a much greater instance, let not _my_ want of charity exceed _his_ fault; but let me look upon it as an infirmity, to which the most perfect are liable; I was a stranger to him; a servant girl carried off by her master, a young gentleman of violent and lawless passions, who, in this very instance, shewed how much in earnest he was set upon effecting all his vile purposes; and whose heart, although _God_ might touch, it was not probable any lesser influence could. Then he was not sure, that, though he might assist my escape, I might not afterwards fall again into the hands of so determined a violator: and that difficulty would not, with such an one, enhance his resolution to overcome all obstacles. Moreover, he might think, that the person, who was moving him to this worthy measure, possibly sought to gratify a view of his own, and that while endeavouring to save, to outward appearance, a virtue in danger, he was, in reality, only helping another to a wife, at the hazard of exposing himself to the vindictiveness of a violent temper, and a rich neighbour, who had power as well as will to resent; for such was his apprehension, entirely groundless as it was, though not improbable, as it might seem to him. For all these considerations, I must pity, rather than too rigorously censure, the worthy gentleman, and I will always respect him. And thank him a thousand times, my dear, in my name, for his goodness in condescending to acknowledge, by your hand, his infirmity, as such; for this gives an excellent proof of the natural worthiness of his heart; and that it is beneath him to seek to extenuate a fault, when he thinks he has committed one. Indeed, my dear friend, I have so much honour for the clergy of all degrees, that I never forget in my prayers one article, that God will make them shining lights to the world; since so much depends on their ministry and examples, as well with respect to our public as private duties. Nor shall the faults of a few make impression upon me to the disadvantage of the order; for I am afraid a very censorious temper, in this respect, is too generally the indication of an uncharitable and perhaps a profligate heart, levelling characters, in order to cover some inward pride, or secret enormities, which they are ashamed to avow, and will not be instructed to amend. Forgive, my dear, this tedious scribble; I cannot for my life write short letters to those I love. And let me hope that you will favour me with an account of your new affair, and how you proceed in it; and with such of your conversations, as may give me some notion of a polite courtship. For, alas! your poor friend knows nothing of this. All her courtship was sometimes a hasty snatch of the hand, a black and blue gripe of the arm, and--"Whither now?"--"Come to me when I bid you!" And Saucy-face, and Creature, and such like, on his part--with fear and trembling on mine; and--"I will, I will!--Good Sir, have mercy!" At other times a scream, and nobody to hear or mind me; and with uplift hands, bent knees, and tearful eyes--"For God's sake, pity your poor servant." This, my dear Miss Darnford, was the hard treatment that attended my courtship--pray, then, let me know, how gentlemen court their equals in degree; how they look when they address you, with their knees bent, sighing, supplicating, and _all that_, as Sir Simon says, with the words Slave, Servant, Admirer, continually at their tongue's end. But after all, it will be found, I believe, that be the language and behaviour ever so obsequious, it is all designed to end alike--The English, the plain English, of the politest address, is,--"I am now, dear Madam, your humble servant: pray be so good as to let me be your master,"--"Yes, and thank you too," says the lady's heart, though not her lips, if she likes him. And so they go to church together; and, in conclusion, it will be happy, if these obsequious courtships end no worse than my frightful one. But I am convinced, that with a man of sense, a woman of tolerable prudence _must_ be happy. That whenever you marry, it may be to such a man, who then must value you as you deserve, and make you happy as I now am, notwithstanding all that's past, wishes and prays _your obliged friend and servant,_ P.B. [N.B.--Although Miss Darnford could not receive the above letter so soon, as to answer it before others were sent to her by her fair correspondent; yet we think it not amiss to dispense with the order of time, that the reader may have the letter and answer at one view, and shall on other occasions take the like liberty.] LETTER XXVIII _In answer to the preceding_ MY DEAR MRS. B., You charm us all with your letters. Mr. Peters says, he will never go to bed, nor rise, but he will pray for you, and desires I will return his thankful acknowledgment for your favourable opinion of him, and kind allowances. If there be an angel on earth, he says, you are one. My papa, although he has seen your stinging reflection upon his refusal to protect you, is delighted with you too; and says, when you come down to Lincolnshire again, he will be _undertaken_ by you in good earnest: for he thinks it was wrong in him to deny you his protection. We all smiled at the description of your own uncommon courtship. And, as they say the days of courtship are the happiest part of life, if we had not known that your days of marriage are happier by far than any other body's courtship, we must needs have pitied. But as the one were days of trial and temptation, the others are days of reward and happiness: may the last always continue to be so, and you'll have no occasion to think any body happier than Mrs. B.! I thank you heartily for your good wishes as to the man of sense. Mr. Murray has been here, and continues his visits. He is a lively gentleman, well enough in his person, has a tolerable character, yet loves company, and will take his bottle freely; my papa likes him ne'er the worse for that: he talks a good deal; dresses gay, and even richly, and seems to like his own person very well--no great pleasure this for a lady to look forward to; yet he falls far short of that genteel ease and graceful behaviour, which distinguish your Mr. B. from any body I know. I wish Mr. Murray would apply to my sister. She is an ill-natured girl; but would make a good wife, I hope; and fancy she'd like him well enough. I can't say I do. He laughs too much; has something boisterous in his conversation: his complaisance is not pretty; he is, however, well versed in country sports; and my papa loves him for that too, and says--"He is a most accomplished gentleman."--"Yes Sir," cry I, "as gentlemen go."--"You _must_ be saucy," says Sir Simon, "because the man offers himself to your acceptance. A few years hence, perhaps, if you remain single, you'll alter your note, Polly, and be willing to jump at a much less worthy tender." I could not help answering that, although I paid due honour to all my papa was pleased to say, I could not but hope he would be mistaken in this. But I have broken my mind to my dear mamma, who tells me, she will do me all the pleasure she can; but would be loth the youngest daughter should go _first_, as she calls it. But if I could come and live with you a little now and then, I did not care who married, unless such an one offered as I never expect. I have great hopes the gentleman will be easily persuaded to quit me for Nancy; for I see he has not delicacy enough to love with any great distinction. He says, as my mamma tells me by the bye, that I am the handsomest, and best humoured, and he has found out as he thinks, that I have some wit, and have ease and freedom (and he tacks innocence to them) in my address and conversation. 'Tis well for me, _he_ is of this opinion: for if he thinks justly, which I must question, _any body_ may think so still much more; for I have been far from taking pains to engage his good word, having been under more reserve to him, than ever I was before to any body. Indeed, I can't help it: for the gentleman is forward without delicacy; and (pardon me, Sir Simon) my papa has not one bit of it neither; but is for pushing matters on, with his rough raillery, that puts me out of countenance, and has already adjusted the sordid part of the preliminaries, as he tells me. Yet I hope Nancy's three thousand pound fortune more than I am likely to have, will give her the wished-for preference with Mr. Murray; and then, as to a brother-in-law, in prospect, I can put off all restraint, and return to my usual freedom. This is all that occurs worthy of notice from us: but from you, we expect an account of Lady Davers's visit, and of the conversations that offer among you; and you have so delightful a way of making every thing momentous, either by your subject or reflections, or both, that we long for every post-day, in hopes of the pleasure of a letter. And yours I will always carefully preserve, as so many testimonies of the honour I receive in this correspondence: which will be always esteemed as it deserves, by, my dear Mrs. B., _your obliged and faithful_ POLLY DARNFORD. Mrs. Peters, Mrs. Jones, my papa, mamma, and sister, present their respects. Mr. Peters I mentioned before. He continues to give a very good account of poor Jewkes; and is much pleased with her. LETTER XXIX MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, At your desire, and to oblige your honoured mamma, and your good neighbours, I will now acquaint you with the arrival of Lady Davers, and will occasionally write what passes among us, I will not say worthy of notice; for were I only to do so, I should be more brief, perhaps, by much, than you seem to expect. But as my time is pretty much taken up, and I find I shall be obliged to write a bit now, and a bit then, you must excuse me, if I dispense with some forms, which I ought to observe, when I write to one I so dearly love; and so I will give it journal-wise, as it were, and have no regard, when it would fetter or break in upon my freedom of narration, to inscription or subscription; but send it as I have opportunity, and if you please to favour me so far, as to lend it me, after you have read the stuff, for the perusal of my father and mother, to whom my duty, and promise require me to give an account of my proceedings, it will save me transcription, for which I shall have no time; and then you will excuse blots and blurs, and I will trouble myself no farther for apologies on that score, but this once for all. If you think it worth while when they have read it, you shall have it again. WEDNESDAY MORNING, SIX O'CLOCK. For my dear friend permits me to rise an hour sooner than usual, that I may have time to scribble; for he is always pleased to see me so employed, or in reading; often saying, when I am at my needle, (as his sister once wrote) "Your maids can do this, Pamela: but they cannot write as you can." And yet, as he says, when I choose to follow my needle, as a diversion from too intense study, (but, alas! I know not what study is, as may be easily guessed by my hasty writing, putting down every thing as it comes) I shall then do as I please. But I promised at setting out, what a good wife I'd endeavour to make: and every honest body should try to be as good as her word, you know, and such particulars as I then mentioned, I think I ought to dispense with as little as possible; especially as I promised no more than what was my duty to perform, if I had _not_ promised. But what a preamble is here? Judge by it what impertinences you may expect as I proceed. Yesterday evening arrived here my Lord and Lady Davers, their nephew, and the Countess of C., mother of Lady Betty, whom we did not expect, but took it for the greater favour. It seems her ladyship longed, as she said, to see _me_; and this was her principal inducement. The two ladies, and their two women, were in Lord Davers's coach and six, and my lord and his nephew rode on horseback, attended with a train of servants. We had expected them to dinner; but they could not reach time enough; for the countess being a little incommoded with her journey, the coach travelled slowly. My lady would not suffer her lord, nor his nephew, to come hither before her, though on horseback, because she would be present, she said, when his lordship first saw me, he having quite forgot _her mother's Pamela_; that was her word. It rained when they came in; so the coach drove directly to the door, and Mr. B. received them there; but I was in a little sort of flutter, which Mr. B. observing, made me sit down in the parlour to compose myself. "Where's Pamela?" said my lady, as soon as she alighted. I stept out, lest she should take it amiss: and she took my hand, and kissed me: "Here, my lady countess," said she, presenting me to her, "here's the girl; see if I said too much in praise of her person." The countess saluted me with a visible pleasure in her eye, and said, "Indeed, Lady Davers, you have not. 'Twould have been strange (excuse me, Mrs. B., for I know your story), if such a fine flower had not been transplanted from the field to the garden." I made no return, but by a low curtsey, to her ladyship's compliment. Then Lady Davers taking my hand again, presented me to her lord: "See here, my lord, my mother's Pamela."--"And see here, my lord," said her generous brother, taking my other hand most kindly, "see here your brother's Pamela too!" My lord saluted me: "I do," said he to his lady, and to his brother; "and I see the first person in her, that has exceeded my expectation, when every mouth had _prepared_ me to expect a wonder." Mr. H., whom every one calls Lord Jackey, after his aunt's example, when she is in good humour with him, and who is a very _young_ gentleman, though about as old as my best friend, came to me next, and said, "Lovelier and lovelier, by my life!--I never saw your peer, Madam." Will you excuse me, my dear, all this seeming vanity, for the sake of repeating exactly what passed? "Well, but," said my lady, taking my hand, in her free quality way, which quite dashed me, and holding it at a distance, and turning me half round, her eye fixed to my waist, "let me observe you a little, my sweet-faced girl;--I hope I am right: I hope you will do credit to my brother, as he has done you credit. Why do you let her lace so tight, Mr. B.?" I was unable to look up, as you may believe, Miss: my face, all over scarlet, was hid in my bosom, and I looked so _silly!_-- "Ay," said my naughty lady, "you may well look down, my good girl: for works of this nature will not be long hidden.--And, oh! my lady," (to the countess) "see how like a pretty _thief_ she looks!" "Dear my lady!" said I: for she still kept looking at me: and her good brother, seeing my confusion, in pity to me, pressed my blushing face a moment to his generous breast, and said, "Lady Davers, you should not be thus hard upon my dear girl, the moment you see her, and before so many witnesses:--but look up, my best love, take your revenge of my sister, and tell her, you wish her in the same way." "It is so then?" said my lady. "I'm glad of it with all my heart. I will now love you better and better: but I almost doubted it, seeing her still so slender. But if, my good child, you lace too tight, I'll never forgive you." And so she gave me a kiss of congratulation, as she said. Do you think I did not look very silly? My lord, smiling, and gazing at me from head to foot; Lord Jackey grinning and laughing, like an oaf, as I then, in my spite, thought. Indeed the countess said, encouragingly to me, but severely in persons of birth, "Lady Davers, you are as much too teazing, as Mrs. B. is too bashful. But you are a happy man, Mr. B., that your lady's bashfulness is the principal mark by which we can judge she is not of quality." Lord Jackey, in the language of some character in a play, cried out, "_A palpable hit, by Jupiter!_" and laughed egregiously, running about from one to another, repeating the same words. We talked only upon common topics till supper-time, and I was all ear, as I thought it became me to be; for the countess had, by her first compliment, and by an aspect as noble as intelligent, overawed me, as I may say, into a respectful silence, to which Lady Davers's free, though pleasant raillery (which she could not help carrying on now-and-then) contributed. Besides, Lady Davers's letters had given me still greater reason to revere her wit and judgment than I had before, when I reflected on her passionate temper, and such parts of the conversation I had had with her ladyship in your neighbourhood; which (however to be admired) fell short of her letters. When we were to sit down at table, I looked, I suppose, a little diffidently: for I really then thought of my lady's anger at the Hall, when she would not have permitted me to sit at table with her; and Mr. B. saying, "Take your place, my dear; you keep our friends standing;" I sat down in my usual seat. And my lady said, "None of your reproaching eye, Pamela; I know what you hint at by it; and every letter I have received from you has made me censure myself for my _lady-airs_, as you call 'em, you sauce-box you: I told you, I'd _lady-airs_ you when I saw you; and you shall have it all in good time." "I am sure," said I, "I shall have nothing from your ladyship, but what will be very agreeable: but, indeed, I never meant any thing particular by that, or any other word that I wrote; nor could I think of any thing but what was highly respectful to your ladyship." Lord Davers was pleased to say, that it was impossible I should either write or speak any thing that could be taken amiss. Lady Davers, after supper, and the servants were withdrawn, began a discourse on titles, and said, "Brother, I think you should hold yourself obliged to my Lord Davers; for he has spoken to Lord S. who made him a visit a few days ago, to procure you a baronet's patent. Your estate, and the figure you make in the world, are so considerable, and your family besides is so ancient, that, methinks, you should wish for some distinction of that sort." "Yes, brother," said my lord, "I did mention it to Lord S. and told him, withal, that it was without your knowledge or desire that I spoke about it; and I was not very sure you would accept of it; but 'tis a thing your sister has wished for a good while." "What answer did my Lord S. make to it?" said Mr. B. "He said, 'We,' meaning the ministers, I suppose, 'should be glad to oblige a man of Mr. B.'s figure in the world; but you mention it so slightly, that you can hardly expect courtiers will tender it to any gentleman that is so indifferent about it; for, Lord Davers, we seldom grant honours without a view: I tell you that,' added he, smiling." "My Lord S. might mention this as a jest," returned Mr. B., "but he spoke the truth. But your lordship said well, that I was indifferent about it. 'Tis true, 'tis an hereditary title; but the rich citizens, who used to be satisfied with the title of Knight, (till they made it so common, that it is brought into as great contempt almost as that of the French knights of St. Michael,[1] and nobody cares to accept of it) now are ambitious of this; and, as I apprehend, it is hastening apace into like disrepute. Besides, 'tis a novel honour, and what the ancestors of our family, who lived at its institution, would never accept of. But were it a peerage, which has some essential privileges and splendours annexed to it, to make it desirable to some men, I would not enter into conditions for it. Titles at best," added he, "are but shadows; and he that has the substance should be above valuing them; for who that has the whole bird, would pride himself upon a single feather?" "But," said my lady, "although I acknowledge that the institution is of late date, yet, as abroad, as well as at home, it is regarded as a title of dignity, and the best families among the gentry are supposed to be distinguished by it, I should wish you to accept of it. And as to citizens who have it, they are not many; and some of this class of people, or their immediate descendants, have bought themselves into the peerage itself of the one kingdom or the other." [Footnote 1: This order was become so scandalously common in France, that, to order to suppress it, the hangman was vested with the ensigns of it, which effectually abolished it.] "As to what it is looked upon abroad," said Mr. B., "this is of no weight at all; for when an Englishman travels, be he of what degree he will, if he has an equipage, and squanders his money away, he is a lord of course with foreigners: and therefore Sir Such-a-one is rather a diminution to him, as it gives him a lower title than his vanity would perhaps make him aspire to be thought in the possession of. Then, as to citizens, in a trading nation like this, I am not displeased in the main, with seeing the overgrown ones creeping into nominal honours; and we have so many of our first titled families, who have allied themselves to trade, (whose inducements were money only) that it ceases to be either a wonder as to the fact, or a disgrace as to the honour." "Well, brother," said my lady, "I will tell you farther, the thing may be had for asking for; if you will but go to court, and desire to kiss the king's hand, that will be all the trouble you'll have: and pray now oblige me in it." "If a title would make me either a better or a wiser man," replied Mr. B., "I would embrace it with pleasure. Besides, I am not so satisfied with some of the measures now pursuing, as to owe any obligation to the ministers. Accepting of a small title from them, is but like putting on their badge, or listing under their banners; like a certain lord we all know, who accepted of one degree more of title to shew he was theirs, and would not have an higher, lest it should be thought a satisfaction tantamount to half the pension he demanded: and could I be easy to have it supposed, that I was an ungrateful man for voting as I pleased, because they gave me the title of a baronet?" The countess said, the world always thought Mr. B. to be a man of steady principles, and not attached to any party; but, in her opinion, it was far from being inconsistent with any gentleman's honour and independency, to accept of a title from a prince he acknowledged as his sovereign. "'Tis very true. Madam, that I am attached to no party, nor ever will. I will be a _country gentleman_, in the true sense of the word, and will accept of no favour that shall make any one think I would _not_ be of the opposition when I think it a necessary one; as, on the other hand, I should scorn to make myself a round to any man's ladder of preferment, or a caballer for the sake of my own." "You say well, brother," returned Lady Davers; "but you may undoubtedly keep your own principles and independency, and yet pay your duty to the king, and accept of this title; for your family and fortune will be a greater ornament to the title, than the title to you." "Then what occasion have I for it, if that be the case, Madam?" "Why, I can't say, but I should be glad you had it, for your family's sake, as it is an hereditary honour. Then it would mend the style of your spouse here; for the good girl is at such a loss for an epithet when she writes, that I see the constraint she lies under. It is, '_My dear gentleman, my best friend, my benefactor, my dear Mr. B._' whereas Sir William would turn off her periods more roundly, and no other softer epithets would be wanting." "To me," replied he, "who always desire to be distinguished as my Pamela's best friend, and think it an honour to be called _her dear Mr. B. and her dear man_, this reason weighs very little, unless there were no other Sir William in the kingdom than _her_ Sir William: for I am very emulous of her favour, I can tell you, and think it no small distinction." I blushed at this too great honour, before such company, and was afraid my lady would be a little picqued at it. But after a pause, she said, "Well, then, brother, will you let Pamela decide upon this point?" "Rightly put," said the countess. "Pray let Mrs. B. choose for you, Sir. My lady has hit the thing." "Very good, by my soul," says Lord Jackey; "let my _young aunt_," that was his word, "choose for you, Sir." "Well, then, Pamela," said Mr. B., "give us your opinion, as to this point." "But, first," said Lady Davers, "say you will be determined by it; or else she will be laid under a difficulty." "Well, then," replied he, "be it so--I will be determined by your opinion, my dear; give it me freely." Lord Jackey rubbed his hands together, "Charming, charming, as I hope to live! By Jove, this is just as I wished!" "Well, now, Pamela," said my lady, "speak your true heart without disguise: I charge you do." "Why then, gentlemen and ladies," said I, "if I must be so bold as to speak on a subject, upon which on several accounts, it would become me to be silent, I should be _against_ the title; but perhaps my reason is of too private a nature to weigh any thing: and if so, it would not become me to have any choice at all." They all called upon me for my reason; and I said, looking down a little abashed, "It is this: Here my dear Mr. B. has disparaged himself by distinguishing, as he has done, such a low creature as I; and the world will be apt to say, he is seeking to repair _one way_ the honour he has lost _another!_ and then perhaps, it will be attributed to my pride and ambition: 'Here, they will perhaps say, 'the proud cottager will needs be a lady in hopes to conceal her descent;' whereas, had I such a vain thought, it would be but making it the more remembered against both Mr. B. and myself. And indeed, as to my own part, I take too much pride in having been lifted up into this distinction for the causes to which I owe it, your brother's _bounty_ and _generosity_, than to be ashamed of what I _was_: only now-and-then I am concerned for his own sake, lest he should be too much censured. But this would not be prevented, but rather be promoted by the title. So I am humbly of opinion against the title." Mr. B. had hardly patience to hear me out, but came to me and folding his arms about me, said, "Just as I wished, have you answered, my beloved Pamela; I was never yet deceived in you; no, not once." "Madam," said he to the countess, "Lord Davers, Lady Davers, do we want any titles, think you, to make us happy but what we can confer upon ourselves?" And he pressed my hand to his lips, as he always honours me most in company and went to his place highly pleased; while his fine manner drew tears from my eyes, and made his noble sister's and the countess's glisten too. "Well, for my part," said Lady Davers, "thou art a strange girl: where, as my brother once said, gottest thou all this?" Then pleasantly humorous, as if she was angry, she changed her tone, "What signify thy _meek_ words and _humble_ speeches when by thy _actions_, as well as _sentiments_, thou reflectest upon us all? Pamela," said she, "have less merit, or take care to conceal it better: I shall otherwise have no more patience with thee, than thy monarch has just now shewn." The countess was pleased to say, "You're a happy couple indeed!" Such sort of entertainment as this you are to expect from your correspondent. I cannot do better than I can; and it may appear such a mixture of self-praise, vanity, and impertinence, that I expect you will tell me freely, as soon as this comes to your hand, whether it be tolerable to you. Yet I must write on, for my dear father and mother's sake, who require it of me, and are prepared to approve of every thing that comes from me, for no other reason but that: and I think you ought to leave me to write to them only, as I cannot hope it will be entertaining to any body else, without expecting as much partiality and favour from others, as I have from my dear parents. Mean time I conclude here my first conversation-piece; and am, and will be, _always yours, &c._ P.B. LETTER XXX THURSDAY MORNING, SIX O'CLOCK. Our breakfast conversation yesterday (at which only Mrs. Worden, my lady's woman, and my Polly attended) was so whimsically particular, (though I doubt some of it, at least, will appear too trifling) that I must acquaint my dear Miss Darnford with it, who is desirous of knowing all that relates to Lady Davers's conduct towards me. You must know, then, I have the honour to stand very high in the graces of Lord Davers, who on every occasion is pleased to call me his _good Sister_, his _dear Sister_, and sometimes his _charming Sister_, and he says, he will not be out of my company for an hour together, while he stays here, if he can help it. My lady seems to relish this very well in the main, though she cannot quite so readily, yet, frame her mouth to the sound of the word _Sister_, as my lord does; of which this that follows is one instance. His lordship had called me by that tender name twice before, and saying, "I will drink another dish, I think, my _good Sister_." My lady said, "Your lordship has got a word by the end, that you seem mighty fond of: I have taken notice, that you have called Pamela _Sister, Sister, Sister_, no less than three times in a quarter of an hour." My lord looked a little serious: "I shall one day," said he, "be allowed to choose my own words and phrases, I hope--Your sister, Mr. B.," added he, "often questions whether I am at age or not, though the House of Peers made no scruple of admitting me among them some years ago." Mr. B. said severely, but with a smiling air, "'Tis well she has such a gentleman as your lordship for a husband, whose affectionate indulgence to her makes you overlook all her saucy sallies! I am sure, when you took her out of our family into your own, we all thought ourselves, I in particular, bound to pray for you." I thought this a great trial of my lady's patience: but it was from Mr. B. And she said, with a half-pleasant, half-serious air, "How now, Confidence!--None but my brother could have said this, whose violent spirit was always much more intolerable than mine: but I can tell you, Mr. B., I was always thought very good-humoured and obliging to every body, till your impudence came from college, and from your travels; and then, I own, your provoking ways made me now-and-then a little out of the way." "Well, well, sister, we'll have no more of this subject; only let us see that my Lord Davers wants not his proper authority with you, although you used to keep _me_ in awe formerly." "Keep _you_ in awe!--That nobody could ever do yet, boy or man. But, my lord, I beg your pardon; for this brother will make mischief betwixt us if he can--I only took notice of the word _Sister_ so often used, which looked more like affectation than affection." "Perhaps, Lady Davers," said my lord, gravely, "I have two reasons for using the word so frequently." "I'd be glad to hear them," said the dear taunting lady; "for I don't doubt they're mighty good ones. What are they, my lord?" "One is, because I love, and am fond of my new relation: the other, that you are so sparing of the word, that I call her so for us both." "Your lordship says well," replied Mr. B., smiling: "and Lady Davers can give two reasons why she does _not_." "Well," said my lady, "now we are in for't, let us hear _your_ two reasons likewise; I doubt not they're wise ones too." "If they are _yours_, Lady Davers, they must be so. One is, That every condescension (to speak in a proud lady's dialect) comes with as much difficulty from her, as a favour from the House of Austria to the petty princes of Germany. The second, Because those of your sex--(Excuse me, Madam," to the countess) "who have once made scruples, think it inconsistent with themselves to be over hasty to alter their own conduct, choosing rather to persist in an error, than own it to be one." This proceeded from his impatience to see me in the least slighted by my lady; and I said to Lord Davers, to soften matters, "Never, my lord, were brother and sister so loving in earnest, and yet so satirical upon each other in jest, as my good lady and Mr. B. But your lordship knows their way." My lady frowned at her brother, but turned it off with an air: "I love the mistress of this house," said she, "very well; and am quite reconciled to her: but methinks there is such a hissing sound in the word _Sister_, that I cannot abide it. 'Tis a true English word, but a word I have not been used to, having never had a sis-s-s-ter before, as you know,"--Speaking the first syllable of the word with an emphatical hiss. Mr. B. said, "Observe you not, Lady Davers, that you used a word (to avoid that) which had twice the hissing in it that _sister_ has? And that was mis-s-s-tress, with two other hissing words to accompany it, of this-s-s hous-s-e: but to what childish follies does not pride make one stoop!--Excuse, Madam" (to the countess), "such poor low conversation as we are dwindled into." "O Sir," said her ladyship, "the conversation is very agreeable;--and I think, Lady Davers, you're fairly caught." "Well," said my lady, "then help me, good _sister_--there's for you!--to a little sugar. Will that please you, Sir?" "I am always pleased," replied her brother, smiling, "when Lady Davers acts up to her own character, and the good sense she is mistress of." "Ay, ay, my good brother, like other wise men, takes it for granted that it is a mark of good sense to approve of whatever _he_ does.--And so, for this one time, I am a very sensible body with him--And I'll leave off, while I have his good word. Only one thing I must say to you, my dear," turning to me, "that though I call you Pamela, as I please, be assured, I love you as well as if I called you _sister_, as Lord Davers does, at every word." "Your ladyship gives me great pleasure," said I, "in this kind assurance; and I don't doubt but I shall have the honour of being called by that tender name, if I can be so happy as to deserve it; and I'll lose no opportunity that shall be afforded me, to show how sincerely I will endeavour to do so." She was pleased to rise from her seat: "Give me a kiss, my dear girl; you deserve every thing: and permit me to say Pamela sometimes, as the word occurs: for I am not used to speak in print; and I will call you _sister_ when I think of it, and love you as well as ever sister loved another." "These proud and passionate folks," said Mr. B., "how good they can be, when they reflect a little on what becomes their characters!" "So, then," rejoined my lady, "I am to have no merit of my own, I see, do what I will. This is not quite so generous in my brother, as one might expect." "Why, you saucy sister--excuse me. Lord Davers--what merit _would_ you assume? Can people merit by doing their duty? And is it so great a praise, that you think fit to own for a sister so deserving a girl as this, whom I take pride in calling my wife?" "Thou art what thou always wert," returned my lady; "and were I in this my imputed pride to want an excuse, I know not the creature living, that ought so soon to make one for me, as you." "I _do_ excuse you," said he, "for _that_ very reason, if you please: but it little becomes either your pride, or mine, to do any thing that wants excuse." "Mighty moral! mighty grave, truly!--Pamela, friend, sister,--there's for you!--thou art a happy girl to have made such a reformation in thy honest man's way of _thinking_ as well as _acting_. But now we are upon this topic, and only friends about us, I am resolved to be even with thee, brother--Jackey, if you are not for another dish, I wish you'd withdraw. Polly Barlow, we don't want you. Beck, you may stay." Mr. H. obeyed; and Polly went out; for you must know, Miss, that my Lady Davers will have none of the men-fellows, as she calls them, to attend upon us at tea. And I cannot say but I think her entirely in the right, for several reasons that might be given. When they were withdrawn, my lady repeated, "Now we are upon this topic of reclaiming and reformation, tell me, thou bold wretch; for you know I have seen all your rogueries in Pamela's papers; tell me, if ever rake but thyself made such an attempt as thou didst, on this dear good girl, in presence of a virtuous woman, as Mrs. Jervis was always noted to be? As to the other vile creature, Jewkes, 'tis less wonder, although in _that_ thou hadst the impudence of _him_ who set thee to work: but to make thy attempt before Mrs. Jervis, and in spite of _her_ struggles and reproaches, was the very stretch of shameless wickedness." Mr. B. seemed a little disconcerted, and said, "Surely, Lady Davers, this is going too far! Look at Pamela's blushing face, and downcast eye, and wonder at yourself for this question, as much as you do at me for the action you speak of." The countess said to me, "My dear Mrs. B., I wonder not at this sweet confusion on so affecting a question!--but, indeed, since it is come in so naturally, I must say, Mr. B., that we have all, and my daughters too, wondered at this, more than at any part of your attempts; because, Sir, we thought you one of the most civilized men in England, and that you could not but wish to have saved appearances at least." "Though this is to you, my Pamela, the renewal of griefs; yet hold up your dear face. You may--The triumph was yours--the shame and the blushes ought to be mine--And I will humour my saucy sister in all she would have me say." "Nay," said Lady Davers, "you know the question; I cannot put it stronger." "That's very true," replied he: "But would you expect I should give you a _reason_ for an attempt that appears to you so very shocking?" "Nay, Sir," said the countess, "don't say _appears_ to Lady Davers; for (excuse me) it will appear so to every one who hears of it." "I think my brother is too hardly used," said Lord Davers; "he has made all the amends he could make:--and _you_, my sister, who were the person offended, forgive him now, I hope; don't you?" I could not answer; for I was quite confounded; and made a motion to withdraw: but Mr. B. said, "Don't go, my dear: though I ought to be ashamed of an action set before me in so full a glare, in presence of Lord Davers and the countess; yet I will not have you stir because I forget how you represented it, and you must tell me." "Indeed, Sir, I cannot," said I; "pray, my dear ladies--pray, my good lord--and, dear Sir, don't thus _renew my griefs_, as you were pleased justly to phrase it." "I have the representation of that scene in my pocket," said my lady; "for I was resolved, as I told Lady Betty, to shame the wicked wretch with it the first opportunity; and I'll read it to you; or rather, you shall read it yourself, Bold-face, if you can." So she pulled those leaves out of her pocket, wrapped up carefully in a paper. "Here,--I believe he who could act thus, must read it; and, to spare Pamela's confusion, read it to yourself; for we all know how it was." "I think," said he, taking the papers, "I can say something to abate the heinousness of this heavy charge, or else I should not stand thus at the insolent bar of my sister, answering her interrogatories." I send you, my dear Miss Darnford, a transcript of the charge. To be sure, you'll say, he was a very wicked man. Mr. B. read it to himself, and said, "This is a dark affair, as here stated; and I can't say, but Pamela, and Mrs. Jervis too, had great reason to apprehend the worst: but surely readers of it, who were less parties in the supposed attempt, and not determined at all events to condemn me, might have made a more favourable construction for me, than you, Lady Davers, have done in the strong light in which you have set this heinous matter before us. "However, since my lady," bowing to the countess, "and Lord Davers seem to expect me particularly to answer this black charge, I will, at a proper time, if agreeable, give you a brief history of my passion for this dear girl; how it commenced and increased, and my own struggles with it, and this will introduce, with some little advantage to myself perhaps, what I have to say, as to this supposed attempt: and at the same time enable you the better to account for some facts which you have read in my pretty accuser's papers." This pleased every one, and they begged him to begin _then_; but he said, it was time we should think of dressing, the morning being far advanced; and if no company came in, he would, in the afternoon, give them the particulars they desired to hear. The three gentlemen rode out, and returned to dress before dinner: my lady and the countess also took an airing in the chariot. Just as they returned, compliments came from several of the neighbouring ladies to our noble guests, on their arrival in these parts; and to as many as sent, Lady Davers desired their companies for to-morrow afternoon, to tea; but Mr. B. having fallen in with some of the gentlemen likewise, he told me, we should have most of our visiting neighbours at dinner, and desired Mrs. Jervis might prepare accordingly for them. After dinner Mr. H. took a ride out, attended by Mr. Colbrand, of whom he is very fond, ever since he frightened Lady Davers's footmen at the Hall, threatening to chine them, if they offered to stop his lady: for, he says, he loves a man of courage: very probably knowing his own defects that way, for my lady often calls him a chicken-hearted fellow. And then Lord and Lady Davers, and the countess, revived the subject of the morning; and Mr. B. was pleased to begin in the manner I shall mention by-and-bye. For here I am obliged to break off. Now, my dear Miss Darnford, I will proceed. "I began," said Mr. B., "very early to take notice of this lovely girl, even when she was hardly thirteen years old; for her charms increased every day, not only in my eye, but in the eyes of all who beheld her. My mother, as _you_ (Lady Davers) know, took the greatest delight in her, always calling her, her Pamela, her good child: and her waiting-maid and her cabinet of rarities were her boasts, and equally shewn to every visitor: for besides the beauty of her figure, and the genteel air of her person, the dear girl had a surprising memory, a solidity of judgment above her years, and a docility so unequalled, that she took all parts of learning which her lady, as fond of instructing her as she of improving by instruction, crowded upon her; insomuch that she had masters to teach her to dance, sing, and play on the spinnet, whom she every day surprised by the readiness wherewith she took every thing. "I remember once, my mother praising her girl before me, and my aunt B. (who is since dead), I could not but notice her fondness for her, and said, 'What do you design, Madam, to do _with_ or _for_, this Pamela of yours? The accomplishments you give her will do her more hurt than good; for they will set her so much above her degree, that what you intend as a kindness, may prove her ruin.' "My aunt joined with me, and spoke in a still stronger manner against giving her such an education: and added, as I well remember, 'Surely, sister, you do wrong. One would think, if one knew not my nephew's discreet pride, that you design her for something more than your own waiting-maid.' "'Ah! sister,' said the old lady, 'there is no fear of what you hint at; his family pride, and stately temper, will secure my son: he has too much of his father in him. And as for Pamela, you know not the girl. She has always in her thoughts, and in her mouth, too, her parents' mean condition, and I shall do nothing for _them_, at least at present, though they are honest folks, and deserve well, because I will keep the girl humble.' "'But what can I do with the little baggage?' continued my mother; 'she conquers every thing so fast, and has such a thirst after knowledge, and the more she knows, I verily think, the humbler she is, that I cannot help letting go, as my son, when a little boy, used to do to his kite, as fast as she pulls; and to what height she'll soar, I can't tell. "'I intended,' proceeded the good lady, 'at first, only to make her mistress of some fine needle-work, to qualify her (as she has a delicacy in her person, that makes it a pity ever to put her to hard work) for a genteel place; but she masters that so fast, that now as my daughter is married and gone from me, I am desirous to qualify her to divert and entertain me in my thoughtful hours: and were _you_, sister, to know what she is capable of, and how diverting her innocent prattle is to me, and her natural simplicity, which I encourage her to preserve amidst all she learns, you would not, nor my son neither, wonder at the pleasure I take in her. Shall I call her in?' "'I don't want,' said I, 'to have the girl called in: if you, Madam, are diverted with her, that's enough. To be sure, Pamela is a better companion for a lady, than a monkey or a harlequin: but I fear you'll set her above herself, and make her vain and pert; and that, at last, in order to support her pride, she may fall into temptations which may be fatal to herself, and others too.' "'I'm glad to hear this from my _son_,' replied the good lady. 'But the moment I see my favour puffs her up, I shall take other measures.' "'Well,' thought I to myself, 'I only want to conceal my views from your penetrating eye, my good mother; and I shall one day take as much delight in your girl, and her accomplishments, as you now do; so go on, and improve her as fast as you will. I'll only now and then talk against her, to blind you; and doubt not that all you do will qualify her the better for my purpose. Only,' thought I, 'fly swiftly on, two or three more tardy years, and I'll nip this bud by the time it begins to open, and place it in my bosom for a year or two at least: for so long, if the girl behaves worthy of her education, I doubt not, she'll be new to me.--Excuse me, ladies;--excuse me, Lord Davers;--if I am not ingenuous, I had better be silent." I will not interrupt this affecting narration, by mentioning my own alternate blushes, confusions, and exclamations, as the naughty man went on; nor the censures, and many _Out upon you's_ of the attentive ladies, and _Fie, brother's_, of Lord Davers; nor yet with apologies for the praises on myself, so frequently intermingled--contenting myself to give you, as near as I can recollect, the very sentences of the dear relator. And as to our occasional exclaimings and observations, you may suppose what they were. "So," continued Mr. B., "I went on dropping hints against her now and then; and whenever I met her in the passages about the house, or in the garden, avoiding to look at, or to speak to her, as she passed me, curtseying, and putting on a thousand bewitching airs of obligingness and reverence; while I (who thought the best way to demolish the influence of such an education, would be not to alarm her fears on one hand, or to familiarize myself to her on the other, till I came to strike the blow) looked haughty and reserved, and passed by her with a stiff nod at most. Or, if I spoke, 'How does your lady this morning, girl?--I hope she rested well last night:' then, covered with blushes, and curtseying at every word, as if she thought herself unworthy of answering my questions, she'd trip away in a kind of confusion, as soon as she had spoken. And once I heard her say to Mrs. Jervis, 'Dear Sirs, my young master spoke to me, and called me by my name, saying--How slept your lady last night, Pamela?--Was not that very good, Mrs. Jervis?'--'Ay,' thought I, 'I am in the right way, I find: this will do in proper time. Go on, my dear mother, improving as fast as you will: I'll engage to pull down in three hours, what you'll be building up in as many years, in spite of all the lessons you can teach her.' "'Tis enough for me, that I am establishing in you, ladies, and in you, my lord, a higher esteem for my Pamela (I am but too sensible I shall lose a good deal of my own reputation) in the relation I am now giving you. "I dressed, grew more confident, and as insolent withal, as if, though I had not Lady Davers's wit and virtue, I had all her spirit--(excuse me, Lady Davers;) and having a pretty bold heart, which rather put me upon courting than avoiding a danger or difficulty, I had but too much my way with every body; and many a menaced complaint have I _looked down_, with a haughty air, and a promptitude, like that of Colbrand's to your footmen at the Hall, to clap my hand to my side; which was of the greater service to my bold enterprise, as two or three gentlemen had found I knew how to be in earnest." "Ha!" said my lady, "thou wast ever an impudent fellow: and many a vile roguery have I kept from my poor mother.--Yet, to my knowledge, she thought you no saint." "Ay, poor lady," continued he, "she used now-and-then to catechize me; and was _sure_ I was not so good as I ought to be:--'For, son,' she would cry, 'these late hours, these all night works, and to come home so _sober_ cannot be right.-I'm not sure, if I were to know all, (and yet I'm afraid of inquiring after your ways) whether I should not have reason to wish you were brought home in wine, rather than to come in so sober, and so late, as you do.' "Once, I remember, in the summer-time, I came home about six in the morning, and met the good lady unexpectedly by the garden back-door, of which I had a key to let myself in at all hours. I started, and would have avoided her: but she called me to her, and then I approached her with an air, 'What brings you, Madam, into the garden at so early an hour?' turning my face from her; for I had a few scratches on my forehead--with a thorn, or so--which I feared she would be more inquisitive about than I cared she should. "'And what makes you,' said she, 'so early here, Billy?--What a rakish figure dost thou make!--One time or other these courses will yield you but little comfort, on reflection: would to God thou wast but happily married!' "'So, Madam, the old wish!--I'm not so bad as you think me:--I hope I have not merited so great a punishment.' "These hints I give, not as matter of glory, but shame: yet I ought to tell you all the truth, or nothing. 'Meantime,' thought I, (for I used to have some compunction for my vile practices, when cool reflection, brought on by satiety, had taken hold of me) 'I wish this sweet girl was grown to years of susceptibility, that I might reform this wicked course of life, and not prowl about, disturbing honest folks' peace, and endangering myself.' And as I had, by a certain very daring and wicked attempt, in which, however, I did not succeed, set a hornet's nest about my ears, which I began to apprehend would sting me to death, having once escaped an ambush by dint of mere good luck; I thought it better to remove the seat of my warfare into another kingdom, and to be a little more discreet for the future in my amours. So I went to France a second time, and passed a year there in the best of company, and with some improvement both to my morals and understanding; and had a very few sallies, considering my love of intrigue, and the ample means I had to prosecute successfully all the desires of my heart. "When I returned, several matches were proposed to me, and my good mother often requested me to make her so happy, as she called it, as to see me married before she died; but I could not endure the thoughts of the state: for I never saw a lady whose temper and education I liked, or with whom I thought I could live tolerably. She used in vain therefore to plead family reasons to me:--like most young fellows, I was too much a self-lover, to pay so great a regard to posterity; and, to say truth, had little solicitude at that time, whether my name were continued or not, in my own descendants. However, I looked upon my mother's Pamela with no small pleasure, and I found her so much improved, as well in person as behaviour, that I had the less inducement either to renew my intriguing life, or to think of a married state. "Yet, as my mother had all her eyes about her, as the phrase is, I affected great shyness, both before her, and to the girl; for I doubted not, my very looks would be watched by them both; and what the one discovered would not be a secret to the other; and laying myself open too early to a suspicion, I thought, would but ice the girl over, and make her lady more watchful. "So I used to go into my mother's apartment, and come out of it, without taking the least notice of her, but put on stiff airs; and as she always withdrew when I came in, I never made any pretence to keep her there. "Once, indeed, my mother, on my looking after her, when her back was turned, said, 'My dear son, I don't like your eye following my girl so intently.--Only I know that sparkling lustre natural to it, or I should have some fear for my Pamela, as she grows older.' "'_I_ look after her. Madam!-_My_ eyes sparkle at such a girl as that! No indeed! She may be your favourite as a waiting-maid; but I see nothing but clumsy curtseys and awkward airs about her. A little rustic affectation of innocence, that to such as cannot see into her, may pass well enough.' "'Nay, my dear,' replied my mother, 'don't say that, of all things. She has no affectation, I am sure.' "'Yes, she has, in my eye, Madam, and I'll tell you how it is; you have taught her to assume the airs of a gentlewoman, to dance, and to enter a room with a grace; and yet bid her keep her low birth and family in view: and between the one character, which she wants to get into, and the other she dares not get out of, she trips up and down mincingly, and knows not how to set her feet: so 'tis the same in every gesture: her arms she knows not whether to swim with, or to hold before her, nor whether to hold her head up or down; and so does neither, but hangs it on one side: a little awkward piece of one-and-t'other I think her. And, indeed, you'd do the girl more kindness to put her into your dairy, than to keep her about your person; for she'll be utterly spoiled, I doubt, for any useful purpose.' "'Ah, son!' said she, 'I fear, by your description, you have minded her too much in one sense, though not enough in another. 'Tis not my intention to recommend her to your notice, of all men; and I doubt not, if it please God I live, and she continues a good girl, but she will make a man of some middling, genteel business, very happy.' "Pamela came in just then, with an air so natural, so humble, and yet so much above herself, that I was forced to turn my head from her, lest my mother should watch my eye again, and I be inclined to do her that justice, which my heart assented to, but which my lips had just before denied her. "All my difficulty, in apprehension, was my good mother; the effect of whose lessons to her girl, I was not so much afraid of as her vigilance. 'For,' thought I, 'I see by the delicacy of her person, the brilliancy of her eye, and the sweet apprehensiveness that plays about every feature of her face, she must have tinder enough in her constitution, to catch a well-struck spark; and I'll warrant I shall know how to set her in a blaze, in a few months more.' "Yet I wanted, as I passed, to catch her attention too: I expected her to turn after me, and look so as to shew a liking towards me; for I had a great opinion of my person and air, which had been fortunately distinguished by the ladies, whom, of course, my vanity made me allow to be very good judges of these outward advantages. "But to my great disappointment, Pamela never, by any favourable glance, gave the least encouragement to my vanity. 'Well,' thought I, 'this girl has certainly nothing ethereal in her mould: all unanimated clay!--But the dancing and singing airs my mother is teaching her, will better qualify her in time, and another year will ripen her into my arms, no doubt of it. Let me only go on thus, and make her _fear_ me: that will enhance in her mind every favour I shall afterwards vouchsafe to shew her: and never question old _humdrum_ Virtue,' thought I, 'but the tempter _without_, and the tempter _within_, will be too many for the perversest nicety that ever the sex boasted.' "Yet, though I could not once attract her eye towards me, she never failed to draw mine after her, whenever she went by me, or wherever I saw her, except, as I said, in my mother's presence; and particularly when she had passed me, and could not see me look at her, without turning her head, as I expected so often from her in vain. "You will wonder, Lord Davers, who, I suppose, was once in love, or you'd never have married such an hostile spirit as my sister's there-" "Go on, sauce--box," said she, "I won't interrupt you." "You will wonder how I could behave so coolly as to escape all discovery so long from a lady so watchful as my mother, and from the apprehensiveness of the girl. "But, to say nothing of her tender years, and that my love was not of this bashful sort, I was not absolutely determined, so great was my pride, that I ought to think her worthy of being my _mistress_, when I had not much reason, as I thought, to despair of prevailing upon persons of higher birth (were I disposed to try) to live with me upon my own terms. My pride, therefore, kept my passion at bay, as I may say: so far was I from imagining I should ever be brought to what has since happened! But to proceed: "Hitherto my mind was taken up with the beauties of her person only. My EYE had drawn my HEART after it, without giving myself any trouble about that sense and judgment which my mother was always praising in her Pamela, as exceeding her years and opportunities: but an occasion happened, which, though slight in itself, took the HEAD into the party, and I thought of her, young as she was, with a distinction, that before I had not for her. It was this: "Being with my mother in her closet, who was talking to me on the old subject, _matrimony_, I saw Pamela's commonplace book, as I may call it; in which, by her lady's direction, from time to time, she had transcribed from the Bible, and other good books, such passages as most impressed her as she read--A method, I take it, my dear" (_turning to me_), "of great service to you, as it initiated you into writing with that freedom and ease, which shine in your saucy letters and journals; and to which my present fetters are not a little owing: just as pedlars catch monkeys in the baboon kingdoms, provoking the attentive fools, by their own example, to put on shoes and stockings, till the apes of imitation, trying to do the like, entangle their feet, and so cannot escape upon the boughs of the tree of liberty, on which before they were wont to hop and skip about, and play a thousand puggish tricks. "I observed the girl wrote a pretty hand, and very swift and free; and affixed her points or stops with so much judgment (her years considered), that I began to have an high opinion of her understanding. Some observations likewise upon several of the passages were so just and solid, that I could not help being tacitly surprised at them. "My mother watched my eye, and was silent: I seemed not to observe that she did; and after a while, laid down the book, shutting it with great indifference, and talking of another subject. "Upon this, my mother said, 'Don't you think Pamela writes a pretty hand, son?' "'I did not mind it much,' said I, with a careless air. 'This is her writing, is it?' taking the book, and opening it again, at a place of Scripture. 'The girl is mighty pious!' said I. "'I wish _you_ were so, child.' "'I wish so too, Madam, if it would please _you_.' "'I wish so, for your _own_ sake, child.' "'So do I, Madam;' and down I laid the book again very carelessly. "'Look once more in it,' said she, 'and see if you can't open it upon some place that may strike you.' "I opened it at--'_Train up a child in the way it should go_,' &c. 'I fancy,' said I, 'when I was of Pamela's age, I was pretty near as good as she.' "'Never, never,' said my mother; 'I am sure I took great pains with you; but, alas I to very little purpose. You had always a violent headstrong will.' "'Some allowances for boys and girls, I hope, Madam; but you see I am as good for a man as my sister for a woman.' "'No indeed, you are not, I do assure you.' "'I am sorry for that. Madam; you give me a sad opinion of myself.'" "Brazen wretch!" said my lady; "but go on." "'Turn to one of the girl's observations on some text,' said my mother. "I did; and was pleased with it more than I would own. 'The girl's well enough,' said I, 'for what she is; but let's see what she'll be a few years hence. Then will be the trial.' "'She'll be always good, I doubt not.' "'So much the better for her. But can't we talk of any other subject? You complain how seldom I attend you; and when you are always talking of matrimony, or of this low-born, raw girl, it must needs lessen the pleasure of approaching you.' "But now, as I hinted to you, ladies, and my lord, I had a still higher opinion of Pamela; and esteemed her more worthy of my attempts. 'For,' thought I, 'the girl has good sense, and it will be some pleasure to watch by what gradations she may be made to rise into love, and into a higher life, than that to which she was born.' And so I began to think she would be worthy in time of being my _mistress,_ which, till now, as I said before, I had been a little scrupulous about. "I took a little tour soon after this in company of some friends, with whom I had contracted an intimacy abroad, into Scotland and Ireland, they having a curiosity to see those countries, and we spent six or eight months on this expedition; and when I had landed them in France, I returned home, and found my good mother in a very indifferent state of health, but her Pamela arrived to a height of beauty and perfection which exceeded all my expectations. I was so taken with her charms when I first saw her, which was in the garden, with a book in her hand, just come out of a little summer-house, that I then thought of obliging her to go back again, in order to begin a parley with her: but while I was resolving, she tript away with her curtesies and reverences, and was out of my sight before I could determine. "I was resolved, however, not to be long without her; and Mrs. Jewkes having been recommended to me a little before, by a brother-rake, as a woman of tried fidelity, I asked her if she would be faithful, if I had occasion to commit a pretty girl to her care? "She hoped, she said, it would be with the lady's own consent, and she should make no scruple in obeying me. "So I thought I would way-lay the girl, and carry her first to a little village in Northamptonshire, to an acquaintance of Mrs. Jewkes's. And when I had brought her to be easy and pacified a little, I designed that Jewkes should attend her to Lincolnshire: for I knew there was no coming at her here, under my mother's wing, by her own consent, and that to offer terms to her, would be to blow up my project all at once. Besides, I was sensible, that Mrs. Jervis would stand in the way of my proceedings as well as my mother. "The method I had contrived was quite easy, as I imagined, and such as could not have failed to answer my purpose, as to carrying her off; and I doubted not of making her well satisfied in her good fortune very quickly; for, having a notion of her affectionate duty to her parents, I was not displeased that I could make the terms very easy and happy to them all. "What most stood in my way, was my mother's fondness for her: but supposing I had got her favourite in my hands, which appeared to me, as I said, a task very easy to be conquered, I had actually formed a letter for her to transcribe, acknowledging a love-affair, and laying her withdrawing herself so privately, to an implicit obedience to her husband's commands, to whom she was married that morning, and who, being a young gentleman of genteel family, and dependent on his friends, was desirous of keeping it all a profound secret; and begging, on that account, her lady not to divulge it, so much as to Mrs. Jervis. "And to prepare for this, and make her escape the more probable, when matters were ripe for my plot, I came in one night, and examined all the servants, and Mrs. Jervis, the latter in my mother's hearing, about a genteel young man, whom I pretended to find with a pillion on the horse he rode upon, waiting about the back door of the garden, for somebody to come to him; and who rode off, when I came up to the door, as fast as he could. Nobody knew any thing of the matter, and they were much surprised at what I told them: but I begged Pamela might be watched, and that no one would say any thing to her about it. "My mother said, she had two reasons not to speak of it to Pamela: one to oblige me: the other and chief, because it would break the poor innocent girl's heart, to be suspected. 'Poor dear child!' said she, 'whither can she go, to be so happy as with me? Would it not be inevitable ruin to her to leave me? There is nobody comes after her: she receives no letters, but now-and-then one from her father and mother, and those she shews me.' "'Well,' replied I, 'I hope she can have no design; 'twould be strange if she had formed any to leave so good a mistress; but you can't be _sure_ all the letters she receives are from her father; and her shewing to you those he writes, looks like a cloak to others she may receive from another hand. But it can be no harm to have an eye upon her. You don't know, Madam, what tricks there are in the world.' "'Not I, indeed; but only this I know, that the girl shall be under no restraint, if she is resolved to leave me, well as I love her.' "Mrs. Jervis said, she would have an eye upon Pamela, in obedience to my command, but she was sure there was no need; nor would she so much wound the poor child's peace, as to mention the matter to her. "This I suffered to blow off, and seemed to my mother to have so good an opinion of her Pamela, that I was sorry, as I told her, I had such a surmise: saying, that though the fellow and the pillion were odd circumstances, yet I dared to say, there was nothing in it: for I doubted not, the girl's duty and gratitude would hinder her from doing a foolish or rash thing. "This my mother heard with pleasure: although my motive was but to lay Pamela on the thicker to her, when she was to be told she had escaped. "She was _glad_ I was not an enemy to the poor child. 'Pamela has no friend but me,' continued she; 'and if I don't provide for her, I shall have done her more harm than good (as you and your aunt B. have often said,) in the accomplishments I have given her: and yet the poor girl, I see that,' added she, 'would not be backward to turn her hand to any thing for the sake of an honest livelihood, were she put to it; which, if it please God to spare me, and she continues good, she never shall be.' "I wonder not, Pamela, at your tears on this occasion. Your lady was an excellent woman, and deserved this tribute to her memory. All my pleasure now is, that she knew not half my wicked pranks, and that I did not vex her worthy heart in the prosecution of this scheme; which would have given me a severe sting, inasmuch as I might have apprehended, with too much reason, that I had shortened her days by the knowledge of the one and the other. "I had thus every thing ready for the execution of my project: but my mother's ill state of health gave me too much concern, to permit me to proceed. And, now-and-then, as my frequent attendance in her illness gave me an opportunity of observing more and more of the girl; her affectionate duty, and continual tears (finding her often on her knees, praying for her mistress,) I was moved to pity her; and while those scenes of my mother's illness and decline were before me, I would resolve to conquer, if possible, my guilty passion, as those scenes taught me, while their impressions held, justly to call it; and I was much concerned to find it so difficult a task; for, till now, I thought it principally owing to my usual enterprising temper, and a love of intrigue; and that I had nothing to do but to resolve against it, and to subdue it. "But I was greatly mistaken: for I had insensibly brought myself to admire her in every thing she said or did; and there was so much gracefulness, humility, and innocence in her whole behaviour, and I saw so many melting scenes between her lady and her, that I found I could not master my esteem for her. "My mother's illness increasing beyond hopes of recovery, and having settled all her greater affairs, she talked to me of her servants; I asked what she would have done for Pamela and Mrs. Jervis. "'Make Mrs. Jervis, my dear son, as happy as you can: she is a gentlewoman born, you know; let her always be treated as such; but for your own sake, don't make her independent; for then you'll want a faithful manager. Yet if you marry, and your lady should not value her as she deserves, allow her a competency for the rest of her life, and let her live as she pleases. "'As for Pamela, I hope you will be her protector!--She is a good girl: I love her next to you and your dear sister. She is just arriving at a trying time of life. I don't know what to say for her. What I had designed was, that if any man of a genteel calling should offer, I would give her a little pretty portion, had God spared my life till then. But were she made independent, some idle fellow might snap her up; for she is very pretty: or if she should carry what you give her to her poor parents, as her duty would lead her to do, they are so unhappily involved, that a little matter would be nothing to them, and the poor girl might be to seek again. Perhaps Lady Davers will take her. But I wish she was not so pretty! She may be the bird for which some wicked fowler will spread his snares; or, it may be, every lady will not choose to have such a waiting-maid. You are a young gentleman, and I am sorry to say, not better than I wish you to be--Though I hope my Pamela would not be in danger from her master, who owes all his servants protection, as much as the king does to his subjects. Yet I don't know how to wish her to stay with you, for your own reputation's sake, my dear son;--for the world will censure as it lists.--Would to God!' said she, 'the dear girl had the small-pox in a mortifying manner: she'd be lovely though in the genteelness of her person and the excellencies of her mind; and more out of danger of suffering from the transcient beauties of countenance. Yet I think,' added she, 'she might be safe and happy under Mrs. Jervis's care; and if you marry, and your lady parts with Mrs. Jervis, let 'em go together, and live as they like. I think that will be the best for both. And you have a generous spirit enough: I will not direct you in the _quantum_. But, my dear son, remember that I am the less concerned, that I have not done for the poor girl myself, because I depend upon you: the manner how fitly to provide for her, has made me defer it till now, that I have so much more important concerns on my hands; life and strength ebbing so fast, that I am hardly fit for any thing, or to wish for any thing, but to receive the last releasing stroke.'" Here he stopped, being under some concern himself, and we in much more. At last he resumed the subject. "You will too naturally think, my lord--and you, my good ladies--that the mind must be truly diabolical, that could break through the regard due to the solemn injunctions of a dying parent. They _did_ hold me a good while indeed; and as fast as I found any emotions of a contrary nature rise in my breast, I endeavoured for some time to suppress them, and to think and act as I ought; but the dear bewitching girl every day rose in her charms upon me: and finding she still continued the use of her pen and ink, I could not help entertaining a jealousy, that she was writing to somebody who stood well in her opinion; and my love for her, and my own spirit of intrigue, made it a sweetheart of course. And I could not help watching her emotions; and seeing her once putting a letter she had just folded up, into her bosom, at my entrance into my mother's dressing-room, I made no doubt of detecting her, and her correspondent; and so I took the letter from her stays, she trembling and curtseying with a sweet confusion: and highly pleased I was to find it contained only innocence and duty to the deceased mistress, and the loving parents, expressing her joy that, in the midst of her grief for losing the one, she was not obliged to return to be a burden to the other; and I gave it her again, with words of encouragement, and went down much better satisfied than I had been with her correspondence. "But when I reflected upon the innocent simplicity of her style, I was still more in love with her, and formed a stratagem, and succeeded in it, to come at her other letters, which I sent forward, after I had read them, all but three or four, which I kept back, when my plot began to ripen for execution; although the little slut was most abominably free with my character to her parents. "You will censure me, no doubt, that my mother's injunctions made not a more lasting impression. But really I struggled hard with myself to give them their due force: and the dear girl, as I said, every day grew lovelier, and more accomplished. Her letters were but so many links to the chains in which she had bound me; and though once I had resolved to part with her to Lady Davers, and you, Madam, had an intention to take her, I could not for my life give her up; and thinking more honourably then of the state of a mistress than I have done since, I could not persuade myself (since I intended to do as handsomely by her as ever man did to a lady in that situation) but that I should do better for her than my mother had wished me to do, and so _more_ than answer all her injunctions, as to the providing for her: and I could not imagine I should meet with a resistance I had seldom encountered from persons much her superiors as to descent; and was amazed at it; for it confounded me in all the notions I had of her sex, which, like a true libertine, I supposed wanted nothing but _importunity_ and _opportunity_, a bold attempter, and a mind not ungenerous. Sometimes I admired her for her virtue; at other times, impetuous in my temper, and unused to control, I could have beat her. She well, I remember, describes the tumults of my soul, repeating what once passed between us, in words like, these:--'Take the little witch from me, Mrs. Jervis.--I can neither bear, nor forbear her--But stay-you shan't go--Yet be gone!--No, come back again.'--She thought I was mad, she says in her papers. Indeed I was little less. She says, I took her arm, and griped it black and blue, to bring her back again; and then sat down and looked at her as silly as such a poor girl as she!--Well did she describe the passion I struggled with; and no one can conceive how much my pride made me despise myself at times for the little actions my love for her put me upon, and yet to find that love increasing every day, as her charms and her resistance increased.--I have caught myself in a raging fit, sometimes vowing I would have her, and, at others, jealous that, to secure herself from my attempts, she would throw herself into the arms of some menial or inferior, whom otherwise she would not have thought of. "Sometimes I soothed, sometimes threatened her; but never was such courage, when her virtue seemed in danger, mixed with so much humility, when her fears gave way to her hopes of a juster treatment.--Then I would think it impossible (so slight an opinion had I of woman's virtue) that such a girl as this, cottage-born, who owed every thing to my family, and had an absolute dependence upon my pleasure: myself not despicable in person or mind, as I supposed; she unprejudiced in any man's favour, at an age susceptible of impressions, and a frame and constitution not ice or snow: 'Surely,' thought I, 'all this frost must be owing to the want of fire in my attempts to thaw it: I used to dare more, and succeed better. Shall such a girl as this awe me by her rigid virtue? No, she shall not.' "Then I would resolve to be more in earnest. Yet my love was a traitor, that was more faithful to _her_ than to _me_; it had more honour in it at bottom than I had designed. Awed by her unaffected innocence, and a virtue I had never before encountered, so uniform and immovable, the moment I _saw_ her I was half disarmed; and I courted her consent to that, which, though I was not likely to obtain, yet it went against me to think of extorting by violence. Yet marriage was never in my thoughts: I scorned so much as to promise it. "To what numberless mean things did not this unmanly passion subject me!--I used to watch for her letters, though mere prittle-prattle and chit-chat, received them with delight, though myself was accused in them, and stigmatized as I deserved. "I would listen meanly at her chamber-door, try to overhear her little conversation; in vain attempted to suborn Mrs. Jervis to my purposes, inconsistently talking of honour, when no one step I took, or action I attempted, shewed any thing like it: lost my dignity among my servants; made a party in her favour against me, of every body, but whom my money corrupted, and that hardly sufficient to keep my partisans steady to my interest; so greatly did the virtue of the servants triumph over the vice of the master, when confirmed by such an example! "I have been very tedious, ladies and my Lord Davers, in my narration: but I am come within view of the point for which I now am upon my trial at your dread tribunal (_bowing to us all_). "After several endeavours of a smooth and rough nature, in which my devil constantly failed me, and her good angel prevailed, I had talked to Mrs. Jervis to seduce the girl (to whom, in hopes of frightening her, I had given warning, but which she rejected to take, to my great disappointment) to desire to stay; and suspecting Mrs. Jervis played me booty, and rather confirmed her in her coyness, and her desire of leaving me, I was mean enough to conceal myself in the closet in Mrs. Jervis's room, in order to hear their private conversation; but really not designing to make any other use of my concealment, than to tease her a little, if she should say any thing I did not like; which would give me a pretence to treat her with greater freedoms than I had ever yet done, and would be an introduction to take off from her unprecedented apprehensiveness another time. "But the dear prattler, not knowing I was there, as she undressed herself, begun such a bewitching chit-chat with Mrs. Jervis, who, I found, but ill kept my secret, that I never was at such a loss what to resolve upon. One while I wished myself, unknown to them, out of the closet, into which my inconsiderate passion had meanly led me; another time I was incensed at the freedom with which I heard myself treated: but then, rigidly considering that I had no business to hearken to their private conversation, and it was such as became _them_, while I ought to have been ashamed to give occasion for it, I excused them both, and admired still more and more the dear prattler. "In this suspense, the undesigned rustling of my night-gown, from changing my posture, alarming the watchful Pamela, she in a fright came towards the closet to see who was there. What could I then do, but bolt out upon the apprehensive charmer; and having so done, and she running to the bed, screaming to Mrs. Jervis, would not any man have followed her thither, detected as I was? But yet, I said, if she forbore her screaming, I would do her no harm; but if not, she should take the consequence. I found, by their exclamations, that this would pass with both for an attempt of the worst kind; but really I had no such intentions as they feared. When I found myself detected; when the dear frightened girl ran to the bed; when Mrs. Jervis threw herself about her; when they would not give over their hideous squallings; when I was charged by Mrs. Jervis with the worst designs; it was enough to make me go farther than I designed; and could I have prevailed upon Mrs. Jervis to go up, and quiet the maids, who seemed to be rising, upon the other screaming, I believe, had Pamela kept out of her fit, I should have been a little freer with her, than ever I had been; but, as it was, I had no thought but of making as honourable a retreat as I could, and to save myself from being exposed to my whole family: and I was not guilty of any freedoms, that her modesty, unaffrighted, could reproach herself with having suffered; and the dear creature's fainting fits gave _me_ almost as great apprehensions as I could give _her_. "Thus, ladies--and, my lord--have I tediously, and little enough to my own reputation, given you my character, and told you more against myself than any _one_ person could accuse me of. Whatever redounds to the credit of my Pamela, redounds in part to my own; and so I have the less regret to accuse myself, since it exalts her. But as to a formed intention to hide myself in the closet, in order to attempt the girl by violence, and in the presence of a good woman, as Mrs. Jervis is, which you impute to me, bad as I was, I was not so vile, so abandoned as that. "Love, as I said before, subjects its inconsiderate votaries to innumerable meannesses, and unlawful passion to many more. I could not live without this dear girl. I hated the thoughts of matrimony with any body: and to be brought to the state by my mother's waiting-maid.--'Forbid it, pride!' thought I; 'forbid it, example! forbid it, all my past sneers, and constant ridicule, both on the estate, and on those who descended to inequalities in it! and, lastly, forbid it my family spirit, so visible in Lady Davers, as well as in myself, to whose insults, and those of all the world, I shall be obnoxious, if I take such a step!' "All this tends to demonstrate the strength of my passion: I could not conquer my love; so I conquered a pride, which every one thought unconquerable; and since I could not make an innocent heart vicious, I had the happiness to follow so good an example; and by this means, a vicious heart is become virtuous. I have the pleasure of rejoicing in the change, and hope I shall do so still more and more; for I really view with contempt my past follies; and it is now a greater wonder to me how I could act as I did, than that I should detest those actions, which made me a curse, instead of a benefit to society. I am not yet so pious as my Pamela; but that is to come; and it is one good sign, that I can truly say, I delight in every instance of her piety and virtue: and now I will conclude my tedious narration." Thus he ended his affecting relation: which in the course of it gave me a thousand different emotions; and made me often pray for him, that God will entirely convert a heart so generous and worthy, as his is on most occasions. And if I can but find him not deviate, when we go to London, I shall greatly hope that nothing will affect his morals again. I have just read over again the foregoing account of himself. As near as I remember (and my memory is the best faculty I have), it is pretty exact; only he was fuller of beautiful similitudes, and spoke in a more flowery style, as I may say. Yet don't you think, Miss (if I have not done injustice to his spirit), that the beginning of it, especially, is in the saucy air of a man too much alive to such notions? For so the ladies observed in his narration.--Is it very like the style of a true penitent?--But indeed he went on better, and concluded best of all. But don't you observe what a dear good lady I had? A thousand blessings on her beloved memory! Were I to live to see my children's children, they should be all taught to lisp her praises before they could speak. _My_ gratitude should always be renewed in _their_ mouths; and God, and my dear father and mother, my lady, and my master that was, my best friend that is, but principally, as most due, the FIRST, who inspired all the rest, should have their morning, their noontide, and their evening praises, as long as I lived! I will only observe farther, as to this my third conversation-piece, that my Lord Davers offered to extenuate some parts of his dear brother-in-law's conduct, which he did not himself vindicate; and Mr. B. was pleased to say, that my lord was always very candid to him, and kind in his allowances for the sallies of ungovernable youth. Upon which my lady said, a little tartly, "Yes, and for a very good reason, I doubt not; for who cares to condemn himself?" "Nay," said my lord pleasantly, "don't put us upon a foot, neither: for what sallies I made before I knew your ladyship, were but like those of a fox, which now and then runs away with a straggling pullet, when nobody sees him, whereas those of my brother were like the invasions of a lion, breaking into every man's fold, and driving the shepherds, as well as the sheep, before him."--"Ay," said my lady, "but I can look round me, and have reason, perhaps, to think the invading lion has come off, little as he deserved it, better than the creeping fox, who, with all his cunning, sometimes suffers for his pilfering theft." O, my dear, these gentlemen are strange creatures!--What can they think of themselves? for they say, there is not one virtuous man in five; but I hope, for our sex's sake, as well as for the world's sake, all is not true that evil fame reports; for you know every man-trespasser must _find_ or _make_ a woman-trespasser!--And if so, what a world is this!--And how must the innocent suffer from the guilty! Yet, how much better is it to suffer one's self, than to be the cause of another's sufferings? I long to hear of you, and must shorten my future accounts, or I shall do nothing but write, and tire _you_ into the bargain, though I cannot my dear father and mother. I am, my dear Miss, _always yours_, P.B. LETTER XXXI _From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B._ DEAR MRS. B., Every post you more and more oblige us to admire and love you: and let me say, I will gladly receive your letters upon your own terms: only when your worthy parents have perused them, see that I have every line of them again. Your account of the arrival of your noble guests, and their behaviour to you, and yours to them; your conversation, and wise determination, on the offered title of Baronet; the just applauses conferred upon you by all, particularly the good countess; your breakfast conversation, and the narrative of your saucy abominable _master_, though amiable _husband_; all delight us beyond expression. Do go on, dear excellent lady, with your charming journals, and let us know all that passes. As to the state of matters with us, I have desired my papa to allow me to decline Mr. Murray's addresses. The good man loved me most violently, nay, he could not live without me: life was no life, unless I favoured him: but yet, after a few more of these flights, he is trying to sit down satisfied without my papa's foolish perverse girl, as Sir Simon calls me, and to transpose his affections to a worthier object, my sister Nancy; and it would make you smile to see how, a little while before he _directly_ applied to her, she screwed up her mouth to my mamma, and, truly, she'd have none of Polly's leavings; no, not she!--But no sooner did he declare himself in form, than the _gaudy wretch_, as he was before with her, became a _well-dressed_ gentleman;--the _chattering magpie_ (for he talks and laughs much), _quite conversable_, and has something _agreeable_ to say upon _every subject_. Once he would make a good master of the buck-hounds; but now, really, the _more_ one is in his company, the _more polite_ one finds him. Then, on his part,--he happened to see Miss Polly first; and truly, he could have thought himself very happy in so agreeable a young lady; yet there was always something of majesty (what a stately name for ill nature!) in Miss Nancy, something so awful; that while Miss Polly engaged the affections at first sight, Miss Nancy struck a man with reverence; insomuch, that the one might he loved as a woman, but the other revered as something more: a goddess, no doubt! I do but think, that when he comes to be lifted up to her celestial sphere, as her fellow constellation, what a figure Nancy and her _ursus major_ will make together; and how will they glitter and shine to the wonder of all beholders! Then she must make a brighter appearance by far, and a more pleasing one too: for why? She has three thousand _satellites_, or little stars, in her train more than poor Polly can pretend to. Won't there be a fine twinkling and sparkling, think you, when the greater and lesser bear-stars are joined together? But excuse me, dear Mrs. B.; this saucy girl has vexed me just now, by her ill-natured tricks; and I am even with her, having thus vented my spite, though she knows nothing of the matter. So, fancy you see Polly Darnford abandoned by her own fault; her papa angry at her; her mamma pitying her, and calling her silly girl; Mr. Murray, who is a rough lover, growling over his mistress, as a dog over a bone he fears to lose; Miss Nancy, putting on her prudish pleasantry, snarling out a kind word, and breaking through her sullen gloom, for a smile now and then in return; and I laughing at both in my sleeve, and thinking I shall soon get leave to attend you in town, which will be better than twenty humble servants of Mr. Murray's cast: or, if I can't, that I shall have the pleasure of your correspondence here, and enjoy, unrivalled, the favour of my dear parents, which this ill-tempered girl is always envying me. Forgive all this nonsense. I was willing to write something, though worse than nothing, to shew how desirous I am to oblige you, had I a capacity or subject, as you have. But nobody can love you better, or admire you more, of this you may be assured (however unequal in all other respects), than _your_ POLLY DARNFORD. I send you up some of your papers for the good couple in Kent. Pray, pay my respects to them: and beg they'll let me have 'em again as soon as they can, by your conveyance. Our Stamford friends desire their kindest respects; they mention you with delight in every letter. LETTER XXXII _The Journal continued._ THURSDAY, FRIDAY EVENING. My dear Miss Darnford, I am returned from a very busy day, having had no less than fourteen of our neighbours, gentlemen and ladies, to dinner: the occasion, principally, to welcome our noble guests into these parts; Mr. B. having, as I mentioned before, turned the intended visit into an entertainment, after his usual generous manner.--He and Lord Davers are gone part of the way with them home; and Lord Jackey, mounted with his favourite Colbrand, as an escort to the countess and Lady Davers, who are taking an airing in the chariot. They offered to take the coach, if I would have gone; but being fatigued, I desired to be excused. So I retired to my closet; and Miss Damford, who is seldom out of my thoughts, coming into my mind, I had a new recruit of spirits, which enabled me to resume my pen, and thus I proceed with my journal. Our company was, the Earl and Countess of D., who are so fashionable a married couple, that the earl made it his boast, and his countess bore it like one accustomed to such treatment, that he had not been in his lady's company an hour abroad before for seven years. You know his lordship's character: every body does; and there is not a worse, as report says, in the peerage. Sir Thomas Atkyns, a single gentleman, not a little finical and ceremonious, and a mighty beau, though of the tawdry sort, and affecting foreign airs; as if he was afraid it would not be judged by any other mark that he had travelled. Mr. Arthur and his lady, a moderately happy couple, who seem always, when together, to behave as if upon a compromise; that is, that each should take it in turn to say free things of the other; though some of their freedoms are of so cutting a nature, that it looks as if they intended to divert the company at their own expense. The lady, being of a noble family, strives to let every one know that she values herself not a little upon that advantage; but otherwise has many good qualities. Mr. Brooks and his lady. He is a free joker on serious subjects, but a good-natured man, and says sprightly things with no ill grace: the lady a little reserved, and haughty, though to-day was freer than usual; as was observed at table by Lady Towers, who is a maiden lady of family, noted for her wit and repartee, and who says many good things, with so little doubt and really so good a grace, that one cannot help being pleased with her. This lady is generally gallanted by Mr. Martin of the Grove, so called, to distinguish him from a rich citizen of that name, settled in these parts, but being covetous and proud, is seldom admitted among the gentry in their visits or parties of pleasure. Mr. Dormer, one of a very courteous demeanour, a widower, was another, who always speaks well of his deceased lady, and of all the sex for her sake. Mr. Chapman and his lady, a well-behaved couple, not ashamed to be very tender and observing to each other, but without that censurable fondness which sits so ill upon some married folks in company. Then there was the dean, our good minister, whom I name last, because I would close with one of the worthiest; and his daughter, who came to supply her mamma's place, who was indisposed; a well-behaved prudent young lady. And here were our fourteen guests. The Countess of C., Lord and Lady Davers, Mr. H., my dear Mr. B. and your humble servant, made up the rest of the company. Thus we had a capacious and brilliant circle; and all the avenues to the house were crowded with their equipages. The subjects of discourse at dinner were various, as you may well suppose; and the circle was too large to fall upon any regular or very remarkable topics. A good deal of sprightly wit, however, flew about, between the Earl of D., Lady Towers, and Mr. Martin, in which that lord suffered as he deserved; for he was no match for the lady, especially as the presence of the dean was a very visible restraint upon him, and Mr. Brooks too: so much awe will the character of a good clergyman always have upon even forward spirits, where he is known to have had an inviolable regard to it himself.--Besides, the good gentleman has, naturally, a genteel and inoffensive vein of raillery, and so was too hard for them at their own weapons. But after dinner, and the servants being withdrawn, Mr. Martin singled me out, as he loves to do, for a subject of encomium, and made some high compliments to my dear Mr. B. upon his choice; and wished (as he often does), he could find just such another for himself. Lady Towers told him it was a thing as unaccountable as it was unreasonable, that every rake who loved to destroy virtue, should expect to be rewarded with it: and if his _brother_ B. had come off so well, she thought no one else ought to expect it. Lady Davers said, it was a very just observation: and she thought it a pity there was not a law, that every man who made a harlot of an honest woman, should be obliged to marry one of another's making. Mr. B. said, that would be too severe; it would be punishment enough, if he was to marry his own; and especially if he had not seduced her under promise of marriage. "Then you'd have a man be obliged to stand to his promise, I suppose, Mr. B.?" replied Lady Davers. "Yes, madam."--"But," said she, "the proof would be difficult perhaps: and the most unguilty heart of our sex might be least able to make it out.--But what say you, my Lord D.; will you, and my Lord Davers, join to bring a bill into the House of Peers, for the purposes I mentioned? I fancy my brother would give it all the assistance he could in the Lower House." "Indeed," said Mr. B., "if I may be allowed to speak in the plural number, _we_ must not pretend to hold an argument on this subject.--What say you, Mr. H.? Which side are you of?"--"Every gentleman," replied he, "who is not of the ladies' side, is deemed a criminal; and I was always of the side that had the power of the gallows." "That shews," returned Lady Towers, "that Mr. H. is more afraid of the _punishment_, than of deserving it."--"'Tis well," said Mr. B.," that any consideration deters a man of Mr. H.'s time of life. What may be _fear_ now, may improve to _virtue_ in time." "Ay," said Lady Davers, "Jackey is one of his uncle's _foxes_: he'd be glad to snap up a straggling pullet, if he was not well looked after, perhaps."--"Pray, my dear," said Lord Davers, "forbear: you ought not to introduce two different conversations into different companies." "Well, but," said Lady Arthur, "since you seem to have been so hard put to it, as _single_ men, what's to be done with the married man who ruins an innocent body?--What punishment, Lady Towers, shall we find out for such an one; and what reparation to the injured?" This was said with a particular view to the earl, on a late scandalous occasion; as I afterwards found. "As to the punishment of the gentleman," replied Lady Towers, "where the law is not provided for it, it must be left, I believe, to his conscience. It will then one day be heavy enough. But as to the reparation to the woman, so far as it can be made, it will be determinable as the unhappy person _may_ or may _not_ know, that her seducer is a married man: if she knows he is, I think she neither deserves redress nor pity, though it elevate not _his_ guilt. But if the case be otherwise, and _she_ had no means of informing herself that he was married, and he promised to make her his wife, to be sure, though _she_ cannot be acquitted, _he_ deserves the severest punishment that can be inflicted.--What say you, Mrs. B.?" "If I must speak, I think that since custom now exacts so little regard to virtue from men, and so much from women, and since the designs of the former upon the latter are so flagrantly avowed and known, the poor creature, who suffers herself to be seduced, either by a _single_ or _married_ man, _with_ promises, or _without_, has only to sequester herself from the world, and devote the rest of her days to penitence and obscurity. As to the gentleman," added I, "he must, I doubt, be left to his conscience, as you say, Lady Towers, which he will one day have enough to do to pacify." "Every young lady has not your angelic perfection, Madam," said Mr. Dormer. "And there are cases in which the fair sex deserve compassion, ours execration. Love may insensibly steal upon a soft heart; when once admitted, the oaths, vows, and protestations of the favoured object, who declaims against the deceivers of his sex, confirm her good opinion of him, till having lull'd asleep her vigilance, in an unguarded hour he takes advantage of her unsuspecting innocence. Is not such a poor creature to be pitied? And what punishment does not such a seducer deserve?" "You have put, Sir," said I, "a moving case, and in a generous manner. What, indeed, does not such a deceiver deserve?"--"And the more," said Mrs. Chapman, "as the most innocent heart is generally the most credulous."--"Very true," said my countess; "for such an one as would do no harm to others, seldom suspects any _from_ others; and her lot is very unequally cast; admired for that very innocence which tempts some brutal ravager to ruin it."--"Yet, what is that virtue," said the dean, "which cannot stand the test?" "But," said Lady Towers, very satirically, "whither, ladies, are we got? We are upon the subject of virtue and honour. Let us talk of something in which the _gentlemen_ can join with us. This is such an one, you see, that none but the dean and Mr. Dormer can discourse upon."--"Let us then," retorted Mr. Martin, "to be even with _one_ lady at least find a subject that will be _new_ to her: and that is CHARITY." "Does what I said concern Mr. Martin more than any other gentleman," returned Lady Towers, "that he is disposed to take offence at it?" "You must pardon me, Lady Towers," said Mr. B., "but I think a lady should never make a motion to wave such subjects as those of virtue and honour; and less still, in company, where there is so much occasion, as she seems to think, for enforcing them." "I desire not to wave the subject, I'll assure you," replied she. "And if, Sir, you think it may do good, we will continue it for the sakes of all you gentlemen" (looking round her archly), "who are of opinion you may be benefited by it." A health to the king and royal family, brought on public affairs and politics; and the ladies withdrawing to coffee and tea, I have no more to say as to this conversation, having repeated all that I remember was said to any purpose. SATURDAY MORNING The countess being a little indisposed. Lady Davers and I took an airing this morning in the chariot, and had a long discourse together. Her ladyship was pleased to express great favour and tenderness towards me; gave me much good advice, as to the care she would have me take of myself; and told me, that her hopes, as well as her brother's, all centred in my welfare; and that the way I was in made her love me better and better. She was pleased to tell me, how much she approved of the domestic management; and to say, that she never saw such regularity and method in any family in her life, where was the like number of servants: every one, she said, knew their duty, and did it without speaking to, in such silence, and with so much apparent cheerfulness and delight, without the least hurry or confusion, that it was her surprise and admiration: but kindly would have it that I took too much care upon me. "Yet," said she, "I don't see but you are always fresh and lively, and never seem tired or fatigued; and are always dressed and easy, so that no company find you unprepared, or unfit to receive them, come when they will, whether it be to breakfast or dinner." I told her ladyship, I owed all this and most of the conduct for which she was pleased to praise me, to her dear brother, who, at the beginning of my happiness, gave me several cautions and instructions for my behaviour; which had been the rule of my conduct ever since, and I hoped ever would be:--"To say nothing," added I, "which yet would be very unjust, of the assistance I received from worthy Mrs. Jervis, who is an excellent manager." _Good Creature_, _Sweet Pamela_, and _Charming Girl_, were her common words; and she was pleased to attribute to me a graceful and unaffected ease, and that I have a natural dignity in my person and behaviour, which at once command love and reverence; so that, my dear Miss Darnford, I am in danger of being proud. For you must believe, that her ladyship's approbation gives me great pleasure; and the more, as I was afraid, before she came, I should not have come on near so well in her opinion. As the chariot passed along, she took great notice of the respects paid me by people of different ranks, and of the blessings bestowed upon me, by several, as we proceeded; and said, she should fare well, and be rich in good wishes, for being in my company. "The good people who know us, _will_ do so, Madam," said I; "but I had rather have their silent prayers than their audible ones; and I have caused some of them to be told so. What I apprehend is, that you will be more uneasy to-morrow, when at church you'll see a good many people in the same way. Indeed my story, and your dear brother's tenderness to me, are so much talked of, that many strangers are brought hither to see us: 'tis the only thing," continued I (and so it is, Miss), "that makes me desirous to go to London; for by the time we return, the novelty, I hope, will cease." Then I mentioned some verses of Mr. Cowley, which were laid under my cushion in our seat at church, two Sundays ago, by some unknown hand; and how uneasy they have made me. I will transcribe them, my dear, and give you the particulars of our conversation on that occasion. The verses are these: "Thou robb'st my days of bus'ness and delights, Of sleep thou robb'st my nights. Ah! lovely thief! what wilt thou do? What! rob me of heaven too? Thou ev'n my prayers dost steal from me, And I, with wild idolatry, Begin to GOD, and end them all to thee. No, to what purpose should I speak? No, wretched heart, swell till you break. She cannot love me, if she would, And, to say truth, 'twere pity that she should. No, to the grave thy sorrow bear, As silent as they will be there; Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound does give, So handsomely the thing contrive That she may guiltless of it live; So perish, that her killing thee May a chance-medley, and no murder, be." I had them in my pocket, and read them to my lady; who asked me, if her brother had seen them? I told her, it was he that found them under the cushion I used to sit upon; but did not shew them to me till I came home; and that I was so vexed at them, that I could not go to church in the afternoon. "What should you be vexed at, my dear?" said she: "how could you help it? My brother was not disturbed at them, was he?"--"No, indeed," replied I: "he chid _me_ for being so; and was pleased to make me a fine compliment upon it; that he did not wonder that every body who saw me loved me. But I said, this was all that wicked wit is good for, to inspire such boldness in bad hearts, which might otherwise not dare to set pen to paper to affront any one. But pray, Madam," added I, "don't own I have told you of them, lest the least shadow of a thought should arise, that I was prompted by some vile secret vanity, to tell your ladyship of them, when I am sure, they have vexed me more than enough. For is it not a sad thing, that the church should be profaned by such actions, and such thoughts, as ought not to be brought into it? Then, Madam, to have any wicked man _dare_ to think of one with impure notions! It gives me the less opinion of myself, that I should be so much as _thought of_ as the object of any wicked body's wishes. I have called myself to account upon it, whether any levity in my looks, my dress, my appearance, could embolden such an offensive insolence. And I have thought upon this occasion better of Julius Caesar's delicacy than I did, when I read of it; who, upon an attempt made on his wife, to which, however, it does not appear she gave the least encouragement, said to those who pleaded for her against the divorce he was resolved upon, _that the wife of Caesar ought not to be suspected_.--Indeed, Madam," continued I, "it would extremely shock me, but to know that any wicked heart had conceived a design upon me; upon _me_, give me leave to repeat, whose only glory and merit is, that I have had the grace to withstand the greatest of trials and temptations, from a gentleman more worthy to be beloved, both for person and mind, than any man in England." "Your observation, my dear, is truly delicate, and such as becomes your mind and character. And I really think, if any lady in the world is secure from vile attempts, it must be you; not only from your story, so well known, and the love you bear to your man, and his merit to you, but from the prudence, and natural _dignity_, I will say, of your behaviour, which, though easy and cheerful, is what would strike dead the hope of any presumptuous libertine the moment he sees you." "How can I enough," returned I, and kissed her hand, "acknowledge your ladyship's polite goodness in this compliment? But, my lady, you see by the very instance I have mentioned, that a liberty is taken, which I cannot think of without pain." "I am pleased with your delicacy, my dear, as I said before. You can never err, whilst thus watchful over your conduct: and I own you have the more reason for it, as you have married a mere Julius Caesar, an open-eyed rake" (that was her word), "who would, on the least surmise, though ever so causeless on your part, have all his passions up in arms, in fear of liberties being offered like those he has not scrupled to take."--"O but, Madam," said I, "he has given me great satisfaction in one point; for you must think I should not love him as I ought, if I had not a concern for his future happiness, as well as for his present; and that is, he has assured me, that in all the liberties he has taken, he never attempted a married lady, but always abhorred the thought of so great an evil."--"'Tis pity," said her ladyship, "that a man who could conquer his passions _so far_, could not subdue them entirely. This shews it was in his own power to do so; and increases his crime: and what a wretch is he, who scrupling, under pretence of conscience or honour, to attempt ladies _within_ the pale, boggles not to ruin a poor creature _without_; although he knows, he thereby, most probably, for ever deprived her of that protection, by preventing her marriage, which even among such rakes as himself, is deemed, he owns, inviolable; and so casts the poor creature headlong into the jaws of perdition." "Ah! Madam," replied I, "this was the very inference I made upon the occasion."--"And what could he say?"--"He said, my inference was just; but called me _pretty preacher_;--and once having cautioned me not to be over-serious to him, so as to cast a gloom, as he said, over our innocent enjoyments, I never dare to urge matters farther, when he calls me by that name." "Well," said my lady, "thou'rt an admirable girl! God's goodness was great to our family, when it gave thee to it. No wonder," continued she, "as my brother says, every body that sees you, and has heard your character, loves you. And this is some excuse for the inconsiderate folly even of this unknown transcriber."--"Ah! Madam," replied I, "but is it not a sad thing, that people, if they must take upon them to like one's behaviour in general, should have the _worst_, instead of the _best_ thoughts upon it? If I were as good as I _ought_ to be, and as some _think_ me, must they wish to make me bad for that reason?" Her ladyship was pleased to kiss me as we sat. "My charming Pamela, my _more than sister,_."--(Did she say?)--Yes, she did say so! and made my eyes overflow with joy to hear the sweet epithet. "How your conversation charms me!--I charge you, when you get to town, let me have your remarks on the diversions you will be carried to by my brother. Now I know what to expect from _you_, and you know how acceptable every thing from you will be _to me_, I promise great pleasure, as well to myself as to my worthy friends, particularly to Lady Betty, in your unrestrained free correspondence.--Indeed, Pamela, I must bring you acquainted with Lady Betty: she is one of the worthies of our sex, and has a fine understanding.--I'm sure you'll like her.--But (for the world say it not to my brother, nor let Lady Betty know I tell you so, if ever you should be acquainted) I had carried the matter so far by my officious zeal to have my brother married to so fine a lady, not doubting his joyful approbation, that it was no small disappointment to _her_, when he married you: and this is the best excuse I can make for my furious behaviour to you at the Hall. For though I am naturally very hasty and passionate, yet then I was almost mad.--Indeed my disappointment had given me so much indignation both against you and him, that it is well I did not do some violent thing by you. I believe you did feel the weight of my hand: but what was that? 'Twas well I did not _kill you dead_."--These were her ladyship's words--"For how could I think the wild libertine capable of being engaged by such noble motives, or thee what thou art!--So this will account to thee a little for my violence then." "Your ladyship," said I, "all these things considered, had but too much reason to be angry at your dear brother's proceedings, so well as you always loved him, so high a concern as you always had to promote his honour and interest, and so far as you had gone with Lady Betty." "I tell thee, Pamela, that the old story of Eleanor and Rosamond run in my head all the way of my journey, and I almost wished for a potion to force down thy throat: when I found thy lewd paramour absent, (for little did I think thou wast married to him, though I expected thou wouldst try to persuade me to believe it) fearing that his intrigue with thee would effectually frustrate my hopes as to Lady Betty and him: 'Now,' thought I, 'all happens as I wish!--Now will I confront this brazen girl!--Now will I try her innocence, as I please, by offering to take her away with me; if she refuses, take that refusal for a demonstration of her guilt; and then,' thought I, 'I will make the creature provoke me, in the presence of my nephew and my woman,' (and I hoped to have got that woman Jewkes to testify for me too), and I cannot tell what I might have done, if thou hadst not escaped out of the window, especially after telling me thou wast as much married as I was, and hadst shewn me his tender letter to thee, which had a quite different effect upon me than you expected. But if I had committed any act of violence, what remorse should I have had on reflection, and knowing what an excellence I had injured! Thank God thou didst escape me!" And then her ladyship folded her arms about me, and kissed me. This was a sad story, you'll say, my dear: and I wonder what her ladyship's passion would have made her do! Surely she would not have _killed me dead_! Surely she would not!--Let it not, however, Miss Darnford--nor you, my dear parents--when you see it--go out of your own hands, nor be read, for my Lady Davers's sake, to any body else--No, not to your own mamma. It made me tremble a little, even at this distance, to think what a sad thing passion is, when way is given to its ungovernable tumults, and how it deforms and debases the noblest minds. We returned from this agreeable airing just in time to dress before dinner, and then my lady and I went together into the countess's apartment, where I received abundance of compliments from both. As this brief conversation will give you some notion of that management and economy for which they heaped upon me their kind praises, I will recite to you what passed in it, and hope you will not think me too vain; and the less, because what I underwent formerly from my lady's indignation, half entitles me to be proud of her present kindness and favour. Lady Davers said, "Your ladyship must excuse us, that we have lost so much of your company; but here, this sweet girl has so entertained me, that I could have staid out with her all day; and several times did I bid the coachman prolong his circuit."--"My good Lady Davers, Madam," said I, "has given me inexpressible pleasure, and has been all condescension and favour, and made me as proud as proud can be."--"You, my dear Mrs. B.," said she, "may have given great pleasure to Lady Davers, for it cannot be otherwise--But I have no great notion of her ladyship's condescension, as you call it--(pardon me, Madam," said she to her, smiling) "when she cannot raise her style above the word _girl_, coming off from a tour you have made so delightful to her."--"I protest to you, my Lady C.," replied her ladyship, with great goodness, "that word, which once I used through pride, as you'll call it, I now use for a very different reason. I begin to doubt, whether to call her _sister_, is not more honour to myself than to her; and to this hour am not quite convinc'd. When I am, I will call her so with pleasure." I was quite overcome with this fine compliment, but could not answer a word: and the countess said, "I could have spared you longer, had not the time of day compelled your return; for I have been very agreeably entertained, as well as you, although but with the talk of your woman and mine. For here they have been giving me such an account of Mrs. B.'s economy, and family management, as has highly delighted me. I never knew the like; and in so young a lady too.--We shall have strange reformations to make in our families, Lady Davers, when we go home, were we to follow so good an example.--Why, my dear Mrs. B.," continued her ladyship, "you out-do all your neighbours. And indeed I am glad I live so far from you:--for were I to try to imitate you, it would still be _but_ imitation, and you'd have the honour of it."--"Yet you hear, and you see by yesterday's conversation," said Lady Davers, "how much her best neighbours, of both sexes, admire her: they all yield to her the palm, unenvying."--"Then, my good ladies," said I, "it is a sign I have most excellent neighbours, full of generosity, and willing to encourage a young person in doing right things: so it makes, considering what I was, more for their honour than my own. For what censures should not such a one as I deserve, who have not been educated to fill up my time like ladies of condition, were I not to employ myself as I do? I, who have so little other merit, and who brought no fortune at all."--"Come, come, Pamela, none of your self-denying ordinances," that was Lady Davers's word; "you must know something of your own excellence: if you do not, I'll tell it you, because there is no fear you will be proud or vain upon it. I don't see, then, that there is the lady in yours, or any neighbourhood, that behaves with more decorum, or better keeps up the part of a lady, than you do. How you manage it, I can't tell; but you do as much by a look, and a pleasant one too, that's the rarity! as I do by high words, and passionate exclamations: I have often nothing but blunder upon blunder, as if the wretches were in a confederacy to try my patience."--"Perhaps," said I, "the awe they have of your ladyship, because of your high qualities, makes them commit blunders; for I myself was always more afraid of appearing before your ladyship, when you have visited your honoured mother, than of any body else, and have been the more sensibly awkward through that very awful respect."--"Psha, psha, Pamela, that is not it: 'tis all in yourself. I used to think my mamma, and my brother too, had as awkward servants as ever I saw any where--except Mrs. Jervis--Well enough for a bachelor, indeed!--But, here!--thou hast not parted with one servant--Hast thou?"--"No, Madam."--"How!" said the countess; "what excellence is here!--All of them, pardon me, Mrs. B., your fellow-servants, as one may say, and all of them so respectful, so watchful of your eye; and you, at the same time, so gentle to them, so easy, so cheerful." Don't you think me, my dear, insufferably vain? But 'tis what they were pleased to say. 'Twas their goodness to me, and shewed how much they can excel in generous politeness. So I will proceed. "Why this," continued the countess, "must be _born_ dignity--_born_ discretion--Education cannot give it:--if it could, why should not _we_ have it?" The ladies said many more kind things of me then; and after dinner they mentioned all over again, with additions, before my best friend, who was kindly delighted with the encomiums given me by two ladies of such distinguishing judgment in all other cases. They told him, how much they admired my family management: then they would have it that my genius was universal, for the employments and accomplishments of my sex, whether they considered it as employed in penmanship, in needlework, in paying or receiving visits, in music, and I can't tell how many other qualifications, which they were pleased to attribute to me, over and above the family management: saying, that I had an understanding which comprehended every thing, and an eye that penetrated into the very bottom of matters in a moment, and never was at a loss for the _should be_, the _why_ or _wherefore_, and the _how_--these were their comprehensive words; that I did every thing with celerity, clearing all as I went, and left nothing, they observed, to come over again, that could be dispatched at once: by which means, they said, every hand was clear to undertake a new work, as well as my own head to direct it; and there was no hurry nor confusion: but every coming hour was fresh and ready, and unincumbered (so they said), for its new employment; and to this they attributed that ease and pleasure with which every thing was performed, and that I could _do_ and _cause_ to be done, so much business without hurry either to myself or servants. Judge how pleasing this was to my best beloved, who found, in their kind approbation, such a justification of his own conduct as could not fail of being pleasing to him, especially as Lady Davers was one of the kind praisers. Lord Davers was so highly delighted, that he rose once, begging his brother's excuse, to salute me, and stood over my chair, with a pleasure in his looks that cannot be expressed, now-and-then lifting up his hands, and his good-natured eye glistening with joy, which a pier-glass gave me the opportunity of seeing, as sometimes I stole a bashful glance towards it, not knowing how or which way to look. Even Mr. H. seemed to be touched very sensibly; and recollecting his behaviour to me at the Hall, he once cried out, "What a sad whelp was _I_, to behave as I formerly did, to so much excellence!--Not, Mr. B., that I was any thing uncivil neither;--but in unworthy sneers, and nonsense.--You know me well enough.--You called me, _tinsell'd boy_, though, Madam, don't you remember that? and said, _twenty or thirty years hence, when I was at age, you'd give me an answer._ Egad! I shall never forget your looks, nor your words neither!--they were severe speeches, were they not, Sir?"--"O you see, Mr. H.," replied my dear Mr. B., "Pamela is not quite perfect. We must not provoke her; for she'll call us both so, perhaps; for I wear a laced coat, sometimes, as well as you." "Nay, I can't be angry," said he. "I deserved it richly, that I did, had it been worse."--"Thy silly tongue," said my lady, "runs on without fear or wit. What's past is past."--"Why, Madam, I was plaguily wrong; and I said nothing of any body but _myself_:--and have been ready to hang myself since, as often as I have thought of my nonsense."--"My nephew," said my lord, "must bring in hanging, or the gallows in every speech he makes, or it will not be he." Mr. B., smiling, said, with severity enough in his meaning, as I saw by the turn of his countenance, "Mr. H. knows that his birth and family entitle him more to the _block_, than the rope, or he would not make so free with the latter."--"Good! very good, by Jupiter!" said Mr. H. laughing. The countess smiled. Lady Davers shook her head at her brother, and said to her nephew, "Thou'rt a good-natured foolish fellow, that thou art."--"For what, Madam? Why the word _foolish_, aunt? What have I said now?" "Nothing to any purpose, indeed," said she; "when thou dost, I'll write it down."--"Then, Madam," said he, "have your pen and ink always about you, when I am present; and put that down to begin with!" This made every one laugh. "What a happy thing is it," thought I, "that good nature generally accompanies this character; else, how would some people be supportable?" But here I'll break off. 'Tis time, you'll say. But you know to whom I write, as well as to yourself, and they'll be pleased with all my silly scribble. So excuse one part for that, and another for friendship's sake, and then I shall be wholly excusable to you. Now the trifler again resumes her pen. I am in some pain, Miss, for to-morrow, because of the rules we observe of late in our family on Sundays, and of going through a crowd to church; which will afford new scenes to our noble visitors, either for censure or otherwise: but I will sooner be censured for doing what I think my duty, than for the want of it; and so will omit nothing that we have been accustomed to do. I hope I shall not be thought ridiculous, or as one who aims at works of supererogation, for what I think is very short of my duty. Some order, surely, becomes the heads of families; and besides, it would be discrediting one's own practice, if one did not appear at one time what one does at another. For that which is a reason for discontinuing a practice for some company, would seem to be a reason for laying it aside for ever, especially in a family visiting and visited as ours. And I remember well a hint given me by my dearest friend once on another subject, that it is in every one's power to prescribe rules to himself, after a while, and persons to see what is one's way, and that one is not to be put out of it. But my only doubt is, that to ladies, who have not been accustomed perhaps to the _necessary_ strictness, I should make myself censurable, as if I aimed at too much perfection: for, however one's duty is one's duty, and ought not to be dispensed with; yet, when a person, who uses to be remiss, sees so hard a task before them, and so many great points to get over, all to be no more than tolerably regular, it is rather apt to frighten and discourage, than to allure; and one must proceed, as I have read soldiers do, in a difficult siege, inch by inch, and be more studious to entrench and fortify themselves, as they go on gaining upon the enemy, than by rushing all at once upon an attack of the place, be repulsed, and perhaps obliged with great loss to abandon a hopeful enterprise. And permit me to add, that young as I am, I have often observed, that over-great strictnesses all at once enjoined and insisted upon, are not fit for a beginning reformation, but for stronger Christians only; and therefore generally do more harm than good. But shall I not be too grave, my dear friend?--Excuse me; for this is Saturday night: and as it was a very good method which the ingenious authors of the Spectator took, generally to treat their more serious subjects on this day; so I think one should, when one can, consider it as the preparative eve to a still better. SUNDAY. Now, my dear, by what I have already written, it is become in a manner necessary to acquaint you briefly with the method my dear Mr. B. not only permits, but encourages me to take, in the family he leaves to my care, as to the Sunday _duty_. The worthy dean, at my request, and my beloved's permission, recommended to me, as a sort of family chaplain, for Sundays, a young gentleman of great sobriety and piety, and sound principles, who having but lately taken orders, has at present no other provision. And this gentleman comes, and reads prayers to us about seven in the morning, in the lesser hall, as we call it, a retired apartment, next the little garden; for we have no chapel with us here, as in your neighbourhood; and this generally, with some suitable exhortation, or meditation out of some good book, which he is so kind as to let me choose now-and-then, when I please, takes up little more than half an hour. We have a great number of servants of both sexes: and myself, Mrs. Jervis, and Polly Barlow, are generally in a little closet, which, when we open the door, is but just a separation from the hall.--Mr. Adams (for that is our young clergyman's name) has a desk at which sometimes Mr. Jonathan makes up his running accounts to Mr. Longman, who is very scrupulous of admitting any body to the use of his office, because of the writing in his custody, and the order he values himself upon having every thing in. About seven in the evening he comes again, and I generally, let me have what company I will, find time to retire for about another half hour; and my dear Mr. B. connives at, and excuses my absence, if enquired after; though for so short a time, I am seldom missed. To the young gentleman I shall present, every quarter, five guineas, and Mr. B. presses him to accept of a place at his table at his pleasure: but, as we have generally much company, his modesty makes him decline it, especially at those times.--Mr. Longman joins with us very often in our Sunday office, and Mr. Colbrand seldom misses: and they tell Mrs. Jervis that they cannot express the pleasure they have to meet me there; and the edification they receive. My best beloved dispenses as much as he can with the servants, for the evening part, if he has company; or will be attended only by John or Abraham, perhaps by turns; and sometimes looks upon his watch, and says, "'Tis near seven;" and if he says so, they take it for a hint that they may be dispensed with for half an hour; and this countenance which he gives me, has contributed not a little to make the matter easy and delightful to me, and to every one.--When I part from them, on the breaking up of our assembly, they generally make a little row on each side of the hall-door; and when I have made my compliments, and paid my thanks to Mr. Adams, they whisper, as I go out, "God bless you, Madam!" and bow and curtsey with such pleasure in their honest countenances as greatly delights me: and I say, "So my good friends--I am glad to see you--Not one absent!" or but one--(as it falls out)--"This is very obliging," I cry: and thus I shew them, that I take notice, if any body be not there. And back again I go to pay my duty to my earthly benefactor: and he is pleased to say sometimes, that I come to him with such a radiance in my countenance, as gives him double pleasure to behold me; and often tells me, that but for appearing too fond before company, he could meet me as I enter, with embraces as pure as my own heart. I hope in time, I shall prevail upon the dear man to give me his company.--But, thank God, I am enabled to go thus far already!--I will leave the rest to his providence. For I have a point very delicate to touch upon in this particular; and I must take care not to lose the ground I have gained, by too precipitately pushing at too much at once. This is my comfort, that next to being uniform _himself_, is that permission and encouragement he gives _me_ to be so, and his pleasure in seeing me so delighted--and besides, he always gives me his company to church. O how happy should I think myself, if he would be pleased to accompany me to the divine office, which yet he has not done, though I have urged him as much as I durst.--Mrs. Jervis asked me on Saturday evening, if I would be concerned to see a larger congregation in the lesser hall next morning than usual? I answered, "No, by no means." She said, Mrs. Worden, and Mrs. Lesley (the two ladies' women), and Mr. Sidney, my Lord Davers's gentleman, and Mr. H.'s servant, and the coachmen and footmen belonging to our noble visitors, who are, she says, all great admirers of our family management and good order, having been told our method, begged to join in it. I knew I should be a little dashed at so large a company; but the men being orderly for lords' servants, and Mrs. Jervis assuring me that they were very earnest in their request, I consented to it. When, at the usual time, (with my Polly) I went down, I found Mr. Adams here (to whom I made my first compliments), and every one of our own people waiting for me, Mr. Colbrand excepted (whom Mr. H. had kept up late the night before), together with Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley, and Mr. Sidney, with the servants of our guests, who, as also worthy Mr. Longman, and Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Jonathan, paid me their respects: and I said, "This is early rising, Mrs. Lesley and Mrs. Worden; you are very kind to countenance us with your companies in this our family order. Mr. Sidney, I am glad to see you.--How do you do, Mr. Longman?" and looked round with complacency on the servants of our noble visitors. And then I led Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley to my little retiring place, and Mrs. Jervis and my Polly followed; and throwing the door open, Mr. Adams began some select prayers; and as he reads with great emphasis and propriety, as if his heart was in what he read, all the good folks were exceedingly attentive.--After prayers, Mr. Adams reads a meditation, from a collection made for private use, which I shall more particularly mention by-and-by; and ending with the usual benediction, I thanked the worthy gentleman, and gently chid him in Mr. B.'s name, for his modesty in declining our table; and thanking Mr. Longman, Mrs. Worden, and Mrs. Lesley, received their kind wishes, and hastened, blushing through their praises, to my chamber, where, being alone, I pursued the subject for an hour, till breakfast was ready, when I attended the ladies, and my best beloved, who had told them of the verses placed under my cushion at church.--We set out, my Lord and Lady Davers, and myself, and Mr. H. in our coach, and Mr. B. and the countess in the chariot; both ladies and the gentlemen splendidly dressed; but I avoided a glitter as much as I could, that I might not seem to vie with the two peeresses.--Mr. B. said, "Why are you not full-dressed, my dear?" I said, I hoped he would not be displeased; if he was, I would do as he commanded. He kindly answered, "As you like best, my love. You are charming in every dress." The chariot first drawing up to the church door, Mr. B. led the countess into church. My Lord Davers did me that honour; and Mr. H. handed his aunt through a crowd of gazers, many of whom, as usual, were strangers. The neighbouring gentlemen and their ladies paid us their silent respects; but the thoughts of the wicked verses, or rather, as Lady Davers will have me say, wicked action of the transcriber of them, made me keep behind the pew; but my lady sat down by me, and whisperingly talked between whiles, to me, with great tenderness and freedom in her aspect; which I could not but take kindly, because I knew she intended by it, to shew every one she was pleased with me. Afterwards she was pleased to add, taking my hand, and Mr. B. and the countess heard her (for she raised her voice to a more audible whisper), "I'm proud to be in thy company, and in this solemn place, I take thy hand, and acknowledge with pride, my _sister_." I looked down; and indeed, at church, I can hardly at any time look up; for who can bear to be gazed at so?--and softly said, "Oh! my good lady! how much you honour me; the place, and these surrounding eyes, can only hinder me from acknowledging as I ought." My best friend, with pleasure in his eyes, said, pressing his hand upon both ours, as my lady had mine in hers--"You are two beloved creatures: both excellent in your way. God bless you both."--"And you too, my dear brother," said my lady. The countess whispered, "You should spare a body a little! You give one, ladies, and Mr. B., too much pleasure all at once. Such company, and such behaviour adds still more charms to devotion; and were I to be here a twelvemonth, I would never miss once accompanying you to this good place." Mr. H. thought he must say something, and addressing himself to his noble uncle, who could not keep his good-natured eye off me--"I'll be _hang'd_, my lord, if I know how to behave myself! Why this outdoes the chapel!--I'm glad I put on my new suit!" And then he looked upon himself, as if he would support, as well as he could, his part of the general admiration. But think you not, my dear Miss Darnford, and my dearest father and mother, that I am now in the height of my happiness in this life, thus favoured by Lady Davers? The dean preached an excellent sermon; but I need not have said that; only to have mentioned, that _he_ preached, was saying enough. My lord led me out when divine service was over; and being a little tender in his feet, from a gouty notice, walked very slowly. Lady Towers and Mrs. Brooks joined us in the porch, and made us their compliments, as did Mr. Martin. "Will you favour us with your company home, my old acquaintance?" said Mr. B. to him.--"I can't, having a gentleman, my relation, to dine with me; but if it will be agreeable in the evening, I will bring him with me to taste of your Burgundy: for we have not any such in the county."--"I shall be glad to see you, or any friend of yours," replied Mr. B. Mr. Martin whispered--"It is more, however, to admire your lady, I can tell you that, than your wine.-Get into your coaches, ladies," said he, with his usual freedom; "our maiden and widow ladies have a fine time of it, wherever you come: by my faith they must every one of them quit this neighbourhood, if you were to stay in it: but all their hopes are, that while you are in London, they'll have the game in their own hands."--"_Sister_," said Lady Davers, most kindly to me, in presence of many, who (in a respectful manner) gathered near us, "Mr. Martin is the same gentleman he used to be, I see." "Mr. Martin, Madam," said I, smiling, "has but one fault: he is too apt to praise whom he favours, at the expense of his absent friends." "I am always proud of your reproofs, Mrs. B.," replied he.-"Ay," said Lady Towers, "that I believe.--And, therefore, I wish, for all our sakes, you'd take him oftener to task, Mrs. B." Lady Towers, Lady Arthur, Mrs. Brooks, and Mr. Martin, all claimed visits from us; and Mr. B. making excuses, that he must husband his time, being obliged to go to town soon, proposed to breakfast with Lady Towers the next morning, dine with Mrs. Arthur, and sup with Mrs. Brooks; and as there cannot be a more social and agreeable neighbourhood any where, his proposal, after some difficulty, was accepted; and our usual visiting neighbours were all to have notice accordingly, at each of the places. I saw Sir Thomas Atkyns coming towards us, and fearing to be stifled with compliments, I said--"Your servant, ladies and gentlemen;" and giving my hand to Lord Davers, stept into the chariot, instead of the coach; for people that would avoid bustle, sometimes make it. Finding my mistake, I would have come out, but my lord said, "Indeed you shan't: for I'll step in, and have you all to myself." Lady Davers smiled--"Now," said she (while the coach drew up), "is my Lord Davers pleased;--but I see, sister, you were tired with part of your company in the coach."--"'Tis well contrived, my dear," said Mr. B., "as long as you have not deprived me of this honour;" taking the countess's hand, and leading her into the coach. Will you excuse all this impertinence, my dear?--I know my father and mother will be pleased with it; and you will therefore bear with me; for their kind hearts will be delighted to hear every minute thing in relation to Lady Davers and myself.--When Mr. Martin came in the evening, with his friend (who is Sir William G., a polite young gentleman of Lincolnshire), he told us of the praises lavished away upon me by several genteel strangers; one saying to his friend, he had travelled twenty miles to see me.--My Lady Davers was praised too for her goodness to me, and the gracefulness of her person; the countess for the noble serenity of her aspect, and that charming ease and freedom, which distinguished her birth and quality. My dear Mr. B., he said, was greatly admired too: but he would not make _him_ proud; for he had superiorities enough already, that was his word, over his neighbours: "But I can tell you," said he, "that for most of your praises you are obliged to your lady, and for having rewarded her excellence as you have done: for one gentleman," added he, "said, he knew no one but _you_ could deserve her; and he believed _you_ did, from that tenderness in your behaviour to her, and from that grandeur of air, and majesty of person, that seemed to shew you formed for her protector, as well as rewarder.--Get you gone to London, both of you," said he. "I did not intend to tell you, Mr. B., what was said of you." The women of the two ladies had acquainted their ladyships with the order I observed for the day, and the devout behaviour of the servants. And about seven, I withdrawing as silently and as unobserved as I could, was surprised, as I was going through the great hall, to be joined by both. "I shall come at all your secrets, Pamela," said my lady, "and be able, in time, to cut you out in your own way. I know whither you are going." "My good ladies," said I, "pardon me for leaving you. I will attend you in half an hour." "No, my dear," said Lady Davers, "the countess and I have resolved to attend you for that half hour, and we will return to company together." "Is it not descending too much, my ladies, as to the company?"--"If it is for us, it is for you," said the countess; "so we will either act up to you, or make you come down to us; and we will judge of all your proceedings." Every one, but Abraham (who attended the gentlemen), and all their ladyships' servants, and their two women, were there; which pleased me, however, because it shewed, that even the strangers, by this their second voluntary attendance, had no ill opinion of the service. But they were all startled, ours and theirs, to see the ladies accompanying me. I stept up to Mr. Adams.--"I was in hopes. Sir," said I, "we should have been favoured with your company at our table." He bowed.--"Well, Sir," said I, "these ladies come to be obliged to you for your good offices; and you'll have no better way of letting them return their obligations, than to sup, though you would not dine with them."--"Mr. Longman," said my lady, "how do you do?--We are come to be witnesses of the family decorum."--"We have a blessed lady, Madam," said he: "and your ladyship's presence augments our joys." I should have said, we were not at church in the afternoon; and when I do not go, we have the evening service read to us, as it is at church; which Mr. Adams performed now, with his usual distinctness and fervour. When all was concluded, I said, "Now, my dearest ladies, excuse me for the sake of the delight I take in seeing all my good folks about me in this decent and obliging manner.--Indeed, I have no ostentation in it, if I know my own heart." The countess and Lady Davers, delighted to see such good behaviour in every one, sat a moment or two looking upon one another in silence; and then my Lady Davers took my hand: "Beloved, deservedly beloved of the kindest of husbands, what a blessing art thou to this family!"--"And to every family," said the countess, "who have the happiness to know, and the grace to follow, her example!"--"But where," said Lady Davers, "collectedst thou all this good sense, and fine spirit in thy devotion?"--"The Bible," said I, "is the foundation of all."--Lady Davers then turning herself to Mrs. Jervis--"How do you, good woman?" said she. "Why you are now made ample amends for the love you bore to this dear creature formerly." "You have an angel, and not a woman, for your lady, my good Mrs. Jervis," said the countess. Mrs. Jervis, folding her uplifted hands together--"O my good lady, you know not our happiness; no, not one half of it. We were before blessed with plenty, and a bountiful indulgence, by our good master; but our plenty brought on wantonness and wranglings: but now we have peace as well as plenty; and peace of mind, my dear lady, in doing all in our respective powers, to shew ourselves thankful creatures to God, and to the best of masters and mistresses." "Good soul!" said I, and was forced to put my handkerchief to my eyes: "your heart is always overflowing thus with gratitude and praises, for what you so well merit from us." "Mr. Longman," said my lady, assuming a sprightly air, although her eye twinkled, to keep within its lids the precious water, that sprang from a noble and well-affected heart, "I am glad to see you here, attending your pious young lady.--Well might you love her, honest man!--I did not know there was so excellent a creature in any rank." "Madam," said the other worthy heart, unable to speak but in broken sentences, "you don't know--indeed you don't, what a--what a--hap--happy--family we are!--Truly, we are like unto Alexander's soldiers, every one fit to be a general; so well do we all know our duties, and _practise_ them too, let me say.--Nay, and please your ladyship, we all of us long till morning comes, thus to attend my lady; and after that is past, we long for evening, for the same purpose: for she is so good to us--You cannot think how good she is! But permit your honoured father's old servant to say one word more, that though we are always pleased and joyful on these occasions; yet we are in transports to see our master's noble sister thus favouring us--with your ladyship too," (to the countess)--"and approving our young lady's conduct and piety." "Blessing on you all!" said my lady. "Let us go, my lady;--let us go, sister, for I cannot stop any longer!" As I slid by, following their ladyships--"How do you, Mr. Colbrand?" said I softly: "I feared you were not well in the morning." He bowed--"Pardon me, Madam--I was leetel indispose, dat ish true!" Now, my dear friend, will you forgive me all this self-praise, as it may seem?--Yet when you know I give it you, and my dear parents, as so many instances of my Lady Davers's reconciliation and goodness to me, and as it will shew what a noble heart she has at bottom, when her pride of quality and her passion have subsided, and her native good sense and excellence taken place, I flatter myself, I may be the rather excused; and especially, as I hope to have your company and countenance one day, in this my delightful Sunday employment. I should have added, for I think a good clergyman cannot be too much respected, that I repeated my request to Mr. Adams, to oblige us with his company at supper; but he so very earnestly begged to be excused, and with so much concern of countenance, that I thought it would be wrong to insist upon it; though I was sorry for it, sure as I am that modesty is always a sign of merit. We returned to the gentlemen when supper was ready, as cheerful and easy, Lady Davers observed, as if we had not been present at so solemn a service. "And this," said she, after they were gone, "makes religion so pleasant and delightful a thing, that I profess I shall have a much higher opinion of those who make it a regular and constant part of their employment, than ever I had." "Then," said she, "I was once, I remember, when a girl, at the house of a very devout man, for a week, with his granddaughter, my school-fellow; and there were such preachments _against_ vanities, and _for_ self-denials, that were we to have followed the good man's precepts, (though indeed not his practice, for well did he love his belly), half God Almighty's creatures and works would have been useless, and industry would have been banished the earth. "Then," added her ladyship, "have I heard the good man confess himself guilty of such sins, as, if true (and by his hiding his face with his broad-brimmed hat, it looked a little bad against him), he ought to have been hanged on a gallows fifty feet high." These reflections, as I said, fell from my lady, after the gentlemen were gone, when she recounted to her brother, the entertainment, as she was pleased to call it, I had given her. On which she made high encomiums, as did the countess; and they praised also the natural dignity which they imputed to me, saying, I had taught them a way they never could have found out, to descend to the company of servants, and yet to secure, and even augment, the respect and veneration of inferiors at the same time. "And, Pamela," said my lady, "you are certainly very right to pay so much regard to the young clergyman; for that makes all he reads, and all he says, of greater efficacy with the auditors, facilitates the work you have in view to bring about, and in your own absence (for your monarch may not always dispense with you, perhaps) strengthens his influence, and encourages him, beside." MONDAY. I am to thank you, my dear Miss Damford, for your kind letter, approving of my scribble. When you come to my Saturday's and Sunday's accounts, I shall try your patience. But no more of that; for as you can read them, or let them alone, I am the less concerned, especially as they will be more indulgently received somewhere else, than they may merit; so that my labour will not be wholly lost. I congratulate you with all my heart on your dismissing Mr. Murray; I could not help shewing your letter to Mr. B. And what do you think the free gentleman said upon it? I am half afraid to tell you: but do, now you are so happily disengaged, get leave to come, and let us two contrive to be even with him for it. You are the only lady in the world that I would join with against him. He said, that your characters of Mr. Murray and Miss Nancy, which he called severe (but I won't call them so, without your leave), looked a little like petty spite, and as if you were sorry the gentleman took you at your word. That was what he said--Pray let us punish him for it. Yet, he called you charming lady, and said much in your praise, and joined with me, that Mr. Murray, who was so easy to part with you, could not possibly deserve you. "But, Pamela," said he, "I know the sex well enough. Miss Polly may not love Mr. Murray; yet, to see her sister addressed and complimented, and preferred to herself, by one whom she so lately thought she could choose or refuse, is a mortifying thing.--And young ladies cannot bear to sit by neglected, while two lovers are playing pug's tricks with each other. "Then," said he, "all the preparations to matrimony, the clothes to be bought, the visits to be paid and received, the compliments of friends, the busy novelty of the thing, the day to be fixed, and all the little foolish humours and nonsense attending a concluded courtship, when _one sister_ is to engross all the attention and regard, the new equipages, and so forth; these are all subjects of mortification to the _other_, though she has no great value for the man perhaps." "Well, but, Sir," said I, "a lady of Miss Darnford's good sense, and good taste, is not to be affected by these parades, and has well considered the matter, no doubt; and I dare say, rejoices, rather than repines, at missing the gentleman." I hope you will leave the happy pair (for they are so, if they think themselves so) together, and Sir Simon to rejoice in his accomplished son-in-law elect, and give us your company to London. For who would stay to be vexed by that ill-natured Miss Nancy, as you own you were, at your last writing?--But I will proceed, and the rather, as I have something to tell you of a conversation, the result of which has done me great honour, and given inexpressible delight; of which in its place. We pursued Mr. B.'s proposal, returning several visits in one day; for we have so polite and agreeable a neighbourhood, that all seem desirous to accommodate each other. We came not home till ten in the evening, and then found a letter from Sir Jacob Swynford, uncle by the half blood to Mr. B., acquainting him, that hearing his niece, Lady Davers, was with him, he would be here in a day or two (being then upon his journey) to pay a visit to both at the same time. This gentleman is very particularly odd and humoursome: and his eldest son being next heir to the maternal estate, if Mr. B. should have no children, was exceedingly dissatisfied with his debasing himself in marrying me; and would have been better pleased had he not married at all, perhaps. There never was any cordial love between Mr. B.'s father and him, nor between the uncle, and nephew and niece: for his positiveness, roughness, and self-interestedness too, has made him, though very rich, but little agreeable to the generous tempers of his nephew and niece; yet when they meet, which is not above once in four or five years, they are very civil and obliging to him. Lady Davers wondered what could bring him hither now: for he lives in Herefordshire, and seldom stirs ten miles from home. Mr. B. said, he was sure it was not to compliment him and me on our nuptials. "No, rather," said my lady, "to satisfy himself if you are in a way to cut out his own cubs."--"Thank God, we are," said he. "Whenever I was strongest set against matrimony, the only reason I had to weigh against my dislike to it was, that I was unwilling to leave so large a part of my estate to that family. My dear," said he to me, "don't be uneasy; but you'll see a relation of mine much more disagreeable than you can imagine; but no doubt you have heard his character." "Ah, Pamela," said Lady Davers, "we are a family that value ourselves upon our ancestry; but, upon my word, Sir Jacob, and all his line, have nothing else to boast of. And I have been often ashamed of my relation to them."--"No family, I believe, my lady, has every body excellent in it," replied I: "but I doubt I shall stand but poorly with Sir Jacob." "He won't dare to affront you, my dear," said Mr. B., "although he'll say to you, and to me, and to my sister too, blunt and rough things. But he'll not stay above a day or two, and we shall not see him again for some years to come; so we'll bear with him." I am now, Miss, coming to the conversation I hinted at. TUESDAY. On Tuesday, Mr. Williams came to pay his respects to his kind patron. I had been to visit a widow gentlewoman, and, on my return, went directly to my closet, so knew not of his being here till I came to dinner; for Mr. B. and he were near two hours in discourse in the library. When I came down, Mr. B. presented him to me. "My friend Mr. Williams, my dear," said he. "Mr. Williams, how do you do?" said I; "I am glad to see you." He rejoiced, he said, to see me look so well; and had longed for an opportunity to pay his respects to his worthy patron and me before: but had been prevented twice when upon the point of setting out. Mr. B. said, "I have prevailed upon my old acquaintance to reside with us, while he stays in these parts. Do you, my dear, see that every thing is made agreeable to him."--"To be sure, Sir, I will." Mr. Adams being in the house, Mr. B. sent to desire he would dine with us: if it were but in respect to a gentleman of the same cloth, who gave us his company. Mr. B., when dinner was over, and the servants were withdrawn, said, "My dear, Mr. Williams's business, in part, was to ask my advice as to a living that is offered him by the Earl of ----, who is greatly taken with his preaching and conversation." "And to quit yours, I presume, Sir," said Lord Davers. "No, the earl's is not quite so good as mine, and his lordship would procure him a dispensation to hold both. What would _you_ advise, my dear?" "It becomes not me, Sir, to meddle with such matters as these."--"Yes, my dear, it does, when I ask your opinion."--"I beg pardon, Sir.--My opinion then is, that Mr. Williams will not care to do any thing that _requires_ a dispensation, and which would be unlawful without it."--"Madam," said Mr. Williams, "you speak exceedingly well." "I am glad, Mr. Williams, that you approve of my sentiments, required of me by one who has a right to command me in every thing: otherwise this matter is above my sphere; and I have so much good will to Mr. Williams, that I wish him every thing that will contribute to make him happy." "Well, my dear," said Mr. B., "but what would you advise in this case? The earl proposes, that Mr. Williams's present living be supplied by a curate; to whom, no doubt, Mr. Williams will be very genteel; and, as we are seldom or never there, his lordship thinks we shall not be displeased with it, and insists upon proposing it to me; as he has done." Lord Davers said, "I think this may do very well, brother. But what, pray, Mr. Williams, do you propose to allow to your curate? Excuse me, Sir, but I think the clergy do so hardly by one another generally, that they are not to be surprised that some of the laity treat them as they do." Said Mr. B., "Tell us freely, Pamela, what you would advise your friend Mr. Williams to do." "And must I, Sir, speak my mind on such a point, before so many better judges?" "Yes, _sister_," said her ladyship (a name she is now pleased to give me freely before strangers, after her dear brother's example, who is kindest, though always kind, at such times) "you _must_; if I may be allowed to say _must_."--"Why then," proceeded I, "I beg leave to ask Mr. Williams one question; that is, whether his present parishioners do not respect and esteem him in that particular manner, which I think every body must, who knows his worth?" "I am very happy. Madam, in the good-will of all my parishioners, and have great acknowledgments to make for their civilities to me."--"I don't doubt," said I, "but it will be the same wherever you go; for bad as the world is, a prudent and good clergyman will never fail of respect. But, Sir, if you think your ministry among them is attended with good effects; if they esteem your person with a preference, and listen to your doctrines with attention; methinks, for _their_ sakes, 'tis pity to leave them, were the living of less value, as it is of _more_, than the other. For, how many people are there who can benefit by one gentleman's preaching, rather than by another's; although, possibly, the one's abilities may be no way inferior to the other's? There is much in a _delivery_, as it is called, in a manner, a deportment, to engage people's attention and liking; and as you are already in possession of their esteem, you are sure to do much of the good you aim and wish to do. For where the flock loves the shepherd, all the work is easy, and more than half done; and without that, let him have the tongue of an angel, and let him live the life of a saint, he will be heard with indifference, and, oftentimes, as his subject may be, with disgust." I paused here; but every one being silent--"As to the earl's friendship, Sir," continued I, "you can best judge what force that ought to have upon you; and what I have mentioned would be the only difficulty with me, were I in Mr. Williams's case. To be sure, it will be a high compliment to his lordship, and so he ought to think it, that you quit a better living to oblige him. And he will be bound in honour to make it up to you. For I am far from thinking that a prudent regard to worldly interest misbecomes the character of a good clergyman; and I wish all such were set above the world, for their own sakes, as well as for the sakes of their hearers; since independency gives a man respect, besides the power of doing good, which will enhance that respect, and of consequence, give greater efficacy to his doctrines. "As to strengthening of a good man's influence, a point always to be wished, I would not say so much as I have done, if I had not heard Mr. Longman say, and I heard it with great pleasure, that the benefice Mr. Williams so worthily enjoys is a clear two hundred pounds a year. "But, after all, does happiness to a gentleman, a scholar, a philosopher, rest in a greater or lesser income? On the contrary, is it not oftener to be found in a happy competency or mediocrity? Suppose my dear Mr. B. had five thousand pounds a year added to his present large income, would that increase his happiness? That it would add to his cares, is no question; but could it give him one single comfort which he has not already? And if the dear gentleman had two or three thousand less, might he be less happy on that account? No, surely; for it would render a greater prudence on my humble part necessary, and a nearer inspection, and greater frugality, on his own; and he must be contented (if he did not, as now, perhaps, lay up every year) so long as he lived within his income.--And who will say, that the obligation to greater prudence and economy is a misfortune? "The competency, therefore, the golden mean, is the thing; and I have often considered the matter, and endeavoured to square my actions by the result of that consideration. For a person who, being not born to an estate, is not satisfied with a competency, will probably know no limits to his desires. One whom an acquisition of one or two hundred pounds a year will not satisfy, will hardly sit down contented with any sum. For although he may propose to himself at a distance, that such and such an acquisition will be the height of his ambition; yet he will, as he approaches to that, advance upon himself farther and farther, and know no bound, till the natural one is forced upon him, and his life and his views end together. "Now let me humbly beg pardon of you all, ladies and gentlemen," turning my eyes to each; "but most of you, my good lady." "Indeed, Madam," said Mr. Williams, "after what I have heard from you, I would not, for the world, have been of another mind." "You are a good man," said I; "and I have such an opinion of your worthiness, and the credit you do your function, that I can never suspect either your judgment or your conduct. But pray, Sir, may I ask, what have you determined to do?"--"Why, Madam," replied he, "I am staggered in that too, by the observation you just now made, that where a man has the love of his parishioners, he ought not to think of leaving them."--"Else, Sir, I find you was rather inclined to oblige the earl, though the living be of _less_ value! This is very noble, Sir; it is more than generous." "My dear," said Mr. B., "I'll tell you (for Mr. Williams's modesty will not let him speak it before all the company) what _is_ his motive; and a worthy one you'll say it is. Excuse me, Mr. Williams;"--for the reverend gentleman blushed. "The earl has of late years--we all know his character--given himself up to carousing, and he will suffer no man to go from his table sober. Mr. Williams has taken the liberty to expostulate, as became his function, with his lordship on this subject, and upon some other irregularities, so agreeably, that the earl has taken a great liking to him, and promises, that he will suffer his reasonings to have an effect upon him, and that he shall reform his whole household, if he will come and live near him, and regulate his table by his own example. The countess is a very good lady, and privately presses Mr. Williams to oblige the earl: and this is our worthy friend's main inducement; with the hope, which I should mention, that he has, of preserving untainted the morals of the two young gentlemen, the earl's son, who, he fears, will be carried away by the force of such an example: and he thinks, as the earl's living has fallen, mine may be better supplied than the earl's, if he, as he kindly offers, gives it me back again; otherwise the earl, as he apprehends, will find out for his, some gentleman, if such an one can be found, as will rather further, than obstruct his own irregularities, as was the unhappy case of the last incumbent." "Well," said Lady Davers, "I shall always have the highest respect for Mr. Williams, for a conduct so genteel and so prudent. But, brother, will you--and will you, Mr. Williams--put this whole affair into Mrs. B.'s hands, since you have such testimonies, _both_ of you, of the rectitude of her thinking and acting?"--"With all my heart, Madam," replied Mr. Williams; "and I shall be proud of such a direction,"--"What say _you_, brother? You are to suppose the living in your own hands again; will you leave the whole matter to my _sister_ here?"--"Come, my dear," said Mr. B., "let us hear how you'd wish it to be ordered. I know you have not need of one moment's consideration, when once you are mistress of a point." "Nay," said Lady Davers, "that is not the thing. I repeat my demand: shall it be as Mrs. B. lays it out, or not?"--"Conditionally," said Mr. B., "provided I cannot give satisfactory reasons, why I _ought_ not to conform to her opinion; for this, as I said, is a point of conscience with me; and I made it so, when I presented Mr. Williams to the living: and have not been deceived in that presentation."--"To be sure," said I, "that is very reasonable, Sir; and on that condition, I shall the less hesitate to speak my mind, because I shall be in no danger to commit an irreparable error." "I know well, Lady Davers," added Mr. B., "the power your sex have over ours, and their subtle tricks: and so will never, in my weakest moments, be drawn in to make a blindfold promise. There have been several instances, both in sacred and profane story, of mischiefs done by such surprises: so you must allow me to suspect myself, when I know the dear slut's power over me, and have been taught, by the inviolable regard she pays to her own word, to value mine--And now, Pamela, speak all that is in your heart to say." "With your _requisite_ condition in my eye, I will, Sir. But let me see that I state the matter right. And, preparative to it, pray, Mr. Williams, though you have not been long in possession of this living, yet, may-be, you can compute what it is likely, by what you know of it, to bring in clear?" "Madam," said he, "by the best calculation I can make--I thank _you_ for it, good Sir--it may, one year with another, be reckoned at three hundred pounds per annum; and is the best within twenty miles of it, having been improved within these two last years." "If it was five hundred pounds, and would make you happier--(for _that_, Sir, is the thing) I should wish it you," said I, "and think it short of your merits. But pray, Sir, what is the earl's living valued at?" "At about two hundred and twenty pounds, Madam."--"Well, then," replied I, very pertly, "I believe now I have it. "Mr. Williams, for motives most excellently worthy of his function, inclines to surrender up to Mr. B. his living of three hundred pounds per annum, and to accept of the earl's living of two hundred and twenty. Dear Sir, I am going to be very bold; but under _your_ condition nevertheless:--let the gentleman, to whom you shall present the living of E. allow eighty pounds per annum out of it to Mr. Williams, till the earl's favour shall make up the difference to him, and no longer. And--but I dare not name the gentleman:--for how, dear Sir, were I to be so bold, shall I part with my chaplain?"--"Admirable! most admirable!" said Lord and Lady Davers, in the same words. The countess praised the decision too; and Mr. H. with his "Let me be hang'd," and his "Fore Gad's," and such exclamations natural to him, made his plaudits. Mr. Williams said, he could wish with all his heart it might be so; and Mr. Adams was so abashed and surprised, that he could not hold up his head;--but joy danced in his silent countenance, for all that. Mr. B. having hesitated a few minutes. Lady Davers called out for his objection, or consent, according to condition, and he said, "I cannot so soon determine as that prompt slut did. I'll withdraw one minute." He did so, as I found afterwards to advise, like the considerate and genteel spirit he possesses, with Mr. Williams, whom he beckoned out, and to examine whether he was in _earnest_ willing to give it up, or very desirous for any one to succeed him; saying, that if he had, he thought himself obliged, in return for his worthy behaviour to him, to pay a particular regard to his recommendation. And so being answered as he desired, in they came together again. But I should say, that his withdrawing with a very serious aspect, made me afraid I had gone too far: and I said, "What shall I do, if I have incurred Mr. B.'s anger by my over-forwardness! Did he not look displeased? Dear ladies, if he be so, plead for me, and I'll withdraw when he comes in; for I cannot stand his anger: I have not been used to it." "Never fear, Pamela," said my lady; "he can't be angry at any thing you say or do. But I wish, for the sake of what I have witnessed of Mr. Adams's behaviour and modesty, that such a thing could be done for him." Mr. Adams bowed, and said, "O my good ladies! 'tis too considerable a thing: I cannot expect it--I do not--it would be presumption if I did." Just then re-entered Mr. B. and Mr. Williams: the first with a stately air, the other with a more peace-portending smile on his countenance. But Mr. B. sitting down, "Well, Pamela," said he, very gravely, "I see that power is a dangerous thing in any hand."--"Sir, Sir!" said I--"My dear lady," whispering to Lady Davers, "I will withdraw, as I said I would." And I was getting away as fast as I could: but he arose and took my hand, "Why is my charmer so soon frightened?" said he, most kindly; and still more kindly, with a noble air, pressed it to his lips. "I must not carry my jest too far upon a mind so apprehensive, as I otherwise might be inclined to do." And leading me to Mr. Adams and Mr. Williams, he said, taking Mr. Williams's hand with his left, as he held mine in his right, "Your worthy brother clergyman, Mr. Adams, gives me leave to confirm the decision of my dear wife, whom you are to thank for the living of E. upon the condition she proposed; and may you give but as much satisfaction _there_, as you have done in _this_ family, and as Mr. Williams has given to his flock; and they will then be pleased as much with your ministry as they have hitherto been with his." Mr. Adams trembled with joy, and said, he could not tell how to bear this excess of goodness in us both: and his countenance and eyes gave testimony of a gratitude too high for further expression. As for myself, you, my honoured and dear friends, who know how much I am always raised, when I am made the dispenser of acts of bounty and generosity to the deserving; and who now instead of incurring blame, as I had apprehended, found myself applauded by every one, and most by the gentleman whose approbation I chiefly coveted to have: you, I say, will judge how greatly I must be delighted. But I was still more affected, when Mr. B. directing himself to me, and to Mr. Williams at the same time, was pleased to say, "Here, my dear, you must thank this good gentleman for enabling you to give such a shining proof of your excellence: and whenever I put power into your hands for the future, act but as you have now done, and it will be impossible that I should have any choice or will but yours." "O Sir," said I, pressing his hand with my lips, forgetting how many witnesses I had of my grateful fondness, "how shall I, oppressed with your goodness, in such a signal instance as this, find words equal to the gratitude of my heart!--But here," patting my bosom, "just here, they stick;--and I cannot--" And, indeed, I could say no more; and Mr. B. in the delicacy of his apprehensiveness for me, led me into the next parlour; and placing himself by me on the settee, said, "Take care, my best beloved, that the joy, which overflows your dear heart, for having done a beneficent action to a deserving gentleman, does not affect you too much." My Lady Davers followed us: "Where is my angelic sister?" said she. "I have a share in her next to yourself, my noble brother." And clasping me to her generous bosom, she ran over with expressions of favour to me, in a style and words, which would suffer, were I to endeavour to repeat them. Coffee being ready, we returned to the company. My Lord Davers was pleased to make me a great many compliments, and so did Mr. H. after his manner. But the countess exceeded _herself_ in goodness. Mr. B. was pleased to say, "It is a rule with me, not to leave till to-morrow what can be done to-day:--and _when_, my dear, do you propose to dispense with Mr. Adams's good offices in your family? Or did you intend to induce him to go to town with us?" "I had not proposed anything, Sir, as to that, for I had not asked your kind direction: but the good dean will supply us, I doubt not, and when we set out for London, Mr. Adams will be at full liberty, with his worthy friend, Mr. Williams, to pursue the happy scheme your goodness has permitted to take effect." "Mr. Adams, my dear, who came so lately from the university, can, perhaps, recommend such another young gentleman as himself, to perform the functions he used to perform in your family." I looked, it seems, a little grave; and Mr. B. said, "What have you to offer, Pamela?--What have I said amiss?" "Amiss! dear Sir!--" "Ay, and dear Madam too! I see by your bashful seriousness, in place of that smiling approbation which you always shew when I utter any thing you _entirely_ approve, that I have said something which would rather meet with your acquiescence, than choice. So, as I have often told you, none of your reserves; and never _hesitate_ to me your consent in any thing, while you are sure I will conform to your wishes, or pursue my own liking, as _either_ shall appear reasonable to me, when I have heard _your_ reasons." "Why, then, dear Sir, what I had presumed to think, but I submit it to your better judgment, was, whether, since the gentleman who is so kind as to assist us in our family devotions, in some measure acts in the province of the worthy dean, it were not right, that our own parish-minister, whether here or in London, should name, or at least approve _our_ naming, the gentleman?" "Why could not I have thought of that, as well as you, sauce-box?--Lady Davers, I am entirely on your side: I think she deserves a slap now from us both." "I'll forgive her," said my lady, "since I find her sentiments and actions as much a reproof to others as to me." "Mr. Williams, did you ever think," said Mr. B., "it would have come to this?--Did you ever know such a saucy girl in your life?--Already to give herself these reproaching airs?"--"No, never, if your honour is pleased to call the most excellent lady in the world by such a name, nor any body else." "Pamela, I charge you," said the dear gentleman, "if you _study_ for it, be sometimes in the wrong, that one may not always be taking lessons from such an assurance; but in our turns, have something to teach _you_." "Then, dear Sir," said I, "must I not be a strange creature? For how, when you, and my good ladies, are continually giving me such charming examples, can I do a wrong thing?" I hope you will forgive me, my dear, for being so tedious on the foregoing subject, and its most agreeable conclusion. It is an important one, because several persons, as conferers or receivers, have found their pleasure and account in it; and it would be well, if conversation were often attended with like happy consequences. I have one merit to plead in behalf even of my prolixity; that in reciting the delightful conferences I have the pleasure of holding with our noble guests and Mr. B., I am careful not to write twice upon one topic, although several which I omit, may be more worthy of your notice than those I give; so that you have as much variety from me, as the nature of the facts and cases will admit of. But here I will conclude, having a very different subject, as a proof of what I have advanced, to touch in my next. Till when, I am _your most affectionate and faithful_, P.B. LETTER XXXIII My dear Miss Darnford, I now proceed with my journal, which I brought down to Tuesday evening; and of course I begin with WEDNESDAY. Towards evening came Sir Jacob Swynford, on horseback, attended by two servants in liveries. I was abroad; for I had got leave for a whole afternoon, attended by my Polly; which time I passed in visiting no less than four poor sick families, whose hearts I made glad. But I should be too tedious, were I to give you the particulars; besides, I have a brief list of cases, which, when you'll favour me with your company, I may shew you: for I oblige myself, though not desired, to keep an account of what I do with no less than two hundred pounds a year, that Mr. B. allows me to expend in acts of charity and benevolence. Lady Davers told me afterwards, that Sir Jacob carried it mighty stiff and formal when he alighted. He strutted about the court-yard in his boots, with his whip in his hand; and though her ladyship went to the great door, in order to welcome him, he turned short, and, whistling, followed the groom into the stable, as if he had been at an inn, only, instead of taking off his hat, pulling its broad brim over his eyes, for a compliment. In she went in a pet, as she says, saying to the countess, "A surly brute he always was! _My_ uncle! He's more of an ostler than a gentleman; I'm resolved I'll not stir to meet him again. And yet the wretch loves respect from others, though he never practises common civility himself." The countess said, she was glad he was come, for she loved to divert herself with such odd characters now-and-then. And now let me give you a short description of him as I found him, when I came in, that you may the better conceive what sort of a gentleman he is. He is about sixty-five years of age, a coarse, strong, big-boned man, with large irregular features; he has a haughty supercilious look, a swaggering gait, and a person not at all bespeaking one's favour in behalf of his mind; and his mind, as you shall hear by and bye, not clearing up those prepossessions in his disfavour, with which his person and features at first strike one. His voice is big and surly; his eyes little and fiery; his mouth large, with yellow and blackish teeth, what are left of them being broken off to a tolerable regular height, looked as if they were ground down to his gums, by constant use. But with all these imperfections, he has an air that sets him somewhat above the mere vulgar, and makes one think half his disadvantages rather owing to his own haughty humour, than to nature; for he seems to be a perfect tyrant at first sight, a man used to prescribe, and not to be prescribed to; and has the advantage of a shrewd penetrating look, but which seems rather acquired than natural. After he had seen his horses well served, and put on an old-fashioned gold-buttoned coat, which by its freshness shewed he had been very chary of it, a better wig, but in stiff buckle, and a long sword, stuck stiffly, as if through his coat lappets, in he came, and with an imperious air entering the parlour, "What, nobody come to meet me!" said he; and saluting her ladyship. "How do you do, niece?" and looked about haughtily, she says, as if he expected to see me. My lady presenting the countess, said, "The Countess of C., Sir Jacob!"--"Your most obedient humble servant, Madam. I hope his lordship is well."--"At your service, Sir Jacob." "I wish he was," said he, bluntly; "he should not have voted as he did last sessions, I can tell you that." "Why, Sir Jacob," said she, "_servants_, in this free kingdom, don't always do as their _masters_ would have 'em."--"_Mine_ do, I can tell you that. Madam." "Right or wrong, Sir Jacob?"--"It can't be wrong if I command them."--"Why, truly, Sir Jacob, there's many a private gentleman carries it higher to a servant, than he cares his _prince_ should to him; but I thought, till now, it was the king only that could do no wrong." "But I always take care to be right."--"A good reason--because, I dare say, you never think you can be in the wrong."--"Your ladyship should spare me: I'm but just come off a journey. Let me turn myself about, and I'll be up with you, never fear. Madam.--But where's my nephew, Lady Davers? And where's your lord? I was told you were all here, and young H. too upon a very extraordinary occasion; so I was willing to see how causes went among you. It will be long enough before you come to see me."--"My brother, and Lord Davers, and Mr. H. have all rode out."--"Well, niece," strutting with his hands behind him, and his head held up--"Ha!--He has made a fine kettle on't--han't he?--that ever such a rake should be so caught! They tell me, she's plaguy cunning, and quite smart and handsome. But I wish his father were living. Yet what could he have done? Your brother was always unmanageable. I wish he'd been my son; by my faith, I do! What! I hope, niece, he locks up his baby, while you're here? You don't keep her company, do you?" "Yes, Sir Jacob, I do: and you'll do so too, when you see her."--"Why, thou countenancest him in his folly, child: I'd a better opinion of thy spirit! Thou married to a lord, and thy brother to a--Can'st tell me what, Barbara? If thou can'st, pr'ythee do."--"To an angel; and so you'll say presently." "What, dost think I shall look through _his_ foolish eyes? What a disgrace to a family ancienter than the Conquest! _O Tempora! O Mores!_ What will this world come to?" The countess was diverted with this odd gentleman, but ran on in my praise, for fear he should say some rude things to me when I came in; and Lady Davers seconded her. But all signified nothing. He would tell us both his mind, let the young whelp (that was his word) take it as he would--"And pray," said he, "can't I see this fine body before he comes in? Let me but turn her round two or three times, and ask her a question or two; and by her answer I shall know what to think of her in a twinkling."--"She is gone to take a little airing, Sir Jacob, and won't be back till supper-time." "Supper-time! Why, she is not to sit at table, is she? If she does, I won't; that's positive. But now you talk of a supper, what have you?--I must have a boiled chicken, and shall eat it all myself. Who's housekeeper now? I suppose all's turned upside down." "No, there is not one new servant, except a girl that waits upon her own person: all the old ones remain."--"That's much! These creatures generally take as great state upon them as a born lady; and they're in the right. If they can make the man stoop to the great point, they'll hold his nose to the grind-stone: and all the little ones come about in course."--"Well, Sir Jacob, when you see her, you'll alter your mind."--"Never, never; that's positive." "Ay, Sir Jacob, I was as positive as you once; but I love her now as well as if she were my own sister." "O hideous, hideous! All the fools he has made wherever he has travelled, will clap their hands at him, and at you too, if you talk at this rate. But let me speak to Mrs. Jervis, if she be here: I'll order my own supper." So he went out, saying, he knew the house, though in a better mistress's days. The countess said, if Mr. B. as she hoped, kept his temper, there would be good diversion with the old gentleman. "O yes," said my lady, "my brother will, I dare say. He despises the surly brute too much to be angry with him, say what he will." He talked a great deal against me to Mrs. Jervis. You may guess, my dear, that she launched out in my praises; and he was offended at her, and said, "Woman! woman! forbear these ill-timed praises; her birth's a disgrace to our family. What! my sister's waiting-maid, taken upon charity! I cannot bear it." I mention all these things, as I afterwards heard them, because it shall prepare you to judge what a fine time I was likely to have of it. When Mr. B. and my Lord Davers, and Mr. H. came home, which they did about half an hour after six, they were told who was there, just as they entered the parlour; and Mr. B. smiled at Lord Davers, and entering, "Sir Jacob," said he, "welcome to Bedfordshire; and thrice welcome to this house; I rejoice to see you." My lady says, never was so odd a figure as the old baronet made, when thus accosted. He stood up indeed; but as Mr. B. offered to take his hand, he put 'em both behind him. "Not that you know of. Sir!" And then looking up at his face, and down at his feet, three or four times successively, "Are you my brother's son? That very individual son, that your good father used to boast of, and say, that for handsome person, true courage, noble mind, was not to be matched in any three counties in England?" "The very same, dear Sir, that my honoured father's partiality used to think he never praised enough." "And what is all of it come to at last?--He paid well, did he not, to teach you to know the world, nephew! hadst thou been born a fool, or a raw greenhead, or a doating greyhead--"--"What then, Sir Jacob?"--"Why then thou wouldst have done just as thou hast done!"--"Come, come, Sir Jacob, you know not my inducement. You know not what an angel I have in person and mind. Your eyes shall by and bye be blest with the sight of her: your ears with hearing her speak: and then you'll call all you have said, profanation."--"What is it I hear? You talk in the language of romance; and from the housekeeper to the head of the house, you're all stark staring mad. Nephew, I wish, for thy own credit, thou wert--But what signifies wishing?--I hope you'll not bring your syren into my company." "Yes, I will, Sir, because I love to give you pleasure. And say not a word more, for your own sake, till you see her. You'll have the less to unsay, Sir Jacob, and the less to repent of." "I'm in an enchanted castle, that's certain. What a plague has this little witch done to you all? And how did she bring it about?" The ladies and Lord Davers laughed, it seems; and Mr. B. begging him to sit down, and answer him some family questions, he said, (for it seems he is very captious at times), "What, am I to be laughed at!--Lord Davers, I hope _you're_ not bewitched, too, are you?"--"Indeed, Sir Jacob, I am. My sister B. is my doating-piece." "Whew!" whistled he, with a wild stare: "and how is it with you, youngster?"--"With me, Sir Jacob?" said Mr. H., "I'd give all I'm worth in the world, and ever shall be worth, for such another wife." He ran to the window, and throwing up the sash looking into the court-yard, said, "Hollo--So-ho! Groom--Jack--Jonas--Get me my horse!--I'll keep no such company!--I'll be gone! Why, Jonas!" calling again. "You're not in earnest, Sir Jacob," said Mr. B. "I am!--I'll away to the village this night! Why you're all upon the high game! I'll--But who comes here?"--For just then, the chariot brought me into the court-yard--"Who's this? who is she?"--"One of _my_ daughters," started up the countess; "my youngest daughter Jenny!--She's the pride of my family, Sir Jacob!"--"I was running; for I thought it was the grand enchantress." Out steps Lady Davers to me; "Dear Pamela," said she, "humour all that's said to you. Here's Sir Jacob come. You're the Countess of C.'s youngest daughter Jenny--That's your cue."--"Ah? but, Madam," said I, "Lady Jenny is not married," looking (before I thought) on a circumstance that I think too much of sometimes, though I carry it off as well as I can. She laughed at my exception: "Come, Lady Jenny," said she, (for I just entered the great door), "I hope you've had a fine airing."--"A very pretty one, Madam," said I, as I entered the parlour. "This is a pleasant country, Lady Davers." ("_Wink when I'm wrong," whispered I_), "Where's Mrs. B.?" Then, as seeing a strange gentleman, I started half back, into a more reserved air; and made him a low curt'sy. Sir Jacob looked as if he did not know what to think of it, now at me, now at Mr. B. who put him quite out of doubt, by taking my hand: "Well, Lady Jenny, did you meet my fugitive in your tour?" "No, Mr. B. Did she go my way? I told you I would keep the great road."--"Lady Jenny C.," said Mr. B., presenting me to his uncle. "A charming creature!" added he: "Have you not a son worthy of such an alliance?"--"Ay, nephew, this is a lady indeed! Why the plague," whispered he, "could you not have pitched your tent here? Miss, by your leave," and saluting me, turned to the countess. "Madam, you've a charming daughter! Had my rash nephew seen this lovely creature, and you condescended, he'd never have stooped to the cottage as he has done."--"You're right, Sir Jacob," said Mr. B.; "but I always ran too fast for my fortune: yet these ladies of family never bring out their jewels into bachelors' company; and when, too late, we see what we've missed, we are vexed at our precipitation." "Well said, however, boy. I wish thee repentance, though 'tis out of thy power to mend. Be that one of thy curses, when thou seest this lady; as no doubt it is." Again surveying me from head to foot, and turning me round, which, it seems, is a mighty practice with him to a stranger lady, (and a modest one too, you'll say, Miss)--"Why, truly, you're a charming creature, Miss--Lady Jenny I would say--By your leave, once more!--My Lady Countess, she is a charmer! But--but--" staring at me, "Are you married, Madam?" I looked a little silly; and my new mamma came up to me, and took my hand: "Why, Jenny, you are dressed oddly to-day!--What a hoop you wear; it makes you look I can't tell how!" "Madam, I thought so; what signifies lying?--But 'tis only the hoop, I see--Really, Lady Jenny, your hoop is enough to make half a hundred of our sex despair, lest you should be married. I thought it was something! Few ladies escape my notice. I always kept a good look-out; for I have two daughters of my own. But 'tis the hoop, I see plainly enough. You are so slender every where but _here_," putting his hand upon my hip which quite dashed me; and I retired behind my Lady Countess's chair. "Fie, Sir Jacob!" said Mr. B.; "before us young gentlemen, to take such liberties with a maiden lady! You give a bad example."--"Hang him that sets you a bad example, nephew. But I see you're right; I see Lady Jenny's a maiden lady, or she would not have been so shamefaced. I'll swear for her on occasion. Ha, ha, ha!--I'm sure," repeated he, "she's a maiden--For our sex give the married ladies a freer air in a trice."--"How, Sir Jacob!" said Lady Davers. "O fie!" said the countess. "Can't you praise the maiden ladies, but at the expense of the married ones! What do you see of freedom in me?"--"Or in me?" said Lady Davers. "Nay, for that matter you are very well, I must needs say. But will you pretend to blush with that virgin rose?--Od's my life, Miss--Lady Jenny I would say, come from behind your mamma's chair, and you two ladies stand up now together. There, so you do--Why now, blush for blush, and Lady Jenny shall be three to one, and a deeper crimson by half. Look you there else! An hundred guineas to one against the field." Then stamping with one foot, and lifting up his hands and eyes "Lady Jenny has it all to nothing--Ha, ha, ha! You may well sit down both of you; but you're a blush too late, I can tell you that. Well hast thou done. Lady Jenny," tapping my shoulder with his rough paw. I was hastening away, and he said, "But let's see you again, Miss; for now will I stay, if they bring nobody else." And away I went; for I was quite out of countenance, "What a strange creature," thought I, "is this!" Supper being near ready, he called out for Lady Jenny, for the sight of her, he said, did him good; but he was resolved not to sit down to table with _somebody else_. The countess said, she would fetch her daughter; and stepping out, returned saying, "Mrs. B. understands that Sir Jacob is here, and does not choose to see her; so she begs to be excused; and my Jenny and she desire to sup together." "The very worst tidings I have heard this twelvemonth. Why, nephew, let your girl sup with any body, so we may have Lady Jenny back with us."--"I know," said the countess, (who was desirous to see how far he could carry it), "Jenny won't leave Mrs. B.; so if you see _one_, you must see _t'other_."--"Nay, then I must sit down contented. Yet I should be glad to see Lady Jenny. But I will not sit at table with Mr. B.'s girl--that's positive." "Well, well, let 'em sup together, and there's an end of it," said Mr. B. "I see my uncle has as good a judgment as any body of fine ladies."--("_That I have, nephew._")--"But he can't forgo his humour, in compliment to the finest lady in England." "Consider, nephew, 'tis not thy doing a foolish thing, and calling a girl wife, shall cram a niece down my throat, that's positive. The moment she comes down to take place of these ladies, I am gone, that's most certain."--"Well then, shall I go up, and oblige Pamela to sup by herself, and persuade Lady Jenny to come down to us?"--"With all my soul, nephew,--a good notion.--But, Pamela--did you say?--A _queer_ sort of name! I have heard of it somewhere!--Is it a Christian or a Pagan name?--Linsey-woolsey--half one, half t'other--like thy girl--Ha, ha, ha."--"Let me be _hang'd_," whispered Mr. H. to his aunt, "if Sir Jacob has not a power of wit; though he is so whimsical with it. I like him much."--"But hark ye, nephew," said Sir Jacob, "one word with you. Don't fob upon us your girl with the Pagan name for Lady Jenny. I have set a mark upon her, and should know her from a thousand, although she had changed her hoop." Then he laughed again, and said, he hoped Lady Jenny would come--and without any body with her--"But I smell a plot," said he--"By my soul I won't stay, if they both come together. I won't be put upon--But here is one or both--Where's my whip?--I'll go."--"Indeed, Mr. B., I had rather have staid with Mrs. B.," said I, as I entered, as he had bid me. "'Tis she! 'tis she! You've nobody behind you!--No, she han't--Why now, nephew, you are right; I was afraid you'd have put a trick upon me.--You'd _rather_," repeated he to me, "have staid with Mrs. B.!--Yes, I warrant--But you shall be placed in better company, my dear child."--"Sister," said Mr. B., "will you take that chair; for Pamela does not choose to give my uncle disgust, who so seldom comes to see us." My lady took the upper end of the table, and I sat next below my new mamma. "So, Jenny," said she, "how have you left Mrs. B.?"--"A little concerned; but she was the easier, as Mr. B. himself desired I'd come down." My Lord Davers sat next me, and Sir Jacob said, "Shall I beg a favour of you, my lord, to let me sit next to Lady Jenny?" Mr. B. said, "Won't it be better to sit over-against her, uncle?"--"Ay, that's right. I' faith, nephew, thou know'st what's right. Well, so I will." He accordingly removed his seat, and I was very glad of it; for though I was sure to be stared at by him, yet I feared if he sat next me, he would not keep his hands off my hoop. He ran on a deal in my praises, after his manner, but so rough at times, that he gave me pain; and I was afraid too, lest he should observe my ring; but he stared so much in my face, that it escaped his notice. After supper, the gentlemen sat down to their bottle, and the ladies and I withdrew, and about twelve they broke up; Sir Jacob talking of nothing but Lady Jenny, and wished Mr. B. had happily married such a charming creature, who carried tokens of her high birth in her face, and whose every feature and look shewed her to be nobly descended. They let him go to bed with his mistake: but the countess said next morning, she thought she never saw a greater instance of stupid pride and churlishness; and should be sick of the advantage of birth or ancestry, if this was the natural fruit of it. "For a man," said her ladyship, "to come to his nephew's house, and to suffer the mistress of it to be closetted up (as he thinks), in order to humour his absurd and brutal insolence, and to behave as he has done, is such a ridicule upon the pride of descent, that I shall ever think of it.--O Mrs. B.," said she, "what advantages have you over every one that sees you; but most over those who pretend to treat you unworthily!" I expect to be called to breakfast every minute, and shall then, perhaps, see how this matter will end. I wish, when it is revealed, he may not be in a fury, and think himself imposed on. I fear it won't go off so well as I wish; for every body seems to be grave, and angry at Sir Jacob. THURSDAY. I now proceed with my tale. At breakfast-time, when every one was sat, Sir Jacob began to call out for Lady Jenny. "But," said he, "I'll have none of your girl, nephew: although the chair at the tea-table is left for somebody."--"No," said Mr. B., "we'll get Lady Jenny to supply Mrs. B.'s place, since you don't care to see her."--"With all my heart," replied he.--"But, uncle," said Mr. B., "have you really no desire, no curiosity to see the girl I have married?"--"No, none at all, by my soul." Just then I came in, and paying my compliments to the company, and to Sir Jacob--"Shall I," said I, "supply Mrs. B.'s place in her absence?" And down I sat. After breakfast, and the servants were withdrawn--"Lady Jenny," said Lady Davers, "you are a young lady, with all the advantages of birth and descent, and some of the best blood in the kingdom runs in your veins; and here Sir Jacob Swynford is your great admirer; cannot _you_, from whom it will come with a double grace, convince him that he acts unkindly at my brother's house, to keep the person he has thought worthy of making the mistress of it, out of company? And let us know your opinion, whether my brother himself does right, to comply with such an unreasonable distaste?"--"Why, how now, Lady Davers! This from you! I did not expect it!" "My uncle," said Mr. B., "is the only person in the kingdom that I would have humoured thus: and I made no doubt, when he saw how willing I was to oblige him in such a point, he would have acted a more generous part than he has yet done.--But, Lady Jenny, what say you to my sister's questions?" "If I must speak my mind," replied I, "I should take the liberty to be very serious with Sir Jacob, and to say, that when a thing is done, and cannot be helped, he should take care how he sows the seeds of indifference and animosity between man and wife, and makes a gentleman dissatisfied with his choice, and perhaps unhappy as long as he lives."--"Nay, Miss," said he, "if all are against me, and you, whose good opinion I value most, you may e'en let the girl come, and sit down.--If she is but half as pretty, and half as wise, and modest, as you, I shall, as it cannot be helped, as you say, be ready to think better of the matter. For 'tis a little hard, I must needs say, if she has hitherto appeared before all the good company, to keep her out of the way on my account."--"Really, Sir Jacob," said the countess, "I have blushed for you more than once on this occasion. But the mistress of this house is more than half as wise, and modest, and lovely: and in hopes you will return me back some of the blushes I have lent you, see _there_, in my daughter Jenny, whom you have been so justly admiring, the mistress of the house, and the lady with the Pagan name." Sir Jacob sat aghast, looking at us all in turn, and then cast his eyes on the floor. At last, up he got, and swore a sad oath: "And am I thus tricked and bamboozled," that was his word; "am I? There's no bearing this house, nor her presence, now, that's certain; and I'll begone." Mr. B. looking at me, and nodding his head towards Sir Jacob, as he was in a flutter to begone, I rose from my chair, and went to him, and took his hand. "I hope, Sir Jacob, you will be able to bear _both_, when you shall see no other difference but that of descent, between the supposed Lady Jenny you so kindly praised, and the girl your dear nephew has so much exalted."--"Let me go," said he; "I am most confoundedly bit. I cannot look you in the face! By my soul, I cannot! For 'tis impossible you should forgive me."--"Indeed it is not, Sir; you have done nothing but what I can forgive you for, if your dear nephew can; for to him was the wrong, if any, and I am sure he can overlook it. And for his sake, to the uncle of so honoured a gentleman, to the brother of my late good lady, I can, with a bent knee, _thus_, ask your blessing, and your excuse for joining to keep you in this suspense."--"Bless you!" said he, and stamped--"Who can choose but bless you?"-and he kneeled down, and wrapped his arms about me.--"But, curse me," that was his strange word, "if ever I was so touched before!" My dear Mr. B., for fear my spirits should be too much affected (for the rough baronet, in his transport, had bent me down lower than I kneeled), came and held my arm; but permitted Sir Jacob to raise me; only saying, "How does my angel? Now she has made this conquest, she has completed all her triumphs."--"Angel, did you call her?--I'm confounded with her goodness, and her sweet carriage!--Rise, and let me see if I can stand myself! And, believe me, I am sorry I have acted thus so much like a bear; and the more I think of it, the more I shall be ashamed of myself." And the tears, as he spoke, ran down his rough cheeks; which moved me much; for to see a man with so hard a countenance weep, was a touching sight. Mr. H. putting his handkerchief to his eyes, his aunt said, "What's the matter, Jackey?"--"I don't know how 'tis," answered he; "but here's strange doings, as ever I knew--For, day after day, one's ready to cry, without knowing whether it be for joy or sorrow!--What a plague's the matter with me, I wonder!" And out he went, the two ladies, whose charming eyes, too, glistened with pleasure, smiling at the effect the scene had upon Mr. H. and at what he said.--"Well, Madam," said Sir Jacob, approaching me; for I had sat down, but then stood up--"You will forgive me; and from my heart I wish you joy. By my soul I do,"--and saluted me.--"I could not have believed there had been such a person breathing. I don't wonder at my nephew's loving you!--And you call her sister, Lady Davers, don't you?--If you do, I'll own her for my niece." "Don't I!--Yes, I do," said she, coming to me, "and am proud so to call her. And this I tell you, for _your_ comfort, though to _my own shame_, that I used her worse than you have done, before I knew her excellence; and have repented of it ever since." I bowed to her ladyship, and kissed her hand--"My dearest lady," said I, "you have made me such rich amends since, that I am sure I may say, '_It was good for me that I was afflicted!_'"--"Why, nephew, she has the fear of God, I perceive, before her eyes too! I'm sure I've heard those words. They are somewhere in the Scripture, I believe!--Why, who knows but she may be a means to save your soul!--Hey, you know!"--"Ay, Sir Jacob, she'll be a means to save a hundred souls, and might go a great way to save yours if you were to live with her but one month." "Well, but, nephew, I hope you forgive me too; for now I think of it, I never knew you take any matter so patiently in my life."--"I knew," said Mr. B., "that every extravagance you insisted upon, was heightening my charmer's triumph, and increasing your own contrition; and, as I was not _indeed_ deprived of her company, I could bear with every thing you said or did--Yet, don't you remember my caution, that the less you said against her, the less you'd have to unsay, and the less to repent of!" "I do; and let me ride out, and call myself to account for all I have said against her, in her own hearing; and when I can think of but one half, and how she has taken it, by my soul, I believe 'twill make me _more_ than half mad." At dinner (when we had Mr. Williams's company), the baronet told me, he admired me now, as much as when he thought me Lady Jenny; but complained of the trick put upon him by us all, and seemed now and then a little serious upon it. He took great notice of the dexterity which he imputed to me, in performing the honours of the table. And every now and then, he lifted up his eyes--"Very clever.--Why, Madam, you seem to me to be born to these things!--I will be helped by nobody but you--And you'll have a task of it, I can tell you; for I have a whipping stomach, and were there fifty dishes, I always taste of every one." And, indeed, John was in a manner wholly employed in going to and fro between the baronet and me, for half an hour together.--He went from us afterwards to Mrs. Jervis, and made her answer many questions about me, and how all these matters had _come about_, as he phrased it; and returning, when we drank coffee, said, "I have been _confabbing_ with Mrs. Jervis, about you, niece. I never heard the like! She says you can play on the harpsichord, and sing too; will you let a body have a tune or so? My Mab can play pretty well, and so can Dolly; I'm a judge of music, and would fain hear you." I said, if he was a judge, I should be afraid to play before him; but I would not be asked twice, after our coffee. Accordingly he repeated his request. I gave him a tune, and, at his desire, sung to it: "Od's my life," said he, "you do it purely!--But I see where it is. My girls have got _my_ fingers!" Then he held both hands out, and a fine pair of paws shewed he. "Plague on't, they touch two keys at once; but those slender and nimble fingers, how they sweep along! My eye can't follow 'em--Whew," whistled he, "they are here and there, and every where at once!--Why, nephew, I believe you have put another trick upon me. My niece is certainly of quality! And report has not done her justice.--One more tune, one more song--By my faith, your voice goes sweetly to your fingers. 'Slife--I'll thrash my jades," that was his polite phrase, "when I get home.--Lady Davers, you know not the money they have cost me to qualify them; and here's a mere baby to them outdoes 'em by a bar's length, without any expense at all bestowed upon her. Go over that again--Confound me for a puppy! I lost it by my prating.--Ay, there you have it! Oh! that I could but dance as well as thou sing'st! I'd give you a saraband, old as I am." After supper, we fell into a conversation, of which I must give you some account, being on a topic that Mr. B. has been blamed for in his marrying me, and which has stuck by some of his friends, even after they have, in kindness to me, acquitted him in every other respect; and that is, _the example he has set to young gentlemen of family and fortune to marry beneath them_.--It was begun by Sir Jacob, who said, "I am in love with my new niece, that I am: but still one thing sticks with me in this affair, which is, what will become of degree or distinction, if this practice of gentlemen marrying their mothers' waiting-maids--excuse me, Madam--should come into vogue? Already, young ladies and young gentlemen are too apt to be drawn away thus, and disgrace their families. We have too many instances of this. You'll forgive me, both of you." "That," said Lady Davers, "is the _only_ thing!--Sir Jacob has hit upon the point that would make one wish this example had not been set by a gentleman of such an ancient family, till one becomes acquainted with this dear creature; and then every body thinks it should not be otherwise than it is." "Ay, Pamela," said Mr. B., "what can you say to this? Cannot you defend me from this charge? This is a point that has been often objected to me; try for one of your pretty arguments in my behalf." "Indeed, Sir," replied I, looking down, "it becomes not me to say any thing to this."--"But indeed it does, if you can: and I beg you'll help me to some excuse, if you have any at hand."--"Won't you. Sir, dispense with me on this occasion? I know, not what to say. Indeed I should not, if I may judge for myself, speak one _word_ to this subject.--For it is my absolute opinion, that degrees in general should be kept up; although I must always deem the present case an happy exception to the rule." Mr. B. looked as if he still expected I should say something.--"Won't you, Sir, dispense with me?" repeated I. "Indeed I should not speak to this point, if I may be my own judge." "I always intend, my dear, you shall judge for yourself; and, you know, I seldom urge you farther, when you use those words. But if you have any thing upon your mind to say, let's have it; for your arguments are always new and unborrowed." "I would then, if I _must_, Sir, ask, if there be not a nation, or if there has not been a law in some nation, which, whenever a young gentleman, be _his_ degree what it would, has seduced a poor creature, be _her_ degree what it would, obliges him to marry that unhappy person?"--"I think there is such a law in some country, I can't tell where," said Sir Jacob. "And do you think, Sir, whether it be so or not, that it is equitable it should be so?" "Yes, by my troth. Though I must needs own, if it were so in England, many men, that I know, would not have the wives they now have."--"You speak to your knowledge, I doubt not, Sir Jacob?" said Mr. B. "Why, truly--I don't know but I do." "All then," said I, "that I would infer, is, whether another law would not be a still more just and equitable one, that the gentleman who is repulsed, from a principle of virtue and honour, should not be censured for marrying a person he could _not_ seduce? And whether it is not more for both their honours, if he does: since it is nobler to reward a virtue, than to repair a shame, were that shame to be repaired by matrimony, which I take the liberty to doubt. But I beg pardon: you commanded me, Sir, else this subject should not have found a speaker to it, in me." "This is admirably said," cried Sir Jacob.--"But yet this comes not up to the objection," said Mr. B. "The setting an example to waiting-maids to aspire, and to young gentlemen to descend. And I will enter into the subject myself; and the rather, because as I go along, I will give Sir Jacob a faint sketch of the merit and character of my Pamela, of which he cannot be so well informed as he has been of the disgrace which he imagined I had brought upon myself by marrying her.--I think it necessary, that as well those persons who are afraid the example should be taken, as those who are inclined to follow it, should consider _all_ the material parts of it; otherwise, I think the precedent may be justly cleared; and the fears of the one be judged groundless, and the plea of the other but a pretence, in order to cover a folly into which they would have fallen, whether they had this example or not. For instance, in order to lay claim to the excuses, which my conduct, if I may suppose it of force enough to do either good or hurt, will furnish, it is necessary, that the object of their wish should be a girl of exquisite beauty (and that not only in their own blinded and partial judgments, but in the opinion of _every one_ who sees her, friend or foe), in order to justify the force which the _first_ attractions have upon him: that she be descended of honest and conscientious, though poor and obscure parents; who having preserved their integrity, through great trials and afflictions, have, by their examples, as well as precepts, laid deep in the girl's mind the foundations of piety and virtue. "It is necessary that, to the charms of person, this waiting-maid, should have an humble, teachable mind, fine natural parts, a sprightly, yet inoffensive wit, a temper so excellent, and a judgment so solid, as should promise (by the love and esteem these qualities should attract to herself from her fellow-servants, superior and inferior) that she would become a higher station, and be respected in it.--And that, after so good a foundation laid by her parents, she should have all the advantages of female education conferred upon her; the example of an excellent lady, improving and building upon so worthy a foundation: a capacity surprisingly ready to take in all that is taught her: an attention, assiduity, and diligence almost peculiar to herself, at her time of life; so as, at fifteen or sixteen years of age, to be able to vie with any young ladies of rank, as well in the natural genteelness of her person, as in her acquirements: and that in nothing but her humility she should manifest any difference between herself and the high-born. "It will be necessary, moreover, that she should have a mind above temptation; that she should resist the _offers_ and _menaces_ of one upon whom all her worldly happiness seemed to depend; the son of a lady to whom she owed the greatest obligations; a person whom she did not _hate_, but greatly _feared_, and whom her grateful heart would have been _glad_ to oblige; and who sought to prevail over her virtue, by all the inducements that could be thought of, to _attract_ a young unexperienced virgin at one time, or to _frighten_ her at another, into his purposes; who offered her very high terms, her circumstances considered, as well for herself, as for parents she loved better than herself, whose circumstances were low and distressful; yet, to all these _offers_ and _menaces_, that she should be able to answer in such words as these, which will always dwell upon my memory--'I reject your proposals with all my soul. May God desert me, whenever I make worldly grandeur my chiefest good! I know I am in your power; I dread your will to ruin me is as great as your power. Yet, will I dare to tell you, I will make no free-will offering of my virtue. All that I _can_ do, poor as it is, I _will_ do, to shew you, that my will bore no part in the violation of me.' And when future marriage was intimated to her, to induce her to yield, to be able to answer, 'The moment I yield to your proposals, there is an end of all merit, if now I have any. And I should be so far from _expecting_ such an honour that I will pronounce I should be most _unworthy_ of it.' "If, I say, such a girl can be found, thus beautifully attractive in _every one's_ eye, and not partially so only in a young gentle man's _own_; and after that (what good persons would infinitely prefer to beauty), thus piously principled; thus genteely educated and accomplished; thus brilliantly witty; thus prudent, modest, generous, undesigning; and having been thus tempted, thus tried, by the man she hated not, pursued (not intriguingly pursuing), be thus inflexibly virtuous, and proof against temptation: let her reform her libertine, and let him marry her; and were he of princely extraction, I dare answer for it, that no _two_ princes in _one age_, take the world through, would be in danger. For, although I am sensible it is not to my credit, I will say, that I never met with a repulse, nor a conduct like this; and yet I never sunk very low for the subjects of my attempts, either at home or abroad. These are obvious inferences," added he, "not refinements upon my Pamela's story; and if the gentlemen were capable of thought and comparison, would rather make such an example, as is apprehended, _more_ than _less_ difficult than _before_. "But if, indeed, the young fellow be such a booby, that he cannot _reflect_ and _compare_, and take the case _with all its circumstances_ together, I think his good papa or mamma should get him a wife to their own liking, as soon as possible; and the poorest girl in England, who is honest, should rather bless herself for escaping such a husband, than glory in the catch she would have of him. For he would hardly do honour to his family in any one instance."--"Indeed," said the countess, "it would be pity, after all, that such an one should marry any lady of prudence and birth; for 'tis enough in conscience, that he is a disgrace to _one_ worthy family; it would be pity he should make _two_ unhappy." "Why, really, nephew," said Sir Jacob, "I think you have said much to the purpose. There is not so much danger, from the example, as I apprehended, from _sensible_ and _reflecting_ minds. I did not consider this matter thoroughly, I must needs say." "And the business is," said Lady Davers--"You'll excuse me, sister--There will be more people hear that Mr. B. has married his mother's waiting-maid, than will know his inducements."--"Not many, I believe, sister. For when 'tis known, I have some character in the world, and am not quite an idiot (and my faults, in having not been one of the most virtuous of men, will stand me in some stead in _this_ case, though hardly in _any other_) they will naturally enquire into my inducements.--But see you not, when we go abroad, what numbers of people her character draws to admire the dear creature? Does not this shew, that her virtue has made her more conspicuous than my fortune has made me? For I passed up and down quietly enough before (handsome as my equipage always was) and attracted not any body's notice: and indeed I had as lieve these honours were not so publicly paid _her_; for even, were I fond to shew and parade, what are they, but a reproach to me? And can I have any excellence, but a secondary one, in having, after all my persecutions of her, done but common justice to her merit?--This answers your objection, Lady Davers, and shews that _my_ inducements and _her_ story must be equally known. And I really think (every thing I have said considered, and that might still farther be urged, and the conduct of the dear creature in the station she adorns, so much exceeding all I hoped or could expect from the most promising appearances), that she does _me_ more honour than I have done _her_; and if I could put myself in a third person's place, I think I should be of the same opinion, were I to determine upon such another pair, exactly circumstanced as we are." You may believe, my friend, how much this generous defence of the step he had taken, attributing every thing to me, and deprecating his worthy self, affected me. I played with a cork one while, with my rings another; looking down, and every way but on the company; for they gazed too much upon me all the time; so that I could only glance a tearful eye now and then upon the dear man; and when it would overflow, catch in my handkerchief the escaped fugitives that would start unbidden beyond their proper limits, though I often tried, by a twinkling motion, to disperse the gathering water, before it had formed itself into drops too big to be restrained. All the company praised the dear generous speaker; and he was pleased to say farther, "Although, my good friends, I can truly say, that with all the pride of family, and the insolence of fortune, which once made me doubt whether I should not sink too low, if I made my Pamela my mistress (for I should then have treated her not ungenerously, and should have suffered her, perhaps, to call herself by my name), I have never once repented of what I have done; on the contrary, always rejoiced in it, and it has been, from the first day of our marriage, my pride and my boast (and shall be, let others say what they will), that I can call such an excellence, and such a purity, which I so little deserve, mine; and I look down with contempt upon the rashness of all who reflect upon me; for they can have no notion of my happiness or her merit." "O dear Sir, how do you overrate my poor merit!--Some persons are happy in a life of _comforts_, but mine's a life of _joy!_--One rapturous instance follows another so fast, that I know not how to bear them." "Whew!" whistled Sir Jacob. "Whereabouts am I?--I hope by-and-by you'll come down to our pitch, that one may put in a word or two with you." "May you be long thus blest and happy together!" said Lady Davers. "I know not which to admire most, the dear girl that never was bad, or the dear man, who, having been bad, is now so good!" Said Lord Davers, "There is hardly any bearing these moving scenes, following one another so quick, as my sister says." The countess was pleased to say, that till now she had been at a loss to form any notion of the happiness of the first pair before the Fall; but now, by so fine an instance as this, she comprehended it in all its force. "God continue you to one another," added she, "for a credit to the state, and to human nature." Mr. H., having his elbows on the table, folded his hands, shaking them, and looking down--"Egad, this is uncommon life, that it is! Your two souls, I can see that, are like well-tuned instruments; but they are too high set for me, a vast deal." "The best thing," said Lady Davers (always severe upon her poor nephew), "thou ever saidst. The music must be equal to that of Orpheus, which can make such a savage as thee dance to it. I charge thee, say not another word tonight."--"Why, indeed, aunt," returned he, laughing, "I believe it _was_ pretty well said for your foolish fellow: though it was by chance, I must confess; I did not think of it."--"That I believe," replied my lady; "if thou hadst, thou'dst not have spoken so well." Sir Jacob and Mr. B. afterwards fell into a family discourse; and Sir Jacob told us of two or three courtships by his three sons, and to his two daughters, and his reasons for disallowing them: and I could observe, he is an absolute tyrant in his family, though they are all men and women grown, and he seemed to please himself how much they stood in awe of him. I would not have been so tediously trifling, but for the sake of my dear parents; and there is so much self-praise, as it may seem, from a person on repeating the fine things said of herself, that I am half of opinion I should send them to Kent only, and to think you should be obliged to me for saving you so much trouble and impertinence. Do, dear Miss, be so free as to forbid me to send you any more long journals, but common letters only, of how you do? and who and who's together, and of respects to one another, and so forth--letters that one might dispatch, as Sir Jacob says, in a _twinkling_, and perhaps be more to the purpose than the tedious scrawl which kisses your hands, from _yours most sincerely_, P.B. Do, dear good Sir Simon, let Miss Polly add to our delights, by her charming company. Mr. Murray, and the new affair will divert _you_, in her absence.--So pray, since my good Lady Darnford has consented, and she is willing, and her sister can spare her; don't be so cross as to deny me. * * * * * LETTER XXXIV _From Miss Damford to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR MRS. B., You have given us great pleasure in your accounts of your conversations, and of the verses put so wickedly under your seat; and in your just observations on the lines, and occasions. I am quite shocked, when I think of Lady Davers's passionate intentions at the hall, but have let nobody into the worst of the matter, in compliance with your desire. We are delighted with the account of your family management, and your Sunday's service. What an excellent lady you are! And how happy and good you make all who know you, is seen by the ladies joining in your evening service, as well as their domestics. We go on here swimmingly with our courtship. Never was there a fonder couple than Mr. Murray and Miss Nancy. The modest girl is quite alive, easy, and pleased, except now-and-then with me. We had a sad falling out t'other day. Thus it was:--She had the assurance, on my saying, they were so fond and free before-hand, that they would leave nothing for improvement afterwards, to tell me, she had long perceived, that my envy was very disquieting to me. This she said before Mr. Murray, who had the good manners to retire, seeing a storm rising between us. "Poor foolish girl!" cried I, when he was gone, provoked to great contempt by her expression before him, "thou wilt make me despise thee in spite of my heart. But, pr'ythee, manage thy matters with common decency, at least."--"Good lack! _Common decency_, did you say? When my sister Polly is able to shew me what it is, I shall hope to be better for her example."--"No, thou'lt never be better for any body's example! Thy ill-nature and perverseness will continue to keep thee from that."--"My ill-temper, you have often told me, is _natural_ to me; so it must become _me:_ but upon such a sweet-tempered young lady as Miss Polly, her late assumed petulance sits but ill!" "I must have had no bad temper, and that every one says, to bear with thy sullen and perverse one, as I have done all my life." "But why can't you bear with it a little longer, sister? Does any thing provoke you _now_" (with a sly leer and affected drawl) "that did not _formerly?_" "Provoke me!--What should provoke me? I gave thee but a hint of thy fond folly, which makes thee behave so before company, that every one smiles at thee; and I'd be glad to save thee from contempt for thy _new_ good humour, as I used to try to do, for thy _old_ bad nature." "Is that it? What a kind sister have I! But I see it vexes you; and _ill-natured_ folks love to teaze, you know. But, dear Polly, don't let the affection Mr. Murray expresses for me, put such a good-tempered body out of humour, pray don't--Who knows" (continued the provoker, who never says a tolerable thing that is not ill-natured) "but the gentleman may be happy that he has found a way, with so much ease, to dispense with the difficulty that eldership laid him under? But, as he did you the favour to let the repulse come from you, don't be angry, sister, that he took you at the first word." "Indeed," said I, with a contemptuous smile, "thou'rt in the right, Nancy, to take the gentleman at _his_ first word. Hold him fast, and play over all thy monkey tricks with him, with all my heart; who knows but it may engage him more? For, should _he_ leave thee, I might be too much provoked at thy ingratitude, _to turn over_ another gentleman to thee. And let me tell thee, without such an introduction, thy temper would keep any body from thee, that knows it!" "Poor Miss Polly--Come, be as easy as you can! Who knows but we may find out some cousin or friend of Mr. Murray's between us, that we may persuade to address you? Don't make us your enemies: we'll try to make you easy, if we can. 'Tis a little hard, that you should be so cruelly taken at your word, that it is."--"Dost think," said I, "poor, stupid, ill-judging Nancy, that I can have the same regret for parting with a man I could not like, that thou hadst, when thy vain hopes met with the repulse they deserved from Mr. B.?"--"Mr. B. come up again? I have not heard of him a great while."--"No, but it was necessary that one nail should drive out another; for thou'dst been repining still, had not Mr. Murray been _turned over_ to thee."--"_Turned over!_ You used that word once before: such great wits as you, methinks, should not use the same word twice." "How dost thou know what wits _should_ or should _not_ do? Thou hast no talent but ill-nature; and 'tis enough for thee, that _one_ view takes up thy whole thought. Pursue that--But I would only caution thee, not to _satiate_ where thou wouldst _oblige_, that's all; or, if thy man can be so gross as to like thy fondness, to leave something for _hereafter_." "I'll call him in again, sister, and you shall acquaint us how you'd have it. Bell" (for the maid came in just then), "tell Mr. Murray I desire him to walk in."--"I'm glad to see thee so teachable all at once!--I find now what was the cause of thy constant perverseness: for had the unavailing lessons my mamma was always inculcating into thee, come from a _man_ thou couldst have had hopes of, they had succeeded better." In came Sir Simon with his crutch-stick--But can you bear this nonsense, Mrs. B.?--"What sparring, jangling again, you sluts!--O what fiery eyes on one side! and contemptuous looks on t'other!" "Why, papa, my sister Polly has _turned over_ Mr. Murray to me, and she wants him back again, and he won't come--That's all the matter!" "You know Nancy, papa, never could _bear_ reproof, and yet would always _deserve_ it!--I was only gently remarking for her instruction, on her fondness before company, and she is as she _used to be!_--Courtship, indeed, is a new thing to the poor girl, and so she knows not how to behave herself in it." "So, Polly, because you have been able to run over a long list of humble servants, you must insult your sister, must you?--But are you really concerned, Polly?--Hey!"--"Sir, this or anything is very well from you. But these imputations of envy, before Mr. Murray, must make the man very considerable with himself. Poor Nancy don't consider that. But, indeed, how should she? How should _she_ be able to reflect, who knows not what reflection is, except of the spiteful sort? But, papa, should the poor thing add to _his_ vanity, which wants no addition, at the expense of that pride, which can only preserve her from contempt?" I saw her affected, and was resolved to pursue my advantage. "Pr'ythee, Nancy," continued I, "canst thou not have a _little_ patience, child--My papa will set the day as soon as he shall think it proper. And don't let thy man toil to keep pace with thy fondness; for I have pitied him many a time, when I have seen him stretched on the tenters to keep thee in countenance." This set the ill-natured girl in tears and fretfulness; all her old temper came upon her, as I designed it should, for she had kept me at bay longer than usual; and I left her under the dominion of it, and because I would not come into fresh dispute, got my mamma's leave, and went in the chariot, to beg a dinner at Lady Jones's; and then came home as cool and as easy as I used to be; and found Nancy as sullen and silent, as was her custom, before Mr. Murray tendered himself to her ready acceptance. But I went to my spinnet, and suffered her to swell on. We have said nothing but No and Yes ever since; and I wish I was with you for a month, and all their nonsense over without me. I am, my dear, obliging, and excellent Mrs. B., _your faithful and affectionate_ Polly Darnford. The two following anticipating the order of time, for the reasons formerly mentioned, we insert here. * * * * * LETTER XXXV _From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR MRS. B., Pray give my service to your Mr. B. and tell him he is very impolite in his reflections upon me, as to Mr. Murray, when he supposes I regret the loss of him. You are much more favourable and _just_ too, I will say, to your Polly Damford. These gentlemen, the very best of them, are such indelicates! They think so highly of their saucy selves, and confident sex, as if a lady cannot from _her_ heart despise them; but if she turns them off, as they deserve, and continues her dislike, what should be interpreted in her favour, as a just and _regular_ conduct, is turned against her, and it must proceed from spite. Mr. B. may think he knows much of the sex. But were I as malicious as he is reflecting (and yet, if I have any malice, he has raised it), I could say, that his acquaintance, was not with the most unexceptionable, till he knew you: and he has not long enough been happy in you, I find, to do justice to those who are proud to emulate your virtues. I say, Mrs. B., there can be no living with these men upon such beginnings. They ought to know their distance, or be taught it, and not to think it in their power to confer that as a favour, which they should esteem it an honour to receive. But neither can I bear, it seems, the preparatives to matrimony, the fine clothes, the compliments, the _busy novelty_, as he calls it, the new equipages, and so forth. That's his mistake again, tell him: for one who can look forwarder than the nine days of wonder, can easily despise so flashy and so transient a glare. And were I fond of compliments, it would not, perhaps, be the way to be pleased, in that respect, if I were to marry. Compliments in the single state are a lady's due, whether courted or not; and she receives, or ought always to receive them, as such; but in courtship they are poured out upon one, like a hasty shower, soon to be over. A mighty comfortable consideration this, to a lady who _loves to be complimented_! Instead of the refreshing April-like showers, which beautify the sun-shine, she shall stand a deluge of complaisance, be wet to the skin with it; and what then? Why be in a Lybian desert ever after!--experience a constant parching drought and all her attributed excellencies will be swallowed up in the quicksands of matrimony. It may be otherwise with you; and it _must_ be so; because there is such an infinite variety in your excellence. But does Mr. B. think it must be so in _every_ matrimony? 'Tis true, he improves every hour, as I see in his fine speeches to you. But it could not be Mr. B. if he did not: your merit _extorts_ it from him: and what an ungrateful, as well as absurd churl, would he be, who should seek to obscure a meridian lustre, that dazzles the eyes of every one else? I thank you for your delightful narratives, and beg you to continue them. I told you how your Saturday's conversation with Lady Davers, and your Sunday employments, charm us all: so regular, and so easy to be performed--That's the delightful thing--What every body may do;-and yet so beautiful, so laudable, so uncommon in the practice, especially among people in genteel life!--Your conversation and decision in relation to the two parsons (more than charm) transport us. Mr. B. judges right, and acts a charming part, to throw such a fine game into your hands. And so excellently do you play it, that you do as much credit to your partner's judgment as to your own. Never was so happy a couple. Mr. Williams is more my favourite than ever; and the amply rewarded Mr. Adams, how did that scene affect us! Again and again, I say (for what can I say else or more--since I can't find words to speak all I think?), you're a charming lady! Yet, methinks, poor Mr. H. makes but a sorry figure among you. We are delighted with Lady Davers; but still more, if possible, with the countess: she is a fine lady, as you have drawn her: but your characters, though truth and nature, are the most shocking, or the most amiable, that I ever read. We are full of impatience to hear of the arrival of Sir Jacob Swynford. We know his character pretty well: but when he has sat for it to your pencil, it must be an original indeed. I will have another trial with my papa, to move him to let me attend you. I am rallying my forces, and have got my mamma on my side again; who is concerned to see her girl vexed and insulted by her younger sister; and who yet minds no more what _she_ says to her, than what I say; and Sir Simon loves to make mischief between us, instead of interposing to silence either: and truly, I am afraid his delight of this kind will make him deny his Polly what she so ardently wishes for. I had a good mind to be sick, to be with you. I could fast two or three days, to give it the better appearance; but then my mamma, who loves not deceit, would blame me, if she knew my stratagem; and be grieved, if she thought I was really ill. I know, fasting, when one has a stomach to eat, gives one a very gloomy and mortified air. What would I not do, in short, to procure to myself the inexpressible pleasure that I should have in your company and conversation? But continue to write to me till then, however, and that will be _next best_. I am _your most obliged and obedient_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER XXXVI From the same. My Dearest Mrs. B., I am all over joy and rapture. My good papa permits me to say, that he will put his Polly under your protection, when you go to London. If you have but a _tenth part_ of the pleasure I have on this occasion, I am sure, I shall be as welcome as I wish. But he will insist upon it, he says, that Mr. B. signs some acknowledgment, which I am to carry along with _me_, that I am intrusted to his honour and yours, and to be returned to him _heart-whole_ and _dutiful_, and with a reputation as unsullied as he receives me. But do continue your journals till then; for I have promised to take them up where you leave off, to divert our friends here. There will be presumption! But yet I will write nothing but what I will shew you, and have your consent to send! For I was taught early not to tell tales out of school; and a school, the best I ever went to, will be your charming conversation. We were greatly diverted with the trick put upon that _barbarian_ Sir Jacob. His obstinacy, repentance, and amendment, followed so irresistibly in one half hour, from the happy thought of the excellent lady countess, that I think no plot was ever more fortunate. It was like springing a lucky mine in a siege, that blew up twenty times more than was expected from it, and answered all the besiegers' ends at once. Mr. B.'s defence of his own conduct towards you is quite noble; and he judges with his usual generosity and good sense, when, by adding to your honour, he knows he enhances his own. You bid me skim over your writings lightly; but 'tis impossible. I will not flatter you, my dear Mrs. B., nor will I be suspected to do so; and yet I cannot find words to praise, so much as I think you deserve: so I will only say that your good parents, for whose pleasure you write, as well as for mine, cannot receive or read them with more delight than I do. Even my sister Nancy (judge of their effect by this!) will at any time leave Murray, and forget to frown or be ill-natured, while she can hear read what you write. And, angry as she makes me some times, I cannot deny her this pleasure, because possibly, among the innumerable improving reflections they abound with, some one may possibly dart in upon her, and illuminate her, as your conversation and behaviour did Sir Jacob. But your application in P.S. to my papa pleased him; and confirmed his resolution to let me go. He snatched the sheet that contained this, "That's to me," said he: "I must read this myself." He did, and said, "She's a sweet one: '_Do dear good Sir Simon_,'" repeated he aloud, "'_let Miss Polly add to our delights!_' So she shall, then;--if that will do it!--And yet this same Mrs. B. has so many delights already, that I should think she might be contented. But, Dame Darnford, I think I'll let her go. These sisters then, you'll see, how they'll love at a distance, though always quarrelling when together." He read on, "'_The new affair will divert you--Lady Darnford has consented--Miss is willing; and her sister can spare her;'_--Very prettily put, faith--'_And don't you be cross_'--Very sweet '_to deny me_.'--Why, dear Mrs. B., I won't be so cross then; indeed I won't!--And so, Polly, let 'em send word when they set out for London, and you shall join 'em there with all my heart; but I'll have a letter every post, remember that, girl." "Any thing, any thing, dear papa," said I: "so I can but go!" He called for a kiss, for his compliance. I gave it most willingly, you may believe. Nancy looked envious, although Mr. Murray came in just then. She looked almost like a great glutton, whom I remember; one Sir Jonathan Smith, who killed himself with eating: he used, while he was heaping up his plate from one dish, to watch the others, and follow the knife of every body else with such a greedy eye, as if he could swear a robbery against any one who presumed to eat as well as he. Well, let's know when you set out, and you shan't have been a week in London, if I can help it, but you shall be told by my tongue, as now by my pen, how much I am _your obliged admirer and friend_, POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER XXXVII MY DEAR FRIEND, I now proceed with my journal, which I had brought down to Thursday night. FRIDAY. The two ladies resolving, as they said, to inspect all my proceedings, insisted upon it, that I would take them with me in my _benevolent round_ (as they, after we returned, would call it), which I generally take once a week, among my poor and sick neighbours; and finding I could not get off, I set out with them, my lady countess proposing Mrs. Worden to fill up the fourth place in the coach. We talked all the way of charity, and the excellence of that duty; and my Lady Davers took notice of the text, that it would hide a _multitude of faults_. The countess said she had once a much better opinion of herself, than she found she had reason for, within these _few_ days past: "And indeed, Mrs. B.," said she, "when I get home, I shall make a good many people the better for your example." And so said Lady Davers; which gave me no small inward pleasure; and I acknowledged, in suitable terms, the honour they both did me. The coach set us down by the side of a large common, about five miles distant from our house; and we alighted, and walked a little way, choosing not to have the coach come nearer, that we might be taken as little notice of as possible; and they entered with me into two mean cots with great condescension and goodness; one belonging to a poor widow and five children, who had been all down in agues and fevers; the other to a man and his wife bed-rid with age and infirmities, and two honest daughters, one a widow with two children, the other married to an husbandman, who had also been ill, but now, by comfortable cordials, and good physic, were pretty well to what they had been. The two ladies were well pleased with my demeanour to the good folks: to whom I said, that as I should go so soon to London, I was willing to see them before I went, to wish them better and better, and to tell them, that I should leave orders with Mrs. Jervis concerning them, to whom they must make known their wants: and that Mr. Barrow would take care of them, I was sure; and do all that was in the power of physic for the restoration of their healths. Now you must know, Miss, that I am not so good as the old ladies of former days, who used to distil cordial waters, and prepare medicines, and dispense them themselves. I knew, if I were so inclined, my dear Mr. B. would not have been pleased with it, because in the approbation he has kindly given to my present method, he has twice or thrice praised me, that I don't carry my charity to extremes, and make his house a dispensatory. I would not, therefore, by aiming at doing too much, lose the opportunity of doing any good at all in these respects; and besides, as the vulgar saying is, One must creep before one goes. But this is my method: I am upon an agreement with this Mr. Barrow, who is deemed a very skilful and honest apothecary, and one Mr. Simmonds, a surgeon of like character, to attend to all such cases and persons as I shall recommend; Mr. Barrow, to administer physic and cordials, as he shall judge proper, and even, in necessary cases, to call in a physician. And now and then, by looking in upon them one's self, or sending a servant to ask questions, all is kept right. My Lady Davers observed a Bible, a Common Prayer-book, and a Whole Duty of Man, in each cot, in leathern outside cases, to keep them clean, and a Church Catechism or two for the children; and was pleased to say, it was right; and her ladyship asked one of the children, a pretty girl, who learnt her her catechism? And she curtsey'd and looked at me; for I do ask the children questions, when I come, to know how they improve; "'Tis as I thought," said my lady; "my sister provides for both parts. God bless you, my dear!" said she, and tapped my neck. My ladies left tokens of their bounty behind them to both families, and all the good folks blessed and prayed for us at parting: and as we went out, my Lady Davers, with a serious air, was pleased to say to me, "Take care of your health, my dear sister; and God give you, when it comes, a happy hour: for how many real mourners would you have, if you were to be called early to reap the fruits of your piety!" "God's will must be done, my lady," said I. "The same Providence that has so wonderfully put it in my power to do a little good, will raise up new friends to the honest hearts that rely upon him." This I said, because some of the good people heard my lady, and seemed troubled, and began to redouble their prayers, for my safety and preservation. We walked thence to our coach, and stretched a little farther, to visit two farmers' families, about a mile distant from each other. One had the mother of the family, with two sons, just recovering, the former from a fever, the latter from tertian agues; and I asked, when they saw Mr. Barrow? They told me, with great commendations of him, that he had but just left them. So, having congratulated their hopeful way, and wished them to take care of themselves, and not go too early to business, I said I should desire Mr. Barrow to watch over them, for fear of a relapse, and should hardly see 'em again for some time; and so I slid, in a manner not to be observed, a couple of guineas into the good woman's hand; for I had a hint given me by Mrs. Jervis, that their illness had made it low with them. We proceeded then to the other farm, where the case was a married daughter, who had a very dangerous lying-in, and a wicked husband who had abused her, and run away from her; but she was mending apace, by good comfortable things, which from time to time I had caused to be sent her. Her old father had been a little unkind to her, before I took notice of her; for she married against his consent; and indeed the world went hard with the poor man, and he could not do much; and besides, he had a younger daughter, who had lost all her limbs, and was forced to be tied in a wicker chair, to keep her up in it; which (having expended much to relieve her) was a great _pull-back_, as the good old woman called it. And having been a year in arrear to a harsh landlord, who, finding a good stock upon the ground, threatened to distress the poor family, and turn them out of all, I advanced the money upon the stock; and the poor man has already paid me half of it (for, Miss, I must keep within compass too), which was fifty pounds at first, and is in a fair way to pay me the other half, and make as much more for himself. Here I found Mr. Barrow, and he gave me an account of the success of two other cases I had recommended to him; and told me, that John Smith, a poor man, who, in thatching a barn, had tumbled down, and broken his leg, and bruised himself all over, was in a fair way of recovery. This poor creature had like to have perished by the cruelty of the parish officers, who would have passed him away to Essex, where his settlement was, though in a burning fever, occasioned by his misfortune; but hearing of the case, I directed Mr. Simmonds to attend him, and to provide for him at my expense, and gave my word, if he died, to bury him. I was glad to hear he was in so good a way, and told Mr. Barrow, I hoped to see him and Mr. Simmonds together at Mr. B.'s, before I set out for London, that we might advise about the cases under their direction, and that I might acquit myself of some of my obligations to them. "You are a good man, Mr. Barrow," added I: "God will bless you for your care and kindness to these poor destitute creatures. They all praise you, and do nothing but talk of your humanity to them." "O my good lady," said he, "who can forbear following such an example as you set? Mr. Simmonds can testify as well as I (for now and then a case requires us to visit together) that we can hardly hear any complaints from our poor patients, let 'em be ever so ill, for the praises and blessings they bestow upon you." "It is good Mr. B. that enables and encourages me to do what I do. Tell them, they must bless God, and bless him, and pray for me, and thank you and Mr. Simmonds: we all join together, you know, for their good." The countess and Lady Davers asked the poor lying-in woman many questions, and left with her, and for her poor sister, a miserable object indeed!--(God be praised that I am not such an one!) marks of their bounty in gold, and looking upon one another, and then upon me, and lifting up their hands, could not say a word till we were in the coach: and so we were carried home, after we had just looked in upon a country school, where I pay for the learning of eight children. And here (I hope I recite not this with pride, though I do with pleasure) is a cursory account of my _benevolent weekly round_, as my ladies will call it. I know you will not be displeased with it; but it will highly delight my worthy parents, who, in their way, do a great deal of discreet good in their neighbourhood: for indeed, Miss, a little matter, _prudently_ bestowed, and on true objects of compassion (whose cases are soon at a crisis, as are those of most labouring people), will go a great way, and especially if laid out properly for 'em, according to the exigencies of their respective cases.--For such poor people, who live generally low, want very seldom any thing but reviving cordials at first, and good wholesome kitchen physic afterwards: and then the wheels of nature, being unclogged, new oiled, as it were, and set right, they will go round again with pleasantness and ease for a good while together, by virtue of that exercise which their labour gives them; while the rich and voluptuous are forced to undergo great fatigues to keep theirs clean and in order. SATURDAY MORNING. It is hardly right to trouble either of you, my honoured correspondents, with an affair that has vexed me a good deal; and, indeed, _should_ affect me more than any other mistress of a family, for reasons which will be obvious to you, when I tell you the case. And this I cannot forbear doing. A pretty genteel young body, my Polly Barlow, as I call her, having been well recommended, and behaved with great prudence till this time, is the cause. My dear Mr. B. and the two ladies, agreed with me to take a little airing in the coach, and to call in upon Mr. Martin, who had a present made him for his menagerie, in which he takes a great delight, of a rare and uncommon creature, a native of the East Indies. But just as Sir Jacob was on horseback to accompany them, and the ladies were ready to go, I was taken with a sudden disorder and faintishness; so that Lady Davers, who is very tender of me, and watches every change of my countenance, would not let me go with them, though my disorder was going off: and my dear Mr. B. was pleased to excuse me; and just meeting with Mr. Williams, as they went to the coach, they took him with them, to fill up the vacant place. So I retired to my closet, and shut myself in. They had asked Mr. H. to go with them, for company to Sir Jacob; but he (on purpose, as I believe by what followed) could not be found, when they set out: so they supposed he was upon some ramble with Mr. Colbrand, his great favourite. I was writing to you, being pretty well recovered, when I heard Polly, as I supposed, and as it proved, come into my apartment: and down she sat, and sung a little catch, and cried, "Hem!" twice; and presently I heard two voices. But suspecting nothing, I wrote on, till I heard a kind of rustling and struggling, and Polly's voice crying, "Fie--How can you do so!--Pray, Sir." This alarmed me much, because we have such orderly folks about us; and I looked through the key-hole; and, to my surprise and concern, saw Mr. H.--foolish gentleman!--taking liberties with Polly, that neither became him to offer, nor, more foolish girl! her to suffer. And having reason to think, that this was not their first interview, and freedom--and the girl sometimes encouragingly laughing, as at other times, inconsistently, struggling and complaining, in an accent that was too tender for the occasion, I forced a faint cough. This frighted them both: Mr. H. swore, and said, "Who can that be?--Your lady's gone with them, isn't she?" "I believe so!--I hope so!" said the silly girl--"yet that was like her voice!--Me'm, are you in your closet, Me'm?" said she, coming up to the door; Mr. H. standing like a poor thief, half behind the window-curtains, till he knew whether it was I. I opened the door: away sneaked Mr. H., and she leaped with surprise, not hoping to find me there, though she asked the question. "I thought--Indeed--Me'm--I thought you were gone out,"--"It is plain you did, Polly.--Go and shut the chamber door, and come to me again." She did, but trembled, and was so full of confusion, that I pitied the poor creature, and hardly knew how to speak to her. For my compassion got the upper hand of my resentment; and as she stood quaking and trembling, and looking on the ground with a countenance I cannot describe, I now and then cast my eye upon her, and was as often forced to put my handkerchief to it. At last I said, "How long have these freedoms past between you and Mr. H.?--I am loth to be censorious, Polly; but it is too plain, that Mr. H. would not have followed you into my chamber, if he had not met you at other places."--The poor girl said never a word.--"Little did I expect, Polly, that you would have shewn so much imprudence. You have had instances of the vile arts of men against poor maidens: have you any notion that Mr. H. intends to do honourably by you?" --"Me'm--Me'm--I believe--I hope--I dare say, Mr. H. would not do otherwise."--"So much the worse that you believe so, if you have not very good reason for your belief. Does he pretend that he will marry you?"--She was silent.--"Tell me, Polly, if he does?"--"He says he will do honourably by me."--"But you know there is but one word necessary to explain that other precious word _honour_, in this case. It is _matrimony_. That word is as soon spoken as any other, and if he _means_ it, he will not be shy to _speak_ it."--She was silent.-- "Tell me, Polly (for I am really greatly concerned for you), what you think _yourself_; do you _hope_ he will marry you?"--She was silent.--"Do, good Polly (I hope I may call you _good_ yet!), answer me."--"Pray, Madam!" and she wept, and turned from me, to the wainscot--"Pray, excuse me."--"But, indeed, Polly, I cannot _excuse_ you. You are under my protection. I was once in as dangerous a situation as you can be in. And I did not escape it, child, by the language and conduct I heard from you."--"Language and conduct, Me'm!"--"Yes, Polly, language and conduct. Do you think, if I had set me down in my lady's bed-chamber, sung a song, and hemm'd twice, and Mr. B. coming to me, upon that signal (for such I doubt it was), I had kept my place, and suffered myself to be rumpled, and only, in a soft voice, and with an encouraging laugh, cried--'How can you do so?' that I should have been what I am?"--"Me'm, I dare say, my lord" (so all the servants call him, and his aunt often, when she puts Jackey to it), "means no hurt."--"No hurt, Polly! What, and make you cry '_Fie!_'-or do you intend to trust your honour to his mercy, rather than to your own discretion?"--"I hope not, Me'm!"--"I hope not too, Polly!--But you know he was free enough with you, to make you say '_Fie!_' And what might have been the case, who knows? had I not coughed on purpose: unwilling, for your sake, Polly, to find matters so bad as I feared, and that you would have been led beyond what was reputable." "Reputable, Me'm!"--"Yes, Polly: I am sorry you oblige me to speak so plain. But your good requires it. Instead of flying from him, you not only laughed when you cried out, '_Fie!_' and '_How can you do so?_' but had no other care than to see if any body heard you; and you observe how he slid away, like a guilty creature, on my opening the door--Do these things look well, Polly? Do you think they do?--And if you hope to emulate my good fortune, do you think _this_ is the way?" "I wish, Me'm, I had never seen Mr. H. For nobody will look upon me, if I lose your favour!" "It will still, Polly" (and I took her hand, with a kind look), "be in your power to keep it: I will not mention this matter, if you make me your friend, and tell me all that has passed."--Again she wept, and was silent.--This made me more uneasy.--"Don't think, Polly," said I, "that I would envy any other person's preferment, when I have been so much exalted myself. If Mr. H. has talked to you of marriage, tell me."--"No, Me'm, I can't say he has _yet_."--"Yet, Polly! Then he _never_. will. For when men do talk of it, they don't always _mean_ it: but whenever they _mean_ it, how can they confirm a doubting maiden, without _mentioning_ it: but alas for you, poor Polly!--The freedoms you have permitted, no doubt, previous to those I heard, and which might have been greater, had I not surprised you with my cough, shew too well, that he _need_ not make any promises to you."--"Indeed, Me'm," said she, sobbing, "I might be too little upon my guard; but I would not have done any ill for the world." "I hope you would not, Polly; but if you suffer these freedoms, you can't tell what you'd have permitted--Tell me, do you love Mr. H.?" "He is very good-humoured, Madam, and is not proud."--"No, 'tis not his business to be proud, when he hopes to humble you--humble you, indeed!--beneath the lowest person of the sex, that is honest."--"I hope----"--"You _hope!_" interrupted I. "You _hope_ too much; and I _fear a great deal_ for you, because you fear so _little_ for yourself.--But say, how often have you been in private together?" "In private, Me'm! I don't know what your ladyship calls _private!_"--"Why that is _private_, Polly, when, as just now, you neither imagined nor intended any body should see you." She was silent; and I saw by this, poor girl, how true lovers are to their secret, though, perhaps, their ruin depends upon keeping it. But it behoved me, on many accounts, to examine this matter narrowly; because if Mr. H. should marry her, it would have been laid upon Mr. B.'s example.--And if Polly were ruined, it would be a sad thing, and people would have said, "Aye, she could take care enough of herself, but none at all of her servant: _her_ waiting-maid had a much more remiss mistress than Pamela found, or the matter would not have been thus." "Well, Polly, I see," continued I, "that you will not speak out to me. You may have _several_ reasons for it, possibly, though not _one_ good one. But as soon as Lady Davers comes in, who has a great concern in this matter, as well as Lord Davers, and are answerable to Lord H. in a matter of so much importance as this, I will leave it to her ladyship's consideration, and shall no more concern myself to ask you questions about it--For then I must take her ladyship's directions, and part with you, to be sure." The poor girl, frighted at this (for every body fears Lady Davers), wrung her hands, and begged, for God's sake, I would not acquaint Lady Davers with it. "But how can I help it?--Must I not connive at your proceedings, if I do not? You are no fool, Polly, in other cases. Tell me, how it is possible for me, in my situation, to avoid it?" "I will tell your ladyship the whole truth; indeed I will--if you will not tell Lady Davers. I am ready to sink at the thoughts of Lady Davers knowing any thing of this." This looked sadly. I pitied her, but yet was angry in my mind; for I saw, too plainly, that her conduct could not bear a scrutiny, not even in _her own _opinion, poor creature. I said, "Make me acquainted with the whole."--"Will your ladyship promise--"--"I'll promise nothing, Polly. When I have heard all you think proper to say, I will do what befits me to do; but with as much tenderness as I can for you--and that's all you ought to expect me to promise."--"Why then, Madam--But how can I speak it?--I can speak sooner to any body, than to Lady Davers and you, Madam: for her ladyship's passion, and your ladyship's virtue--How shall I?"--And then she threw herself at my feet, and hid her face with her apron. I was in agonies for her, almost; I wept over her, and raised her up, and said, "Tell me all. You cannot tell me worse than I apprehend, nor I hope so bad! O Polly, tell me soon.--For you give me great pain." And my back, with grief and compassion for the poor girl, was ready to open, as it seemed to me.--In my former distresses, I have been overcome by fainting next to death, and was deprived of sense for some moments--But else, I imagine, I must have felt some such affecting sensation, as the unhappy girl's case gave me. "Then, Madam, I own," said she, "I have been too faulty."--"As how?--As what?--In what way?--How faulty?"--asked I, as quick as thought: "you are not ruined, are you?--Tell me, Polly!"--"No, Madam, but--"--"But what?--Say, but what?"--"I had consented--"--"To what?"--"To his proposals, Madam."--"What proposals?"--"Why, Madam, I was to live with Mr. H." "I understand you too well--But is it too late to break so wretched a bargain;--have you already made a sacrifice of your honour?" "No, Madam: but I have given it under my hand." "Under your _hand!_--Ah! Polly, it is well if you have not given it under your _heart_ too. But what foolishness is this!--What consideration has he made you?"--"He has given it under his hand, that he will always love me; and when his lordship's father dies, he will own me." "What foolishness is this on both sides!--But are you willing to be released from this bargain?" "Indeed I am. Madam, and I told him so yesterday. But he says he will sue me, and ruin me, if I don't stand to it." "You are ruined if you do!--And I wish--But tell me, Polly, are you not ruined as it is?" "Indeed I am not, Madam." "I doubt, then, you were upon the brink of it, had not this providential indisposition kept me at home.--You met, I suppose, to conclude your shocking bargain.--O poor unhappy girl!--But let me see what he has given under his hand!" "He has 'em both, Madam, to be drawn up fair, and in a strong hand, that shall be like a record." Could I have thought, Miss, that a girl of nineteen could be so ignorant in a point so important, when in every thing else she has shewn no instances like this stupid folly? "Has he given you money?" "Yes, Madam, he gave me--he gave me--a note. Here it is. He says any body will give me money for it." And this was a bank note of fifty pounds, which she pulled out of her stays. The result was, he was to settle one hundred pounds a year upon her and hers, poor, poor girl--and was to _own_ her, as he calls it (but as wife or mistress, she stipulated not), when his father died, and he came into the title and estate. I told her, it was impossible for me to conceal the matter from Lady Davers, if she would not, by her promises to be governed entirely by me, and to abandon all thoughts of Mr. H., give me room to conclude, that the wicked bargain was at an end. And to keep the poor creature in some spirits, and to enable her to look up, and to be more easy under my direction, I blamed _him_ more than I did _her_: though, considering what virtue requires of a woman, and custom has made shameless in a man, I think the poor girl inexcusable, and shall not be easy while she is about me. For she is more to blame, because, of the two, she has more wit than the man. "But what can I do?" thought I. "If I put her away, 'twill be to throw her directly into his hands. He won't stay here long: and she _may_ see her folly. But yet her eyes were open; she knew what she had to trust to--and by their wicked beginning, and her encouraging repulses, I doubt she would have been utterly ruined that very day." I knew the rage Lady Davers would be in with both. So this was another embarrassment. Yet should my good intentions fail, and they conclude their vile bargain, and it appeared that I knew of it, but would not acquaint her, then should I have been more blamed than any mistress of a family, circumstanced as I am. Upon the whole, I resolved to comfort the girl as well as I could, till I had gained her confidence, that my advice might have the more weight, and, by degrees, be more likely to reclaim her: for, poor soul! there would be an end of her reputation, the most precious of all jewels, the moment the matter was known; and that would be a sad thing. As for the man, I thought it best to take courage (and you, that know me, will say, I must have a good deal more than usual) to talk to Mr. H. on this subject. And she consenting I should, and, with great protestations, declaring her sorrow and repentance, begging to get her note of hand again, and to give him back his note of fifty pounds, I went down to find him. He shunned me, as a thief would a constable at the head of a hue-and-cry. As I entered one room, he went into another, looking with conscious guilt, yet confidently humming a tune. At last I fixed him, bidding Rachel tell Polly be wanted to send a message by her to her lady. By which I doubted not he was desirous to know what she had owned, in order to govern himself accordingly. His back was towards me; and I said-- "Mr. H., here I am myself, to take your commands." He gave a caper half a yard high--"Madam, I wanted--I wanted to speak to--I would have spoken with--" "You wanted to send Polly to me, perhaps, Mr. H., to ask if I would take a little walk with you in the garden." "Very true, Madam!--Very true indeed!--You have guessed the matter. I thought it was pity, this fine day, as every body was taking airing--" "Well then. Sir, please to lead the way, and I'll attend you." "Yet I fancy, Madam, the wind is a little too high for you.--Won't you catch cold?"--"No, never fear, Mr. H., I am not afraid of a little air." "I will attend you presently, Madam: you'll be in the great gravel walk, or on the terrace.--I'll wait upon you in an instant." I had the courage to take hold of his arm, as if I had like to have slipt.--For, thought I, thou shalt not see the girl till I have talked to thee a little, if thou dost then.--"Excuse me, Mr. H.--I hope I have not hurt my foot--I must lean upon you." "Will you be pleased, Madam, to have a chair? I fear you have sprained your foot.--Shall I help you to a chair?" "No, no, Sir, I shall walk it off, if I hold by you." So he had no excuse to leave me, and we proceeded into the garden. But never did any thing look so like a _foolish fellow_, as his aunt calls him. He looked, if possible, half a dozen ways at once, hemm'd, coughed, turned his head behind him every now and then, started half a dozen silly subjects, in hopes to hinder me from speaking. I appeared, I believe, under some concern how to begin with him; for he would have it I was not very well, and begged he might step in one minute to desire Mrs. Jervis to attend me. So I resolved to begin with him; lest I should lose the opportunity, seeing my eel so very slippery. And placing myself on a seat, asked him to sit down. He declined, and would wait upon me presently, he said, and seemed to be going. So I began--"It is easy for me, Mr. H., to penetrate into the reason why you are so willing to leave me: but 'tis for your own sake, that I desire you to hear me, that no mischief may ensue among friends and relations, on an occasion to which you are no stranger." "O, Madam, what can you mean? Surely, Madam, you don't think amiss of a little innocent liberty, or so!" "Mr. H.," replied I, "I want not any evidence of your inhospitable designs upon a poor unwary young creature, whom your birth and quality have found it too easy a task to influence." "_Inhospitable designs_! Madam!--A harsh word! You very nice ladies cannot admit of the least freedom in the world!--Why, Madam, I have kiss'd a lady's woman before now, in a civil way or so, and never was called to an account for it, as a breach of hospitality." "Tis not for me, Mr. H., to proceed to _very nice _particulars with a gentleman who can act as you have done, by a poor girl, that dare not have looked up to a man of your quality, had you not levelled all distinction between you in order to level the weak creature to the common dirt of the highway. I must say, that the poor girl heartily repents of her folly; and, to shew you, that it signifies nothing to deny it, she begs you will return the note of her hand you extorted from her foolishness; and I hope you'll be so much of a gentleman, as not to keep in your power such a testimony of the weakness of any of the sex." "Has she told you that, Madam?--Why, may be--indeed--I can't but say--Truly, it mayn't look so well to you, Madam: but young folks will have frolics. It was nothing but a frolic. Let me _be hanged_, if it was!" "Be pleased then, Sir, to give up her note to me, to return to her. Reputation should not be frolicked with, Sir; especially that of a poor girl, who has nothing else to depend upon." "I'll give it her myself, if you please, Madam, and laugh at her into the bargain. Why, 'tis comical enough, if the little pug thought I was earnest, I must have a laugh or two at her, Madam, when I give it her up." "Since, 'tis but a frolic, Mr. H., you won't take it amiss, that when we are set down to supper, we call Polly in, and demand a sight of her note, and that will make every one merry as well as you." "Not so, Madam, that mayn't be so well neither! For, perhaps, they will be apt to think it is in earnest; when, as I hope to live, 'tis but a jest: nothing in the world else, upon honour!" I put on then a still more serious air--"As you _hope to live_, say you, Mr. H.!--and _upon your honour!_ How! fear you not an instant punishment for this appeal? And what is the _honour_ you swear by? Take that, and answer me, Sir: do gentlemen give away bank-notes for _frolics_, and for _mere jests_, and _nothing in the world_ else!--I am sorry to be obliged to deal thus with you. But I thought I was talking to a gentleman who would not forfeit his veracity; and that in so solemn an instance as this!" He looked like a man thunderstruck. His face was distorted, and his head seemed to turn about upon his neck, like a weather-cock in a hurricane, to all points of the compass; his hands clenched as in a passion, and yet shame and confusion struggling in every limb and feature. At last he said, "I am confoundedly betrayed. But if I am exposed to my uncle and aunt" (for the wretch thought of nobody but himself), "I am undone, and shall never be able to look them in the face. 'Tis true, I had a design upon her; and since she has betrayed me, I think I may say, that she was as willing, almost, as I." "Ungenerous, contemptible wretch!" thought I--"But such of our sex as can thus give up their virtue, ought to expect no better: for he that sticks not at _one_ bad action, will not scruple at _another_ to vindicate himself: and so, devil-like, become the attempter and the accuser too!" "But if you will be so good," said he, with hands uplifted, "as to take no notice of this to my uncle, and especially to my aunt and Mr. B., I swear to you, I never will think of her as long as I live." "And you'll bind this promise, will you, Sir, by _your honour_, and as you _hope to live?_" "Dear, good Madam, forgive me, I beseech you; don't be so severe upon me. By all that's--" "Don't swear, Mr. H. But as an earnest that I may believe you, give me back the girl's foolish note, that, though 'tis of no significance, she may not have _that_ to witness her folly."--He took out his pocket-book: "There it is, Madam! And I beg you'll forgive this attempt: I see I ought not to have made it. I doubt it was a breach of the laws of hospitality, as you say. But to make it known, will only expose me, and it can do no good; and Mr. B. will perhaps resent it; and my aunt will never let me hear the last of it, nor my uncle neither--And I shall be sent to travel again--And" (added the poor creature) "I was once in a storm, and the crossing the sea again would be death to me." "What a wretch art thou!" thought I. "What could such an one as thou find to say, to a poor creature that, if put in the scale against considerations of virtue, should make the latter kick the [Transcriber's note: illegible] "Poor, poor Tony Barrow! thou art sunk indeed! Too low for excuse, and almost beneath pity!" I told him, if I could observe that nothing passed between them, that should lay me under a necessity of revealing the matter, I should not be forward to expose him, nor the maiden either: but that he must, in his own judgment, excuse me, if I made every body acquainted with it, if I were to see the correspondence between them likely to be renewed or carried on: "For," added I, "in that case I should owe it to myself, to Mr. B., to Lord and Lady Davers, and to you, and the unhappy body too, to do so." He would needs drop down on one knee, to promise this; and with a thousand acknowledgments, left me to find Mr. Colbrand, in order to ride to meet the coach on its return. I went in, and gave the foolish note to the silly girl, which she received eagerly, and immediately burnt; and I told her, I would not suffer her to come near me but as little as possible, when I was in company while Mr. H. staid; but consigned her entirely to the care of Mrs. Jervis, to whom only, I said, I would hint the matter as tenderly as I could: and for this, I added, I had more reasons than one; first, to give her the benefit of a good gentlewoman's advice, to which I had myself formerly been beholden, and from whom I concealed nothing; next, to keep out of Mr. H.'s way; and lastly that I might have an opportunity, from Mrs. Jervis's opinion, to judge of the sincerity of her repentance: "For, Polly," said I, "you must imagine, so regular and uniform as all our family is, and so good as I thought all the people about me were, that I could not suspect, that she, the duties of whose place made her nearest to my person, was the farthest from what I wished." I have set this matter so strongly before her, and Mrs. Jervis has so well seconded me, that I hope the best; for the grief the poor creature carries in her looks, and expresses in her words, cannot be described; frequently accusing herself, with tears, saying often to Mrs. Jervis, she is not worthy to stand in the presence of her mistress, whose example she has made so bad an use of, and whose lessons she had so ill followed. I am sadly troubled at this matter, however; but I take great comfort in reflecting that my sudden indisposition looked like a providential thing, which may save one poor soul, and be a seasonable warning to her, as long as she lives. Meantime I must observe, that at supper last night, Mr. H. looked abject and mean, and like a poor thief, as I thought, and conscious of his disappointed folly (though I seldom glanced my eye upon him), had less to say for himself than ever. And once my Lady Davers, laughing, said, "I think in my heart, my nephew looks more foolish every time I see him, than the last." He stole a look at me, and blushed; and my lord said, "Jackey has some grace! He blushes! Hold up thy head, nephew! Hast thou nothing at all to say for thyself?" Sir Jacob said, "A blush becomes a young gentleman! I never saw one before though, in Mr. H.--What's the matter, Sir?"--"Only," said Lady Davers, "his skin or his conscience is mended, that's all." "Thank you, Madam," was all he said, bowing to his aunt, and affecting a careless yet confused air, as if he whispered a whistle. "O, wretch!" thought I, "see what it is to have a condemning conscience; while every _innocent_ person looks round easy, smiling, and erect!"--But yet it was not the shame of a bad action, I doubt, but being discovered and disappointed, that gave him his confusion of face. What a sad thing for a person to be guilty of such actions, as shall put it in the power of another, even by a look, to mortify him! And if poor souls can be thus abjectly struck at such a discovery by a fellow-creature, how must they appear before an unerring and omniscient Judge, with a conscience standing in the place of a thousand witnesses? and calling in vain upon the _mountains to fall upon them_, and the _hills to cover them!_--How serious this subject makes one! SATURDAY EVENING. I am just retired from a fatiguing service; for who should come to dine with Mr. B. but that sad rake Sir Charles Hargrave; and Mr. Walgrave, Mr. Sedley, and Mr. Floyd, three as bad as himself; inseparable companions, whose whole delight is drinking, hunting, and lewdness; but otherwise gentlemen of wit and large estates. Three of them broke in upon us at the Hall, on the happiest day of my life, to our great regret; and they had been long threatening to make this visit, in order to see me, as they told Mr. B. They whipt out two bottles of champagne instantly, for a _whet_, as they called it; and went to view the stud and the kennel, and then walked in the garden till dinner was ready; my Lord Davers, Mr. H. and Sir Jacob, as well as Mr. B. (for they are all acquainted) accompanying them. Sir Charles, it seems, as Lord Davers told me afterwards; said, he longed to see Mrs. B. She was the talk wherever he went, and he had conceived a high opinion of her beforehand. Lord Davers said, "I defy you, gentlemen, to think so highly of her as she deserves, take mind and person together." Mr. Floyd said, he never saw any woman yet, who came up to what he expected, where fame had been lavish in her praise. "But how, brother baronet," said Sir Charles to Sir Jacob, "came _you_ to be reconciled to her? I heard that you would never own her." "Oons man!" said Sir Jacob, "I was taken in.--They contrived to clap her upon me as Lady Jenny C. and pretended they'd keep t'other out of my sight; and I was plaguily bit, and forced to get on as well as I could." "That was a bite indeed," said Mr. Walgrave; "and so you fell a praising Lady Jenny, I warrant, to the skies." "Ye--s" (drawling out the affirmative monosyllable), "I was used most scurvily: faith I was. I bear 'em a grudge for it still, I can tell 'em that; for I have hardly been able to hold up my head like a man since--but am forced to go and come, and to do as they bid me. By my troth, I never was so manageable in my life." "Your Herefordshire neighbours, Sir Jacob," said Mr. Sedley, with an oath, "will rejoice to hear this; for the whole county there cannot manage you." "I am quite cow'd now, as you will see by-and-by; nay, for that matter, if you can set Mrs. B. a talking, not one of you all will care to open your lips, except to say as she says." "Never fear, old boy," said Sir Charles, "we'll bear our parts in conversation. I never saw the woman yet, who could give me either awe or love for six minutes together. What think you, Mr. B.? Have you any notion, that your lady will have so much power over us?" "I think, Sir Charles, I have one of the finest women in England; but I neither expect nor desire you rakes should see her with my eyes." "You know, if I have a mind to love her, and make court to her too, Mr. B., I will: and I am half in love with her already, although I have not seen her." They came in when dinner was near ready, and the four gentlemen took each a large bumper of old hock for another whet. The countess, Lady Davers, and I came down together. The gentlemen knew our two noble ladies, and were known to them in person, as well as by character. Mr. B., in his usual kind and encouraging manner, took my hand, and presented the four gentlemen to me, each by his name. Sir Charles said, pretty bluntly, that he hoped he was more welcome to me now, than the last time he was under the same roof with me; for he had been told since, that _that_ was our happy day. I said, Mr. B.'s friends were always welcome to me. "Tis well, Madam," said Mr. Sedley, "we did not know how it was. We should have quartered ourselves upon Mr. B. for a week together, and kept him up day and night." I thought this speech deserved no answer, especially as they were gentlemen who wanted no countenance, and addressed myself to Lord Davers, who is always kindly making court to me: "I hope, my good lord, you find yourself quite recovered of your head-ache?" (of which he complained at breakfast). "I thank you, my dear sister, pretty well." "I was telling Sir Charles and the other gentlemen, niece," said Sir Jacob, "how I was cheated here, when I came first, with a Lady Jenny." "It was a very lucky cheat for me, Sir Jacob; for it gave you a prepossession in my favour under so advantageous a character, that I could never have expected otherwise." "I wish," said the countess, "my daughter, for whom Sir Jacob took you, had Mrs. B.'s qualities to boast of."--"How am I obliged to your ladyship's goodness," returned I, "when you treat me with even greater indulgence than you use to so beloved a daughter!" "Nay, now you talk of treating," said Sir Charles, "when, ladies, will you treat our sex with the politeness which you shew to one another?" "When your sex deserve it, Sir Charles," answered Lady Davers. "Who is to be judge of that?" said Mr. Walgrave. "Not the gentlemen, I hope," replied my lady. "Well then, Mrs. B.," said Sir Charles, "we bespeak your good opinion of _us_; for you have _ours_." "I am obliged to you, gentlemen; but I must be more cautious in declaring _mine_, lest it should be thought I am influenced by your kind, and perhaps too hasty, opinions of me." Sir Charles swore they had _seen_ enough of me the moment I entered the parlour, and heard enough the moment I opened my lips to answer for _their_ opinions of me. I said, I made no doubt, when _they_ had as good a subject to expatiate upon, as I had, in the pleasure before me, of seeing so many agreeable friends of Mr. B.'s, they would maintain the title they claimed of every one's good opinion. "This," said Sir Jacob, "is binding you over, gentlemen, to your good behaviour. You must know, my niece never shoots flying, as _you_ do." The gentlemen laughed: "Is it shooting flying, Sir Jacob," returned Sir Charles, "to praise that lady?" "Ads-bud, I did not think of that." "Sir Jacob," said the countess, "you need not be at a fault;--for a good sportsman always hits his mark, flying or not; and the gentlemen had so fair an one, that they could not well miss it." "You are fairly helped over the stile, Sir Jacob," said Mr. Floyd. "And, indeed, I wanted it; though I limped like a puppy before I was lame. One can't think of every thing as one used to do at your time of life, gentlemen." This flippant stuff was all that passed, which I _can_ recite; for the rest, at table, and after dinner, was too polite by half for me; such as, the quantity of wine each man could _carry off_ (that was the phrase), dogs, horses, hunting, racing, cock-fighting, and all accompanied with swearing and cursing, and that in good humour, and out of wantonness (the least excusable and more profligate sort of swearing and cursing of all). The gentlemen liked the wine so well, that we had the felicity to drink tea and coffee by ourselves; only Mr. B. (upon our inviting the gentlemen to partake with us) sliding in for a few minutes to tell us, they would stick by what they had, and taking a dish of coffee with us. I should not omit one observation; that Sir Jacob, when they were gone, said they were _pure company_; and Mr. H. that he never was so delighted in his _born days_.--While the two ladies put up their prayers, that they might never have such another entertainment. And being encouraged by their declaration, I presumed to join in the same petition. Yet it seems, these are men of wit! I believe they must be so--for I could neither like nor understand them. Yet, if their conversation had much wit, I should think my ladies would have found it out. The gentlemen, permit me to add, went away very merry, to ride ten miles by owl-light; for they would not accept of beds here. They had two French horns with them, and gave us a flourish or two at going off. Each had a servant besides: but the way they were in would have given me more concern than it did, had they been related to Mr. B. and less used to it. And, indeed, it is a happiness, that such gentlemen take no more care than they generally do, to interest any body intimately in their healths and preservation; for these are all single men. Nor need the public, any more than the private, be much concerned about them; for let such persons go when they will, if they continue single, their next heir cannot well be a worse commonwealth's man; and there is a great chance he may be better. You know I end my Saturdays seriously. And this, to what I have already said, makes me add, that I cannot express how much I am, my dear Miss Darnford, _your faithful and affectionate_ PB LETTER XXXVIII _From Mrs. B. to Miss Darnford. In Answer to Letters XXXV and XXXVI._ MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, I skip over the little transactions of several days, to let you know how much you rejoice me, in telling me Sir Simon has been so kind as to comply with my wishes. Both your most agreeable letters came to my hand together, and I thank you a hundred times for them; and I thank your dear mamma, and Sir Simon too, for the pleasure they have given me in this obliging permission. How happy shall we be!--But how long will you be permitted to stay, though? All the winter, I hope:--and then, when that is over, let us set out together, if God shall spare us, directly for Lincolnshire; and to pass most of the summer likewise in each other's company. What a sweet thought is this!--Let me indulge it a little while. Mr. B. read your letters, and says, you are a charming young lady, and surpass yourself in every letter. I told him, that he was more interested in the pleasure I took in this favour of Sir Simon's than he imagined. "As how, my dear?" said he. "A plain case, Sir," replied I: "for endeavouring to improve myself by Miss Darnford's conversation and behaviour, I shall every day be more worthy of your favour." He kindly would have it, that nobody, no, not Miss Darnford herself, excelled me. 'Tis right, you know, Miss, that Mr. B. should think so, though I must know nothing at all, if I was not sensible how inferior I am to my dear Miss Darnford: and yet, when I look abroad now-and-then, I could be a proud slut, if I would, and not yield the palm to many others. Well, my dear Miss, SUNDAY Is past and gone, as happy as the last; the two ladies, and, at _their_ earnest request, Sir Jacob bearing us company, in the evening part. My Polly was there morning and evening, with her heart broken almost, poor girl!--I put her in a corner of my closet, that her concern should not be minded. Mrs. Jervis gives me great hopes of her. Sir Jacob was much pleased with our family order, and said, 'twas no wonder I _kept_ so good myself, and made others so: and he thought the four rakes (for he run on how much they admired me) would be converted, if they saw how well I passed my time, and how cheerful and easy every one, as well as myself was under it! He said, when he came home, he must take such a method himself in _his_ family; for, he believed, it would make not only better masters and mistresses, but better children, and better servants too. But, poor gentleman! he has, I doubt, a great deal to mend in _himself_, before he can begin such a practice with efficacy in his _family_. MONDAY. In the afternoon. Sir Jacob took his leave of us, highly satisfied with us both, and _particularly_ (so he said) with me; and promised that my two cousins, as he called his daughters, and his sister, an old maiden lady, if they went to town this winter, should visit me, and be improved by me; that was his word. Mr. B. accompanied him some miles on his journey, and the two ladies, and Lord Davers, and I, took an airing in the coach. Mr. B. was so kind as to tell me, when he came home, with a whisper, that Miss Goodwin presented her duty to me. I have got a multitude of fine things for the dear little creature, and Mr. B. promises to give me a dairy-house breakfast, when our guests are gone. I enclose the history of this little charmer, by Mr. B.'s consent, since you are to do us the honour, as he (as well as I) pleases himself, to be one of our family--but keep it to yourself, whatever you do. I am guarantee that you will; and have put it in a separate paper, that you may burn it when read. For I may want your advice on this subject, having a great desire to get this child in my possession; and yet Lady Davers has given a hint, that dwells a little with me. When I have the pleasure I hope for, I will lay all before you, and be determined, and proceed, as far as I have power, by you. You, my good father and mother, have seen the story in my former papers. TUESDAY. You must know, I pass over the days thus swiftly, not that I could not fill them up with writing, as amply as I have done the former; but intending only to give you a general idea of our way of life and conversation; and having gone through a whole week and more, you will be able, from what I have recited, to form a judgment how it is with us, one day with another. As for example, now and then neighbourly visits received and paid--Needlework between whiles--Music--Cards sometimes, though I don't love them--One more benevolent round--Improving conversations with my dear Mr. B. and my two good ladies--A lesson from him, when alone, either in French or Latin--A new pauper case or two--A visit from the good dean--Mr. Williams's departure, in order to put the new projected alteration in force, which is to deprive me of my chaplain--(By the way, the dean is highly pleased with this affair, and the motives to it, Mr. Adams being a favourite of his, and a distant relation of his lady)--Mr. H.'s and Polly's mutual endeavour to avoid one another--My lessons to the poor girl, and cautions, as if she were my sister-- These, my dear Miss Darnford, and my honoured parents, are the pleasant employments of our time; so far as we females are concerned: for the gentlemen hunt, ride out, and divert themselves in their way, and bring us home the news and occurrences they meet with abroad, and now-and-then a straggling gentleman they pick up in their diversions. And so I shall not enlarge upon these articles, after the tedious specimens I have already given. WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY. Could you ever have thought, my dear, that husbands have a dispensing power over their wives, which kings are not allowed over the laws? I have had a smart debate with Mr. B., and I fear it will not be the only one upon this subject. Can you believe, that if a wife thinks a thing her duty to do, which her husband does not approve, he can dispense with her performing it, and no sin shall lie at her door? Mr. B. maintains this point. I have great doubts about it; particularly one; that if a matter be my duty, and he dispenses with my performance of it, whether, even although that were to clear _me_ of the sin, it will not fall upon _himself_? And a good wife would be as much concerned at this, as if it was to remain upon _her_. Yet he seems set upon it. What can one do?--Did you ever hear of such a notion, before? Of such a prerogative in a husband? Would you care to subscribe to it? He says, the ladies are of his opinion. I'm afraid they are, and so will not ask them. But, perhaps, I mayn't live, and other things may happen; and so I'll say no more of it at present. FRIDAY. Mr. H. and my Lord and Lady Davers and the excellent Countess of C. having left us this day, to our mutual regret, the former put the following letter into my hands, with an air of respect and even reverence. He says, he spells most lamentably; and this obliges me to give it you _literally_: "DEARE GOOD MADAM, "I cannott contente myself with common thankes, on leaving youres, and Mr. B.'s hospitabel house, because of _thatt there_ affaire, which I neede not mention! and truly am _ashamed_ to mention, as I _have been_ to looke you in the face ever since it happen'd. I don't knowe _how itt came aboute_, butt I thought butt att first of _joking_ a littel, _or soe_; and seeing Polley heard me with more attentiveness than I expected, I was encouraged to proceede; and _soe_, now I recollecte, itt _camn aboute_. "But she is innosente for me: and I don't knowe how _thatt_ came about neither; for wee were oute one moonelighte nighte in the garden, walking aboute, and afterwards tooke a _napp_ of two houres, as I beliefe, in the summer-house in the littel gardin, being over-powered with sleepe; for I woulde make her lay her head uppon my breste, till before we were awar, wee felle asleepe. Butt before thatt, wee had agreed on whatt you discovered. "This is the whole truthe, and all the intimasies we ever hadde, to _speake off_. But I beleefe we should have been better acquainted, hadd you nott, luckily _for mee_! prevented itt, by being at home, when we thought you abroad. For I was to come to her when shee hemm'd _two or three times_; for having made a contract, you knowe. Madam, it was naturall enough to take the first occasion to putt itt in force. "Poor Polley! I pity her too. Don't thinke the worse of her, deare Madam, so as to turn her away, because it may bee her ruin. I don't desire too see her. I might have been _drawne_ _in_ to do strange foolish things, and been ruin'd at the long run; for who knows where this thing mought have ended? My _unkell_ woulde have never seene me. My _father_ too (his lordshipp, you have hearde, Madam, is a very _crosse man_, and never loved _me much_) mought have cutt off the intaile. My _aunte_ would have dispis'd mee and scorn'd mee. I should have been her foolishe fellowe in _earneste_, nott in _jeste_, as now. You woulde have resented itt, and Mr. B. (who knows?) mought have called me to account. "Butt cann you forgive me? You see how happy I am in my disappointment. I did nott think too write so much;--for I don't love it: but on this occasion, know not how too leave off. I hope you can read my letter. I know I write a _clumsy_ hand, and _spelle most lamentabelly_; for I never had a tallent for these things. I was readier by half to admire the _orcherd robbing picture _in Lillie's grammar, then any other part of the book. "But, hey, whether am I running! I never writt to you before, and never may again, unless you, or Mr. B. command it, for your service. So pray excuse me, Madam. "I knowe I neede give no advice to Polley, to take care of _first_ encouragements. Poor girl! she mought have suffer'd sadly, as welle as I. For iff my father, and my unkell and aunte, had requir'd mee to turne her off, you know itt woulde have been undutifull to have refused them, notwithstanding our bargaine. And want of duty to them woulde have been to have added faulte too faulte: as you once observed, I remember, that one faulte never comes alone, but drawes after itt generally five or six, to hide or vindicate itt, and _they_ every one perhapps as many more _eache_. "I shall never forgett severall of youre wise sayinges. I have been vex'd, may I be _hang'd_ if I have not, many a time, thatt I coulde not make such observations as you make; who am so much _older_ too, and a _man_ besides, and a _peere's son_, and a _peere's nephew!_ but my tallents lie _another way_; and by that time my father dies, I hope to improve myselfe, in order to _cutt_ such a figure, as may make me be no disgrase to my _name_ or _countrey_. "Well, but whatt is all this to the purpose?--I will keep close to my text; and that is, to thank you, good Madam, for all the favours I have received in your house; to thank you for disappointing mee, and for convincing mee, in so _kinde_, yet so _shameing_ a manner, how wrong I was in the matter of _that there_ Polley; and for not exposing my folly to any boddy but _myselfe_ (for I should have been ready to _hang_ myselfe, if you hadd); and to beg youre pardon for itt, assuring you, that I will never offerr the like as long as I breathe. I am, Madam, with the greatest respecte, _youre most obliged, moste faithful, and most obedient humbell servante_, J.H. "Pray excuse blotts and blurs." Well, Miss Darnford, what shall we say to this fine letter?--You'll allow it to be an original, I hope. Yet, may-be not. For it may be as well written, and as sensible a letter as this class of people generally write! Mr. H. dresses well, is not a contemptible figure of a man, laughs, talks, where he can be heard, and his aunt is not present; and _cuts_, to use his own word, a considerable figure in a country town.--But see--Yet I will not say what I might--He is Lord Davers's nephew; and if he makes his _observations_, and _forbears_ his _speeches_ (I mean, can be silent, and only laugh when he sees somebody of more sense laugh, and never _approve_ or _condemn_ but in _leading-strings_), he may possibly pass in a crowd of gentlemen. But poor, poor Polly Barlow! What _can_ I say for Polly Barlow? I have a time in view, when my papers may fall under the inspection of a dear gentleman, to whom, next to God, I am accountable for all my actions and correspondences; so I will either write an account of the matter, and seal it up separately, for Mr. B., or, at a fit opportunity, break it to him, and let him know (under secrecy, if he will promise it) the steps I took in it; lest something arise hereafter, when I cannot answer for myself, to render any thing dark or questionable in it. A method, I believe, very proper to be taken by every married lady; and I presume the rather to say so, having had a good example for it: for I have often thought of a little sealed up parcel of papers, my lady made me burn in her presence, about a month before she died. "They are, Pamela," said she, "such as would not concern me, let who will see them, could they know the springs and causes of them; but, for want of a clue, my son might be at a loss what to think of several of those letters were he to find them, in looking over my other papers, when I am no more." Let me add, that nothing could be more endearing than our parting with our noble guests. My lady repeated her commands for what she often engaged me to promise, that is to say, to renew the correspondence begun between us, so much (as she was pleased to say) to her satisfaction. I could not help shewing her ladyship, who was always enquiring after my writing employment, most of what passed between you and me: she admires you much, and wished Mr. H. had more wit, that was her word: she should in that case, she said, be very glad to set on foot a treaty between you and him. But that, I fancy, can never be tolerable to you; and I only mention it _en passant_.--There's a French woman for you! The countess was full of her kind wishes for my happiness; and my Lady Davers told me, that if I could give her timely notice, she would be present on a _certain_ occasion. But, my dear Miss, what could I say?--I know nothing of the matter!--Only, I am a sad coward, and have a thousand anxieties which I cannot mention to any body. But, if I have such in the honourable estate of matrimony, what must those poor souls have, who are seduced, and have all manner of reason to apprehend, that the crime shall be followed by a punishment so _natural_ to it? A punishment _in kind_, as I may say; which if it only ends in forfeiture of life, following the forfeiture of fame, must be thought merciful and happy beyond expectation: for how shall they lay claim to the hope given to persons in their circumstances that _they shall be saved in child-bearing_, since the condition is, _if they _CONTINUE _in faith and charity, and _HOLINESS _with_ SOBRIETY. Now, my honoured mother, and my dear Miss Darnford since I am upon this affecting subject, does not this text seem to give a comfortable hope to a good woman, who shall thus die, of being happy in the Divine mercies? For the Apostle, in the context, says, that _he suffers not a woman to teach, nor usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence_.--And what is the reason he gives? Why, a reason that is a natural consequence of the curse on the first disobedience, that she shall be in subjection to her husband. "For," says he, "_Adam was_ NOT _deceived; but the woman, being deceived, was in the transgression._" As much as to say--Had it not been for the woman, Adam had kept his integrity, and therefore her punishment shall be, as it is said, "_I will greatly multiply thy sorrow in thy conception: in sorrow shall thou bring forth children--and thy husband shall rule over thee_." But nevertheless, if thou shalt not survive the sharpness of thy sorrow, thy death shall be deemed to be such an alleviation of thy part of the entailed transgression, that thou shalt _be saved_, if thou hast CONTINUED in faith and charity, and HOLINESS with SOBRIETY. This, my honoured parents, and my dear friend, is _my_ paraphrase; and I reap no small comfort from it, when I meditate upon it. But I shall make you as serious as myself; and, my dear friend, perhaps, frighten you from entering into a state, in which our poor sex suffer so much, from the bridal morning, let it rise as gaily as it will upon a thoughtful mind, to that affecting circumstance, (throughout its whole progression), for which nothing but a tender, a generous, and a worthy husband can make them any part of amends. But a word or two more, as to the parting with our honoured company. I was a little indisposed, and they all would excuse me, against my will, from attending them in the coach some miles, which their dear brother did. Both ladies most tenderly saluted me, twice or thrice a-piece, folding their kind arms about me, and wishing my safety and health, and charging me to _think_ little, and _hope_ much; for they saw me thoughtful at times, though I endeavoured to hide it from them. My Lord Davers said, with a goodness of temper that is peculiar to him, "My dearest sister,--May God preserve you, and multiply your comforts! I shall pray for you more than ever I did for myself, though I have so much more need of it:--I _must_ leave you--But I leave one whom I love and honour next to Lady Davers, and ever shall." Mr. H. looked consciously silly. "I can say nothing, Madam, but" (saluting me) "that I shall never forget your goodness to me." I had before, in Mrs. Jervis's parlour, taken leave of Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley, my ladies' women: they each stole a hand of mine, and kissed it, begging pardon for the freedom. But I answered, taking each by her hand, and kissing her, "I shall always think of you with pleasure, my good friends; for you have encouraged me constantly by your presence in my private duties; and may God bless you, and the worthy families you so laudably serve, as well for your sakes, as their own!" They turned away with tears; and Mrs. Worden would have said something to me, but could not.--Only both taking Mrs. Jervis by the hand, "Happy Mrs. Jervis!" said they, almost in a breath. "And happy I too," repeated I, "in my Mrs. Jervis, and in such kind well-wishers as Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley. Wear this, Mrs. Worden;--wear this, Mrs. Lesley, for my sake:" and to each I gave a ring, with a crystal and brilliants set about it, which Mr. B. had bought a week before for this purpose: he has a great opinion of both the good folks, and often praised their prudence, and quiet and respectful behaviour to every body, so different from the impertinence (that was his word) of most ladies' women who are favourites. Mrs. Jervis said, "I have enjoyed many happy hours in your conversation, Mrs. Worden and Mrs. Lesley: I shall miss you very much." "I must endeavour," said I, taking her hand, "to make it up to you, my good friend, as well as I can. And of late we have not had so many opportunities together as I should have wished, had I not been so agreeably engaged as you know. So we must each try to comfort the other, when we have lost, I such noble, and you such worthy companions." Mrs. Jervis's honest heart, before touched by the parting, shewed itself at her eyes. "Wonder not," said I, to the two gentlewomen, wiping with my handkerchief her venerable cheeks, "that I always thus endeavour to dry up all my good Mrs. Jervis's tears;" and then I kissed her, thinking of you, my dear mother; and I was forced to withdraw a little abruptly, lest I should be too much moved myself; for had our departing company enquired into the occasion, they would perhaps have thought it derogatory (though I should not) to my present station, and too much retrospecting to my former. I could not, in conversation between Mr. B. and myself, when I was gratefully expatiating upon the amiable characters of our noble guests, and of their behaviour and kindness to me, help observing, that I had little expected, from some hints which formerly dropt from Mr. B., to find my good Lord Davers so polite and so sensible a man. "He is a very good-natured man," replied Mr. B. "I believe I might once or twice drop some disrespectful words of him. But it was the effect of passion at the time, and with a view to two or three points of his conduct in public life; for which I took the liberty to find fault with him, and received very unsatisfactory excuses. One of these, I remember, was in a conference between a committee of each house of parliament, in which he behaved in a way I could not wish from a man so nearly allied to me by marriage; for all he could talk of, was the dignity of their house, when the reason of the thing was strong with the other; and it fell to my lot to answer what he said; which I did with some asperity; and this occasioned a coolness between us for some time. "But no man makes a better figure in private life than Lord Davers; especially now that my sister's good sense has got the better of her passions, and she can behave with tolerable decency towards him. For once, Pamela, it was not so: the violence of her spirit making him appear in a light too little advantageous either to his quality or merit. But now he improves upon me every time I see him. "You know not, my dear, what a disgrace a haughty and passionate woman brings upon her husband, and upon herself too, in the eyes of her own sex, as well as ours. Nay, even those ladies, who would be as glad of dominion as she, if they might be permitted to exercise it, despise others who do, and the man _most_ who suffers it. "And let me tell you," said the dear man, with an air that shewed he was satisfied with his own conduct in this particular, "that you cannot imagine how much a woman owes to her husband, as well with regard to _her own _peace of mind, as to _both_ their reputations (however it may go against the grain with her sometimes), if he be a man who has discretion to keep her encroaching passions under a genteel and reasonable control!" How do you like this doctrine, Miss?--I'll warrant, you believe, that I could do no less than drop Mr. B. one of my best curt'sies, in acknowledgment of my obligation to him, for so considerately preserving to me _my_ peace of mind, and _my_ reputation, as well as _his own_, in this case. But after all, when one duly weighs the matter, what he says may be right in the main; for I have not been able to contradict him, partial as I am to my sex, when he has pointed out to me instances in the behaviour of certain ladies, who, like children, the more they have been humoured, the more humoursome they have grown; which must have occasioned as great uneasiness to themselves, as to their husbands. Will you excuse me, my dear? This is between ourselves; for I did not own so much to Mr. B. For one should not give up one's sex, you know, if one can help it: for the men will be as apt to impose, as the women to encroach, I doubt. Well, but here, my honest parents, and my dear Miss Darnford, at last, I end my journal-wise letters, as I may call them; our noble guests being gone, and our time and employments rolling on in much the same manner, as in past days, of which I have given an account. I am, _my dearest father and mother, and best beloved Miss Darnford, your dutiful and affectionate_ P.B. LETTER XXXIX MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, I hear that Mrs. Jewkes is in no good state of health. I am very sorry for it. I pray for her life, that she may be a credit (if it please God) to the penitence she has so lately assumed. Do, my dear _good_ Miss, vouchsafe to the poor soul the honour of a visit: she may be low-spirited.--She may be too much sunk with the recollection of past things. Comfort, with that sweetness which is so natural to Miss Darnford, her drooping heart; and let her know, that I have a true concern for her, and give it her in charge to take care of herself, and spare nothing that will administer either to her health or peace of mind. You'll pardon me that I put you upon an office so unsuitable from a lady in your station, to a person in hers; but not to your piety and charity, where a duty so eminent as that of visiting the sick, and cheering the doubting mind, is in the question. I know your condescension will give her great comfort; and if she should be hastening to her account, what a pleasure will it give such a lady as you, to have illuminated a benighted mind, when it was tottering on the verge of death! I know she will want no spiritual help from good Mr. Peters; but then the kind notice of so generally esteemed a young lady, will raise her more than can be imagined: for there is a tenderness, a sympathy, in the good persons of our sex to one another, that (while the best of the other seem but to act as in office, saying those things, which, though edifying and convincing, one is not certain proceeds not rather from the fortitude of their minds, than the tenderness of their natures) mingles with one's very spirits, thins the animal mass, and runs through one's heart in the same lify current (I can't clothe my thought suitably to express what I would), giving assurance, as well as pleasure, in the most arduous cases, and brightening our misty prospects, till we see the Sun of Righteousness rising on the hills of comfort, and dispelling the heavy fogs of doubt and diffidence. This it is makes me wish and long as I do, for the company of my dear Miss Darnford. O when shall I see you? When shall I?--To speak to my present case, it is _all I long for_; and, pardon my freedom of expression, as well as thought, when I let you know in this instance, how _early_ I experience the _ardent longings_ of one in the way I am in. But I ought not to set my heart upon any thing not in my own power, and which may be subject to accidents, and the control of others. But let whatever interventions happen, so I have your _will_ to come, I must be rejoiced in your kind intention, although your _power_ should not prove answerable. But I will say no more, than that I am, my honoured father and mother, your ever dutiful daughter; and, my dear Miss Darnford, _your affectionate and obliged_ P.B. LETTER XL From Miss Darnford to Mrs. B. MY DEAR MRS. B., We are greatly obliged to you for every particular article in your entertaining journal, which you have brought, sooner than we wished, to a conclusion. We cannot express how much we admire you for your judicious charities, so easy to be practised, yet so uncommon in the manner, and for your inimitable conduct in the affair of your frail Polly and the silly Mr. H. Your account of the visit of the four rakes; of your parting with your noble guests; Mr. H.'s letter (an original indeed!) have all greatly entertained us, as your prerogative hints have amused us: but we defer our opinion of those hints, till we have the case more fully explained. But, my dear friend, are you not in danger of falling into a too thoughtful and gloomy way? By the latter part of your last letter, we are afraid you are; and my mamma, and Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Peters, enjoin me to write, to caution you on that head. But there is the less need of it, because your prudence will always suggest to you reasons, as it does in that very letter, that must out-balance your fears. _Think_ little, and _hope_ much, is a good lesson in your case, and to a lady of your temper; and I hope Lady Davers will not in vain have given you that caution. After all, I dare say your thoughtfulness is but symptomatical, and will go off in proper time. But to wave this: let me ask you, is Mr. B.'s conduct to you as _respectful_, I don't mean fond, when you are alone together, as in company?--Forgive me--But you have hinted two or three times, in your letters, that he always is most complaisant to you in company; and you observe, that _wisely_ does he act in this, as he thereby does credit with every body to his own choice. I make no doubt, that the many charming scenes which your genius and fine behaviour furnish out to him, must, as often as they happen, inspire him with joy, and even rapture: and must make him love you more for your mind than for your person:--but these rapturous scenes last very little longer than the present moment. What I want to know is, whether in the _steadier_ parts of life, when you are both nearer the level of us common folks, he give up any thing of his own will in compliment to yours? Whether he acts the part of a respectful, polite gentleman, in his behaviour to you; and breaks not into your retirements, in the dress, and with the brutal roughness of a fox-hunter?--Making no difference, perhaps, between the field or his stud (I will not say kennel) and your chamber or closet?--Policy, for his own credit-sake, as I mentioned, accounts to me well, for his complaisance to you in public. But his regular and uniform behaviour to you, in your retirement, when the conversation between you turns upon usual and common subjects, and you have not obliged him to rise to admiration of you, by such scenes as those of your two parsons, Sir Jacob Swynford, and the like: is what would satisfy my curiosity, if you please to give me an instance or two of it. Now, my dearest Mrs. B., if you can give me a case, partly or nearly thus circumstanced, you will highly oblige me: First, where he has borne with any infirmity of your own; and I know of none where you can give him such an opportunity, except you get into a vapourish habit, by giving way to a temper too thoughtful and apprehensive: Next, that, in complaisance to _your_ will, he recedes from his _own_ in any one instance: Next, whether he breaks not into your retirements unceremoniously, and without apology or concern, as I hinted above. You know, my dear Mrs. B., all I mean, by what I have said.; and if you have any pretty conversation in memory, by the recital of which, this my bold curiosity may be answered, pray oblige me with it; and we shall be able to judge by it, not only of the in-born generosity which all that know Mr. B. have been willing to attribute to him, but of the likelihood of the continuance of both your felicities, upon terms suitable to the characters of a fine lady and fine gentleman: and, of consequence, worthy of the imitation of the most delicate of our own sex. Your obliging _longings_, my beloved dear lady, for my company, I hope, will very soon be answered. My papa was so pleased with your sweet earnestness on this occasion, that he joined with my mamma; and both, with equal cheerfulness, said, you should not be many days in London before me. Murray and his mistress go on swimmingly, and have not yet had one quarrel. The only person, he, of either sex, that ever knew Nancy so intimately, and so long, without one! This is all I have to say, at present, when I have assured you, my dear Mrs. B., how much I am _your obliged, and affectionate_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER XLI My dearest Miss Darnford, I was afraid I ended my last letter in a gloomy way; and I am obliged to you for the kind and friendly notice you take of it. It was owing to a train of thinking which sometimes I get into, of late; I hope only symptomatically, as you say, and that the cause and effect will soon vanish together. But what a task, my dear friend, I'll warrant, you think you have set me! I thought, in the progress of my journal, and in my letters, I had given so many instances of Mr. B.'s polite tenderness to me, that no new ones would be required at my hands; and when I said he was always _most_ complaisant before company, I little expected, that such an inference would be drawn from my words, as would tend to question the uniformity of his behaviour to me, when there were no witnesses to it. But I am glad of an opportunity to clear up all your doubts on this subject. To begin then: You first desire an instance, where Mr. B. has borne with some infirmity of mine: Next, that in complaisance to my will, he has receded from his own: And lastly, whether he breaks not into my retirements unceremoniously; and without apology or concern, making no difference between the field or the stud, and my chamber or closet? As to the first, his bearing with my infirmities; he is daily giving instances of his goodness to me on this head; and I am ashamed to say, that of late I give him so much occasion for them as I do; but he sees my apprehensiveness, at times, though I endeavour to conceal it; and no husband was ever so soothing and so indulgent as Mr. B. He gives me the best advice, as to my malady, if I may call it one: treats me with redoubled tenderness: talks to me upon the subjects I most delight to dwell upon: as of my worthy parents; what they are doing at this time, and at that; of our intended journey to London; of the diversions of the town; of Miss Darnford's company; and when he goes abroad, sends up my good Mrs. Jervis to me, because I should not be alone: at other times, takes me abroad with him, brings this neighbour and that neighbour to visit; and carries me to visit them; talks of our journey to Kent, and into Lincolnshire, and to my Lady Davers's, to Bath, to Tunbridge, and I can't tell whither, when the apprehended time shall be over.--In fine, my dear Miss Darnford, you cannot imagine one half of his tender goodness and politeness to me!--Then he hardly ever goes to any distance, but brings some pretty present he thinks will be grateful to me. When at home, he is seldom out of my company; delights to teach me French and Italian, and reads me pieces of manuscript poetry, in several of the modern tongues (for he speaks them all); explains to me every thing I understand not; delights to answer all my questions, and to encourage my inquisitiveness and curiosity, tries to give me a notion of pictures and medals, and reads me lectures upon them, for he has a fine collection of both; and every now and then will have it, that he has been improved by my questions and observations. What say you to these things, my dear? Do they come up to your first question? or do they not? Or is not what I have said, a full answer, were I to say no more, to _all_ your enquiries? O my dear, I am thoroughly convinced, that half the misunderstandings, among married people, are owing to trifles, to petty distinctions, to mere words, and little captious follies, to over-weenings, or unguarded petulances: and who would forego the solid satisfaction of life, for the sake of triumphing in such poor contentions, if one could triumph? But you next require of me an instance, where, in complaisance to _my_ will, he has receded from _his own?_ I don't know what to say to this. When Mr. B. is all tenderness and indulgence, and requires of me nothing, that I can have a material objection to, ought I _not_ to oblige him? Can I have a will that is not his? Or would it be excusable if I _had?_ All little matters I cheerfully give up: great ones have not yet occurred between us, and I hope never will. One point, indeed, I have some apprehension _may_ happen; and that, to be plain with you, is, we have had a debate or two on the subject (which I maintain) of a mother's duty to nurse her own child; and I am sorry to say it, he seems more determined than I wish he were, against it. I hope it will not proceed so far as to awaken the sleeping dragon I mentioned. _Prerogative_ by name; but I doubt I cannot give up this point very contentedly. But as to lesser points, had I been a duchess born, I think I would not have contested them with my husband. I could give you many respectful instances too, of his receding, when he has desired to see what I have been writing, and I have told him to whom, and begged to be excused. One such instance I can give since I began this letter. This is it: I put it in my bosom, when he came up: he saw me do so: "Are you writing, my dear, what I must not see?" "I am writing to Miss Darnford, Sir: and she begged you might not at present." "This augments my curiosity, Pamela. What can two such ladies write, that I may not see?" "If you won't be displeased, Sir, I had rather you would not, because she desires you may not see her letter, nor this my answer, till the letter is in her hands." "Then I will not," returned Mr. B. Will this instance, my dear, come up to your demand for one, where he recedes from his own will, in complaisance to mine? But now, as to what both our notions and our practice are on the article of my retirements, and whether he breaks in upon them unceremoniously, and without apology, let the conversation I promised inform you, which began on the following occasion. Mr. B. rode out early one morning, within a few days past, and did not return till the afternoon; an absence I had not been used to of late; and breakfasting and dining without him being also a new thing with me, I had such an impatience to see him, having expected him at dinner, that I was forced to retire to my closet, to try to divert it, by writing; and the gloomy conclusion of my last was then the subject. He returned about four o'clock, and indeed did _not_ tarry to change his riding-dress, as your politeness, my dear friend, would perhaps have expected; but came directly up to me, with an impatience to see me, equal to my own, when he was told, upon enquiry, that I was in my closet. I heard his welcome step, as he came up stairs; which generally, after a longer absence than I expect, has such an effect upon my fond heart, that it gives a responsive throb for every step he takes towards me, and beats quicker and faster, as he comes nearer. I met him at my closet door. "So, my dear love," says he, "how do you?" folding his kind arms about me, and saluting me with ardour. "Whenever I have been but a few hours from you, my impatience to see my beloved, will not permit me to stand upon the formality of a message to know how you are engaged; but I break in upon you, even in my riding-dress, as you see." "Dear Sir, you are very obliging. But I have no notion of _mere_ formalities of this kind"--(How unpolite this, my dear, in your friend?)--"in a married state, since 'tis impossible a virtuous wife can be employed about any thing that her husband may not know, and so need not fear surprises." "I am glad to hear you say this, my Pamela; for I have always thought the extraordinary civilities and distances of this kind which I have observed among several persons of rank, altogether unaccountable. For if they are exacted by the lady, I should suspect she had reserves, which she herself believed I could not approve. If not exacted, but practised of choice by the gentleman, it carries with it, in my opinion, a false air of politeness, little less than affrontive to the lady, and dishonourable to himself; for does it not look as if he supposed, and allowed, that she might be so employed that it was necessary to apprise her of his visit, lest he should make discoveries not to her credit or his own?" "One would not, Sir" (for I thought his conclusion too severe), "make such a harsh supposition as this neither: for there are little delicacies and moments of retirement, no doubt, in which a modest lady would wish to be indulged by the tenderest husband." "It may be so in an _early_ matrimony, before the lady's confidence in the honour and discretion of the man she has chosen has disengaged her from her bridal reserves." "Bridal reserves, dear Sir! permit me to give it as my humble opinion, that a wife's behaviour ought to be as pure and circumspect, in degree, as that of a bride, or even of a maiden lady, be her confidence in her husband's honour and discretion ever so great. For, indeed, I think a gross or a careless demeanour little becomes that modesty which is the peculiar excellency and distinction of our sex." "You account very well, my dear, by what you now say for your own over-nice behaviour, as I have sometimes thought it. But are we not all apt to argue for a practice we make our own, because we _do_ make it our own, rather than from the reason of the thing?" "I hope, Sir, that is not the present case with me; for, permit me to say, that an over-free or negligent behaviour of a lady in the married state, must be a mark of disrespect to her consort, and would shew as if she was very little solicitous about what appearance she made in his eye. And must not this beget in him a slight opinion of her sex too, as if, supposing the gentleman had been a free liver, she would convince him there was no other difference in the sex, but as they were within or without the pale, licensed by the law, or acting in defiance of it?" "I understand the force of your argument, Pamela. But you were going to say something more." "Only, Sir, permit me to add, that when, in my particular case, you enjoin me to appear before you always dressed, even in the early part of the day, it would be wrong, if I was less regardful of my behaviour and actions, than of my appearance." "I believe you are right, my dear, if a precise or unnecessary scrupulousness be avoided, and where all is unaffected, easy, and natural, as in my Pamela. For I have seen married ladies, both in England and France, who have kept a husband at a greater distance than they have exacted from some of his sex, who have been more entitled to his resentment, than to his wife's intimacies. "But to wave a subject, in which, as I can with pleasure say, neither of us have much concern, tell me, my dearest, how you were employed before I came up? Here are pen and ink: here, too, is paper, but it is as spotless as your mind. To whom were you directing your favours now? May I not know your subject?" Mr. H.'s letter was a part of it; and so I had put it by, at his approach, and not choosing he should see that--"I am writing," replied I, "to Miss Darnford: but I think you must not ask me to see what I have written _this_ time. I put it aside that you should not, when I heard your welcome step. The subject is our parting with our noble guests; and a little of my apprehensiveness, on an occasion upon which our sex may write to one another; but, for some of the reasons we have been mentioning, gentlemen should not desire to see." "Then I will not, my dearest love." (So here, my dear, is another instance--I could give you an hundred such--of his receding from his own will, in complaisance to mine.) "Only," continued he, "let me warn you against too much apprehensiveness, for your own sake, as well as mine; for such a mind as my Pamela's I cannot permit to be habitually over-clouded. And yet there now hangs upon your brow an over-thoughtfulness, which you must not indulge." "Indeed, Sir, I was a little too thoughtful, from my subject, before you came; but your presence, like the sun, has dissipated the mists that hung upon my mind. See you not," and I pressed his hand with my lips, "they are all gone already?" smiling upon him with a delight unfeigned. "Not quite, my dearest Pamela; and therefore, if you have no objection, I will change my dress, and attend you in the chariot for an hour or two, whither you please, that not one shadow may remain visible in this dear face;" tenderly saluting me. "Whithersoever you please, Sir. A little airing with you will be highly agreeable to me." The dear obliger went and changed his dress in an instant; and he led me to the chariot, with his usual tender politeness, and we had a charming airing of several miles; returning quite happy, cheerful, and delighted with each other's conversation, without calling in upon any of our good neighbours: for what need of that, my dear, when we could be the best company in the world to each other? Do these instances come up to your questions, my dear? or, do they not?--If you think not, I could give you our conversation in the chariot: for I wrote it down at my first leisure, so highly was I delighted with it; for the subject was my dearest parents; a subject started by himself, because he knew it would oblige me. But being tired with writing, I may reserve it, till I have the pleasure of seeing you, if you think it worth asking for. And so I will hasten to a conclusion of this long letter. I have only farther to add, for my comfort, that next Thursday se'n-night, if nothing hinders, we are to set out for London. And why do you think I say _for my comfort?_ Only that I shall then soon have the opportunity, to assure you personally, as you give me hope, how much I am, my dear Miss Darnford, _your truly affectionate_. P.B. LETTER XLII My dear Miss Darnford, One more letter, and I have done for a great while, because I hope your presence will put an end to the occasion. I shall now tell you of my second visit to the dairy-house, where we went to breakfast, in the chariot and four, because of the distance, which is ten pretty long miles. I transcribed for you, from letters written formerly to my dear parents, an account of my former dairy-house visit, and what the people were, and whom I saw there; and although I besought you to keep that affair to yourself, as too much affecting the reputation of my Mr. B. to be known any farther, and even to destroy that account, when you had perused it; yet, I make no doubt, you remember the story, and so I need not repeat any part of it. When we arrived there, we found at the door, expecting us (for they heard the chariot-wheels at a distance), my pretty Miss Goodwin, and two other Misses, who had earned their ride, attended by the governess's daughter, a discreet young gentlewoman. As soon as I stepped out, the child ran into my arms with great eagerness, and I as tenderly embraced her, and leading her into the parlour, asked her abundance of questions about her work, and her lessons; and among the rest if she had merited this distinction of the chaise and dairy-house breakfast, or if it was owing to her uncle's favour, and to that of her governess? The young gentlewoman assured me it was to both, and shewed me her needleworks, and penmanship; and the child was highly pleased with my commendations. I took a good deal of notice of the other two Misses, for their school-fellow's sake, and made each of them a present of some little toys; and my Miss, of a number of pretty trinkets, with which she was highly delighted; and I told her, that I would wait upon her governess, when I came from London into the country again, and see in what order she kept her little matters; for, above all things, I love pretty house-wifely Misses; and then, I would bring her more. Mr. B. observed, with no small satisfaction, the child's behaviour, which is very pretty; and appeared as fond of her, as if he had been _more_ than her _uncle_, and yet seemed under some restraint, lest it should be taken, that he _was_ more. Such power has secret guilt, poor gentleman! to lessen and restrain a pleasure, that would, in a happier light, have been so laudable to have manifested! I am going to let you into a charming scene, resulting from this perplexity of the dear gentleman. A scene that has afforded me high delight ever since; and always will, when I think of it. The child was very fond of her uncle, and told him she loved him dearly, and always would love and honour him, for giving her such a good aunt. "You talked, Madam," said she, "when I saw you before, that I should come and live with you--Will you let me, Madam? Indeed I will be very good, and do every thing you bid me, and mind my book, and my needle; indeed I will." "Ask your uncle, my dear," said I; "I should like your pretty company of all things." She went to Mr. B. and said, "Shall I, Sir, go and live with my aunt?--Pray let me, when you come from London again." "You have a very good governess, child," said he; "and she can't part with you." "Yes, but she can. Sir; she has a great many Misses, and can spare me well enough; and if you please to let me ride in your coach sometimes, I can go and visit my governess, and beg a holiday for the Misses, now-and-then, when I am almost a woman, and then all the Misses will love me." "Don't the Misses love you now, Miss Goodwin?" said he. "Yes, they love me well enough, for matter of that; but they'll love me better, when I can beg them a holiday. Do, dear Sir, let me go home to my new aunt, next time you come into the country." I was much pleased with the dear child's earnestness; and permitted her to have her full argument with her beloved uncle; but was much moved, and he himself was under some concern, when she said, "But you should, in pity, let me live with you, Sir, for I have no papa, nor mamma neither: they are so far off!--But I will love you both as if you were my own papa and mamma; so, dear now, my good uncle, promise the poor girl that has never a papa nor mamma!" I withdrew to the door: "It will rain, I believe," said I, and looked up. And, indeed, I had almost a shower in my eye: and had I kept my place, could not have refrained shewing how much I was affected. Mr. B., as I said, was a little moved; but for fear the young gentlewoman should take notice of it--"How! my dear," said he, "no papa and mamma!--Did they not send you a pretty black boy to wait upon you, a while ago? Have you forgot that?"--"That's true," replied she: "but what's a black boy to living with my new aunt?--That's better a great deal than a black boy!" "Well, your aunt and I will consider of it, when we come from London. Be a good girl, meantime, and do as your governess would have you, and then you don't know what we may do for you." "Well then, Miss," said she to her young governess, "let me be set two tasks instead of one, and I will learn all I can to deserve to go to my aunt." In this manner the little prattler diverted herself. And as we returned from them, the scene I hinted at, opened as follows: Mr. B. was pleased to say, "What a poor figure does the proudest man make, my dear Pamela, under the sense of a concealed guilt, in company of the innocent who know it, and even of those who do not!--Since the casual expression of a baby shall overwhelm him with shame, and make him unable to look up without confusion. I blushed for myself," continued he, "to see how you were affected for me, and yet withdrew, to avoid reproaching me so much as with a look. Surely, Pamela, I must then make a most contemptible appearance in your eye! Did you not disdain me at that moment?" "Dearest Sir! how can you speak such a word? A word I cannot repeat after you! For at that very time, I beheld you with the more reverence, for seeing your noble heart touched with a sense of your error; and it was such an earnest to me of the happiest change I could ever wish for, and in so young a gentleman, that it was one half joy for that, and the other half concern at the little charmer's accidental plea, to her best and nearest friend, for coming home to her new aunt, that affected me so sensibly as you saw." "You must not talk to me of the child's coming home, after this visit, Pamela; for how, at this rate, shall I stand the reproaches of my own mind, when I see the little prater every day before me, and think of what her poor mamma has suffered on my account! 'Tis enough, that in _you_, my dear, I have an hourly reproach before me, for my attempts on your virtue; and I have nothing to boast of, but that I gave way to the triumphs of your innocence: and what then is my boast?" "What is your boast, dearest Sir? You have everything to boast, that is worthy of being boasted of. "You are the best of husbands, the best of landlords, the best of masters, the best of friends; and, with all these excellencies, and a mind, as I hope, continually improving, and more and more affected with the sense of its past mistakes, will you ask, dear Sir, what is your boast? "O my dearest, dear Mr. B.," and then I pressed his hands with my lips, "whatever you are to yourself, when you give way to reflections so hopeful, you are the glory and the boast of your grateful Pamela! And permit me to add," tears standing in my eyes, and holding his hand between mine, "that I never beheld you in my life, in a more amiable light, than when I saw that noble consciousness which you speak of, manifest itself in your eyes, and your countenance--O Sir! this was a sight of joy, of true joy! to one who loves you for your dear soul's sake, as well as for that of your person; and who looks forward to a companionship with you beyond the term of this transitory life." Putting my arms round his arms, as I sat, my fearful eye watching his, "I fear. Sir, I have been too serious! I have, perhaps, broken one of your injunctions! Have cast a gloominess over your mind! And if I have, dear Sir, forgive me!" He clasped his arms around me: "O my beloved Pamela," said he; "thou dear confirmer of all my better purposes! How shall I acknowledge your inexpressible goodness to me? I see every day more and more, my dear love, what confidence I may repose in your generosity and discretion! You want no forgiveness; and my silence was owing to much better motives than to those you were apprehensive of." He saw my grateful transport, and kindly said, "Struggle not, my beloved Pamela, for words to express sentiments which your eyes and your countenance much more significantly express than any words _can_ do. Every day produces new instances of your affectionate concern for my _future_ as well as _present_ happiness: and I will endeavour to confirm to you all the hopes which the present occasion has given you of me, and which I see by these transporting effects are so desirable to you." The chariot brought us home sooner than I wished, and Mr. B. handed me into the parlour. "Here, Mrs. Jervis," said he, meeting her in the passage, "receive your angelic lady. I must take a little tour without you, Pamela; for I have had _too much_ of your dear company, and must leave you, to descend again into myself; for you have raised me to such a height, that it is with pain I look down from it." He kissed my hand, and went into his chariot again; for it was but half an hour after twelve; and said he would be back by two at dinner. He left Mrs. Jervis wondering at his words, and at the solemn air with which he uttered them. But when I told that good friend the occasion, I had a new joy in the pleasure and gratulations of the dear good woman, on what had passed. My next letter will be from London, and to you, my honoured parents; for to you, my dear, I shall not write again, expecting to see you soon. But I must now write seldomer, because I am to renew my correspondence with Lady Davers; with whom I cannot be so free, as I have been with Miss Darnford; and so I doubt, my dear father and mother, you cannot have the particulars of that correspondence; for I shall never find time to transcribe. But every opportunity that offers, you may assure yourselves, shall be laid hold of by your ever-dutiful daughter. And now, my dear Miss Darnford, as I inscribed this letter to you, let me conclude it, with the assurance, that I am, and ever will be _your most affectionate friend and servant_, P.B. LETTER XLIII MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, I know you will be pleased to hear that we arrived safely in town last night. We found a stately, well-furnished, and convenient house; and I had my closet, or library, and my withdrawing room, all in complete order, which Mr. B. gave me possession of in the most obliging manner. I am in a new world, as I may say, and see such vast piles of building, and such a concourse of people, and hear such a rattling of coaches in the day, that I hardly know what to make of it, as yet. Then the nightly watch, going their hourly rounds, disturbed me. But I shall soon be used to that, and sleep the sounder, perhaps, for the security it assures to us. Mr. B. is impatient to shew me what is curious in and about this vast city, and to hear, as he is pleased to say, my observations upon what I shall see. He has carried me through several of the fine streets this day in his chariot; but, at present, I have too confused a notion of things, to give any account of them: nor shall I trouble you with descriptions of that kind; for you being within a day's journey of London, I hope for the pleasure of seeing you oftener than I could expect before; and shall therefore leave these matters to your own observations, and what you'll hear from others. I am impatient for the arrival of my dear Miss Darnford, whose company and conversation will reconcile me, in a great measure, to this new world. Our family at present are Colbrand, Jonathan, and six men servants, including the coachman. The four maids are also with us. But my good Mrs. Jervis was indisposed; so came not up with us; but we expect her and Mr. Longman in a day or two: for Mr. B. has given her to my wishes; and as Mr. Longman's business will require him to be up and down frequently, Mrs. Jervis's care will be the better dispensed with. I long to see the dear good woman, and shall be more in my element when I do. Then I have, besides, my penitent Polly Barlow, who has never held up her head since that deplorable instance of her weakness, which I mentioned to you and to Miss Darnford, yet am I as kind to her as if nothing bad happened. I wish, however, some good husband would offer for her. Mr. Adams, our worthy chaplain, is now with Mr. Williams. He purposes to give us his company here till Christmas, when probably matters will be adjusted for him to take possession of his living. Meantime, not to let fall a good custom, when perhaps we have most occasion for it, I make Jonathan, who is reverend by his years and silver hairs, supply his place, appointing him the prayers he is to read. God preserve you both in health, and continue to me, I beseech you, your prayers and blessings, concludes _your ever dutiful daughter_, P. B. LETTER XLIV _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ My Dearest Lady, I must beg pardon, for having been in this great town more than a week, and not having found an opportunity to tender my devoirs to your ladyship. You know, dear Madam, what hurries and fatigues must attend such a journey, to one in my way, and to an entire new settlement in which an hundred things must be done, and attended to, with a preference to other occasions, however delightful. Yet, I must own, we found a stately, well-ordered, and convenient house: but, although it is not far from the fields, and has an airy opening to its back part, and its front to a square, as it is called, yet I am not reconciled to it, so entirely as to the beloved mansion we left. My dear Mr. B. has been, and is, busily employed in ordering some few alterations, to make things still more commodious. He has furnished me out a pretty library; and has allotted me very convenient apartments besides: the furniture of every place is rich, as befits the mind and fortune of the generous owner. But I shall not offer at particulars, as we hope to have the honour of a visit from my good lord, and your ladyship, before the winter weather sets in, to make the roads too dirty and deep: but it is proper to mention, that the house is so large, that we can make a great number of beds, the more conveniently to receive the honours of your ladyship, and my lord, and Mr. B.'s other friends will do us. I have not yet been at any of the public diversions. Mr. B. has carried me, by gentle turns, out of his workmen's way, ten miles round this overgrown capital, and through the principal of its numerous streets. The villages that lie spangled about this vast circumference, as well on the other side the noble Thames (which I had before a notion of, from Sir John Denham's celebrated Cooper's Hill), as on the Middlesex side, are beautiful, both by buildings and situation, beyond what I had imagined, and several of them seem larger than many of our country towns of note. But it would be impertinent to trouble your ladyship with these matters, who are no stranger to what is worthy of notice in London. But I was surprised, when Mr. B. observed to me, that this whole county, and the two cities of London and Westminster, are represented in parliament by no more than eight members, when so many borough towns in England are inferior to the meanest villages about London. I am in daily expectation of the arrival of Miss Darnford, and then I shall wish (accompanied by a young lady of so polite a taste) to see a good play. Mr. B. has already shewn me the opera-house, and the play-houses, though silent, as I may say; that, as he was pleased to observe, they should not be new to me, and that the sight might not take off my attention from the performance, when I went to the play; so that I can conceive a tolerable notion of every thing, from the disposition of the seats, the boxes, galleries, pit, the music, scenes, and the stage; and so shall have no occasion to gaze about me, like a country novice, whereby I might attract a notice that I would not wish, either for my own credit, or your dear brother's honour. I have had a pleasure which I had not in Bedfordshire; and that is, that on Sunday I was at church, without gaping crowds to attend us, and blessings too loud for my wishes. Yet I was more gazed at (and so was Mr. B.) than I expected, considering there were so many well-dressed gentry, and some nobility there, and _they_ stared as much as any body, but will not, I hope, when we cease to be a novelty. We have already had several visitors to welcome Mr. B. to town, and to congratulate him on his marriage; but some, no doubt, to see, and to find fault with his rustic; for it is impossible, you know, Madam, that a gentleman so distinguished by his merit and fortune should have taken a step of such consequence to himself and family, and not to have been known by every body so to have done. Sir Thomas Atkyns is in town, and has taken apartments in Hanover Square; and he brought with him a younger brother of Mr. Arthur's, who, it seems, is a merchant. Lord F. has also been to pay his respects to Mr. B. whose school fellow he was at Eton, the little time Mr. B. was there. His lordship promises, that his lady shall make me a visit, and accompany me to the opera, as soon as we are fully settled. A gentleman of the Temple, Mr. Turner by name, and Mr. Fanshow of Gray's Inn, both lawyers, and of Mr. B.'s former acquaintance, very sprightly and modish gentlemen, have also welcomed us to town, and made Mr. B. abundance of gay compliments on my account to my face, all in the common frothy run. They may be polite gentlemen, but I can't say I over-much like them. There is something so opiniated, so seemingly insensible of rebuke, either from _within_ or _without_, and yet not promising to avoid deserving one occasionally, that I could as _lieve_ wish Mr. B. and they would not renew their former acquaintance. I am very bold your ladyship will say--But you command me to write freely: yet I would not be thought to be uneasy, with regard to your dear brother's morals, from these gentlemen; for, oh, Madam, I am a blessed creature, and am hourly happier and happier in the confidence I have as to that particular: but I imagine they will force themselves upon him, more than he may wish, or would permit, were the acquaintance now to begin; for they are not of his turn of mind, as it seems to me; being, by a sentence or two that dropt from them, very free, and very frothy in their conversation; and by their laughing at what they say themselves, taking that for wit which will not stand the test, if I may be allowed to say so. But they have heard, no doubt, what a person Mr. B.'s goodness to me has lifted into notice; and they think themselves warranted to say any thing before his country girl. He was pleased to ask me, when they were gone, how I liked his two lawyers? And said, they were persons of family and fortune. "I am glad of it, Sir," said I; "for their own sakes." "Then you don't approve of them, Pamela?" "They are _your_ friends, Sir; and I cannot have any dislike to them." "They say good things _sometimes_," returned he. "I don't doubt it, Sir; but you say good things _always_." "'Tis happy for me, my dear, you think so. But tell me, what you think of 'em?" "I shall be better able, Sir, to answer your questions, if I see them a second time." "But we form notions of persons at first sight, sometimes, my dear; and you are seldom mistaken in yours." "I only think. Sir, that they have neither of them any diffidence: but their profession, perhaps, may set them above that." "They don't _practise_, my dear; their fortunes enable them to live without it; and they are too studious of their pleasures, to give themselves any trouble they are not obliged to take." "They seem to me. Sir, _qualified_ for practice: they would make great figures at the bar, I fancy." "Why so?" "Only, because they seem prepared to think _well_ of what they say _themselves_; and _lightly_ of what _other people_ say, or may think, _of them_." "That, indeed, my dear, is the necessary qualifications of a public speaker, be he lawyer, or what he will: the man who cannot doubt _himself_, and can think meanly of his _auditors_, never fails to speak with _self-applause_ at least." "But you'll pardon me, good Sir, for speaking my mind so freely, and so early of these _your friends_." "I never, my love, ask you a question, I wish you not to answer; and always expect your answer should be without reserve; for many times I may ask your opinion, as a corrective or a confirmation of my own judgment." How kind, how indulgent was this, my good lady! But you know, how generously your dear brother treats me, on all occasions; and this makes me so bold as I often am. It may be necessary, my dear lady, to give you an account of our visitors, in order to make the future parts of my writing the more intelligible; because what I have to write may turn sometimes upon the company we see: for which reason, I shall also just mention Sir George Stuart, a Scottish gentleman, with whom Mr. B. became acquainted in his travels, who seems to be a polite (and Mr. B. says, is a learned) man, and a virtuoso: he, and a nephew of his, of the same name, a bashful gentleman, and who, for that reason, I imagine, has a merit that lies deeper than a first observation can reach, are just gone from us, and were received with so much civility by Mr. B. as entitles them to my respectful regard. Thus, Madam, do I run on, in a manner, without materials; and only to shew you the pleasure I take in obeying you. I hope my good Lord Davers enjoys his health, and continues me in his favour; which I value extremely, as well as your ladyship's. Mr. H., I hope, likewise enjoys his health. But let me not forget my particular and thankful respects to the Countess, for her favour and goodness to me, which I shall ever place next, in my grateful esteem, to the honours I have received from your ladyship, and which bind me to be, with the greatest respect, _your faithful and obliged servant_, P.B. LETTER XLV MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, I write to you both, at this time, for your advice in a particular dispute, which is the only one I have had, or I hope ever shall have, with my dear benefactor; and as he is pleased to insist upon his way, and it is a point of conscience with me, I must resolve to be determined by your joint advice; for, if my father and mother, and husband, are of one opinion, I must, I think, yield up my own. This is the subject:--I think a mother ought, if she can, to be the nurse to her own children. Mr. B. says, he will not permit it. It is the first _will not_ I have heard from him, or given occasion for: and I tell him, that it is a point of conscience with me, and I hope he will indulge me: but the dear gentleman has an odd way of arguing, that sometimes puzzles me. He pretends to answer me from Scripture; but I have some doubts of _his_ exposition; and he gives me leave to write to you, though yet he won't promise to be determined by your opinions if they are not the same with his own; and I say to him, "Is this fair, my dearest Mr. B.? Is it?" He has got the dean's opinion with him; for our debate began before we came to town: and then he would not let me state the case; but did it himself; and yet 'tis but an half opinion, as I may, neither. For it is, that if the husband is set upon it, it is a wife's duty to obey. But I can't see how that is; for if it be the _natural_ duty of a mother, it is a _divine_ duty; and how can a husband have power to discharge a divine duty? As great as a wife's obligation is to obey her husband, which is, I own, one indispensable of the marriage contract, it ought not to interfere with what one takes to be a superior duty; and must not one be one's own judge of actions, by which we must stand or fall? I'll tell you my plea: I say, that where a mother is unhealthy; subject to communicative distempers, as scrophulous or scorbutic, or consumptive disorders, which have infected the blood or lungs; or where they have not plenty of nourishment for the child, that in these cases, a dispensation lies of course. But where there is good health, free spirits, and plentiful nourishment, I think it an indispensable duty. For this was the custom of old, of all the good wives we read of in Scripture. Then the nourishment of the mother must be most natural to the child. These were my pleas, among others: and this is his answer which he gave to me in writing: "As to what you allege, my dear, of old customs; times and fashions are much changed. If you tell me of Sarah's, or Rachel's, or Rebecca's, or Leah's nursing their children, I can answer, that the one drew water at a well, for her father's flocks; another kneaded cakes, and baked them on the hearth; another dressed savoury meat for her husband; and all of them performed the common offices of the household: and when our modern ladies shall follow such examples in _every thing_, their plea ought to be allowed in this. "Besides, my fondness for your personal graces, and the laudable, and, I will say, honest pleasure, I take in that easy, genteel form, which every body admires in you, at first sight, oblige me to declare, that I can by no means consent to sacrifice these to the carelessness into which I have seen very nice ladies sink, when they became nurses. Moreover, my chief delight in you is for the beauties of your mind; and unequalled as they are, in my opinion, you have still a genius capable of great improvement; and I shan't care, when I want to hear my Pamela read her French and Latin lessons, which I take so much delight to teach her (and to endeavour to improve myself from her virtue and piety, at the same time), to seek my beloved in the nursery; or to permit her to be engrossed by those baby offices, which will better befit weaker minds. "No, my dear, you must allow me to look upon you as my scholar, in one sense; as my companion in another; and as my instructress, in a third. You know I am not governed by the worst motives: I am half overcome by your virtue: and you must take care, that you leave not your work half done. But I cannot help looking upon the nurse's office, as an office beneath Pamela. Let it have your inspection, your direction, and your sole attention, if you please, when I am abroad: but when I am at home, even a son and heir, so jealous am I of your affections, shall not be my rival in them: nor will I have my rest broken in upon, by your servants bringing to you your dear little one, at times, perhaps, as unsuitable to my repose and your own, as to the child's necessities. "The chief thing with you, my dear, is that you think it unnatural in a mother not to be a nurse to her own child, if she can; and what is unnatural, you say, is sin. "Some men may be fond of having their wives undertake this province, and good reasons may be assigned for such their fondness; but it suits not me at all. And yet no man would be thought to have a greater affection for children than myself, or be more desirous to do them justice; for I think every one should look forward to posterity with a preference: but if my Pamela can be _better_ employed; if the office can be equally well performed; if your direction and superintendence will be sufficient; and if I cannot look upon you in that way with equal delight, as if it was otherwise; I insist upon it, my Pamela, that you acquiesce with my _dispensation_, and don't think to let me lose my beloved wife, and have a nurse put upon me instead of her. "As to that (the nearest to me of all) of dangers to your constitution: there is as much reason to hope it may not be so, as to fear that it _may_. For children sometimes bring health with them as well as infirmity; and it is not a little likely, that the _nurse's_ office may affect the health of one I hold most dear, who has no very robust constitution, and thinks it so much her duty to attend to it, that she will abridge herself of half the pleasures of life, and on that account confine herself within doors, or, in the other case, must take with her her infant and her nursery-maid wherever she goes; and I shall either have very fine company (shall I not?) or be obliged to deny myself yours. "Then, as I propose to give you a smattering of the French and Italian, I know not but I may take you on a little tour into France and Italy; at least, to Bath, Tunbridge, Oxford, York, and the principal places of England. Wherefore, as I love to look upon you as the companion of my pleasures, I advise you, my dearest love, not to weaken, or, to speak in a phrase proper to the present subject, _wean_ me from that love _to_ you, and admiration _of_ you, which hitherto has been rather increasing than otherwise, as your merit, and regard for me have increased." These, my dear parents, are charming allurements, almost irresistible temptations! And what makes me mistrust myself the more, and be the more diffident; for we are but too apt to be persuaded into any thing, when the motives are so tempting as the last. I take it for granted, that many wives will not choose to dispute this point so earnestly as I have done; for we have had several little debates about it; and it is the only point I have ever yet debated with him; but one would not be altogether implicit neither. It is no compliment to him to be quite passive, and to have no will at all of one's own: yet would I not dispute one point, but in supposition of a superior obligation: and this, he says, he can _dispense_ with. But alas! my dear Mr. B. was never yet thought so entirely fit to fill up the character of a casuistical divine, as that one may absolutely rely upon his decisions in these serious points: and you know we must stand or fall by our own judgments. Upon condition, therefore, that he requires not to see this my letter, nor your answer to it, I write for your advice. But this I see plainly, that he will have his own way; and if I cannot get over my scruples, what shall I do? For if I think it a _sin_ to submit to the dispensation he insists upon as in his power to grant, and to submit to it, what will become of my peace of mind? For it is not in our power to believe as one will. As to the liberty he gives me for a month, I should be loath to take it; for one knows not the inconveniences that may attend a change of nourishment; or if I did, I should rather--But I know not what I would say; for I am but a young creature to be in this way, and so very unequal to it in every respect! So I commit myself to God's direction, and your advice, as becomes _your ever dutiful daughter_, P.B. LETTER XLVI My Dearest Child, Your mother and I have as well considered the case you put as we are able; and we think your own reasons very good; and it is a thousand pities your honoured husband will not allow them, as you, my dear, make it such a point with you. Very few ladies would give their spouses, we believe, the trouble of this debate; and few gentlemen are so very nice as yours in this respect; for I (but what signifies what such a mean soul as I think, compared to so learned and brave a gentleman; yet I) always thought your dear mother, and she has been a pretty woman too, in her time, never looked so lovely, as when I saw her, like the pelican in the wilderness, feeding her young ones from her kind breast:--and had I never so noble an estate, I should have had the same thoughts. But since the good 'squire cannot take this pleasure; since he so much values your person; since he gives you warning, that it may estrange his affections; since he is impatient of denial, and thinks so highly of his prerogative; since he may, if disobliged, resume some bad habits, and so you may have all your prayers and hopes in his perfect reformation frustrated, and find your own power to do good more narrowed: we think, besides the obedience you have vowed to him, and is the duty of every good wife, you ought to give up the point, and acquiesce; for this seemeth to us to be the lesser evil: and God Almighty, if it should be your duty, will not be less merciful than men; who, as his honour says, by the laws of the realm, excuses a wife, when she is faulty by the command of the husband; and we hope, the fault he is pleased to make you commit (if a fault, for he really gives very praise-worthy motives for his dispensation) will not be laid at his own door. So e'en resolve, my dearest child, to submit to it, and with cheerfulness too. God send you an happy hour! But who knows, when the time comes, whether it may not be proper to dispense with this duty, as you deem it, on other accounts? For every young person is not enabled to perform it. So, to shew his honour, that you will cheerfully acquiesce, your dear mother advises you to look out for a wholesome, good-humoured, honest body, as near your complexion and temper, and constitution, as may be; and it may not be the worse, she thinks, if she is twenty, or one--or two-and-twenty; for she will have more strength and perfection, as one may say, than even you can have at your tender age: and, above all, for the wise reason you give from your reading, that she may be brought to-bed much about your time, if possible. We can look out, about us, for such an one. And, as Mr. B. is not adverse to have the dear child in the house, you will have as much delight, and the dear baby may fare as well, under your prudent and careful eye, as if you were obliged in the way you would choose. So God direct you, my child, in all your ways, and make you acquiesce in this point with cheerfulness (although, as you say, one cannot believe, as one pleases; for we verily are of opinion you safely may, as matters stand) and continue to you, and your honoured husband, health, and all manner of happiness, are the prayers of _your most affectionate father and mother,_ J. _and_ E. ANDREWS. LETTER XLVII I thank you, my dearest parents, for your kind letter; it was given to Mr. B. and he brought it to me himself, and was angry with me: indeed he was, as you shall hear: "'Tis from the good couple, my dear, I see. I hope they are of my opinion--But whether they be or not--But I will leave you; and do you, Pamela, step down to my closet, when you have perused it." He was pleased to withdraw; and I read it, and sat down, and considered it well; but, as you know I made it always my maxim to do what I could not avoid to do, with as good a grace as possible, I waited on the dear gentleman. "Well, Pamela," said he, a little seriously, "what say the worthy pair?" "O Sir! they declare for you. They say, it is best for me to yield up this point." "They are certainly in the right--But were you not a dear perverse creature, to give me all this trouble about your saucy scruples?" "Nay, Sir, don't call them so," said I, little thinking he was displeased with me. "I still am somewhat wavering; though they advise me to acquiesce; and, as it is your will, and you have determined, it is my duty to yield up the point." "But do you yield it up cheerfully, my dear?" "I do, Sir; and will never more dispute it, let what will happen. And I beg pardon for having so often entered into this subject with you. But you know, Sir, if one's weakness of mind gives one scruples, one should not yield implicitly, till they are satisfied; for that would look as if one gave not you the obedience of a free mind." "You are very obliging, _just now_, my dear; but I can tell you, you had made me half serious; yet I would not shew it, in compliment to your present condition; for I did not expect that you would have thought any appeal necessary, though to your parents, in a point that I was determined upon, as you must see, every time we talked of it." This struck me all in a heap. I looked down to the ground: having no courage to look up to his face, for fear I should behold his aspect as mortifying to me as his words. But he took both my hands, and drew me kindly to him, and saluted me, "Excuse me, my dearest love: I am not angry with you. Why starts this precious pearl?" and kissed my cheek: "speak to me, Pamela!" "I will, Sir--I will--as soon as I can:" for this being my first check, so seriously given, my heart was full. But as I knew he would be angry, and think me obstinate, if I did not speak, I said, full of concern, "I wish, Sir--I wish--you had been pleased to spare me a little longer, for the same kind, very kind, consideration." "But is it not better, my dear, to tell you I _was_ a little out of humour with you, than that I _am_?--But you were very earnest with me on this point more than once; and you put me upon a hated, because ungenerous, necessity of pleading my prerogative, as I call it; yet this would not do, but you appealed against me in the point I was determined upon, for reasons altogether in your favour: and if this was not like my Pamela, excuse me, that I could not help being a little unlike myself." "Ah!" thought I, "this is not so very unlike your dear self, were I to give the least shadow of an occasion; for it is of a piece with your lessons formerly." "I am sure," said I, "I was not in the least aware, that I had offended. But I was too little circumspect. I had been used to your goodness for so long a time, that I expected it, it seems; and thought I was sure of your favourable construction." "Why, so you may be, my dear, in every thing _almost_. But I don't love to speak twice my mind on the same subject; you know I don't! and you have really disputed this point with me five or six times; insomuch, that I wondered what was come to my dearest." "I thought, Sir, you would have distinguished between a command where my _conscience_ was concerned, and a _common_ point: you know. Sir, I never had any will but yours in _common_ points. But, indeed, you make me fearful because my task is rendered too difficult for my own weak judgment." I was silent, but by my tears. "Now, I doubt, Pamela, your spirit is high. You won't speak, because you are out of humour at what I say. I will have no sullen reserves, my dearest. What means that heaving sob? I know that this is the time with your sex, when, saddened with your apprehensions, and indulged because of them, by the fond husband, it is needful, for both their sakes, to watch over the changes of their temper. For ladies in your way are often like encroaching subjects; apt to extend what they call their privileges, on the indulgence shewed them; and the husband never again recovers the ascendant he had before." "You know these things better than I, Mr. B. But I had no intention to invade your province, or to go out of my own. Yet I thought I had a right to a little free will, on some greater occasions." "Why, so you have, my dear. But you must not plead in behalf of your own will, and refuse to give due weight to mine." "Well, Sir, I must needs say, I have one advantage above others of my sex; for if wives, in my circumstances, are apt to grow upon indulgence, I am very happy that your kind and watchful care will hinder me from falling into that error." He gave me a gentle tap on the neck: "Let me beat my beloved sauce-box," said he: "is it thus you rally my watchful care over you for your own good? But tell me, truly, Pamela, are you not a little sullen? Look up to me, my dear. Are you not?" "I believe I am; but 'tis but very little, Sir. It will soon go off. Please to let me withdraw, that I may take myself to task about it;-for at present, I know not what to do, because I did not expect the displeasure I have incurred." "Is it not the same thing," replied he, "if this our first quarrel end here, without your withdrawing?--I forgive you heartily, my Pamela; and give me one kiss, and I will think of your saucy appeal against me no more." "I will comply with your condition, Sir; but I have a great mind to be saucy. I wish you would let me for this once." "What would you say, my dearest?--Be saucy then, as you call it, as saucy as you can." "Why; then I _am_ a little sullen at present, that I am; and I am not fully convinced, whether it must be I that forgive you, or you me. For, indeed, if I can recollect, I cannot think my fault so great in this point, that was a point of conscience to me, as (pardon me Sir), to stand in need of your forgiveness." "Well, then, my dearest," said he, "we will forgive one another? but take this with you, that it is my love to you that makes me more delicate than otherwise I should be; and you have inured me so much to a faultless conduct, that I can hardly bear with natural infirmities from you.--But," giving me another tap, "get you gone; I leave you to your recollection; and let me know what fruits it produces: for I must not be put off with a half-compliance; I must have your whole will with me, if possible." So I went up, and recollecting every thing, _sacrificed to my sex_, as Mr. B. calls it, when he talks of a wife's reluctance to yield a favourite point: for I shed many tears, because my heart was set upon it. And so, my dear parents, twenty charming ideas and pleasures I had formed to myself, are vanished from me, and my measures are quite broken. But after my heart was relieved by my eye, I was lighter and easier. And the result is, we have heard of a good sort of woman, that is to be my poor _baby's mother_, when it comes; so your kindly-offered enquiries are needless, I believe. 'Tis well for our sex in general, that there are not many husbands who distinguish thus nicely. For, I doubt, there are but very few so well entitled to their ladies' observances as Mr. B. is to mine, and who would act so generously and so tenderly by a wife as he does, in every material instance on which the happiness of life depends. But we are quite reconciled; although as I said, upon his own terms: and so I can still style myself, _my dear honoured parents, your happy, as well as your dutiful daughter_, P.B. LETTER XLVIII _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ My Dear Pamela, I have sent you a present, the completest I could procure, of every thing that may suit your approaching happy circumstance; as I hope it will be to you, and to us all: but it is with a hope annexed, that although both sexes are thought of in it, you will not put us off with a girl: no, child, we will not permit you, may we have our wills, to _think_ of giving us a girl, till you have presented us with half a dozen fine boys. For our line is gone so low, we expect that human security from you in your first seven years, or we shall be disappointed. I will now give you their names, if my brother and you approve of them: your first shall be BILLY; my Lord Davers, and the Earl of C----, godfathers; and it must be doubly godmothered too, or I am afraid the countess and I shall fall out about it. Your second DAVERS; be sure remember that.--Your third, CHARLEY; your fourth, JEMMY; your fifth, HARRY; your sixth--DUDLEY, if you will--and your girl, if you had not rather call it PAMELA, shall be called BARBARA.--The rest name as you please.--And so, my dear, I wish all seven happily over with you. I am glad you got safe to town: and long to hear of Miss Darnford's arrival, because I know you'll be out of your bias in your new settlement till then. She is a fine lady, and writes the most to my taste of any one of her sex that I know, next to you. I wish she'd be so kind as to correspond with me. But be sure don't omit to give me the sequel of her sister's and Murray's affair, and what you think will please me in relation to her.-You do well to save yourself the trouble of describing the town and the public places. We are no strangers to them; and they are too much our table talk, when any country lady has for the first time been carried to town, and returned: besides, what London affords, is nothing that deserves mention, compared to what we have seen at Paris and at Versailles, and other of the French palaces. You exactly, therefore, hit our tastes, and answer our expectations, when you give us, in your peculiar manner, sentiments on what we may call the _soul of things_, and such characters as you draw with a pencil borrowed from the hand of nature, intermingled with those fine lights and shades of reflections and observations, that make your pictures glow, and instruct as well as delight. There, Pamela, is encouragement for you to proceed in obliging us. We are all of one mind in this respect; and more than ever, since we have seen your actions so well answered to your writings; and that theory and practice, as to every excellence that can adorn a lady, is the same thing with you. We are pleased with your lawyers' characters. There are life and nature in them; but never avoid giving all that occur to you, for that seems to be one of your talents; and in the ugliest, there will be matter of instruction; especially as you seem naturally to fall upon such as are so general, that no one who converses, but must see in them the picture of one or other he is acquainted with. By this time, perhaps, Miss Darnford will be with you.--Our respects to her, if so.--And you will have been at some of the theatrical entertainments: so will not want subjects to oblige us.--'Twas a good thought of your dear man's, to carry you to see the several houses, and to make you a judge, by that means, of the disposition and fashion of every thing in them.-Tell him, I love him better and better. I am proud of my brother, and do nothing but talk of what a charming husband he makes. But then, he gives an example to all who know him, and his uncontrollable temper (which makes against many of us), that it is possible for a good wife to make even a bad man a worthy husband: and this affords an instruction, which may stand all our sex in good stead.--But then they must have been cautious first, to choose a man of natural good sense, and good manners, and not a brutal or abandoned debauchee. But hark-ye-me, my sweet girl, what have I done, that you won't write yourself _sister_ to me? I could find in my heart to be angry with you. Before my last visit, I was scrupulous to subscribe myself so to _you_. But since I have seen myself so much surpassed in every excellence, that I would take pleasure in the name, you assume a pride in your turn, and may think it under-valuing yourself, to call _me_ so--Ay, that's the thing, I doubt--Although I have endeavoured by several regulations since my return (and the countess, too, keeps your example in distant view, as well as I), to be more worthy of the appellation. If, therefore, you would avoid the reproaches of secret pride, under the shadow of so remarkable an humility, for the future never omit subscribing as I do, with great pleasure, _your truly affectionate sister and friend_, B. DAVERS. I always take it for granted, that my worthy brother sends his respects to us; as you must, that Lord Davers, the Countess of C. and Jackey (who, as well as his uncle, talks of nothing else but you), send theirs; and so unnecessary compliments will be always excluded our correspondence. LETTER XLIX _In answer to the preceding._ How you overwhelm me with your goodness, my dearest lady, in every word of your last welcome letter, is beyond my power to express I How nobly has your ladyship contrived, in your ever-valued present, to encourage a doubting and apprehensive mind! And how does it contribute to my joy and my glory, that I am deemed by the noble sister of my best beloved, not wholly unworthy of being the humble means to continue, and, perhaps, to perpetuate, a family so ancient and so honourable! When I contemplate this, and look upon what I was--How shall I express a sense of the honour done me!--And when, reading over the other engaging particulars in your ladyship's letter, I come to the last charming paragraph, I am doubly affected to see myself seemingly upbraided, but so politely emboldened to assume an appellation, that otherwise I hardly dared. I--_humble_ I--who never had a sister before--to find one now in Lady Davers! O Madam, you, and _only_ you, can teach me words fit to express the joy and the gratitude that filled my delighted heart!--But thus much I am taught, that there is some thing more than the low-born can imagine in birth and education. This is so evident in your ladyship's actions, words, and manner, that it strikes one with a becoming reverence; and we look up with awe to a condition we emulate in vain, when raised by partial favour, like what I have found; and are confounded when we see grandeur of soul joined with grandeur of birth and condition; and a noble lady acting thus nobly, as Lady Davers acts. My best wishes, and a thousand blessings, attend your ladyship in all you undertake! And I am persuaded the latter will, and a peace and satisfaction of mind incomparably to be preferred to whatever else this world can afford, in the new regulations, which you, and my dear lady countess, have set on foot in your families: and when I can have the happiness to know what they are, I shall, I am confident, greatly improve my own methods by them. Were we to live for ever in this life, we might be careless and indifferent about these matters: but when such an uncertainty as to the time, and such a certainty as to the event is before us, a prudent mind will be always preparing, till prepared; and what can be a better preparative, than charitable actions to our fellow-creatures in the eye of that Majesty, which wants nothing of us himself, but to do just the merciful things to one another. Pardon me, my dearest lady, for this my free style. Methinks I am out of myself! I know not how to descend all at once from the height to which you have raised me: and you must forgive the reflections to which you yourself and your own noble actions have given birth. Here, having taken respite a little, I naturally sink into _body_ again.--And will not your ladyship confine your expectations from me within narrower limits?--For, O, I cannot even with my wishes, so swiftly follow your expectations, if such they are! But, however, leaving futurity to HIM, who only governs futurity, and who conducts us all, and our affairs, as shall best answer his own divine purposes, I will proceed as well as I can, to obey you in those articles, which are, at present, more within my own power. My dear Miss Darnford, then, let me acquaint your ladyship, arrived on Thursday last: she had given us notice, by a line, of the day she set out; and Sir Simon and Lady Darnford saw her ten miles on the way to the stage coach in Sir Simon's coach, Mr. Murray attending her on horseback. They parted with her, as was easy to guess from her merit, with great tenderness; and we are to look upon the visit (as we do) as a high favour from her papa and mamma; who, however, charge her not to exceed a month in and out, which I regret much. Mr. B. kindly proposed to me, as she came in the stage coach, attended with one maid-servant, to meet her part of the way in his coach and six, if, as he was pleased to say, it would not be too fatiguing to me; and we would go so early, as to dine at St. Alban's. I gladly consented, and we got thither about one o'clock; and while dinner was preparing, he was pleased to shew me the great church there, and the curious vault of the good Duke of Gloucester, and also the monument of the great Lord Chancellor Bacon in St. Michael's church; all which, no doubt, your ladyship has seen. There happened to be six passengers in the stage coach, including Miss Darnford and her maid; she was exceeding glad to be relieved from them, though the weather was cold enough, two of the passengers being not very agreeable company, one a rough military man, and the other a positive humoursome old gentlewoman: and the others two sisters--"who jangled now and then," said she, "as much as _my_ sister, and my sister's _sister_." Judge how joyful this meeting was to us both. Mr. B. was no less delighted, and said, he was infinitely obliged to Sir Simon for this precious trust. "I come with double pleasure," said she, "to see the greatest curiosity in England, a husband and wife, who have not, in so many months as you have been married, if I may believe report, and your letters, Mrs. B., once repented." "You are severe, Miss Darnford," replied Mr. B., "upon people in the married state: I hope there are many such instances." "There might, if there were more such husbands as Mr. B. makes.--I hated you once, and thought you very wicked; but I revere you now." "If you will _revere_ any body, my dear Miss Darnford," said he, "let it be this good girl; for it is all owing to her conduct and direction, that I make a tolerable husband: were there more such wives, I am persuaded, there would be more such husbands than there are." "You see, my dear," said I, "what it is to be wedded to a generous man. Mr. B., by his noble treatment of me, creates a merit in me, and disclaims the natural effects of his own goodness." "Well, you're a charming couple--person and mind. I know not any equal either of you have.--But, Mr. B., I will not compliment you too highly. I may make _you_ proud, for men are saucy creatures; but I cannot make your _lady_ so: and in this doubt of the one, and confidence in the other, I must join with you, that her merit is the greatest.--Since, excuse me, Sir, her example has reformed her rake; and you have only confirmed in her the virtues you found ready formed to your hand." "That distinction," said Mr. B., "is worthy of Miss Darnford's judgment." "My dearest Miss Darnford--my dearest Mr. B.," said I, laying my hand upon the hand of each, "how can you go on thus!--As I look upon every kind thing, two such dear friends say of me, as incentives for me to endeavour to deserve it, you must not ask me too high; for then, instead of encouraging, you'll make me despair." He led us into the coach; and in a free, easy, joyful manner, not in the least tired or fatigued, did we reach the town and Mr. B.'s house; with which and its furniture, and the apartments allotted for her, my dear friend is highly pleased. But the dear lady put me into some little confusion, when she saw me first, taking notice of my _improvements_, as she called them, before Mr. B. I looked at him and her with a downcast eye. He smiled, and said, "Would you, my good Miss Darnford, look so silly, after such a length of time, with a husband you need not be ashamed of?" "No, indeed, Sir, not I, I'll assure you; nor will I forgive those maiden airs in a wife so happy as you are." I said nothing. But I wished myself, in mind and behaviour, to be just what Miss Darnford is. But, my dear lady, Miss Darnford has had those early advantages from conversation, which I had not; and so must never expect to know how to deport myself with that modest freedom and ease, which I know I want, and shall always want, although some of my partial favourers think I do not. For I am every day more and more sensible of the great difference there is between being used to the politest conversation as an inferior, and being born to bear a part in it: in the one, all is set, stiff, awkward, and the person just such an ape of imitation as poor I; in the other, all is natural ease and sweetness--like Miss Darnford. Knowing this, I don't indeed aim at what I am sensible I cannot attain; and so, I hope, am less exposed to censure than I should be if I did. For, I have heard Mr. B. observe with regard to gentlemen who build fine houses, make fine gardens, and open fine prospects, that art should never take place of, but be subservient to, nature; and a gentleman, if confined to a situation, had better conform his designs to that, than to do as at Chatsworth, level a mountain at a monstrous expense; which, had it been suffered to remain, in so wild and romantic a scene as Chatsworth affords, might have been made one of the greatest beauties of the place. So I think I had better endeavour to make the best of those natural defects I cannot master, than, by assuming airs and dignities in appearance, to which I was not born, act neither part tolerably. By this means, instead of being thought neither gentlewoman nor rustic, as Sir Jacob hinted (_linsey-wolsey_, I think was his term too), I may be looked upon as an original in my way; and all originals pass well enough, you know, Madam, even with judges. Now I am upon this subject, I can form to myself, if your ladyship will excuse me, two such polite gentlemen as my lawyers mentioned in my former, who, with a true London magnanimity and penetration (for, Madam, I fancy your London critics will be the severest upon the country girl), will put on mighty significant looks, forgetting, it may be, that they have any faults themselves, and apprehending that they have nothing to do, but to sit in judgment upon others, one of them expressing himself after this manner--"Why, truly, Jack, the girl is well enough--_considering_--I can't say--" (then a pinch of snuff, perhaps, adds importance to his air)--"but a man might love her for a month or two." (These sparks talked thus of other ladies before me.) "She behaves better than I expected from her--_considering_--" again will follow. "So I think," cries the other, and tosses his tie behind him, with an air partly of contempt, and partly of rakery. "As you say. Jemmy, I expected to find an awkward country girl, but she tops her part, I'll assure you!--Nay, for that matter, behaves very tolerably for _what she was_--And is right, not to seem desirous to drown the remembrance of her original in her elevation--And, I can't but say" (for something like it he did say), "is mighty pretty, and passably genteel." And thus with their poor praise of Mr. B.'s girl, they think they have made a fine compliment to his judgment. But for _his_ sake (for as to my own, I am not solicitous about such gentlemen's good opinions), I owe them a spite; and believe, I shall find an opportunity to come out of their debt. For I have the vanity to think, now you have made me proud by your kind encouragements and approbation, that the country girl will make 'em look about them, with all their _genteel contempts_, which they miscall _praise_. But how I run on! Your ladyship expects that I shall write as freely to you as I used to do to my parents. I have the merit of obeying you, that I have; but, I doubt, too much to the exercise of your patience. This (like all mine) is a long letter; and I will only add to it Miss Darnford's humble respects, and thanks for your ladyship's kind mention of her, which she receives as no small honour. And now. Madam, with a greater pleasure than I can express, will I make use of the liberty you so kindly allow me to take, of subscribing myself with that profound respect which becomes me, _your ladyship's most obliged sister, and obedient servant,_ P.B. Mr. Adams, Mr. Longman, and Mrs. Jervis, are just arrived; and our household is now complete. LETTER L _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ MY DEAR PAMELA, After I have thanked you for your last agreeable letter, which has added the Earl and Lady Jenny to the number of your admirers (you know Lady Betty, her sister, was so before), I shall tell you, that I now write, at their requests, as well as at those of my Lord Davers, the countess you so dearly love, and Lady Betty, for your decision of an odd dispute, that, on reading your letter, and talking of your domestic excellencies, happened among us. Lady Betty says, that, notwithstanding any awkwardness you attribute to yourself, she cannot but decide, by all she has seen of your writings, and heard from us, that yours is the perfectest character she ever found in the sex. The countess said, that you wrong yourself in supposing you are not every thing that is polite and genteel, as well in your behaviour, as in your person; and that she knows not any lady in England who better becomes her station than you do. "Why, then," said Lady Jenny, "Mrs. B. must be quite perfect: that's certain." So said the earl; so said they all. And Lord Davers confirmed that you were. Yet, as we are sure, there cannot be such a character in this life as has not one fault, although we could not tell where to fix it, the countess made a whimsical motion: "Lady Davers," said she, "pray do you write to Mrs. B. and acquaint her with our subject; and as it is impossible, for one who can act as she does, not to know herself better than any body else can do, desire her to acquaint us with some of those secret foibles, that leave room for her to be still more perfect." "A good thought," said they all. And this is the present occasion of my writing; and pray see that you accuse yourself, of no more than you know yourself guilty: for over-modesty borders nearly on pride, and too liberal self-accusations are generally but so many traps for acquittal with applause: so that (whatever other ladies might) you will not be forgiven, if you deal with us in a way so poorly artful; let your faults, therefore, be such as you think we can subscribe to, from what we have _seen_ of _you_ and what we have _read_ of _yours_; and you must try to extenuate them too, as you give them, lest we should think you above that nature, which, in the _best_ cases, is your undoubted talent. I congratulate you and Miss Damford on her arrival: she is a charming young lady; but tell her, that we shall not allow her to take you at your word, and to think that she excels you in any one thing: only, indeed, we think you nicer in some points than you need be to, as to your present agreeable circumstance. And yet, let me tell you, that the easy, unaffected, conjugal purity, in word and behaviour, between your good man and you, is worthy of imitation, and what the countess and I have with pleasure contemplated since we left you, an hundred times, and admire in you both: and it is good policy too, child, as well as high decorum; for it is what will make you ever new and respectful to one another. But _you_ have the honour of it all, whose sweet, natural, and easy modesty, in person, behaviour, and conversation, forbid indecency, even in thought, much more in word, to approach you: insomuch that no rakes can be rakes in your presence, and yet they hardly know to what they owe their restraint. However, as people who see you at this time, will take it for granted that you and Mr. B. have been very intimate together, I should think you need not be ashamed of your appearance, because, as he rightly observes, you have no reason to be ashamed of your husband. Excuse my pleasantry, my dear: and answer our demand upon you, as soon as you can; which will oblige us all; particularly _your affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. LETTER LI MY DEAREST LADY, What a task have you imposed upon me! And according to the terms you annex to it, how shall I acquit myself of it, without incurring the censure of affectation, if I freely accuse myself as I may deserve, or of vanity, if I do not? Indeed, Madam, I have a great many failings: and you don't know the pain it costs me to keep them under; not so much for fear the world should see them, for I bless God, I can hope they are not capital, as for fear they should become capital, if I were to let them grow upon me. And this, surely, I need not have told your ladyship, and the Countess of C., who have read my papers, and seen my behaviour in the kind visit you made to your dear brother, and had from _both_ but too much reason to censure me, did not your generous and partial favour make you overlook my greater failings, and pass under a kinder name many of my lesser; for surely, my good ladies, you must both of you have observed, in what you have read and seen, that I am naturally of a saucy temper: and with all my appearance of meekness and humility, can resent, and sting too, when I think myself provoked. I have also discovered in myself, on many occasions (of some of which I will by-and-by remind your ladyship), a malignancy of heart, that, it is true, lasts but a little while--nor had it need--but for which I have often called myself to account--to very little purpose hitherto. And, indeed, Madam (now for a little extenuation, as you expect from me), I have some difficulty, whether I ought to take such pains to subdue myself in some instances, in the station to which I am raised, that otherwise it would have become me to attempt to do: for it is no easy task, for one in my circumstances, to distinguish between the _ought_ and the _ought_ not; to be humble without meanness, and decent without arrogance. And if all persons thought as justly as I flatter myself I do, of the inconveniences, as well as conveniences, which attend their being raised to a condition above them, they would not imagine all the world was their own, when they came to be distinguished as I have been: for, what with the contempts of superior relations on one side, the envy of the world, and low reflections arising from it, on the other, from which no one must hope to be totally exempted, and the awkwardness, besides, with which they support their elevated condition, if they have sense to judge of their own imperfections; and if the gentleman be not such an one as mine--(and where will such another be found?)--On all these accounts, I say, they will be made sensible, that, whatever they might once think, happiness and an high estate are two very different things. But I shall be too grave, when your ladyship, and all my kind and noble friends, expect, perhaps, I should give the uncommon subject a pleasanter air: yet what must that mind be, that is not serious, when obliged to recollect, and give account of its defects? But I must not only accuse myself, it seems, I must give _proofs_, such as your ladyship can subscribe to, of my imperfections. There is so much _real kindness_ in this _seeming hardship_, that I will obey you. Madam, and produce proofs in a moment, which cannot be controverted. As to my _sauciness_, those papers will give an hundred instances against me, as well to your dear brother, as to others. Indeed, to extenuate, as you command me, as I go along, these were mostly when I was apprehensive for my honour, they were. And then, I have a little tincture of _jealousy_, which sometimes has made me more uneasy than I ought to be, as the papers you have not seen would have demonstrated, particularly in Miss Godfrey's case, and in my conversation with your ladyships, in which I have frequently betrayed my fears of what might happen when in London: yet, to extenuate again, I have examined myself very strictly on this head; and really think, that I can ascribe a great part of this jealousy to laudable motives; no less than to my concern for your dear brother's future happiness, in the hope, that I may be a humble means, through Providence, to induce him to abhor those crimes of which young gentlemen too often are guilty, and bring him over to the practice of those virtues, in which he will ever have cause to rejoice.--Yet, my lady, some other parts of the charge must stand against me; for as I love his person, as well as his mind, I have pride in my jealousy, that would not permit me, I verily think, to support myself as I ought, under trial of a competition, in this very tender point. And this obliges me to own, that I have a little spark--not a little one, perhaps of _secret pride_ and _vanity_, that will arise, now and then, on the honours done me; but which I keep under as much as I can; and to this pride, let me tell your ladyship, I know no one contributes, or can contribute, more largely than yourself. So you see, my dear lady, what a naughty heart I have, and how far I am from being a faultless creature--I hope I shall be better and better, however, as I live longer, and have more grace, and more wit: for here to recapitulate my faults, is in the first place, _vindictiveness_, I will not call it downright revenge--And how much room do all these leave for amendment, and greater perfection? Had your ladyship, and the countess, favoured us longer in your kind visit, I must have so improved, by your charming conversations, and by that natural ease and dignity which accompany everything your ladyships do and say, as to have got over such of these foibles as are not rooted in nature: till in time I had been able to do more than emulate those perfections, which at present, I can only at an awful distance revere; as becomes, _my dear ladies, your most humble admirer, and obliged servant_, P.B. * * * * * LETTER LII _From Miss Darnford to her Father and Mother_. MY EVER-HONOURED PAPA AND MAMMA, I arrived safely in London on Thursday, after a tolerable journey, considering Deb and I made six in the coach (two having been taken up on the way, after you left me), and none of the six highly agreeable. Mr. B. and his lady, who looks very stately upon us (from the circumstance of _person_, rather than of _mind_, however), were so good as to meet me at St. Alban's, in their coach and six. They have a fine house here, richly furnished in every part, and have allotted me the best apartment in it. We are happy beyond expression. Mr. B. is a charming husband; so easy, so pleased with, and so tender of his lady: and she so much all that we saw her in the country, as to humility and affability, and improved in every thing else which we hardly thought possible she could be--that I never knew so happy a matrimony.--All that _prerogative sauciness_, which we apprehended would so eminently display itself in his behaviour to his wife, had she been ever so distinguished by birth and fortune, is vanished. I did not think it was in the power of an angel, if our sex could have produced one, to have made so tender and so fond a husband of Mr. B. as he makes. And should I have the sense to follow Mrs. B.'s example, if ever I marry, I should not despair of making myself happy, let it be to whom it would, provided he was not a brute, nor sordid in his temper; which two characters are too obvious to be concealed, if persons take due care, and make proper inquiries, and if they are not led by blind passion. May Mr. Murray and Miss Nancy make just such a happy pair! You commanded me, my honoured mamma, to write to you an account of every thing that pleased me--I said I would: but what a task should I then have!--I did not think I had undertaken to write volumes.--You must therefore allow me to be more brief than I had intended. In the first place, it would take up five or six long letters to do justice to the economy observed in this happy family. You know that Mrs. B. has not changed one of her servants, and only added her Polly to them. This is an unexampled thing, especially as they were her _fellow-servants_ as we may say: but since they have the sense to admire so good an example, and are proud to follow it, each to his and her power, I think it one of her peculiar facilities to have continued them, and to choose to reform such as were exceptionable rather than dismiss them. Their mouths, Deb tells me, are continually full of their lady's praises, and prayers, and blessings, uttered with such delight and fervour for the happy pair, that it makes her eyes, she says, ready to run over to hear them. Moreover, I think it an extraordinary degree of policy (whether designed or not) to keep them, as they were all worthy folks; for had she turned them off, what had she done but made as many enemies as she had discarded servants; and as many more as those had friends and acquaintance? And we all know, how much the reputation of families lies at the mercy of servants; and it is easy to guess to what cause each would have imputed his or her dismission. And so she has escaped, as she ought, the censure of pride; and made every one, instead of reproaching her with her descent, find those graces in her, which turn that very disadvantage to her glory. She is exceedingly affable; always speaks to them with a smile; but yet has such a dignity in her manner, that it secures her their respect and reverence; and they are ready to fly at a look, and seem proud to have her commands to execute; insomuch, that the words--"_My lady commands so, or so,_" from one servant to another, are sure to meet with an indisputable obedience, be the duty required what it will. If any of them are the least indisposed, her care and tenderness for them engage the veneration and gratitude of all the rest, who see how kindly they will be treated, should they ail any thing themselves. And in all this she is very happy in Mrs. Jervis, who is an excellent second to her admirable lady; and is treated by her with as much respect and affection, as if she was her mother. You may remember, Madam, that in the account she gave us of her _benevolent round_, as Lady Davers calls it, she says, that as she was going to London, she should instruct Mrs. Jervis about some of her _clients_, as I find she calls her poor, to avoid a word which her delicacy accounts harsh with regard to them, and ostentatious with respect to herself. I asked her, how (since, contrary to her then expectation, Mrs. Jervis was permitted to be in town with her) she had provided to answer her intention as to those her clients, whom she had referred to the care of that good woman? She said, that Mr. Barlow, her apothecary, was a very worthy man, and she had given him a plenary power in that particular, and likewise desired him to recommend any new and worthy case to her that no deserving person among the destitute sick poor, might be unrelieved by reason of her absence. And here in London she has applied herself to Dr.----(her parish minister, a fine preacher, and sound divine, who promises on all opportunities to pay his respects to Mr. B.) to recommend to her any poor housekeepers, who would be glad to accept of some private benefactions, and yet, having lived creditably, till reduced by misfortunes, are ashamed to apply for public relief: and she has several of these already on her _benevolent list_, to some of whom she sends coals now at the entrance on the wintry season, to some a piece of Irish or Scottish linen, or so many yards of Norwich stuff, for gowns and coats for the girls, or Yorkshire cloth for the boys; and money to some, who she is most assured will lay it out with care. And she has moreover _mortified_, as the Scots call it, one hundred and fifty pounds as a fund for loans, without interest, of five, ten, or fifteen, but not exceeding twenty pounds, to answer some present exigence in some honest families, who find the best security they can, to repay it in a given time; and this fund, she purposes, as she grows richer, she says, to increase; and estimates pleasantly her worth by this sum, saying sometimes, "Who would ever have thought I should have been worth one hundred and fifty pounds so soon? I shall be a rich body in time." But in all these things, she enjoins secresy, which the doctor has promised. She told the doctor what Mr. Adams's office is in her family; and hoped, she said, he would give her his sanction to it; assuring him, that she thought it her duty to ask it, as she was one of his flock, and he, on that account, her principal shepherd, which made a spiritual relation between them, the requisites of which, on her part, were not to be dispensed with. The good gentleman very cheerfully and applaudingly gave his consent; and when she told him how well Mr. Adams was provided for, and that she would apply to him to supply her with a town chaplain, when she was deprived of him, he wished that the other duties of his function (for he has a large parish) would permit him to be the happy person himself, saying, that till she was supplied to her mind, either he or his curate would take care that so laudable a method should be kept up. You will do me the justice, Madam, to believe, that I very cheerfully join in my dear friend's Sunday duties; and I am not a little edified, with the good example, and the harmony and good-will that this excellent method preserves in the family. I must own I never saw such a family of love in my life: for here, under the eye of the best of mistresses, they twice every Sunday see one another all together (as they used to do in the country), superior as well as inferior servants; and Deb tells me, after Mrs. B. and I are withdrawn, there are such friendly salutations among them, that she never heard the like--"Your servant, good Master Longman:"--"Your servant, Master Colbrand," cries one and another:--"How do you, John?"--"I'm glad to see you, Abraham!"--"All blessedly met once more!" cries Jonathan, the venerable butler, with his silver hairs, as Mrs. B. always distinguishes him:--"Good Madam Jervis," cries another, "you look purely this blessed day, thank God!" And they return to their several vocations, so light, so easy, so pleased, so even-tempered in their minds, as their cheerful countenances, as well as expressions, testify, that it is a heaven of a house: and being wound up thus constantly once a week, at least, like a good eight-day clock, no piece of machinery that ever was made is so regular and uniform as this family is. What an example does this dear lady set to all who see her, know her, and who hear of her; how happy they who have the grace to follow it! What a public blessing would such a mind as hers be, could it be vested with the robes of royalty, and adorn the sovereign dignity! But what are the princes of the earth, look at them in every nation, and what they have been for ages past, compared to this lady? who acts from the impulses of her own heart, unaided in most cases, by any human example. In short, when I contemplate her innumerable excellencies, and that sweetness of temper, and universal benevolence, which shine in every thing she says and does, I cannot sometimes help looking upon her in the light of an angel, dropped down from heaven, and received into bodily organs, to live among men and women, in order to shew what the first of the species was designed to be. And, here, is the admiration, that one sees all these duties performed in such an easy and pleasant manner, as any body may perform them; for they interfere not with any parts of the family management; but rather aid and inspirit every one in the discharge of all their domestic services; and, moreover, keep their minds in a state of preparation for the more solemn duties of the day; and all without the least intermixture of affectation, enthusiasm, or ostentation. O my dear papa and mamma, permit me but to tarry here till I am perfect in all these good lessons, and how happy shall I be! As to the town, and the diversions of it, I shall not trouble you with any accounts, as, from your former thorough knowledge of both, you will want no information about them; for, generally speaking, all who reside constantly in London, allow, that there is little other difference in the diversions of one winter and another, than such as are in clothes; a few variations of the fashions only, which are mostly owing to the ingenious contrivances of persons who are to get their bread by diversifying them. Mrs. B. has undertaken to give Lady Davers an account of the matters as they pass, and her sentiments on what she sees. There must be something new in her observations, because she is a stranger to these diversions, and unbiassed entirely by favour or prejudice; and so will not play the partial critic, but give to a beauty its due praise, and to a fault its due censure, according to that truth and nature which are the unerring guides of her actions as well as sentiments. These I will transcribe for you; and you'll be so good as to return them when perused, because I will lend them, as I used to do her letters, to her good parents; and so I shall give her a pleasure at the same time in the accommodating them with the knowledge of all that passes, which she makes it a point of duty to do, because they take delight in her writings. My papa's observation, that a woman never takes a journey but she forgets something, is justified by me; for, with all my care, I have left my diamond buckle, which Miss Nancy will find in the inner till of my bureau, wrapt up in cotton; and I beg it may be sent me by the first opportunity. With my humble duty to you both, my dear indulgent papa and mamma, thanks for the favour I now rejoice in, and affectionate respects to Miss Nancy (I wish she would love me as well as I love her), and service to Mr. Murray, and all our good neighbours, conclude _me your dutiful, and highly-favoured daughter_, M. DARNFORD. Mr. B. and Mrs. B, desire their compliments of congratulation to Mr. and Mrs. Peters, on the marriage of their worthy niece; also to your honoured selves they desire their kind respects and thanks for the loan of your worthless daughter. I experience every hour some new token of their politeness and affection; and I make no scruple to think I am with such a brother, and such a sister as any happy creature may rejoice in, and be proud of. Mr. B. I cannot but repeat, is a charming husband, and a most polite gentleman. His lady is always accusing herself to me of awkwardness and insufficiency; but not a soul who sees her can find it out; she is all genteel ease; and the admiration of every one who beholds her. Only I tell her, with such happiness in possession, she is a little of the gravest sometimes. LETTER LIII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ MY GOOD LADY, You command me to acquaint you with the proceedings between Mr. Murray and Miss Nanny Darnford: and Miss Polly makes it easy for me to obey you in this particular, and in very few words; for she says, every thing was adjusted before she came away, and the ceremony, she believes, may be performed by this time. She rejoices that she was out of the way of it: for, she says, love is so awkward a thing to Mr. Murray, and good-humour so uncommon an one to Miss Nancy, that she hopes she shall never see such another courtship. We have been at the play-house several time; and, give me leave to say, Madam, (for I have now read as well as seen several), that I think the stage, by proper regulations, might be made a profitable amusement.--But nothing more convinces one of the truth of the common observation, that the best things, corrupted, prove the worst, than these representations. The terror and compunction for evil deeds, the compassion for a just distress, and the general beneficence which those lively exhibitions are so capable of raising in the human mind, might be of great service, when directed to right ends, and induced by proper motives: particularly where the actions which the catastrophe is designed to punish, are not set in such advantageous lights, as shall destroy the end of the moral, and make the vice that ought to be censured, imitable; where instruction is kept in view all the way, and where vice is punished, and virtue rewarded. But give me leave to say, that I think there is hardly one play I have seen, or read hitherto, but has too much of love in it, as that passion is generally treated. How unnatural in some, how inflaming in others, are the descriptions of it!--In most, rather rant and fury, like the loves of the fiercer brute animals, as Virgil, translated by Dryden, describes them, than the soft, sighing, fearfully hopeful murmurs, that swell the bosoms of our gentler sex: and the respectful, timorous, submissive complainings of the other, when the truth of the passion humanizes, as one may say, their more rugged hearts. In particular, what strange indelicates do these writers of tragedy often make of our sex! They don't enter into the passion at all, if I have any notion of it; but when the authors want to paint it strongly (at least in those plays I have seen and read) their aim seems to raise a whirlwind, as I may say, which sweeps down reason, religion, and decency; and carries every laudable duty away before it; so that all the examples can serve to shew is, how a disappointed lover may rage and storm, resent and revenge. The play I first saw was the tragedy of _The Distressed Mother;_ and a great many beautiful things I think there are in it: but half of it is a tempestuous, cruel, ungoverned rant of passion, and ends in cruelty, bloodshed, and desolation, which the truth of the story not warranting, as Mr. B. tells me, makes it the more pity, that the original author (for it is a French play, translated, you know, Madam), had not conducted it, since it was his choice, with less terror, and with greater propriety, to the passions intended to be raised, and actually raised in many places. But the epilogue spoken after the play, by Mrs. Oldfield, in the character of Andromache, was more shocking to me, than the most terrible parts of the play; as by lewd and even senseless _double entendre_, it could be calculated only to efface all the tender, all the virtuous sentiments, which the tragedy was designed to raise. The pleasure this gave the men was equally barbarous and insulting; all turning to the boxes, pit, and galleries, where ladies were, to see how they looked, and stood an emphatical and too-well pronounced ridicule, not only upon the play in general, but upon the part of Andromache in particular, which had been so well sustained by an excellent actress; and I was extremely mortified to see my favourite (and the only perfect) character debased and despoiled, and the widow of Hector, prince of Troy, talking nastiness to an audience, and setting it out with all the wicked graces of action, and affected archness of look, attitude, and emphasis. I stood up--"Dear Sir!--Dear Miss!" said I. "What's the matter, my love?" said Mr. B. smiling. "Why have I wept the distresses of the injured Hermione?" whispered I: "why have I been moved by the murder of the brave Pyrrhus, and shocked by the madness of Orestes! Is it for this? See you not Hector's widow, the noble Andromache, inverting the design of the whole play, satirizing her own sex, but indeed most of all ridiculing and shaming, in _my_ mind, that part of the audience, who can be delighted with this vile epilogue, after such scenes of horror and distress?" He was pleased to say, smiling, "I expected, my dear, that your delicacy, and Miss Darnford's too, would be shocked on this preposterous occasion. I never saw this play, rake as I was, but the impropriety of the epilogue sent me away dissatisfied with it, and with human nature too: and you only see, by this one instance, what a character that of an actor or actress is, and how capable they are to personate any thing for a sorry subsistence." "Well, but, Sir," said I, "are there not, think you, extravagant scenes and characters enough in most plays to justify the censures of the virtuous upon them, that the wicked friend of the author must crown the work in an epilogue, for fear the audience should go away improved by the representation? It is not, I see, always narrowness of spirit, as I have heard some say, that opens the mouths of good people against these diversions." In this wild way talked I; for I was quite out of patience at this unnatural and unexpected piece of ridicule, tacked to so serious a play, and coming after such a moral. Here is a specimen, my dear lady, of my observations on the first play I saw. How just or how impertinent, I must leave to your better judgment. I very probably expose my ignorance and folly in them, but I will not say presumption, because you have put me upon the task, which otherwise I should hardly have attempted. I have very little reason therefore to blame myself on this score; but, on the contrary, if I can escape your ladyship's censure, have cause to pride myself in the opportunity you have thereby given me to shew my readiness to obey you; and the rather, since I am sure of your kindest indulgence, now you have given me leave to style myself _your ladyship's obliged sister, and humble servant,_ P.B. LETTER LIV MY DEAR LADY, I gave you in my last my bold remarks upon a TRAGEDY-_The Distressed Mother_. I will now give you my shallow notions of a COMEDY--_The Tender Husband_. I liked this part of the title; though I was not pleased with the other, explanatory of it; _Or--The Accomplished Fools_. But when I heard it was written by Sir Richard Steele, and that Mr. Addison had given some hints towards it, if not some characters--"O, dear Sir," said I, "give us your company to this play; for the authors of the Spectator cannot possibly produce a faulty scene." Mr. B. indeed smiled; for I had not then read the play: and the Earl of F., his countess, Miss Darnford, Mr. B. and myself, agreed to meet with a niece of my lord's in the stage-box, which was taken on purpose. There seemed to me to be much wit and satire in the play: but, upon my word, I was grievously disappointed as to the morality of it; nor, in some places, is--_probability_ preserved; and there are divers speeches so very free, that I could not have expected to meet with such, from the names I mentioned. In short the author seems to have forgotten the moral all the way; and being put in mind of it by some kind friend (Mr. Addison, perhaps), was at a loss to draw one from such characters and plots as he had produced; and so put down what came uppermost, for the sake of custom, without much regard to propriety. And truly, I should think, that the play was begun with a design to draw more amiable characters, answerable to the title of _The Tender Husband_; but that the author, being carried away by the luxuriancy of a genius, which he had not the heart to prune, on a general survey of the whole, distrusting the propriety of that title, added the under one: with an OR, _The Accomplished Fools_, in justice to his piece, and compliment to his audience. Had he called it _The Accomplished Knaves_, I would not have been angry at him, because there would have been more propriety in the title. I wish I could, for the sake of the authors, have praised every scene of this play: I hoped to have reason for it. Judge then, my dear lady, my mortification, not to be able to say I liked above one, the _Painter's scene_, which too was out of time, being on the wedding-day; and am forced to disapprove of every character in it, and the views of every one. I am, dear Madam, _your most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LV My Dear Lady, Although I cannot tell how you received my observations on the tragedy of _The Distressed Mother_, and the comedy of _The Tender Husband_, yet will I proceed to give your ladyship my opinion of the opera I was at last night. But what can I say, after mentioning what you so well know, the fine scenes, the genteel and splendid company, the charming voices, and delightful music? If, Madam, one were all ear, and lost to every sense but that of harmony, surely the Italian opera would be a transporting thing!--But when one finds good sense, and instruction, and propriety, sacrificed to the charms of sound, what an unedifying, what a mere temporary delight does it afford! For what does one carry home, but the remembrance of having been pleased so many hours by the mere vibration of air, which, being but sound, you cannot bring away with you; and must therefore enter the time passed in such a diversion, into the account of those blank hours, from which one has not reaped so much as one improving lesson? Mr. B. observes, that when once sound is preferred to sense, we shall depart from all our own worthiness, and, at best, be but the apes, yea, the dupes, of those whom we may strive to imitate, but never can reach, much less excel. Mr. B. says, sometimes, that this taste is almost the only good fruit our young nobility gather, and bring home from their foreign tours; and that he found the English nation much ridiculed on this score, by those very people who are benefited by their depravity. And if this be the best, what must the other qualifications be, which they bring home?--Yet every one does not return with so little improvement, it is to be hoped. But what can I say of an Italian opera?--For who can describe sound! Or what words shall be found to embody air? And when we return, and are asked our opinion of what we have seen or heard, we are only able to answer, as I hinted above the scenery is fine, the company splendid and genteel, the music charming for the time, the action not extraordinary, the language unintelligible, and, for all these reasons--the instruction none at all. This is all the thing itself gives me room to say of the Italian opera; very probably, for want of a polite taste, and a knowledge of the language. In my next, I believe, I shall give you, Madam, my opinion of a diversion, which, I doubt, I shall like still less, and that is a masquerade; for I fear I shall not be excused going to one, although I have no manner of liking to it, especially in my present way. I am. Madam, _your ladyship's most obliged and faithful_ P.B. I must add another half sheet to this letter on the subject matter of it, the opera; and am sure you will not be displeased with the addition. Mr. B. coming up just as I had concluded my letter, asked me what was my subject? I told him I was giving your ladyship my notions of the Italian opera. "Let me see what they are, my dear; for this is a subject that very few of those who admire these performances, and fewer still of those who decry them, know any thing of." He read the above, and was pleased to commend it. "Operas," said he, "are very sad things in England, to what they are in Italy; and the translations given of them abominable: and indeed, our language will not do them justice. "Every nation, as you say, has its excellencies; and ours should not quit the manly nervous sense, which is the distinction of the English drama. One play of our celebrated Shakespeare will give infinitely more pleasure to a sensible mind than a dozen English-Italian operas. But, my dear, in Italy, they are quite another thing: and the sense is not, as here, sacrificed so much to the sound, but that they are both very compatible." "Be pleased, Sir, to give me your observations on this head in writing, and then I shall have something to send worthy of Lady Davers's acceptance." "I will, my dear;" and he took a pen, and wrote the inclosed; which I beg your ladyship to return me; because I will keep it for my instruction, if I should be led to talk of this subject in company. "Let my sister know," said he, "that I have given myself no time to re-peruse what I have written. She will do well, therefore, to correct it, and return it to you." "In Italy, judges of operas are so far from thinking the drama or poetical part of their operas nonsense, as the unskilled in Italian rashly conclude in England, that if the Libretto, as they call it, is not approved, the opera, notwithstanding the excellence of the music, will be condemned. For the Italians justly determine, that the very music of an opera cannot be complete and pleasing, if the drama be incongruous, as I may call it, in its composition, because, in order to please, it must have the necessary contrast of the grave and the light, that is, the diverting equally blended through the whole. If there be too much of the first, let the music be composed ever so masterly in that style, it will become heavy and tiresome; if the latter prevail, it will surfeit with its levity: wherefore it is the poet's business to adapt the words for this agreeable mixture: for the music is but secondary, and subservient to the words; and if there be an artful contrast in the drama, there will be the same in the music, supposing the composer to be a skilful master. "Now, since in England, the practice has been to mutilate, curtail, and patch up a drama in Italian, in order to introduce favourite airs, selected from different authors, the contrast has always been broken thereby, without every one's knowing the reason: and since ignorant mercenary prompters, though Italians, have been employed in hotch-potch, and in translating our dramas from Italian into English, how could such operas appear any other than incongruous nonsense?" Permit me, dear Madam, to repeat my assurances, that I am, and must ever be, _your obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LVI Well, now, my dear lady, I will give you my poor opinion of a masquerade, to which Mr. B. persuaded me to accompany Miss Darnford; for, as I hinted in my former, I had a great indifference, or rather dislike, to go, and Miss therefore wanted so powerful a second, to get me with her; because I was afraid the freedoms which I had heard were used there, would not be very agreeable to my apprehensive temper, at _this_ time especially. But finding Mr. B. chose to have me go, if, as he was pleased to say, I had no objection, "I said, I _will_ have none, I _can_ have none, when you tell me it is your choice; and so send for the habits you like, and that you would have me appear in, and I will cheerfully attend you." The habit Mr. B. pitched upon was that of a Spanish Don, and it well befitted the majesty of his person and air; and Miss Darnford chose that of a young Widow; and Mr. B. recommended that of a Quaker for me. We all admired one another in our dresses; and Mr. B. promising to have me always in his eye, we went thither. But I never desire to be present at another. Mr. B. was singled out by a bold Nun, who talked Italian to him with such free airs, that I did not much like it, though I knew not what she said; for I thought the dear gentleman no more kept to his Spanish gravity, than she to the requisites of the habit she wore: when I had imagined that all that was tolerable in a masquerade, was the acting up to the character each person assumed: and this gave me no objection to the Quaker's dress; for I thought I was prim enough for that naturally. I said softly, "Dear Miss Darnford" (for Mr. B. and the Nun were out of sight in a moment), "what is become of that Nun?"--"Rather," whispered she, "what is become of the Spaniard?" A Cardinal attacked me instantly in French; but I answered in English, not knowing what he said, "Quakers are not fit company for Red-hats." "They are," said he, in the same language; "for a Quaker and a Jesuit is the same thing." Miss Darnford was addressed by the name of the Sprightly Widow: another asked, how long she intended to wear those weeds? And a footman, in a rich livery, answered for her eyes, through her mask, that it would not be a month. But I was startled when a Presbyterian Parson came up, and bid me look after my Musidorus--So that I doubted not by this, it must be one who knew my name to be Pamela; and I soon thought of one of my lawyers, whose characters I gave before. Indeed, he needed not to bid me; for I was sorry, on more accounts than that of my timorousness, to have lost sight of him. "Out upon these nasty masquerades!" thought I; "I can't abide them already!" An egregious beauish appearance came up to Miss, and said, "You hang out a very pretty _sign_, Widow." "Not," replied she, "to invite such fops as you to my shop." "Any customer would be welcome," returned he, "in my opinion. I whisper this as a secret." "And I whisper another," said she, but not whisperingly, "that no place warrants ill manners." "Are you angry, Widow?" She affected a laugh: "No, indeed, it i'n't worth while." He turned to me--and I was afraid of some such hit as he gave me. "I hope, friend, thou art prepared with a father for the light within thee?" "Is this wit?" said I, turning to Miss Darnford: "I have enough of this diversion, where nothing but coarse jests appear _barefac'd_." At last Mr. B. accosted us, as if he had not known us. "So lovely a widow, and so sweet a friend! no wonder you do not separate: for I see not in this various assembly a third person of your sex fit to join with you." "Not _one_, Sir!" said I. "Will not a penitent Nun make a good third with a mournful Widow, and a prim Quaker?" "Not for more than ten minutes at most." Instantly the Nun, a fine person of a lady, with a noble air, though I did not like her, joined us, and spoke in Italian something very free, as it seemed by her manner, and Mr. B.'s smiling answer; but neither Miss Darnford nor I understood that language, and Mr. B. would not explain it to us. But she gave him a signal to follow her, seeming to be much taken with his person and air; for though there were three other Spanish habits there, he was called _The stately Spaniard_ by one, _The handsome Spaniard_ by another, in our hearing, as he passed with us to the dessert, where we drank each of us a glass of Champaign, and eat a few sweetmeats, with a crowd about us; but we appeared not to know one another: while several odd appearances, as one Indian Prince, one Chinese Mandarin, several Domino's, of both sexes, a Dutch Skipper, a Jewish Rabbi, a Greek Monk, a Harlequin, a Turkish Bashaw, and Capuchin Friar, glided by us, as we returned into company, signifying that we were strangers to them by squeaking out--"_I know you!_"--Which is half the wit of the place. Two ladies, one in a very fantastic party-coloured habit, with a plume of feathers, the other in a rustic one, with a garland of flowers round her head, were much taken notice of for their freedom, and having something to say to every body. They were as seldom separated as Miss Darnford and I, and were followed by a crowd wherever they went. The party-coloured one came up to me: "Friend," said she, "there is something in thy person that attracts every one's notice: but if a sack had not been a profane thing, it would have become thee almost as well."--"I thank thee, friend," said I, "for thy counsel; but if thou hadst been pleased to look at home, thou wouldst not have taken so much pains to join such advice, and such an appearance, together, as thou makest!" This made every one that heard it laugh.--One said, the butterfly hath met with her match. She returned, with an affected laugh, "Smartly said!--But art thou come hither, friend, to make thy light shine before men or women?" "Verily, friend, neither," replied I: "but out of mere curiosity, to look into the _minds_ of both sexes; which I read in their _dresses_." "A general satire on the assemblée, by the mass!" said a fat Monk. The Nun whisked to us: "We're all concerned in my friend's remark."-- "And no disgrace to a fair Nun," returned I, "if her behaviour answer her dress--Nor to a reverend Friar," turning to the Monk, "if his mind be not a discredit to his appearance--Nor yet to a Country-girl," turning to the party-coloured lady's companion, "if she has not weeds in her heart to disgrace the flowers on her head." An odd figure, representing a _Merry Andrew_, took my hand, and said, I had the most piquant wit he had met with that night: "And, friend," said he, "let us be better acquainted!" "Forbear," said I, withdrawing my hand; "not a companion for a Jack-pudding, neither!" A Roman Senator just then accosted Miss Darnford; and Mr. B. seeing me so much engaged, "'Twere hard," said he, "if our nation, in spite of Cervantes, produced not one cavalier to protect a fair lady thus surrounded." "Though surrounded, not distressed, my good knight-errant," said the Nun: "the fair Quaker will be too hard for half-a-dozen antagonists, and wants not your protection:--but your poor Nun bespeaks it," whispered she, "who has not a word to say for herself." Mr. B. answered her in Italian (I wish I understood Italian!)--and she had recourse to her beads. You can't imagine, Madam, how this Nun haunted him!--I don't like these masquerades at all. Many ladies, on these occasions, are so very free, that the censorious will be apt to blame the whole sex for _their_ conduct, and to say, their hearts are as faulty as those of the most culpable men, since they scruple not to shew as much, when they think they cannot be known by their faces. But it is my humble opinion, that could a standard be fixed, by which one could determine readily what _is_, and what is _not_ wit, decency would not be so often wounded by attempts to be witty, as it is. For here every one, who can say things that shock a modester person, not meeting with due rebuke, but perhaps a smile, (without considering whether it be of contempt or approbation) mistakes courage for wit; and every thing sacred or civil becomes the subject of his frothy jest. But what a moralizer am I! will your ladyship say: indeed I can't help it:--and especially on such a subject as a _masquerade_, which I dislike more than any thing I ever saw. I could say a great deal more on this occasion; but, upon my word, I am quite out of humour with it: for I liked my English Mr. B. better than my Spaniard: and the Nun I approved not by any means; though there were some who observed, that she was one of the gracefullest figures in the place. And, indeed, in spite of my own heart, I could not help thinking so too. Your ladyship knows so well what _masquerades_ are, that I may well be excused saying any thing further on a subject I am so little pleased with: for you only desire my notions of those diversions, because I am a novice in them; and this, I doubt not, will doubly serve to answer that purpose. I shall only therefore add, that after an hundred other impertinences spoken to Miss Darnford and me, and retorted with spirit by her, and as well as I could by myself, quite sick of the place, I feigned to be more indisposed than I was, and so got my beloved Spaniard to go off with us, and reached home by three in the morning. And so much for _masquerades_. I hope I shall never have occasion to mention them again to your ladyship. I am, my dearest Madam, _your ever obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LVII MY DEAREST LADY, My mind is so wholly engrossed by thoughts of a very different nature from those which the diversions of the town and theatres inspire, that I beg to be excused, if, for the present, I say nothing further of those lighter matters. But as you do not disapprove of my remarks, I intend, if God spares my life, to make a little book, which I will present to your ladyship, of my poor observations on all the dramatic entertainments I have seen, and shall see, this winter: and for this purpose I have made brief notes in the margin of the printed plays I have bought, as I saw them, with a pencil; by referring to which, as helps to my memory, I shall be able to state what my thoughts were at the time of seeing them pretty nearly with the same advantage, as if I had written them at my return from each. I have obtained Sir Simon, and Lady Darnford's permission for Miss to stay with me till it shall be seen how it will please God to deal with me, and I owe this favour partly to a kind letter written in my behalf to Sir Simon, by Mr. B., and partly to the young lady's earnest request to her papa, to oblige me; Sir Simon having made some difficulty to comply, as Mr. Murray and his bride have left them, saying, he could not live long, if he had not the company of his beloved daughter. But what shall I say, when I find my frailty so much increased, that I cannot, with the same intenseness of devotion I used to be blest with, apply myself to the throne of Grace, nor, of consequence, find my invocations answered by that delight and inward satisfaction, with which I used when the present near prospect was more remote? I hope I shall not be deserted in the hour of trial, and that this my weakness of mind will not be punished with a spiritual dereliction, for suffering myself to be too much attached to those worldly delights and pleasures, which no mortal ever enjoyed in a more exalted degree than myself. And I beseech you, my dearest lady, let me be always remembered in your prayers--_only_ for a resignation to the Divine will; a _cheerful_ resignation! I presume not to prescribe to his gracious Providence; for if one has but _that_, one has every thing that one need to have. Forgive me, my dearest lady, for being so deeply serious. I have just been contending with a severe pang, that is now gone off; what effect its return may have, God only knows. And if this is the last line I shall ever write, it will be the more satisfactory to me, as (with my humble respects to my good Lord Davers, and my dear countess, and praying for the continuance of all your healths and happiness, both here and hereafter), I am permitted to subscribe myself _your ladyship's obliged sister and humble servant_, P.B. LETTER LVIII _From Lady Davers to Mr. B._ MY DEAREST BROTHER, Although I believe it needless to put a man of your generous spirit in mind of doing a worthy action; yet, as I do not know whether you have thought of what I am going to hint to you, I cannot forbear a line or two with regard to the good old couple in Kent. I am sure, if, for our sins, God Almighty should take from us my incomparable sister (forgive me, my dear brother, but to intimate what _may_ be, although I hourly pray, as her trying minute approaches, that it will not), you will, for her sake, take care that her honest parents have not the loss of your favour, to deepen the inconsolable one, they will have, in such a case, of the best of daughters. I say, I am sure you will do as generously by them as ever: and I dare say your sweet Pamela doubts it not: yet, as you know how sensible she is of every favour done them, it is the countess's opinion and mine, and Lady Betty's too, that you give _her_ this assurance, in some _legal_ way: for, as she is naturally apprehensive, and thinks more of her present circumstances, than, for your sake, she chooses to express to you, it will be like a cordial to her dutiful and grateful heart; and I do not know, if it will not contribute, more than any _one_ thing, to make her go through her task with ease and safety. I know how much your heart is wrapped up in the dear creature: and you are a worthy brother to let it be so! You will excuse me therefore, I am sure, for this my officiousness. I have no doubt but God will spare her to us, because, although we may not be worthy of such excellence, yet we all now unite so gratefully to thank him, for such a worthy relation, that I hope we shall not be deprived of an example so necessary to us all. I can have but one fear, and that is, that, young as she is, she seems ripened for glory: she seems to have lived long enough for _herself_. But for _you_, and for _us_, that God will _still_ spare her, shall be the hourly prayer of, _my dear worthy brother, your ever affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. Have you got her mother with you? I hope you have. God give you a son and heir, if it be his blessed will! But, however that be, preserve your Pamela to you! for you never can have such _another_ wife. LETTER LIX _From Mrs. B. to Mr. B._ MY DEAR AND EVER-HONOURED MR. B., Since I know not how it may please God Almighty to dispose of me on the approaching occasion, I should think myself inexcusable, not to find one or two select hours to dedicate to you, out of the very many, in the writing way, which your goodness has indulged me, because you saw I took delight in it. But yet, think not, O best beloved of my heart! that I have any boon to beg, any favour to ask, either for myself or for my friends, or so much as the _continuance_ of your favour, to the one or the other. As to them, you have prevented and exceeded all my wishes: as to myself, if it please God to spare me, I know I shall always be rewarded beyond my desert, let my deservings be what they will. I have only therefore to acknowledge with the deepest sense of your goodness to me, and with the most heart-affecting gratitude, that from the happy, the thrice happy hour, that you so generously made me yours, till _this_ moment, you have not left one thing, on my own part, to wish for, but the continuance and increase of your felicity, and that I might be still worthier of the unexampled goodness, tenderness, and condescension, wherewith you have always treated me. No, my dearest, my best beloved master, friend, husband, my _first_, my _last_, and _only_ love! believe me, I have nothing to wish for but your honour and felicity, temporal and eternal; and I make no doubt, that God, in his infinite goodness and mercy, will perfect his own good work, begun in your dear heart; and, whatever may now happen, give us a happy meeting, never more to part from one another. Let me then beg of you, my dearest protector, to pardon all my imperfections and defects; and if, ever since I have had the honour to be yours, I have in _looks_, or in _word_, or in _deed_, given you cause to wish me other than I was, that you will kindly put it to the score of natural infirmity (for in _thought_ or _intention_, I can truly boast, I have never wilfully erred). Your tenderness, and generous politeness to me, always gave me apprehension, that I was not what you wished me to be, because you would not find fault with me so often as I fear I deserved: and this makes me beg of you to do, as I hope God Almighty will, pardon all my involuntary errors and omissions. But let me say one word for my dear worthy Mrs. Jervis. Her care and fidelity will be very necessary for your affairs, dear Sir, while you remain single, which I hope will not be long. But, whenever you make a second choice, be pleased to allow her such an annuity as may make her independent, and pass away the remainder of her life with ease and comfort. And this I the rather presume to request, as my late honoured lady once intimated the same thing to you. If I were to name what that may be, it would not be with the thought of _heightening_, but of _limiting_ rather, the natural bounty of your heart; and fifty pounds a-year would be a rich provision, in her opinion, and will entail upon you, dear Sir, the blessings of one of the faithfullest and worthiest hearts in the kingdom. Nor will Christian charity permit me to forget the once wicked, but now penitent Jewkes. I understand by Miss Darnford, that she begs for nothing but to have the pleasure of dying in your service, and by that means to atone for some small slips and mistakes in her accounts, which she had made formerly, and she accuses herself; for she will have it, that Mr. Longman has been better to her than she deserved, in passing one account particularly, to which he had, with too much reason, objected; do, dear Sir, if your _future_ happy lady has no great dislike to the poor woman, be pleased to grant her request, except her own mind should alter, and she desire her dismission. And now I have to beg of God to shower down his most precious blessings upon you, my dearest, my _first_, my _last_, and my _only_ love! and to return to you an hundred fold, the benefits which you have conferred upon me and mine, and upon so many poor souls, as you have blessed through my hands! And that you may in your next choice be happy with a lady, who may have every thing I want; and who may love and honour you, with the same affectionate duty, which has been my delight and my glory to pay you: for in this I am sure, no one _can_ exceed me!--And after having given you long life, prosperity, and increase of honour, translate you into a blessed eternity, where, through the merits of our common Redeemer, I hope I shall be allowed a place, and be permitted (O let me indulge that pleasing, that _consolatory_ thought!) to receive and rejoice in my restored spouse, for ever and ever: are the prayers, the _last_ prayers, if it so please God! of, my dearest dear Mr. B., _your dutiful and affectionate wife, and faithful servant_, P.B. LETTER LX _From Miss Darnford to Lady Darnford._ MY HONOURED MAMMA, You cannot conceive how you and my dear papa have delighted my good Mrs. B. and obliged her Mr. B. by the permission you have given me to attend her till the important hour shall be over with her; for she is exceedingly apprehensive, and one can hardly blame her; since there is hardly such another happy couple in the world. I am glad to hear that the ceremony is over, so much to both your satisfactions: may this matrimony be but a _tenth part_ as happy as that I am witness to here; and Mr. and Mrs. Murray will have that to boast of, which few married people have, even among those we call happy! For my part, I believe I shall never care to marry at all; for though I cannot be so deserving as Mrs. B. yet I shall not bear to think of a husband much less excellent than hers. Nay, by what I see in _her_ apprehensions, and conceive of the condition she hourly expects to be in, I don't think a lady can be requited with a _less_ worthy one, for all she is likely to suffer on a husband's account, and for the sake of _his_ family and name. Mrs. Andrews, a discreet worthy soul as ever I knew, and who in her aspect and behaviour is far from being a disgrace even to Mr. B.'s lady, is with her dear daughter, to her no small satisfaction, as you may suppose. Mr. B. asked my advice yesterday, about having in the house a midwife, to be at hand, at a moment's warning. I said I feared the sight of such a person would terrify her: and so he instantly started an expedient, of which her mother, Mrs. Jervis, and myself, approved, and have put into practice; for this day, Mrs. Harris, a distant relation of _mine_, though not of yours, Sir and Madam, is arrived from Essex to make me a visit; and Mr. B. has prevailed upon her, in _compliment to me_, as he pretended, to accept of her board in his house, while she stays in town, which she says, will be about a week. Mrs. Harris being a discreet, modest, matron-like person, Mrs. B. took a liking to her at first sight, and is already very familiar with her; and understanding that she was a doctor of physic's lady, and takes as much delight in administering to the health of her own sex, as her husband used to do to that of both, Mrs. B. says it is very fortunate, that she has so experienced a lady to consult, as she is such a novice in her own case. Mr. B. however, to carry on the honest imposture the better, just now, in presence of Mrs. Harris, and Mrs. Andrews, and me, asked the former, if it was not necessary to have in the house the good woman? This frighted Mrs. B. who turned pale, and said she could not bear the thoughts of it. Mrs. Harris said it was highly necessary that Mrs. B. if she would not permit the gentlewoman to be in the house, should see her; and that then, she apprehended, there would be no necessity, as she did not live far off, to have her in the house, since Mrs. B. was so uneasy upon that account. This pleased Mrs. B. much, and Mrs. Thomas was admitted to attend her. Now, you must know, that this is the assistant of my new relation; and she being apprised of the matter, came; but never did I see so much shyness and apprehension as Mrs. B. shewed all the time Mrs. Thomas was with her, holding sometimes her mother, sometimes Mrs. Harris, by the hand, and being ready to sweat with terror. Mrs. Harris scraped acquaintance with Mrs. Thomas, who, pretending to recollect her, gave Mrs. Harris great praises; which increased Mrs. B.'s confidence in her: and she undertakes to govern the whole so, that the dreaded Mrs. Thomas need not come till the very moment: which is no small pleasure to the over-nice lady. And she seems every hour to be better pleased with Mrs. Harris, who, by her prudent talk, will more and more familiarize her to the circumstance, unawares to herself in a manner. But notwithstanding this precaution, of a midwife in the house, Mr. B. intends to have a gentleman of the profession in readiness, for fear of the worst. Mrs. B. has written a letter, with this superscription: "To the ever-honoured and ever-dear Mr. B., with prayers for his health, honour, and prosperity in this world, and everlasting felicity in that to come. P.B." It is sealed with black wax, and she gave it me this moment, on her being taken ill, to give to Mr. B. if she dies. But God, of his mercy, avert that! and preserve the dear lady, for the honour of her sex, and the happiness of all who know her, and particularly for that of your Polly Darnford; for I cannot have a greater loss, I am sure, while my honoured papa and mamma are living: and may that be for many, very many, happy years! I will not close this letter till all is over: happily, as I hope!-- Mrs. B. is better again, and has, occasionally, made some fine reflections, directing herself to me, but designed for the benefit of her Polly, on the subject of the inconsideration of some of our sex, with regard to the circumstances she is in. I knew what her design was, and said, "Aye, Polly, let you and I, and every single young body, bear these reflections in mind, pronounced by so excellent a lady, in a moment so arduous as these!" The girl wept, and very movingly fell down by the door, on her knees, praying to God to preserve her dear lady, and she should be happy for ever! Mrs. B. is exceedingly pleased with my new relation Mrs. Harris, as we call her, who behaves with so much prudence, that she suspects nothing, and told Mrs. Jervis, she wished nobody else was to come near her. And as she goes out (being a person of eminence in her way) two or three times a day, and last night staid out late, Mrs. B. said, she hoped she would not be abroad, when she should wish her to be at home-- I have the very great pleasure, my dear papa and mamma, to acquaint you, and I know you will rejoice with me upon it, that just half an hour ago, my dear Mrs. B. was brought to-bed of a fine boy. We are all out of our wits for joy almost. I ran down to Mr. B. myself, who received me with trembling impatience. "A boy! a fine boy! dear Mr. B.," said I: "a son and heir, indeed!" "But how does my Pamela? Is _she_ safe? Is _she_ like to do well?"--"We hope so," said I: "or I had not come down to you, I'll assure you." He folded me in his arms, in a joyful rapture: "How happy you make me, dearest Miss Darnford! If my Pamela is safe, the boy is welcome, welcome, indeed!--But when may I go up to thank my jewel?" Mrs. Andrews is so overjoyed, and so thankful, that there is no getting her from her knees. A man and horse is dispatched already to Lady Davers, and another ordered to Kent, to the good old man. Mrs. Jervis, when I went up, said she must go down and release the good folks from their knees; for, half an hour before, they declared they would not stir from that posture till they heard how it went with their lady; and when the happy news was brought them of her safety, and of a young master, they were quite ecstatic, she says, in their joy, and not a dry eye among them, shaking hands, and congratulating one another, men and maids; which made it one of the most affecting sights that can be imagined. And Mr. Longman, who had no power to leave the house for three days past, hasted to congratulate his worthy principal; and never was so much moving joy seen, as this honest-hearted steward ran over with. I did a foolish thing in my joy--I gave Mr. B. the letter designed for him, had an unhappy event followed; and he won't return it: but says, he will obtain Mrs. B.'s leave, when she is better, to open it; and the happier turn will augment his thankfulness to God, and love to her, when he shall, by this means, be blest with sentiments so different from what the other case would have afforded. Mrs. B. had a very sharp time. Never more, my dear papa, talk of a husband to me. Place all your expectations on Nancy! Not one of these men that I have yet seen, is worth running these risques for! But Mr. B.'s endearments and tenderness to his lady, his thankful and manly gratitude and politeness, when he was admitted to pay his respects to her, and his behaviour to Mrs. Andrews, and to us all, though but for a visit of ten minutes, was alone worthy of all her risque. I would give you a description of it, had I Mrs. B.'s pen, and of twenty agreeable scenes and conversations besides: but, for want of that, must conclude, with my humble duty, as becomes, honoured Sir, and Madam, _your ever grateful_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER LXI _From the Same._ MY HONOURED PAPA AND MAMMA, We have nothing but joy and festivity in this house: and it would be endless to tell you the congratulations the happy family receives every day, from tenants and friends. Mr. B., you know, was always deemed one of the kindest landlords in England; and his tenants are overjoyed at the happy event which has given them a young landlord of his name: for all those who live in that large part of the estate, which came by Mrs. B. his mother, were much afraid of having any of Sir Jacob Swynford's family for their landlord, who, they say, are all made up of pride and cruelty, and would have racked them to death: insomuch that they had a voluntary meeting of about twenty of the principal of them, to rejoice on the occasion; and it was unanimously agreed to make a present of a piece of gilt plate, to serve as basin for the christening, to the value of one hundred guineas; on which is to be engraven the following inscription: _"In acknowledgment of the humanity and generosity of the best of landlords, and as a token of his tenants' joy on the birth of a son and heir, who will, it is hoped, inherit his father's generosity, and his mother's virtues, this piece of plate is, with all due gratitude, presented, as a christening basin to all the children that shall proceed from such worthy parents, and their descendants, to the end of time._ _"By the obliged and joyful tenants of the maternal estate in Bedfordshire and Gloucestershire, the initials of whose names are under engraven, viz._" Then are to follow the first letters of each person's Christian and surname. What an honour is this to a landlord! In my opinion very far surpassing the _mis-nomer'd_ free gifts which we read of in some kingdoms on extraordinary occasions, some of them like this! For here it is all truly spontaneous--A free gift _indeed_! and Mr. B. took it very kindly, and has put off the christening for a week, to give time for its being completed and inscribed as above. The Earl and Countess of C. and Lord and Lady Davers, are here, to stand in person at the christening; and you cannot conceive how greatly my Lady Davers is transported with joy, to have a son and heir to the estate: she is every hour, almost, thanking her dear sister for him; and reads in the child all the great qualities she forms to herself in him. 'Tis indeed a charming boy, and has a great deal (if one may judge of a child so very young) of his father's manly aspect. The dear lady herself is still but weak; but the joy of all around her, and her spouse's tenderness and politeness, give her cheerful and free spirits; and she is all serenity, ease, and thankfulness. Mrs. B., as soon as the danger was over, asked me for her letter with the black seal. I had been very earnest to get it from Mr. B. but to no purpose; so I was forced to tell who had it. She said, but very composedly, she was sorry for it, and hoped he had not opened it. He came into her chamber soon after, and I demanded it before her. He said he had designed to ask her leave to break the seal, which he had not yet done; nor would without her consent. "Will you give me leave, my dear," said he, "to break the seal?"--"If you do, Sir, let it not be in my presence; but it is too serious."--"Not, my dear, now the apprehension is so happily over: it may now add to my joy and my thankfulness on that account."--"Then, do as you please, Sir; but I had rather you would not." "Then here it is, Miss Darnford: it was put into your hands, and there I place it again."--"That's something like," said I, "considering the gentleman. Mrs. B., I hope we shall bring him into good order between us in time." So I returned it to the dear writer; who put it into her bosom. I related to Lady Davers, when she came, this circumstance; and she, I believe, has leave to take it with her. She is very proud of all opportunities now of justifying her brother's choice, and doing honour to his wife, with Lady Betty C., who is her great favourite, and who delights to read Mrs. B.'s letters. You desire to know, my honoured papa, how Mr. B. passes his time, and whether it be in his lady's chamber? No, indeed! Catch gentlemen, the best of them, in too great a complaisance that way, if you can. "What then, does he pass his time _with you_, Polly?" you are pleased to ask. What a disadvantage a man lies under, who has been once a rake! But I am so generally with Mrs. B. that when I tell you, Sir, his visits to her are much of the polite form, I believe I answer all you mean by your questions; and especially when I remind you, Sir, that Lord and Lady Davers, and the Earl and Countess of C. and your unworthy daughter, are at dinner and supper-time generally together; for Mrs. Andrews, who is not yet gone back to Kent, breakfasts, dines, and sups with her beloved daughter, and is hardly ever out of her room. Then, Sir, Mr. B., the Earl, and Lord Davers, give pretty constant attendance to the business of parliament; and, now and-then, sup abroad--So, Sir, we are all upon honour; and I could wish (only that your facetiousness always gives me pleasure, as it is a token that you have your much-desired health and freedom of spirits), that even in jest, my mamma's daughter might pass unquestioned. But I know _why_ you do it: it is only to put me out of heart to ask to stay longer. Yet I wish--But I know you won't permit me to go through the whole winter here. Will my dear papa grant it, do you think, if you were to lay the highest obligation upon your dutiful daughter, and petition for me? And should you care to try? I dare not hope it myself: but when one sees a gentleman here, who denies his lady nothing, it makes one wish, methinks, that Lady Darnford, was as happy in that particular as Mrs. B. _Your_ indulgence for this _one_ winter, or, rather this small _remainder_ of it, I make not so much doubt of, you see, Madam. I know you'll call me a bold girl; but then you always, when you do, condescend to grant my request: and I will be as good as ever I can be afterwards. I will fetch up all the lost time; rise an hour sooner in the morning, go to bed an hour later at night; flower my papa any thing he pleases; read him to sleep when he pleases; put his gout into good-humour, when it will be soothed--And Mrs. B., to crown all, will come down with me, by permission of her sovereign lord, who will attend her, you may be sure: and will not _all_ this do, to procure me a month or two more?--If it won't, why then, I will thank you for your past goodness to me, and with all duty and cheerfulness, bid adieu to this dear London, this dearer family, and tend a _still_ dearer papa and mamma; whose dutiful daughter I will ever be, whilst POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER LXII _To the Same._ MY HONOURED PAPA AND MAMMA, I have received your joint commands, and intend to set out on Wednesday, next week. I hope to find my papa in better health than at present, and in better humour too; for I am sorry he is displeased with my petitioning for a little longer time in London. It is very severe to impute to me want of duty and affection, which would, if deserved, make me most unworthy of your favour. Mr. B. and his lady are resolved to accompany me in their coach, till your chariot meets me, if you will be pleased to permit it so to do; and even set me down at your gate, if it did not; but he vows, that he will neither alight at your house, nor let his lady. But I say, that this is a misplaced resentment, because I ought to think it a favour, that you have indulged me so much as you have done. And yet even this is likewise a favour on _their_ side, to me, because it is an instance of their fondness for your unworthy daughter's company. Mrs. B. is, if possible, more lovely since her lying-in than before. She has so much delight in her nursery, that I fear it will take her off from her pen, which will be a great loss to all whom she used to oblige with her correspondence. Indeed this new object of her care is a charming child; and she is exceedingly pleased with her nurse;--for she is not permitted, as she very much desired, to suckle it herself. She makes a great proficiency in the French and Italian languages; and well she may; for she has the best schoolmaster in the world, and one whom she loves better than any lady ever loved a tutor. He is lofty, and will not be disputed with; but I never saw a more polite and tender husband, for all that. We had a splendid christening, exceedingly well ordered, and every body was delighted at it. The quality gossips went away but on Tuesday; and my Lady Davers took leave of her charming sister with all the blessings, and all the kindness, and affectionate fondness, that could be expressed. Mr. Andrews, that worthy old man, came up to see his grandson, yesterday. You would never have forgotten the good man's behaviour (had you seen it), to his daughter, and to the charming child; I wish I could describe it to you; but I am apt to think Mrs. B. will notice it to Lady Davers; and if she enters into the description of it while I stay, I will beg a copy of it, to bring down with me; because I know you were pleased with the sensible, plain, good man, and his ways, when at the Hall in your neighbourhood. The child is named William, and I should have told you; but I write without any manner of connection, just as things come uppermost: but don't, my dear papa, construe this, too, as an instance of disrespect. I see but one thing that can possibly happen to disturb the felicity of this charming couple; and that I will mention, in confidence. Mr. B. and Mrs. B. and myself were at the masquerade, before she lay-in: there was a lady greatly taken with Mr. B. She was in a nun's habit, and followed him wherever he went; and Mr. Turner, a gentleman of one of the inns of court, who visits Mr. B. and is an old acquaintance of his, tells me, by-the bye, that the lady took an opportunity to unmask to Mr. B. Mr. Turner has since found she is the young Countess Dowager of----, a fine lady; but not the most reserved in her conduct of late, since her widowhood. And he has since discovered, as he says, that a letter or two, if not more, have passed between Mr. B. and that lady. Now Mrs. B., with all her perfections, has, as she _owns_, a little spice of jealousy; and should she be once alarmed, I tremble for the consequence to both their happiness. I conceive, that if ever anything makes a misunderstanding between them, it will be from some such quarter as this. But 'tis a thousand pities it should. And I hope, as to the actual correspondence begun, Mr. Turner is mistaken. But be it as it will, I would not for the world, that the first hints of this matter should come from me.--Mr. B. is a very enterprising and gallant man, a fine figure, and I don't wonder a lady may like him. But he seems so pleased, so satisfied with his wife, and carries it to her with so much tenderness and affection, that I hope her merit, and his affection for her, will secure his conjugal fidelity. If it prove otherwise, and she discovers it, I know not one that would be more miserable than Mrs. B., as well from motives of piety and virtue, as from the excessive love she bears him. But I hope for better things, for both their sakes. My humble thanks for all your indulgence to me, with hopes, that you will not, my dear papa and mamma, hold your displeasure against me, when I throw myself at your feet, as I now soon hope to do. Conclude me _your dutiful daughter_, P. DARNFORD. LETTER LXIII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers_. MY DEAR LADY, We are just returned from accompanying the worthy Miss Darnford as far as Bedford, in her way home, where her papa and mamma met her in their coach. Sir Simon put on his pleasant airs, and schooled Mr. B. for persuading his daughter to stay so long from him; _me_ for putting her upon asking to stay longer; and _she_ for being persuaded by us. We tarried two days together at Bedford; for we knew not how to part; and then we took a most affectionate leave of each other. We struck out of the road a little, to make a visit to the dear house, where we tarried one night; and next morning before any body could come to congratulate us (designing to be _incog_.), we proceeded on our journey to London, and found my dearest, dear boy, in charming health. What a new pleasure has God bestowed upon me; which, after every little absence, rises upon me in a true maternal tenderness, every step I move toward the dear little blessing! Yet sometimes, I think your dear brother is not so fond of him as I wish him to be. He says, "'tis time enough for him to mind him, when he can return his notice, and be grateful!"--A negligent word isn't it, Madam--considering-- My dear father came to town, to accompany my good mother down to Kent, and they set out soon after your ladyship left us. It is impossible to describe the joy with which his worthy heart overflowed, when he congratulated us on the happy event. And as he had been apprehensive for his daughter's safety, judge, my lady, what his transports must be, to see us all safe and well, and happy, and a son given to Mr. B. by his greatly honoured daughter. I was in the nursery when he came. So was my mother. Miss Darnford also was there. And Mr. B., who was in his closet, at his arrival, after having received his most respectful congratulations himself, brought him up (though he has not been there since: indeed he ha'n't!) "Pamela," said the dear gentleman, "see who's here!" I sprang to him, and kneeled for his blessing: "O my father!" said I, "see" (pointing to the dear baby at the nurse's breast), "how God Almighty has answered all our prayers!" He dropped down on his knees by me, clasping me in his indulgent arms: "O my daughter!--My blessed daughter!--And do I once more see you! And see you safe and well!--I do! I do!--Blessed be thy name, O gracious God, for these thy mercies!" While we were thus joined, happy father, and happy daughter, in one thanksgiving, the sweet baby having fallen asleep, the nurse had put it into the cradle; and when my father rose from me, he went to my mother, "God bless my dear Betty," said he, "I longed to see you, after this separation. Here's joy! here's pleasure! O how happy are we!" And taking her hand, he kneeled down on one side the cradle, and my mother on the other, both looking at the dear baby, with eyes running over; and, hand in hand, he prayed, in the most fervent manner, for a blessing upon the dear infant, and that God Almighty would make him an honour to his father's family, and to his mother's virtue; and that, in the words of Scripture, _"he might grow on, and be in favour both with the Lord, and with man."_ Mr. B. has just put into my hands Mr. Locke's Treatise on Education, and he commands me to give him my thoughts upon it in writing. He has a very high regard for this author, and tells me, that my tenderness for Billy will make me think some of the first advice given in it a little harsh; but although he has not read it through, only having dipped into it here and there, he believes from the name of the author, I cannot have a better directory; and my opinion of it, after I have well considered it, will inform him, he says, of my own capacity and prudence, and how far he may rely upon both in the point of a _first education_. I asked, if I might not be excused writing, only making my observations, here and there, to himself, as I found occasion? But he said, "You will yourself, my dear, better consider the subject, and be more a mistress of it, and I shall the better attend to your reasonings, when put into writing: and surely, Pamela, you may, in such an important point as this, as well oblige _me_ with a little of your penmanship, as your other dear friends." After this, your ladyship will judge I had not another word to say. He cuts one to the heart, when he speaks so seriously. I have looked a little into it. It is a book quite accommodated to my case, being written to a gentleman, the author's friend, for the regulation of his conduct towards his children. But how shall I do, if in such a famed and renowned author, I see already some few things, which I think want clearing up. Won't it look like intolerable vanity in me, to find fault with such a genius as Mr. Locke? I must, on this occasion, give your ladyship the particulars of a short conversation between your brother and me; which, however, perhaps, will not be to my advantage, because it will shew you what a teazing body I can be, if I am indulged. But Mr. B. will not spoil me neither in that way, I dare say!--Your ladyship will see this in the very dialogue I shall give you. Thus it was. I had been reading in Mr. Locke's book, and Mr. B. asked me how I liked it?--"Exceedingly well, Sir. But I have a proposal to make, which, if you will be pleased to comply with, will give me a charming opportunity of understanding Mr. Locke." "What is your proposal, my dear? I see it is some very particular one, by that sweet earnestness in your look." "Why, so it is, Sir: and I must know, whether you are in high good humour, before I make it. I think you look grave upon me; and my proposal will not then do, I'm sure." "You have all the amusing ways of your sex, my dear Pamela. But tell me what you would say? You know I don't love suspense." "May-be you're busy. Sir. Perhaps I break in upon you. I believe you were going into your closet." "True woman!--How you love to put one upon the tenters! Yet, my life for yours, by your parade, what I just now thought important, is some pretty trifle!--Speak it at once, or I'll be angry with you;" and tapped my cheek. "Well, I wish I had not come just now!--I see you are not in a good humour enough for my proposal.--So, pray, Sir, excuse me till to-morrow." He took my hand, and led me to his closet, calling me his pretty impertinent; and then urging me, I said, "You know, Sir, I have not been used to the company of children. Your dear Billy will not make me fit, for a long time, to judge of any part of education. I can learn of the charming boy nothing but the baby conduct: but now, if I might take into the house some little Master of three or four years old, or Miss of five or six, I should watch over all their little ways; and now reading a chapter in the _child_, and now one in the _book_, I can look forward, and with advantage, into the subject; and go through all the parts of education tolerably, for one of my capacity; for, Sir, I can, by my own defects, and what I have wished to mend, know how to judge of, and supply that part of life which carries a child up to eleven or twelve years of age, which was mine, when my lady took me." "A pretty thought, Pamela! but tell me, who will part with their child, think you? Would _you_, if it were your case, although ever so well assured of the advantages your little one would reap by it?--For don't you consider, that the child ought to be wholly subjected to your authority? That its father or mother ought seldom to see it; because it should think itself absolutely dependent upon you?--And where, my dear, will you meet with parents so resigned?--Besides, one would have the child descended of genteel parents, and not such as could do nothing for it; otherwise the turn of mind and education you would give it, might do it more harm than good." "All this, Sir, is very true. But have you no other objection, if one could find a genteely-descended young Master? And would you join to persuade his papa to give me up his power, only from three months to three months, as I liked, and the child liked, and as the papa approved of my proceedings?" "This is so reasonable, with these last conditions, Pamela, that I should be pleased with your notion, if it could be put in practice, because the child would be benefited by your instruction, and you would be improved in an art, which I could wish to see you an adept in." "But, perhaps. Sir, you had rather it were a girl than a boy?"--"I had, my dear, if a girl could be found, whose parents would give her up to you; but I suppose you have some boy in your head, by your putting it upon that sex at first." "Let me see, Sir, you say you are in a good humour! Let me see if you be;"--looking boldly in his face. "What now," with some little impatience, "would the pretty fool be at?" "Only, Sir, that you have nothing to do, but to speak the word, and there is a child, whose papa and mamma too, I am sure, would consent to give up to me for my own instruction, as well as for her sake; and if, to speak in the Scripture phrase, I have found _grace in your sight_, kind Sir, speak this word to the dear child's papa." "And have you thus come over me, Pamela!--Go, I am half angry with you, for leading me on in this manner against myself. This looks so artful, that I won't love you!"--"Dear Sir!"--"And dear Madam too! Be gone, I say!--You have surprised me by art, when your talent is nature, and you should keep to that!" I was sadly baulked, and had neither power to go nor stay! At last, seeing I had put him into a kind of flutter, as now he had put me, I moved my unwilling feet towards the door.--He took a turn about the closet meantime.--"Yet stay," said he, "there is something so generous in your art, that, on recollection, I cannot part with you." He took notice of the starting tear--"I am to blame!--You had surprised me so, that my hasty temper got the better of my consideration. Let me kiss away this pearly fugitive. Forgive me, my dearest love! What an inconsiderate brute am I, when compared to such an angel as my Pamela! I see at once now, all the force, and all the merit, of your amiable generosity: and to make you amends for this my hastiness, I will coolly consider of the matter, and will either satisfy you by my compliance, or by the reasons, which I will give you for the contrary. "But, say, my Pamela, can you forgive my harshness?"--"Can I!--Yes, indeed, Sir," pressing his hand to my lips; "and bid me Go, and Be gone, twenty times a-day, if I am to be thus kindly called back to you, thus nobly and condescendingly treated, in the same breath!-I see, dear Sir," continued I, "that I must be in fault, if ever you are lastingly displeased with me. For as soon as you turn yourself about, your anger vanishes, and you make me rich amends for a few harsh words. Only one thing, dear Sir, let me add; if I have dealt artfully with you, impute it to my fear of offending you, through the nature of my petition, and not to design; and that I took the example of the prophet, to King David, in the parable of the _Ewe-Lamb._" "I remember it, my dear--and you have well pointed your parable, and had nothing to do, but to say--'_Thou art the man!'_" I am called upon by my dear benefactor for a little airing, and he suffers me only to conclude this long letter. So I am obliged, with greater abruptness than I had designed, to mention thankfully your ladyship's goodness to me; particularly in that kind, kind letter, in behalf of my dear parents, had a certain event taken place. Mr. B. shewed it to me _this morning_, and not before--I believe, for fear I should have been so much oppressed by the sense of your unmerited goodness to me, had he let me known of it before your departure from us, that I should not have been able to look up at you; heaping favours and blessings upon me, as you were hourly doing besides. What a happy creature am I!--But my gratitude runs me into length; and sorry I am, that I cannot have time just now to indulge it. Is there nothing, my dear Lord and Lady Davers, my dear Lady Countess, and my good Lord C., that I can do, to shew at least, that I have a _will_, and am not an ungrateful, sordid creature? And yet, if you give me power to do any thing that will have the _appearance_ of a return, even that _power_ will be laying a fresh obligation upon me--Which, however, I should be very proud of, because I should thereby convince you, by more than words, how much I am (most particularly, my dearest Lady Davers, my sister, my friend, my patroness), _your most obliged and faithful servant,_ P.B. Your dear brother joins in respectful thankfulness to his four noble gossips. And my Billy, by his lips, subscribed his. I hope so to direct his earliest notions, as to make him sensible of his dutiful obligation. LETTER LXIV _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B._ MY DEAREST PAMELA, Talk not to us of unreturnable obligations and all that. You do more for us, in the entertainment you give us all, by your letters, than we _have_ done, or even _can_ do, for you. And as to me, I know no greater pleasure in the world than that which my brother's felicity and yours gives me. God continue this felicity to you both. I am sure it will be _his_ fault, and not yours, if it be at all diminished. We have heard some idle rumours here, as if you were a little uneasy of late; and having not had a letter from you for this fortnight past, it makes me write, to ask you how you all do? and whether you expected an answer from me to your last? I hope you won't be punctilious with me. For we have nothing to write about, except it be how much we all love and honour you; and that you believe already, or else you don't do us justice. I suppose you will be going out of town soon, now the parliament is rising. My Lord is resolved to put his proxy into another hand, and intends I believe, to take my brother's advice in it. Both the Earl and his Lordship are highly pleased with my brother's moderate and independent principles. He has got great credit among all unprejudiced men, by the part he acted throughout the last session, in which he has shown, that he would no more join to distress and clog the wheels of government, by an unreasonable opposition, than he would do the dirty work of any administration. As he has so noble a fortune and wants nothing of any body, he would be doubly to blame, to take any other part than that of his country, in which he has so great a stake. May he act _out_ of the house, and _in_ the house with equal honour; and he will be his country's pride, and your pride, and mine too! which is the wish of _your affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. LETTER LXV MY DEAREST LADY, I have been a little in disorder, that I have. Some few rubs have happened. I hope they will be happily removed, I am unwilling to believe all that is said. But this is a wicked town. I wish we were out of it. Yet I see not when that will be. I wish Mr. B. would permit me and my Billy to go into Kent. But I don't care to leave him behind me, neither; and he is not inclined to go. Excuse my brevity, my dearest lady--But I must break off, with only assuring your ladyship, that I am, and ever will be, _your obliged and grateful_, P.B. LETTER LXVI MY DEAREST PAMELA, I understand things are not so well as I wish. If you think my coming up to town, and residing with you, while you stay, will be of service, or help you to get out of it, I will set out directly. I will pretend some indisposition, and a desire of consulting the London physicians; or any thing you shall think fit to be done, by _your affectionate sister, and faithful friend_, B. DAVERS LETTER LXVII MY DEAREST LADY, A thousand thanks for your goodness to me; but I hope all will be well. I hope God will enable me to act so prudent a part, as will touch his generous breast. Be pleased to tell me what your ladyship has heard; but it becomes not me, I think, till I cannot help it, to make any appeals; for I know those will not be excused; and I do all I can to suppress my uneasiness before him. But I pay for it, when I am alone. My nursery and my reliance on God (I should have said the latter first), are all my consolation. God preserve and bless you, my good lady, and my noble lord! (but I am apt to think your ladyship's presence will not avail), prays _your affectionate and obliged,_ P.B. LETTER LXVIII Why does not my sweet girl subscribe _Sister_, as usual? I have done nothing amiss to you! I love you dearly, and ever will. I can't help my brother's faults. But I hope he treats you with politeness and decency. He shall be none of my brother if he don't. I rest a great deal upon your prudence: and it will be very meritorious, if you can overcome yourself, so as to act unexceptionably, though it may not be deserved on this occasion. For in doing so, you'll have a triumph over nature itself; for, my dear girl, as you have formerly owned, you have a little touch of jealousy in your composition. What I have heard, is no secret to any body. The injured party is generally the last who hears in these cases, and you shall not first be told anything by me that must _afflict_ you, but cannot _you_, more than it does _me_. God give you patience and comfort! The wicked lady has a deal to answer for, to disturb such an uncommon happiness. But no more, than that I am _your ever-affectionate sister_, B. DAVERS. I am all impatience to hear how you conduct yourself upon this trying occasion. Let me know what you have heard, and _how_ you came to hear it. LETTER LXIX Why don't I subscribe Sister? asks my dearest Lady Davers.--I have not had the courage to do it of late. For my title to that honour arises from the dear, thrice dear Mr. B. And how long I may be permitted to call him mine, I cannot say. But since you command it, I will call your ladyship by that beloved name, let the rest happen as God shall see fit. Mr. B. cannot be unpolite, in the main; but he is cold, and a little cross, and short in his speeches to me. I try to hide my grief from everybody, and most from him: for neither my parents, nor Miss Darnford know anything from me. Mrs. Jervis, from whom I seldom hide any thing, as she is on the spot with me, hears not my complainings, nor my uneasiness; for I would not lessen the dear man. He may _yet_ see the error of the way he is in. God grant it, for his own sake as well as mine.--I am even sorry your ladyship is afflicted with the knowledge of the matter. The unhappy lady (God forgive her!) is to be pitied: she loves him, and having strong passions, and being unused to be controlled, is lost to a sense of honour and justice.--From these wicked masquerades springs all the unhappiness; my Spaniard was too amiable, and met with a lady who was no Nun, but in habit. Every one was taken with him in that habit, so suited to the natural dignity of his person!--O these wicked masquerades! I am all patience in appearance, all uneasiness in reality. I did not think I could, especially in _this_ most _affecting_ point, be such an hypocrite. Your ladyship knows not what it has cost me, to be able to assume that character! Yet my eyes are swelled with crying, and look red, although I am always breathing on my hand, and patting them with it, and my warm breath, to hide the distress that will, from my overcharged heart, appear in them. Then he says, "What's the matter with the little fool! You are always in this way of late! What ails you, Pamela?" "Only a little vapourish, Sir!--Don't be angry at me!--Billy, I thought, was not very well!" "This boy will spoil your temper: at this rate, what should be your joy, will become your misfortune. Don't receive me in this manner, I charge you." "In what manner. Sir? I always receive you with a grateful heart! If any thing troubles me, it is in your absence: but see, Sir" (then I try to smile, and seem pleased), "I am all sunshine, now you are come!--don't you see I am?" "Yes, your sunshine of late is all through a cloud! I know not what's the matter with you. Your temper will alter, and then--" "It shan't alter, Sir--it shan't--if I can help it." And then I kissed his hand; that dear hand, that, perhaps, was last about his more beloved Countess's neck--Distracting reflection! But come, may-be I think the worst! To be sure I do! For my apprehensions were ever aforehand with events; and bad must be the case, if it be worse than I think it. You command me to let you know _what_ I have heard, and how I _came_ to hear it. I told your ladyship in one of my former that two gentlemen brought up to the law, but above the practice of it, though I doubt, not above practices less honourable, had visited us on coming to town. They have been often here since, Mr. Turner particularly: and sometimes by himself, when Mr. B. has happened to be out: and he it was, as I guessed, that gave me, at the wicked masquerade, the advice to look after my _Musidorus_. I did not like their visits, and _his_ much less: for he seemed to be a man of intriguing spirit. But about three weeks ago, Mr. B. setting out upon a party of pleasure to Oxford, he came and pretended great business with me. I was at breakfast in the parlour, only Polly attending me, and admitted him, to drink a dish of chocolate with me. When Polly had stept out, he told me, after many apologies, that he had discovered who the nun was at the masquerade, that had engaged Mr. B. I said it was very indifferent to me who the lady was. He replied (making still more apologies, and pretending great reluctance to speak out), that it was no less a lady than the young Countess Dowager of----, a lady noted for her wit and beauty, but of a gay disposition, though he believed not yet culpable. I was alarmed; but would not let him see it; and told Mr. Turner, that I was so well satisfied in Mr. B.'s affection for me, and his well-known honour, that I could not think myself obliged to any gentleman who should endeavour to give me a less opinion of either than I ought to have. He then bluntly told me, that the very party Mr. B. was upon, was with the Countess for one, and Lord----, who had married her sister. I said, I was glad he was in such good company, and wished him every pleasure in it. He hoped, he said, he might trust to my discretion, that I would not let Mr. B. know from whom I had the information: that, indeed, his motive in mentioning it was self-interest; having presumed to make some overture of an honourable nature to the Countess, in his own behalf; which had been rejected since that masquerade night: and he hoped the prudent use I would make of the intimation, might somehow be a means to break off that correspondence, before it was attended with bad consequences. I told him coldly, though it stung me to the heart, that I was fully assured of Mr. B.'s honour; and was sorry he, Mr. Turner, had so bad an opinion of a lady to whom he professed so high a consideration. And rising up--"Will you excuse me, Sir, that I cannot attend at all to such a subject as this? I think I ought not: and so must withdraw." "Only, Madam, one word." He offered to take my hand, but I would not permit it. He then swore a great oath, that he had told me his true and only motive; that letters had passed between the Countess and Mr. B., adding, "But I beg you'll keep it within your own breast; else, from two such hasty spirits as his and mine, it might be attended with still worse consequences." "I will never. Sir, enter into a subject that is not proper to be communicated every tittle of it to Mr. B.; and this must be my excuse for withdrawing." And away I went from him. Your ladyship will judge with how uneasy a heart; which became more so, when I sat down to reflect upon what he had told me. But I was resolved to give it as little credit as I could, or that any thing would come of it, till Mr. B.'s own behaviour should convince me, to my affliction, that I had some reason to be alarmed: so I opened not my lips about it, not even to Mrs. Jervis. At Mr. B.'s return, I received him in my usual affectionate and unreserved manner: and he behaved himself to me with his accustomed goodness and kindness: or, at least, with so little difference, that had not Mr. Turner's officiousness made me more watchful, I should not have perceived it. But next day a letter was brought by a footman for Mr. B. He was out: so John gave it to me. The superscription was a lady's writing: the seal, the Dowager Lady's, with a coronet. This gave me great uneasiness; and when Mr. B. came in, I said, "Here is a letter for you. Sir; and from a lady too!" "What then," said he, with quickness. I was baulked, and withdrew. For I saw him turn the seal about and about, as if he would see whether I had endeavoured to look into it. He needed not to have been so afraid; for I would not have done such a thing had I known my life was to depend upon it. I went up, and could not help weeping at his quick answer; yet I did my endeavour to hide it, when he came up. "Was not my girl a little inquisitive upon me just now?" "I spoke pleasantly. Sir--But you were very quick on your girl." "'Tis my temper, my dear--You know I mean nothing. You should not mind it." "I should not, Sir, if I had been _used_ to it." He looked at me with sternness, "Do you doubt my honour, Madam?" "_Madam!_ I did you say. Sir?--I won't take that word!--Dear Sir, call it back--I won't be called _Madam!_--Call me your girl, your rustic, your Pamela--call me any thing but _Madam!_" "My charmer, then, my life, my soul: will any of those do?" and saluted me: "but whatever you do, let me not see that you have any doubts of my honour to you." "The very mention of the word, dear Sir, is a security to me; I want no other; I cannot doubt: but if you speak short to me, how shall I bear that?" He withdrew, speaking nothing of the contents of his letter; as I dare say he would, had the subject been such as he chose to mention to me. We being alone, after supper, I took the liberty to ask him, who was of his party to Oxford? He named the Viscountess---, and her lord, Mr. Howard, and his daughter, Mr. Herbert and his lady: "And I had a partner too, my dear, to represent you." "I am much obliged to the lady, Sir, be she who she would." "Why, my dear, you are so engaged in your nursery! Then this was a sudden thing; as you know I told you." "Nay, Sir, as long as it was agreeable to you, I had nothing to do, but to be pleased with it." He watched my eyes, and the turn of my countenance--"You look, Pamela, as if you'd be glad to return the lady thanks in person. Shall I engage her to visit you? She longs to see you." "Sir--Sir," hesitated I, "as you please--I can't--I can't be displeased--" "_Displeased?_" interrupted he: "why that word? and why that hesitation in your answer? You speak very volubly, my dear, when you're not moved." "Dear Sir," said I, almost as quick as he was, "why should I be moved? What occasion is there for it? I hope you have a better opinion of me than--" "Than what, Pamela?--What would you say? I know you are a little jealous rogue, I know you are." "But, dear Sir, why do you impute jealousy to me on _this_ score?--What a creature must I be, if you could not be abroad with a lady, but I must be jealous of you?--No, Sir, I have reason to rely upon your honour; and I _do_ rely upon it; and----" "And what? Why, my dear, you are giving me assurances, as if you thought the case required it!" "Ah!" thought I, "so it does, I see too plainly, or apprehend I do; but I durst not say so, nor give him any hint about my informant; though now confirmed of the truth of what Mr. Turner had said." Yet I resolved, if possible, not to alter my conduct. But my frequent weepings, when by myself, could not be hid as I wished; my eyes not keeping my heart's counsel. And this gives occasion to some of the stern words which I have mentioned above. All that he further said at this time was, with a negligent, yet a determined air--"Well, Pamela, don't be doubtful of my honour. You know how much I love you. But, one day or other I shall gratify this lady's curiosity, and bring her to pay you a visit, and you shall see you need not be ashamed of her acquaintance."--"Whenever you please, Sir," was all I cared to say farther; for I saw he was upon the catch, and looked steadfastly upon me whenever I moved my lips; and I am not a finished hypocrite, and he can read the lines of one's face, and the motions of one's heart, I think. I am sure mine is a very uneasy one. But till I reflected, and weighed well the matter, it was worse; and my natural imperfection of this sort made me see a necessity to be more watchful over myself, and to doubt my own prudence. And thus I reasoned when he withdrew: "Here," thought I, "I have had a greater proportion of happiness without alloy, fallen to my share, than any of my sex; and I ought to be prepared for some trials. "'Tis true, this is of the sorest kind: 'tis worse than death itself to me, who had an opinion of the dear man's reformation, and prided myself not a little on that account. So that the blow is full upon my sore place. 'Tis on the side I could be the most easily penetrated. But Achilles could be touched only in his heel; and if he was to die by an enemy's hands, must not the arrow find out that only vulnerable place? My jealousy is that place with me, as your ladyship observes; but it is seated deeper than the heel: it is in my heart. The barbed dart has found that out, and there it sticks up to the very feathers. "Yet," thought I, "I will take care, that I do not exasperate him by upbraidings, when I should try to move him by patience and forbearance. For the breach of his duty cannot warrant the neglect of _mine_. My business is to reclaim, and not to provoke. And when, if it please God, this storm shall be over-blown, let me not, by my present behaviour, leave any room for heart-burnings; but, like a skilful surgeon, so heal the wound to the bottom, though the operation be painful, that it may not fester, and break out again with fresh violence, on future misunderstandings, if any shall happen. "Well, but," thought I, "let the worst come to the worst, he perhaps may be so good as to permit me to pass the remainder of my days with my dear Billy, in Kent, with my father and mother; and so, when I cannot rejoice in possession of a virtuous husband, I shall be employed in praying for him, and enjoy a two-fold happiness, that of doing my own duty to my dear baby--a pleasing entertainment this! and that of comforting my worthy parents, and being comforted by them--a no small consolation! And who knows, but I may be permitted to steal a visit now-and-then to dear Lady Davers, and be called Sister, and be deemed a _faultless_ sister too?" But remember, my dear lady, that if ever it comes to this, I will not bear, that, for my sake, you shall, with too much asperity, blame your brother; for I will be ingenious to find excuses or extenuations for him; and I will now-and-then, in some disguised habit, steal the pleasure of seeing him and his happier Countess; and give him, with a silent tear, my blessing for the good I and mine have reaped at his hands. But oh! if he takes from me my Billy, who must, after all, be his heir, and gives him to the cruel Countess, he will at once burst asunder the strings of my heart! For, oh, my happy rivaless! if you tear from me my husband, he is in his own disposal, and I cannot help it: nor can I indeed, if he will give you my Billy. But this I am sure of, that my child and my life must go together! Your ladyship will think I rave. Indeed I am almost crazed at times. For the dear man is so negligent, so cold, so haughty, that I cannot bear it. He says, just now, "You are quite altered, Pamela." I believe I am. Madam. But what can I do? He knows not that I know so much. I dare not tell him. For he will have me then reveal my intelligencer: and what may be the case between them? I weep in the night, when he is asleep; and in the day when he is absent: and I am happy when I can, unobserved, steal this poor relief. I believe already I have shed as many tears as would drown my baby. How many more I may have to shed, God only knows! For, O Madam, after all my fortitude, and my recollection, to fall from so much happiness, and so soon, is a trying thing! But I will still hope the best, and should this matter blow over, I shall be ashamed of my weakness, and the trouble I must give to your generous heart, for one so undeservedly favoured by you, as _your obliged sister, and most humble servant,_ P.B. Dear Madam, let no soul see any part of this our present correspondence, for your brother's sake, and your sake, and my sake. LETTER LXX MY DEAREST PAMELA, You need not be afraid of any body's knowing what passes between us on this cutting subject. Though I hear of it from every mouth, yet I pretend 'tis all falsehood and malice. Yet Lady Betty will have it that there is more in it than I will own; and that I know my brother's wickedness by my pensive looks. She will make a vow, she says, never to marry any man living. I am greatly moved by your affecting periods. Charming Pamela! what a tempest do you raise in one's mind, when you please, and lay it too, at your own will! Your colourings are strong; but, I hope, your imagination carries you much farther than it is possible he should go. I am pleased with your prudent reasonings, and your wise resolutions. I see nobody can advise or help you. God only can! And his direction you beg _so_ hourly, that I make no doubt you will have it. What vexes me is, that when the noble uncle of this vile lady--(why don't you call her so as well as I?)--expostulated with her on the scandals she brought upon her character and family, she pretended to argue (foolish creature!) to polygamy: and said, she had rather be a certain gentleman's second wife, than the first to the greatest man in England. I leave you to your own workings; but if I find your prudence unrewarded by the wretch, the storm you saw raised at the Hall, shall be nothing to the hurricane I will excite, to tear up by the roots all the happiness the two wretches propose to themselves. Don't let my intelligence, which is undoubted, grieve you over-much. Try some way to move the wretch. It must be done by touching his generosity: he has that in some perfection. But how in _this_ case to move it, is beyond my power or skill to prescribe. God bless you, my dearest Pamela! You shall be my _only_ sister. And I will never own my brother, if he be so base to your superlative merit. Adieu once more, _from your sister and friend,_ B. DAVERS. LETTER LXXI MY DEAREST LADY, A thousand thanks for your kind, your truly sisterly letter and advice. Mr. B. is just returned from a tour to Portsmouth, with the Countess, I believe, but am not sure. Here I am forced to leave off. Let me scratch through this last surmise. It seems she was not with him. This is some comfort. He is very kind: and Billy not being well when he came in, my grief passed off without blame. He had said many tender things to me; but added, that if I gave myself so much uneasiness every time the child ailed any thing, he would hire the nurse to overlay him. Bless me. Madam! what hard-hearted shocking things are these men capable of saying!--The farthest from their hearts, indeed; so they had need--For he was as glad of the child's being better as I could be. In the morning he went out in the chariot for about an hour, and returned in a good humour, saying twenty agreeable things to me, which makes me _so_ proud, and _so_ pleased! He is gone out again. Could I but find this matter happily conquered, for his own soul's sake!--But he seems, by what your ladyship mentions, to have carried this polygamy point with the lady. Can I live with him. Madam--_ought_ I--if this be the case? I have it under his hand, that the laws of his country were sufficient to deter him from that practice. But alas! he knew not this countess then! But here I must break off. He is returned, and coming up. "Go into my bosom for the present, O letter dedicated to dear Lady Davers--Come to my hand the play employment, so unsuited to my present afflicted mind!"--Here he comes! O, Madam! my heart is almost broken!--Just now Mr. B. tells me, that the Countess Dowager and the Viscountess, her sister, are to be here to see my Billy, and to drink tea with me, this very afternoon! I was all confusion when he told me this. I looked around and around, and upon every thing but him. "Will not my friends be welcome, Pamela?" said he sternly. "O yes, very welcome! But I have these wretched vapours so, that I wish I might be excused--I wish I might be allowed to take an airing in the chariot for two or three hours; for I shall not be fit to be seen by such--ladies," said I, half out of breath. "You'll be fit to be seen by nobody, my dear, if you go on thus. But, do as you please." He was going, and I took his hand: "Stay, dear Sir, let me know what you would have me do. If you would have me stay, I will." "To be sure I would." "Well, Sir, then I will. For it is hard," thought I, "if an innocent person cannot look up in her own house too, as it now is, as I may say, to a guilty one! Guilty in her heart, at least!--Though, poor lady, I hope she is not so in fact; and, if God hears my prayers, never will, for all three of our sakes." But, Madam, think of me, what a task I have!--How my heart throbs in my bosom! How I tremble! how I struggle with myself! What rules I form for my behaviour to this naughty lady! How they are dashed in pieces as soon as formed, and new ones taken up! And yet I doubt myself when I come to the test. But one thing will help me. I _pity_ the poor lady; and as she comes with the heart of a robber, to invade me in my lawful right, I pride myself in a superiority over this countess; and will endeavour to shew her the country girl in a light which would better become _her_ to appear in. I must be forced to leave off here; for Mr. B. is just come in to receive his guests; and I am in a sad flutter upon it. All my resolution fails me; what shall I do? O that this countess was come and gone! I have one comfort, however, in the midst of all my griefs; and that is in your ladyship's goodness, which gives me leave to assume the honoured title, that let what may happen, will always give me equal pride and pleasure, in subscribing myself, _your ladyship's most obliged sister, and humble servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXII MY DEAR LADY, I will now pursue my last affecting subject; for the visit is over; but a sad situation I am in with Mr. B. for all that: but, bad as it is, I'll try to forget it, till I come to it in course. At four in the afternoon Mr. B. came in to receive his guests, whom he expected at five. He came up to me. I had just closed my last letter; but put it up, and set before me your ladyship's play subjects. "So, Pamela!--How do you do now?" Your ladyship may guess, by what I wrote before, that I could not give any extraordinary account of myself--"As well--as well, Sir, as possible;" half out of breath. "You give yourself strange melancholy airs of late, my dear. All that cheerfulness, which used to delight me whenever I saw you, I am sorry for it, is quite vanished. You and I must shortly have a little serious talk together." "When you please. Sir. I believe it is only being used to this smoky thick air of London!--I shall be better when you carry me into the country. I dare say I shall. But I never was in London so long before, you know, Sir." "All in good time, Pamela!--But is this the best appearance you choose to make, to receive such guests?" "If it displeases you. Sir, I will dress otherwise in a minute." "You look well in any thing. But I thought you'd have been better dressed. Yet it would never have less become you; for of late your eyes have lost that brilliancy that used to strike me with a lustre, much surpassing that of the finest diamonds." "I am sorry for it, Sir. But as I never could pride myself in deserving such a kind of compliment, I should be too happy, forgive me, my dearest Mr. B., if the failure be not rather in your eyes, than in _mine_." He looked at me steadfastly. "I fear, Pamela--But don't be a fool." "You are angry with me. Sir?" "No, not I." "Would you have me dress better?" "No, not I. If your eyes looked a little more brilliant, you want no addition." Down he went. Strange short speeches, these, my lady, to what you have heard from his dear mouth!--"Yet they shall not rob me of the merit of a patient sufferer, I am resolved," thought I. Now, my lady, as I doubted not my rival would come adorned with every outward ornament, I put on only a white damask gown, having no desire to vie with her in appearance; for a virtuous and honest heart is my glory, I bless God! I wish the countess had the same to boast of! About five, their ladyships came in the countess's new chariot: for she has not been long out of her transitory mourning, and dressed as rich as jewels, and a profusion of expense, could make her. I saw them from the window alight. O how my heart throbbed!--"Lie still," said I, "busy thing! why all this emotion?--Those shining ornaments cover not such a guileless flatterer as thou. Why then all this emotion?" Polly Barlow came up instantly from Mr. B. I hastened down; tremble, tremble, tremble, went my feet, in spite of all the resolution I had been endeavouring so long to collect together. Mr. B. presented the countess to me, both of us covered with blushes; but from very different motives, as I imagine. "The Countess of---, my dear." She saluted me, and looked, as I thought, half with envy, half with shame: but one is apt to form people's countenances by what one judges of their hearts. "O too lovely, too charming rival!" thought I--"Would to heaven I saw less attraction in you!"--For indeed she is a charming lady; yet she could not help calling me Mrs. B., that was some pride to me: every little distinction is a pride to me now--and said, she hoped I would excuse the liberty she had taken: but the character given of me by Mr. B. made her desirous of paying her respects to me. "O these villainous masquerades," thought I!--"You would never have wanted to see me, but for them, poor naughty Nun, that was!" Mr. B. presented also the Viscountess to me; I saluted her ladyship; her _sister_ saluted _me_. She is a graceful lady; better, as I hope, in heart, but not equal in person to her sister. "You have a charming boy, I am told, Madam; but no wonder from such a pair!" "O dear heart," thought I, "i'n't it so!" Your ladyship may guess what I thought farther. "Will your ladyship see him now?" said Mr. B. He did not look down; no, not one bit!--though the Countess played with her fan, and looked at him, and at me, and then down by turns, a little consciously: while I wrapped up myself in my innocence, my first flutters being over, and thought I was superior, by reason of that, even to a Countess. With all her heart, she said. I rang. "Polly, bid nurse bring _my_ Billy down."--_My_, said I, with an emphasis. I met the nurse at the stairs' foot, and brought in my dear baby in my arms: "Such a child, and such a mamma!" said the Viscountess. "Will you give Master to my arms, one moment, Madam?" said the Countess. "Yes," thought I, "much rather than my dear naughty gentleman should any other." I _yielded_, it to her: I thought she would have stifled it with her warm kisses. "Sweet boy I charming creature," and pressed it to her too lovely bosom, with such emotion, looking on the child, and on Mr. B., that I liked it not by any means. "Go, you naughty lady," thought I: But I durst not say so. "And go, naughty man, too!" thought I: "for you seem to look too much gratified in your pride, by her fondness for your boy. I wish I did not love you so well as I do!" But neither, your ladyship may believe, did I say this. Mr. B. looked at me, but with a bravery, I thought, too like what I had been witness to, in some former scenes, in as bad a cause. "But," thought I, "God delivered me _then_; I will confide in him. He will now, I doubt not, restore thy heart to my prayers; untainted, I hope, for thy own dear sake as well as mine." The Viscountess took the child from her sister, and kissed him with great pleasure. She is a married lady. Would to God, the Countess was so too! for Mr. B. never corresponded, as I told your ladyship once, with married ladies: so I was not afraid of _her_ love to my Billy. "But let me," said she, "have the pleasure of restoring Master to his charming mamma. I thought," added she, "I never saw a lovelier sight in my life, than when in his mamma's arms." "Why, I _can't_ say," said the Countess, "but Master and his mamma do credit to one another. Dear Madam, let us have the pleasure of seeing him still on your lap, while he is so good." I wondered the dear baby was so quiet; though, indeed, he is generally so: but _he_ might surely, if but by sympathy, have complained for his poor mamma, though she durst not for herself. How apt one is to engage every thing in one's distress, when it is deep! and one wonders too, that things animate and inanimate look with the same face, when we are greatly moved by any extraordinary and interesting event. I sat down with my baby on my lap, looking, I believe, with a righteous boldness (I will call it so; for well says the text, _"The righteous is as bold as a lion_,") now on my Billy, now on his papa, and now on the Countess, with such a _triumph_ in my heart; for I saw her blush, and look down, and the dear gentleman seemed to eye me with a kind of conscious tenderness, as I thought. A silence of five minutes, I believe, succeeded, we all four looking upon one another; and the little dear was awake, and stared full upon me, with such innocent smiles, as if he promised to love me, and make me amends for all. I kissed him, and took his pretty little hand in mine--"You are very good, my charmer, in this company!" said I. I remembered a scene, which made greatly for me in the papers you have seen, when, instead of recriminating, as I might have done, before Mr. Longman for harsh usage (for, O my lady, your dear brother has a hard heart indeed when he pleases), I only prayed for him on my knees. And I hope I was not now too mean; for I had dignity and a proud superiority in my vain heart, over them all. Then it was not my part to be upon defiances, where I loved, and where I hoped to reclaim. Besides, what had I done by that, but justified, seemingly, by after acts in a passionate resentment, to their minds, at least, their too wicked treatment of me?--Moreover, your ladyship will remember, that Mr. B. knew not that I was acquainted with his intrigue: for I must call it so. If he had, he is too noble to insult me by such a visit; and he had told me, I should see the lady he was at Oxford with. And this, breaking silence, he mentioned; saying, "I gave you hope, my dear, that I should procure you the honour of a visit from a lady who put herself under my care at Oxford." I bowed my head to the Countess; but my tears being ready to start, I kissed my Billy: "Dearest baby," said I, "you are not going to cry, are you?"--I would have had him just then to cry, instead of me. The tea equipage was brought in. "Polly, carry the child to nurse." I gave it another kiss, and the Countess desired another. I grudged it, to think her naughty lips should so closely follow mine. Her sister kissed it also, and carried him to Mr. B. "Take him away," said he, "I owe him my blessing." "O these young gentlemen papas!" said the Countess--"They are like young unbroken horses, just put into the traces!" --"Are they so?" thought I. "Matrimony must not expect your good word, I doubt." Mr. B. after tea, at which I was far from being talkative (for I could not tell what to say, though I tried, as much as I could not to appear sullen), desired the Countess to play one tune upon the harpsichord.--She did, and sung, at his request, an Italian song to it very prettily; too prettily, I thought. I wanted to find some faults, some great faults in her: but, O Madam, she has too many outward excellencies!--pity she wants a good heart. He could ask nothing, that she was not ready to oblige him; indeed he could not. She desired me to touch the keys. I would have been excused; but could not. And the ladies commended my performance; but neither my heart to play, nor my fingers in playing, deserved their praises. Mr. B. _said_, indeed--"You play better sometimes, my dear."--"Do I, Sir?" was all the answer I made. The Countess hoped, she said, I would return her visit; and so said the Viscountess. I replied, Mr. B. would command me whenever he pleased. She said, she hoped to be better acquainted--("I hope not," thought I)--and that I would give her my company, for a week or so, upon the Forest: it seems she has a seat upon Windsor Forest. "Mr. B. says," added she, "you can't ride a single horse; but we'll teach you there. 'Tis a sweet place for that purpose." "How came Mr. B.," thought I, "to tell _you_ that, Madam? I suppose you know more of me than I do myself." Indeed, my lady, this may be too true; for she may know what is to become of me! I told her, I was very much obliged to her ladyship; and that Mr. B. directed all my motions. "What say _you_, Sir?" said the Countess. "I can't promise that. Madam: for Mrs. B. wants to go down to Kent, before we go to Bedfordshire, and I am afraid I can't give her my company thither." "Then, Sir, I shan't choose to go without you." "I suppose not, my dear. But if you are disposed to oblige the Countess for a week, as you never were at Windsor--" "I believe, Sir," interrupted I, "what with my little nursery, and _one_ thing or _another_, I must deny myself that honour, for this season." "Well, Madam, then I'll expect you in Pall Mall." I bowed my head, and said, Mr. B. would command me. They took leave with a politeness natural to them. Mr. B., as he handed them to the chariot, said something in Italian to the Countess: the word Pamela was in what he said: she answered him with a downcast look, in the same language, half-pleased, half-serious, and the chariot drove away. "I would give," said I, "a good deal, Sir, to know what her ladyship said to you; she looked with so particular a meaning, if I may say so." "I'll tell you, truly, Pamela: I said to her, 'Well, now your ladyship has seen my Pamela--Is she not the charmingest girl in the world?' "She answered--'Mrs. B. is very grave, for so young a lady; but I must needs say she is a lovely creature.'" "And did you say so. Sir? And did her ladyship so answer?" And my heart was ready to leap out of my bosom for joy. But my folly spoiled all again; for, to my own surprise, and great regret, I burst out into tears; though I even sobbed to have suppressed them, but could not; and so I lost a fine opportunity to have talked to him while he was so kind; for he was more angry with me than ever. What made me such a fool, I wonder? But I had so long struggled with myself; and not expecting so kind a question from the dear gentleman, or such a favourable answer from the Countess, I had no longer any command of myself. "What ails the little fool?" said he, with a wrathful countenance. This made me worse, and he added, "Take care, take care, Pamela!--You'll drive me from you, in spite of my own heart." So he went into the best parlour, and put on his sword, and took his hat. I followed him--"Sir, Sir!" with my arms expanded, was all I could say; but he avoided me, putting on his hat with an air; and out he went, bidding Abraham follow him. This is the dilemma into which, as I hinted at the beginning of this letter, I have brought myself with Mr. B. How strong, how prevalent is the passion of jealousy; and thus it will shew itself uppermost, when it _is_ uppermost, in spite of one's most watchful regards! My mind is so perplexed, that I must lay down my pen: and, indeed, your ladyship will wonder, all things considered, that I could write the above account as I have done, in this cruel suspense, and with such apprehensions. But writing is all the diversion I have, when my mind is oppressed. PAST TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT. I have only time to tell your ladyship (for the postman waits) that Mr. B. is just come in. He is gone into his closet, and has shut the door, and taken the key on the inside; so I dare not go to him there. In this uncertainty and suspense, pity and pray for _your ladyship's afflicted sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXIII MY DEAR LADY, I will now proceed with my melancholy account. Not knowing what to do, and Mr. B. not coming near me, and the clock striking twelve, I ventured to send this billet to him, by Polly. "DEAR SIR, "I know you choose not to be invaded, when retired to your closet; yet, being very uneasy, on account of your abrupt departure, and heavy displeasure, I take the liberty to write these few lines. "I own, Sir, that the sudden flow of tears which involuntarily burst from me, at your kind expressions to the Countess in my favour, when I had thought for more than a month past, you were angry with me, and which had distressed my weak mind beyond expression, might appear unaccountable to you. But had you kindly waited but one moment till this fit, which was rather owing to my gratitude than to perverseness, had been over (and I knew the time when you would have generously soothed it), I should have had the happiness of a more serene and favourable parting. "Will you suffer me, Sir, to attend you? (Polly shall wait your answer). I dare not come _without_ your permission; for should you be as angry as you were, I know not how I shall bear it. But if you say I may come down, I hope to satisfy you, that I intended not any offence. Do, dear Sir, permit me to attend you, I can say no more, than that I am _your ever dutiful_, "P.B." Polly returned with the following. "So," thought I, "a letter!--I could have spared that, I am sure." I expected no favour from it. So tremblingly, opened it. "MY DEAR, "I would not have you sit up for me. We are getting apace into the matrimonial recriminations. _You knew the time!_--So did I, my dear!--But it seems that the time is over with both; and I have had the mortification, for some past weeks, to come home to a very different Pamela, than I used to leave all company and all pleasure for.--I hope we shall better understand one another. But you cannot see me at present with any advantage to yourself; and I would not, that any thing farther should pass, to add to the regrets of both. I wish you good rest. I will give your cause a fair hearing, when I am more fit to hear all your pleas, and your excuses. I cannot be insensible, that the reason for the concern you have lately shewn, must lie deeper than, perhaps, you'll now own. As soon as you are prepared to speak all that is upon your mind, and I to hear it with temper, then we may come to an eclaircissement. Till when I am _your affectionate_, &c." My busy apprehension immediately suggested to me, that I was to be terrified, with a high hand, into a compliance with some new scheme or other that was projecting; and it being near one, and hearing nothing from Mr. B., I bid Polly go to bed, thinking she would wonder at our intercourse by letter, if I should send again. So down I ventured, my feet, however, trembling all the way, and tapped at the door of his closet. "Who's that?" "I, Sir: one word, if you please. Don't be more angry, however, Sir." He opened the door: "Thus poor Hester, to her royal husband, ventured her life, to break in upon him unbidden. But that eastern monarch, great as he was, extended to the fainting suppliant the golden sceptre!" He took my hand: "I hope, my dear, by this tragedy speech, we are not to expect any sad catastrophe to our present misunderstanding." "I hope not, Sir. But 'tis all as God and you shall please. I am resolved to do my duty, Sir, if possible. But, indeed, I cannot bear this cruel suspense! Let me know what is to become of me. Let me know but what is designed for me, and you shall be sure of all the acquiescence that my duty and conscience can give to your pleasure." "What _means_ the dear creature? What _means my_ Pamela? Surely, your head, child, is a little affected!" "I can't tell, Sir, but it may!--But let me have my trial, that you write about. Appoint my day of hearing, and speedily too; for I would not bear such another month, as the last has been, for the world." "Come, my dear," said he, "let me attend you to your chamber. But your mind has taken much too solemn a turn, to enter further now upon this subject. Think as well of me as I do of you, and I shall be as happy as ever." I wept, "Be not angry, dear Sir: your kind words have just the same effect upon me now, as in the afternoon." "Your apprehensions, my dear, must be very strong, that a kind word, as you call it, has such an effect upon you! But let us wave the subject for a few days, because I am to set out on a little journey at four, and had not intended to go to bed, for so few hours." When we came up, I said, "I was very bold. Sir, to break in upon you; but I could not help it, if my life had been the forfeit; and you received me with more goodness than I could have expected. But will you pardon me, if I ask, whither you go so soon? And if you had intended to have gone without taking leave of me?" "I go to Tunbridge, my dear. I should have stept up and taken leave of you before I went." "Well, Sir, I will not ask you, who is of your party: I will not--No," (putting my hand to his lips) "don't tell me. Sir: it mayn't be proper." "Don't fear, my dear; I won't tell you: nor am I certain whether it be _proper_ or not, till we are come to a better understanding. Only, once more, think as well of me as I do of you." "Would to Heaven," thought I, "there was the same reason for the one as for the other!" I intended (for my heart was full) to enter further into this subject, so fatal to my repose: but the dear gentleman had no sooner laid his head on the pillow, but he fell asleep, or feigned to do so, and that was as prohibitory to my talking as if he had. So I had all my own entertaining reflections to myself; which gave me not one wink of sleep; but made me of so much service, as to tell him, when the clock struck four, that he should not (though I did not say so, you may think, Madam) make my ready rivaless (for I doubted not her being one of the party) wait for him. He arose, and was dressed instantly; and saluting me, bid me be easy and happy, while it was _yet_ in my own power. He said, he should be back on Saturday night, as he believed. And I wished him, most fervently, I am sure, health, pleasure, and safety. Here, Madam, must I end this letter. My next, will, perhaps contain my trial, and my sentence: God give me but patience and resignation, and then whatever occurs, I shall not be unhappy: especially while I can have, in the last resource, the pleasure of calling myself _your ladyship's most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. * * * * * LETTER LXXIV My dear Lady, I will be preparing to write to you, as I have opportunity, not doubting but this must be a long letter; and having some apprehensions, that, as things may fall out, I may want either head or heart to write to your ladyship, were I to defer it till the catastrophe of this cruel suspense. O what a happiness am I sunk from!--And in so few days too! O the wicked masquerades! The following letter, in a woman's hand, and signed, as you'll see, by a woman's name, and spelt as I spell it, will account to your ladyship for my beginning so heavily. It came by the penny-post. "Madame, "I ame unknowne to yowe; but yowe are not so altogathar to mee, becaus I haue bene edefy'd by yowre pius behafiorr att church, whir I see yowe with playsir everie Sabbaoth day. I ame welle acquaintid with the famely of the Coumptesse of---; and yowe maie passiblie haue hard what you wished not to haue hard concerninge hir. Butt this verie morninge, I can assur yowe, hir ladishippe is gon with yowre spowse to Tonbrigge; and theire they are to take lodgings, or a hous; and Mr. B. is after to come to town, and settel matters to go downe to hir, where they are to liue as man and wiffe. Make what use yowe pleas of thiss informasion: and belieue me to haue no other motife, than to serue yowe, becavs of yowre vartues, whiche make yowe deserue a better retorne, I am, thof I shall not set my trewe name, _yowre grete admirer and seruant_, "THOMASINE FULLER. "Wednesday morninge, "9 o'clock." Just above I called my state, a state of _cruel suspense_. But I recall the words: for now it is no longer suspense; since, if this letter says truth, I know the worst: and there is too much appearance that it does, let the writer be who he will, or his or her motive what it will: for, after all, I am apt to fancy this a contrivance of Mr. Turner's, though, for fear of ill consequences, I will not say so. And now, Madam, I am endeavouring, by the help of religion, and cool reflection, to bring my mind to bear this heavy evil, and to recollect what I _was_, and how much more honourable an estate I _am in_, than I could ever have expected to be in; that my virtue and good name are secured; and I can return innocent to my dear parents: and these were once the only pride of my heart. In addition to what I was then (and yet I pleased myself with my prospects, poor as they were), I have honest parents, bountifully provided for, thank God and your ever-dear brother for this blessing!--and not only provided for--but made useful to him, to the amount of their provision, well-nigh! There is a pride, my lady! Then I shall have better conditions from his generosity to support myself, than I can wish for, or make use of. Then I have my dear Billy-O be contented, too charming, and too happy rival, with my husband; and tear not from me my dearest baby, the pledge, the beloved pledge, of our happier affections, and the dear remembrance of what I once was!--A thousand pleasing prospects, that had begun to dawn on my mind, I can bear to have dissipated! But I cannot, indeed I cannot! permit my dear Mr. B.'s son and heir to be torn from me. But I am running on in a strain that shews my impatience, rather than my resignation; yet some struggles must be allowed me: I could not have loved, as I love, if I could easily part with my interest in so beloved a husband.--For my interest I _will_ part with, and sooner die, than live with a gentleman who has another wife, though I was the first. Let countesses, if they can, and ladies of birth, choose to humble themselves to this baseness. The low-born Pamela cannot stoop to it. Pardon me; you know I only write this with a view to this poor lady's answer to her noble uncle, of which you wrote me word. FRIDAY Is now concluding. I hope I am much calmer. For, being disappointed, in all likelihood, in twenty agreeable schemes and projects, I am now forming new ones, with as much pleasure to myself as I may. I am thinking to try to get good Mrs. Jervis with me. You must not, Madam, be too much concerned for me. After a while, I shall be no unhappy person; for though I was thankful for my splendid fortunes, and should have been glad, to be sure I should, of continuing in them, with so dear a gentleman; yet a high estate had never such dazzling charms with me as it has with some: if it had, I could not have resisted so many temptations, possibly, as God enabled me to resist. SATURDAY NIGHT Is now come. 'Tis nine, and no Mr. B.--"O why," as Deborah makes the mother of Sisera say, "is his chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the wheels of his chariot?" I have this note now at eleven o'clock: "MY DEAREST PAMELA, "I dispatch the messenger, lest, expecting me this night, you should be uneasy. I shall not be with you till Monday, when I hope to dine with my dearest life. _Ever affectionately yours_." So I'll go up and pray for him, and then to bed.--Yet 'tis a sad thing!--I have had but poor rest for a great while; nor shall have any till my fate is decided.--Hard-hearted man, he knows under what uneasiness he left me! MONDAY, ELEVEN. If God Almighty hears my yesterday's, and indeed my hourly, prayers, the dear man will be good still; but my aching heart, every time I think what company he is in (for I find the Countess is _certainly_ one of the party), bodes me little satisfaction. He's come! He's come! now, just now, come! I will have my trial over before this night be past, if possible. I'll go down and meet him with love unfeigned, and a duty equal to my love, although he may forget his to me. If I conquer myself on this occasion, I conquer nature, as your ladyship says: and then, by God's grace, I can conquer every thing. They have taken their house, I suppose: but what need they, when they'll have one in Bedfordshire, and one in Lincolnshire? But they know best. God bless him, and reform her! That's all the harm I wish them, or will wish them! My dear Mr. B. has received me with great affection and tenderness. Sure he cannot be so bad!--Sure he cannot! "I know, my dear," said he, "I left you in great anxiety; but 'tis an anxiety you have brought upon yourself; and I have not been easy ever since I parted from you." "I am sorry for it, Sir." "Why, my dear love, there is still a melancholy air in your countenance: indeed, it seems mingled with a kind of joy; I hope at my return to you. But 'tis easy to see which of the two is the most natural." "You should see nothing. Sir, that you would not wish to see, if I could help it." "I am sorry you cannot. But I am come home to hear all your grievances, and to redress them, if in my power." "When, Sir, am I to come upon my trial? I have much to say. I will tell you everything I think. And, as it may be the last _grievances_, as you are pleased to call them, I may ever trouble you with, you must promise to answer me not one word till I have done. For, if it does but hold, I have great courage, indeed I you don't know half the sauciness that is in your girl yet; but when I come upon my trial, you'll wonder at my boldness." "What means my dearest?" taking me into his arms. "You alarm me exceedingly, by this moving sedateness." "Don't let it alarm you. Sir! I mean nothing but good!--But I have been preparing myself to tell you all my mind. And as an instance of what you may expect from me, sometimes, Sir, I will be your judge, and put home questions to you; and sometimes you shall be mine, and at last pronounce sentence upon me; or, if you won't, I will upon myself; a severe one to me, it shall be, but an agreeable one, perhaps, to you!--When comes on the trial. Sir?" He looked steadily upon me, but was silent. And I said, "But don't be afraid, Sir, that I will invade your province; for though I shall count myself your judge, in some cases, you shall be judge paramount still." "Dear charmer of my heart," said he, and clasped me to his bosom, "what a _new_ PAMELA have I in my arms! A mysterious charmer! Let us instantly go to my closet, or yours, and come upon our mutual trial; for you have fired my soul with impatience!" "No, Sir, if you please, we will dine first. I have hardly eaten any thing these four days; and your company may give me an appetite. I shall be pleased to sit down at table with you. Sir," taking his hand, and trying to smile upon him; "for the moments I have of your company, may be, some time hence, very precious to my remembrance." I was then forced to turn my head, to hide from him my eyes, brimful as they were of tears. He took me again into his arms:--"My dearest Pamela, if you love me, distract not my soul thus, by your dark and mysterious speeches. You are displeased with _me_, and I thought I had reason, of late, to take something amiss in _your_ conduct; but, instead of your suffering by my anger, you have words and an air that penetrate my very soul." "O Sir, Sir, treat me not thus kindly! Put on an angrier brow, or how shall I retain my purpose? How shall I!" "Dear, dear creature! make not use of _all_ your power to melt me! _Half_ of it is enough. For there is eloquence in your eyes I cannot resist; but in your present solemn air, and affecting sentences, you mould me to every purpose of your heart; so that I am a mere machine, a passive instrument, to be played upon at your pleasure." "Dear, kind Sir, how you revive my heart, by your goodness! Perhaps I have only been in a frightful dream, and am but just now awakened.--But we will not anticipate our trial. Only, Sir, give orders, that you are not to be spoken with by any body, when we have dined; for I must have you all to myself, without interruption." Just as I had said this, a gentleman calling, I retired to my chamber, and wrote to this place. Mr. B. dismissed his friend, without asking him to dine; so I had him all to myself at dinner--But we said little, and sat not above a quarter of an hour; looking at each other: he, with impatience, and some seeming uneasiness; I with more steadiness, I believe, but now and then a tear starting. I eat but little, though I tried all I could, and especially as he helped me, and courted me with tenderness and sweetness--O why were ever such things as _masquerades_ permitted in a Christian nation! I chose to go into _my_ closet rather than into _his_; and here I sit, waiting the dear gentleman's coming up to me. If I keep but my courage, I shall be pleased. I know the worst, and that will help me; for he is too noble to use me roughly, when he sees I mean not to provoke him by upbraidings, any more than I will act, in this case, beneath the character I ought to assume as his wife. Mr. B. came up, with great impatience in his looks. I met him at the chamber door, with a very sedate countenance, and my heart was high with my purpose, and supported me better than I could have expected.--Yet, on recollection, now I impute to myself something of that kind of magnanimity, that was wont to inspire the innocent sufferers of old, for a still worthier cause than mine; though their motives could hardly be more pure, in that one hope I had, to be an humble means of saving the man I love and honour, from errors that might be fatal to his soul. I took his hand with boldness:--"Dear Sir," leading him to my closet, "here is the bar at which I am to take my trial," pointing to the backs of three chairs, which I had placed in a joined row, leaving just room to go by on each side. "You must give me, Sir, all my own way; this is the first, and perhaps the last time, that I shall desire it.--Nay, dear Sir," turning my face from him, "look not upon me with an eye of tenderness: if you do I may lose my purposes, important to me as they are; and however fantastic my behaviour may seem to you, I want not to move your passions (for the good impressions made upon them may be too easily dissipated by the winds of _sense_,) but _your reason_; and if that can be done, I am safe, and shall fear no relapse." "What means all this parade, my dear? Let me perish," that was his word, "if I know how to account for _you_, or your _humour_." "You _will_, presently. Sir. But give me all my ways--I pray you do--This one time only!" "Well, so, this is your bar, is it? There's an elbow-chair, I see; take your place in it, Pamela, and here I'll stand to answer all your questions." "No, Sir, that must not be." So I boldly led him to the elbow-chair. "You are the judge, Sir; it is I that am to be tried. Yet I will not say I am a criminal. I know I am not. But that must be proved, Sir, you know." "Well, take your way; but I fear for your head, my dear, in all this." "I fear only my heart, Sir, that's all! but there you must sit--So here," (retiring to the three chairs, and leaning on the backs,) "here I stand." "And now, my dearest Mr. B., you must begin first; you must be my accuser, as well as my judge." "I have nothing to accuse you of, my dear, if I _must_ give in to your moving whimsy. You are everything I wish you to be. But for the last month you have seemed to be uneasy, and have not done me the justice to acquaint me with your reasons for it." "I was in hopes my reasons might have proved to be no reasons; and I would not trouble you with my ungrounded apprehensions. But now, Sir, we are come directly to the point; and methinks I stand here as Paul did before Felix; and like that poor prisoner, if I, Sir, reason of _righteousness, temperance_, and _judgment to come_, even to make you, as the great Felix did, tremble, don't put me off to _another day_, to a _more convenient season_, as that governor did Paul; for you must bear patiently with all that I have to say." "Strange, uncommon girl I how unaccountable is all this!--Pr'ythee, my dear," and he pulled a chair by him, "come and sit down by me, and without these romantic airs let me hear all you have to say; and teaze me not with this parade." "No, Sir, let me stand, if you please, while I can stand; when weary I will sit down at my bar. "Now, Sir, since you are so good as to say, you have nothing but change of temper to accuse me of, I am to answer to that, and assign a cause; and I will do it without evasion or reserve; but I beseech you say not one word but Yes or No, to my questions, till I have said all I have to say, and then you shall find me all silence and resignation." "Well, my strange dear!--But sure your head is a little turned!--What is your question?" "Whether, Sir, the Nun--I speak boldly; the cause requires it--who followed you at the Masquerade every where, is not the Countess of--?" "What then, my dear:" (speaking with quickness,)--"I _thought_ the occasion of your sullenness and reserve was this!--But, Pamela--" "Nay, Sir," interrupted I, "only Yes, or No, if you please: I will be all silence by-and-by." "Yes, then."--"Well, Sir, then let me tell you, for I _ask_ you not (it may be too bold in me to multiply questions,) that she _loves_ you; that you correspond by letters with her--Yes, Sir, _before_ that letter from her ladyship came, which you received from my hand in so short and angry a manner, for fear of my curiosity to see its contents, which would have been inexcusable in me, I own, if I had. You have talked over to her all your polygamy notions, and she seems so well convinced of them, as to declare to her noble uncle (who expostulated with her on the occasions she gave for talk,) that she had rather be a certain gentleman's second wife, than the first to the greatest man in England: and you are but just returned from a journey to Tunbridge, in which that lady was a party; and the motive for it, I am acquainted with, by this letter." He was displeased, and frowned: I looked down, being resolved not to be terrified, if I could help it. "I have cautioned you, Pamela----" "I know you have, Sir," interrupted I; "but be pleased to answer me. Has not the Countess taken a house or lodgings at Tunbridge?" "She has; and what then?" "And is her ladyship there, or in town?" "_There_--and what then?" "Are you to go to Tunbridge, Sir, soon, or not?--Be pleased to answer but that one question." "I _will_ know," rising up in anger, "your informants, Pamela." "Dear Sir, so you shall, in proper time: you shall know all, when I am convinced, that your wrath will not be attended with bad consequences to yourself and others. That is wholly the cause of my reserve in this point; for I have not had a thought, since I have been yours, that I wished to be concealed from you.--But your knowledge of the informants makes nothing at all as to the truth of the information--Nor will I press you too home. I doubt not, you are soon to return to Tunbridge?" "I _am_, and what then?--Must the consequence be crime enough to warrant your jealousy?" "Dear Sir, don't be so angry," still looking down; for I durst not trust myself to look up. "I don't do this, as your letter charged me, in a spirit of matrimonial recrimination: if you don't _tell_ me, that you see the Countess with pleasure, I _ask_ it not of you; nor have I anything to say by way of upbraiding. 'Tis my misfortune, that she is too lovely, and too attractive: and it is the less wonder, that a fine young gentleman as you are, and a fine young lady as she is, should engage one another's affections. "I knew every thing, except what this letter which you shall read presently, communicates, when you brought the two noble sisters to visit me: hence proceeded my grief; and should I, Sir, have deserved to be what I am, if I was _not_ grieved? Religion has helped me, and God has answered my supplications, and enabled me to act this new uncommon part before you at this imaginary bar. You shall see, Sir, that as, on one hand, I want not, as I said before, to move your passions in my favour; so, on the other, I shall not be terrified by your displeasure, dreaded by me as it used to be, and as it will be again, the moment that my raised spirits sink down to their usual level, or are diverted from this my long meditated purpose, to tell you all my mind. "I repeat, then, Sir, that I knew all this, when the two noble sisters came to visit your poor girl, and to see your Billy. Yet, _grave_ as the Countess called me, (dear Sir! might I not well be grave, knowing what I knew?) did I betray any impatience of speech or action, or any discomposure? "No, Sir," putting my hand on my breast, "_here_ all my discomposure lay, vehemently struggling, now and then, and wanting that vent of my eyes, which it seems (overcome by my joy, to hear myself favourably spoken of by you and the lady,) it _too soon_ made itself. But I could not help it--You might have seen. Sir, I could not! "But I want neither to recriminate nor expostulate; nor yet, Sir, to form excuses for my general conduct; for that you accuse not in the main--but be pleased, Sir, to read this letter. It was brought by the penny-post, as you'll see by the mark. Who the writer is, I know not. And did _you_, Sir, that knowledge, and your resentment upon it, will not alter the fact, or give it a more favourable appearance." I stepped to him, and giving him the letter, came back to my bar, and sat down on one of the chairs while he read it, drying my eyes; for they would overflow as I talked, do what I could. He was much moved at the contents of this letter; called it malice, and hoped he might find out the author of it, saying, he would advertise 500 guineas reward for the discoverer. He put the letter in his pocket, "Well, Pamela, you believe all you have said, no doubt: and this matter has a black appearance, indeed, if you do. But who was your _first_ informant?--Was that by letter or personally? That Turner, I doubt not, is at the bottom of all this. The vain coxcomb has had the insolence to imagine the Countess would favour an address of his; and is enraged to meet with a repulse; and has taken liberties upon it, that have given birth to all the scandals scattered about on this occasion. Nor do I doubt but he has been the Serpent at the ear of my Eve." I stood up at the bar, and said, "Don't be too hasty, Sir, in your judgment--You _may_ be mistaken." "But _am_ I mistaken, Pamela?--You never told me an untruth in cases the most important to you to conceal. _Am_ I mistaken?" "Dear Sir, if I should tell you it is _not_ Mr. Turner, you'll guess at somebody else: and what avails all this to the matter in hand? You are your own master, and must stand or fall by your own conscience. God grant that _that_ may acquit you!--But my intention is not either to accuse or upbraid you." "But, my dear, to the fact then:--This is a malicious and a villainous piece of intelligence, given you, perhaps, for the sake of designs and views, that may not yet be proper to be avowed." "By God's grace, Sir, I defy all designs and views of any one, upon my honour!" "But, my dear, the charge is basely false: we have not agreed upon any such way of life." "Well, Sir, all this only proves, that the intelligence may be a little premature. But now let me, Sir, sit down one minute, to recover my failing spirits, and then I'll tell you all I purpose to do, and all I have to say, and that with as much brevity as I can, for fear neither my head nor my heart should perform the part I have been so long in endeavouring to prevail upon them to perform." I sat down then, he taking out the letter, and reading it again with much vexation and anger in his countenance; and after a few tears and sobs, that would needs be so officious as to offer their service, unbidden, and undesired, to introduce what I had to say; I rose up, my feet trembling, as well as my knees; which, however, leaning against the seats of the chairs, that made my bar, as my hand held by the back, tolerably supported me, I cleared my voice, wiped my eyes, and said: "You have all the excuse, dear Mr. B., that a gentleman can have in the object of your present passion." "Present passion, Pamela!" "Dear Sir, hear me without interruption. "The Countess is a charming lady. She excels your poor girl in all those outward graces of form, which your kind fancy (more valued by me than the opinion of all the world besides) had made you attribute to me. And she has all those additional advantages, as nobleness of birth, of alliance, and deportment, which I want. (Happy for you, Sir, that you had known her ladyship some months ago, before you disgraced yourself by the honours you have done me!) This therefore frees you from the aggravated crime of those, who prefer, to their own ladies, less amiable and less deserving persons; and I have not the sting which those must have, who are contemned and ill-treated for the sake of their inferiors. Yet cannot the Countess love you better than your girl loves you, not even for your person, which must, I doubt, be _her_ principal attachment! when I can truly say, all noble and attracting to the outward eye as it is, that is the least consideration by far with me: no, Sir, your generous and beneficent mind, is the principal object of my affection; and my pride in hoping to be an humble means, in the hands of Providence, to bless you _hereafter_ as well as _here_, gave me more pleasure than all the blessings I reaped from your name or your fortune. Judge then, my dearest Mr. B., my grief and disappointment. "But I will not expostulate: I _will not_, because it _must_ be to no purpose; for could my fondness, and my watchful duty to you, have kept you steady, I should not now appear before you in this solemn manner: and I know the charms of my rival are too powerful for me to contend with. Nothing but divine grace can touch your heart: and that I expect not, from the nature of the case, should be instantaneous. "I will therefore. Sir, dear as you are to me--(Don't look with such tender surprise upon me!) give up your person to the happier, to my _worthier_ rival. For since such is your will, and seem to be your engagements, what avails it to me to oppose them? "I have only to beg, that you will be so good as to permit me to go down to Kent, to my dear parents, who, with many more, are daily rejoicing in your favour and bounty. I will there" (holding up my folded hands) "pray for you every hour of my life; and for every one who shall be dear to you, not excepting the charming Countess. "I will never take your name into my lips, nor suffer any other in my hearing, but with reverence and gratitude, for the good I and mine _have_ reaped at your hands: nor wish to be freed from my obligations to you, except you shall choose to be divorced from me; and if so I will give your wishes all the forwardness I honourably can, with regard to my own character and yours, and that of your beloved baby. "But you must give me something worth living for along with you; your Billy and mine!--Unless it is your desire to kill me quite! and then 'tis done, and nothing will stand in your happy Countess's way, if you tear from my arms my _second_ earthly good, after I am deprived of you, my first. "I will there, Sir, dedicate all my time to my first duties; happier far, than once I could have hoped to be! And if, by any accident, and misunderstanding between you, you should part by consent, and you will have it so, my heart shall be ever yours, and my hopes shall be resumed of being an instrument still for your future good, and I will receive your returning ever-valued heart, as if nothing had happened, the moment I can be sure it will be wholly mine. "For, think not, dear Sir, whatever be your notions of polygamy, that I will, were my life to depend upon it, consent to live with a gentleman, dear as, God is my witness," (lifting up my tearful eyes) "you are to me, who lives in what I cannot but think open sin with another! You _know_, Sir, and I appeal to you for the purity, and I will aver piety of my motives, when I say this, that I _would not_; and as you do know this, I cannot doubt but nay proposal will be agreeable to you both. And I beg of you, dear Sir, to take me at my word; and don't let me be tortured, as I have been so many weeks, with such anguish of mind, that nothing but religious considerations can make supportable to me." "And are you in earnest, Pamela?" coming to me, and folding me in his arms over the chair's back, the seat of which supported my trembling knees, "Can you so easily part with me?" "I can, Sir, and I will!--rather than divide my interest in you, knowingly, with any lady upon earth. But say not, can I part with you. Sir; it is you that part with me: and tell me, Sir, tell me but what you had intended should become of me?" "You talk to me, my dearest life, as if all you had heard against me was true; and you would have me answer you, (would you?) as if it was." "I want nothing to convince me, Sir, that the Countess loves you: you know the rest of my information: judge for me, what I can, what I ought to believe!--You know the rumours of the world concerning you: Even I, who stay so much at home, and have not taken the least pains to find out my wretchedness, nor to confirm it, since I knew it, have come to the hearing of it; and if you know the licence taken with both your characters, and yet correspond so openly, must it not look to me that you value not your honour in the world's eye, nor my lady hers? I told you, Sir, the answer she made to her uncle." "You told me, my dear, as you were told. Be tender of a lady's reputation--for your own sake. No one is exempted from calumny; and even words said, and the occasion of saying them not known, may bear a very different construction from 'what they would have done, had the occasion been told." "This may be all true. Sir: I wish the lady would be as tender of her reputation as I would be, let her injure me in your affections as she will. But can you say, Sir, that there is nothing between you, that should _not_ be, according to _my_ notions of virtue and honour, and according to your _own_, which I took pride in, before that fatal masquerade? "You answer me not," continued I; "and may I not fairly presume you cannot as I wish to be answered? But come, dearest Sir," (and I put my arms around his neck) "let me not urge you too boldly. I will never forget your benefits, and your past kindnesses to me. I have been a happy creature: no one, till within these few weeks, was ever so happy as I. I will love you still with a passion as ardent as ever I loved you. Absence cannot lessen such a love as mine: I am sure it cannot. "I see your difficulties. You have gone too far to recede. If you can make it easy to your conscience, I will wait with patience my happier destiny; and I will wish to live (if I can be convinced you wish me not to die) in order to pray for you, and to be a directress to the first education of my dearest baby. "You sigh, dear Sir; repose your beloved face next to my fond heart. 'Tis all your own: and ever shall be, let it, or let it not, be worthy of the honour in your estimation. "But yet, my dear Mr. B., if one could as easily, in the prime of sensual youth, look twenty years backward, what an empty vanity, what a mere nothing, will be all those grosser satisfactions, that now give wings of desire to our debased appetites! "Motives of religion will have their due force upon _your_ mind one day, I hope; as, blessed be God, they have enabled _me_ to talk to you on such a touching point (after infinite struggles, I own,) with so much temper and resignation; and then, my dearest Mr. B., when we come to that last bed, from which the piety of our friends shall lift us, but from which we shall never be able to raise ourselves; for, dear Sir, your Countess, and you, and your poor Pamela, must all come to this!--we shall find what it is will give us true joy, and enable us to support the pangs of the dying hour. Think you, my dearest Sir," (and I pressed my lips to his forehead, as his head was reclined on my throbbing bosom,) "that _then_, in that important moment, what now gives us the greatest pleasure, will have any part in our consideration, but as it may give us woe or comfort in the reflection? "But I will not, O best beloved of my soul, afflict you farther. Why should I thus sadden all your gaudy prospects? I have said enough to such a heart as yours, if Divine grace touches it. And if not, all I can say will be of no avail!--I will leave you therefore to that, and to your own reflections. And after giving you ten thousand thanks for your indulgent patience with me, I will only beg, that I may set out in a week for Kent, with my dear Billy; that you will receive one letter at least, from me, of gratitude and blessings; it shall not be of upbraidings and exclamations. "But my child you must not deny me; for I shall haunt, like his shadow, every place wherein you shall put my Billy, if you should be so unkind to deny him to me!--And if you will permit me to have the dear Miss Goodwin with me, as you had almost led me to hope, I will read over all the books of education, and digest them, as well as I am able, in order to send you my scheme, and to show you how fit, I hope your _indulgence_, at least, will make you think me, of having two such precious trusts reposed in me!" I was silent, waiting in tears his answer. But his generous heart was touched, and seemed to labour within him for expression. He came round to me at last, and took me in his arms; "Exalted creature!" said he: "noble-minded Pamela! Let no bar be put between us henceforth! No wonder, when one looks back to your first promising dawn of excellence, that your fuller day should thus irresistibly dazzle such weak eyes as mine. Whatever it costs me, and I have been inconsiderately led on by blind passion for an object too charming, but which I never thought equal to my Pamela, I will (for it is yet, I bless God, in my power), restore to your virtue a husband all your own." "O Sir, Sir," (and I should have sunk with joy, had not his kind arms supported me,) "what have you said?--Can I be so happy as to behold you innocent as to deed! God, of his infinite goodness, continue you both so!--And, Oh! that the dear lady would make me as truly love her, for the graces of her mind, as I admire her for the advantages of her person!" "You are virtue itself, my dearest life; and from this moment I will reverence you as my tutelary angel. I shall behold you with awe, and implicitly give up myself to all your dictates: for what you _say_, and what you _do_, must be ever right. But I will not, my dearest life, too lavishly promise, lest you should think it the sudden effects of passions thus movingly touched, and which may subside again, when the soul, as you observed in your own case, sinks to its former level: but this I promise (and I hope you believe me, and will pardon the pain I have given you, which made me fear more than once, that your head was affected, so _uncommon_, yet so like _yourself_, has been the manner of your acting,) that I will break off a correspondence that has given you so much uneasiness: and my Pamela may believe, that if I can be as good as my word in this point, she will never more be in danger of any rival whatever. "But say, my dear love," added he, "say you forgive me; and resume but your former cheerfulness, and affectionate regards to me, else I shall suspect the sincerity of your forgiveness: and you shall indeed go to Kent, but not without me, nor your boy neither; and if you insist upon it, the poor child you have wished so often and so generously to have, shall be given up absolutely to your disposal." Do you think. Madam, I could speak any one distinct sentence? No indeed I could not. I was just choked with my joy; I never was so before. And my eyes were in a manner fixed, as he told me afterwards; and that he was a little startled, seeing nothing but the whites; for the sight was out of its orbits, in a manner lifted up to heaven--in ecstasy for a turn so sudden, and so unexpected! We were forced to separate soon after; for there was no bearing each other, so excessive was my Joy, and his goodness. He left me, and went down to his own closet. Judge my employment you will, I am sure, my dear lady. I had new ecstasy to be blest with, in a thankfulness so exalted, that it left me all light and pleasant, as if I had shook off body, and trod in air; so much heaviness had I lost, and so much joy had I received. From two such extremes, how was it possible I could presently hit the medium? For when I had given up my beloved husband, as lost to me, and had dreaded the consequences to his future state: to find him not only untainted as to deed, but, in all probability, mine upon better and surer terms than ever--O, Madam! must not this give a joy beyond all joy, and surpassing all expression! About eight o'clock Mr. B. sent me up these lines from his closet, which will explain what I meant, as to the papers I must beg your ladyship to return me. "My dear Pamela, "I have so much real concern at the anguish I have given you, and am so much affected with the recollection of the uncommon scenes which passed between us, just now, that I write, because I know not how to look so excellent a creature in the face--You must therefore sup without me, and take your Mrs. Jervis to bed with you; who, I doubt not, knows all this affair; and you may tell her the happy event. "You must not interfere with me just now, while writing upon a subject which takes up all my attention; and which, requiring great delicacy, I may, possibly, be all night before I can please myself in it. "I am determined to make good my promise to you. But if you have written to your mother, Miss Darnford, or to Lady Davers, anything of this affair, you must shew me the copies, and let me into every tittle how you came by your information. I solemnly promise you, on my honour (that has not yet been violated to you, and I hope never will), that not a soul shall know or suffer by the communication, not even Turner; for I am confident he has had some hand in it. This request you must comply with, if you can confide in me; for I shall make some use of it (as prudent a one as I am able), for the sake of every one concerned, in the conclusion of the correspondence between the lady and myself. Whatever you may have said in the bitterness of your heart, in the letters I require to see, or whatever any of those, to whom they are directed, shall say, on the bad prospect, shall be forgiven, and looked upon as deserved, by your _ever-obliged and faithful_, &c." I returned the following: "Dearest, dear Sir, "I will not break in upon you, while you are so importantly employed. Mrs. Jervis has indeed seen my concern for some time past, and has heard rumours, as I know by hints she has given me; but her prudence, and my reserves, have kept us from saying anything to one another of it. Neither my mother nor Miss Darnford know a tittle of it from me. I have received a letter of civility from Miss, and have answered it, taking and giving thanks for the pleasure of each other's company, and best respects from her, and the Lincolnshire families, to your dear self. These, my copy, and her original, you shall see when you please. But, in truth, all that has passed, is between Lady Davers and me, and I have not kept copies of mine; but I will dispatch a messenger to her ladyship for them, if you please, in the morning, before it is light, not doubting your kind promise of excusing everything and everybody. "I beg, dear Sir, you will take care your health suffers not by your sitting up; for the nights are cold and damp. "I will, now you have given me the liberty, let Mrs. Jervis know how happy you have made me, by dissipating my fears, and the idle rumours, as I shall call them to her, of calumniators. "God bless you, dear Sir, for your goodness and favour to _your ever-dutiful_ P.B." He was pleased to return me this: "MY DEAR LIFE, "You need not be in such haste to send. If you write to Lady Davers how the matter has ended, let me see the copy of it: and be very particular in your, or rather, my trial. It shall be a standing lesson to me for my future instruction; as it will be a fresh demonstration of your excellence, which every hour I more and more admire. I am glad Lady Davers only knows the matter. I think I ought to avoid seeing you, till I can assure you, that every thing is accommodated to your desire. Longman has sent me some advices, which will make it proper for me to meet him at Bedford or Gloucester. I will not go to Tunbridge, till I have all your papers; and so you'll have three days to procure them. Your boy, and your penmanship, will find you no disagreeable employment till I return. Nevertheless, on second thoughts, I will do myself the pleasure of breakfasting with you in the morning, to re-assure you of my unalterable purpose to approve myself, _my dearest life, ever faithfully yours."_ Thus, I hope, is happily ended this dreadful affair. My next shall give the particulars of our breakfast conversation. But I would not slip this post, without acquainting you with this blessed turn; and to beg the favour of you to send me back my letters; which will lay a new obligation upon, _dear Madam, your obliged sister, and humble servant,_ P.B. LETTER LXXV MY DEAREST LADY, Your joyful correspondent has obtained leave to get every thing: ready to quit London by Friday next, when your kind brother promises to carry me down to Kent, and allows me to take my charmer with me. There's happiness for you, Madam! To see, as I hope I shall see, upon one blessed spot, a dear faithful husband, a beloved child, and a father and mother, whom I so much love and honour! Mr. B. told me this voluntarily, this morning at breakfast; and then, in the kindest manner, took leave of me, and set out for Bedfordshire. But I should, according to my promise, give you a few particulars of our breakfast conference. I bid Polly withdraw, when her master came up to breakfast; and I ran to the door to meet him, and threw myself on my knees: "O forgive me, dearest, dear Sir, all my boldness of yesterday!--My heart was strangely affected--or I could not have acted as I did. But never fear, my dearest Mr. B., that my future conduct shall be different from what it used to be, or that I shall keep up to a spirit, which you hardly thought had place in the heart of your dutiful Pamela, till she was thus severely tried."--"I have weighed well your conduct, my dear life," raising me to his bosom; "and I find an uniformity in it, that is surprisingly just." He led me to the tea-table, and sat down close by me. Polly came in. "If every thing," said he, "be here, that your lady wants, you may withdraw; and let Colbrand and Abraham know I shall be with them presently. Nobody shall wait upon me but you, my dear." Polly withdrew. "I always _loved_ you, my dearest," added he, "and that with a passionate fondness, which has not, I dare say, many examples in the married life: but I _revere_ you now. And so great is my reverence for your virtue, that I chose to sit up all night, to leave you for a few days, until, by disengaging myself from all intercourses that have given you uneasiness, I can convince you, that I have rendered myself as worthy as I can be, of you upon your own terms. I will account to you for every step I _shall_ take, and will reveal to you every step I have taken: for this I _can_ do, because the lady's honour is untainted, and wicked rumour has treated her worse than she could deserve." I told him, that since _he_ had named the lady, I would take the liberty to say, I was glad, for her own sake, to hear that. Changing the subject a little precipitately, as if it gave him pain, he told me, as above, that I might prepare on Friday for Kent; and I parted with him with greater pleasure than ever I did in my life. So necessary sometimes are afflictions, not only to teach one how to subdue one's passions, and to make us, in our happiest states, know we are still on earth, but even when they are overblown to augment and redouble our joys! I am now giving orders for my journey, and quitting this undelightful town, as it has been, and is, to me. My next will be from Kent, I hope; and I may then have an opportunity to acquaint your ladyship with the particulars, and (if God answers my prayers), the conclusion of the affair, which has given me so much uneasiness. Meantime, I am, with the greatest gratitude, for the kind share you have taken in my past afflictions, my good lady, _your ladyship's most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXVI My dearest Pamela, Inclosed are all the letters you send for. I rejoice with you upon the turn this afflicting affair has taken, through your inimitable prudence, and a courage I thought not in you. A wretch!--to give you so much discomposure!--But I will not, if he be good now, rave against him, as I was going to do. I am impatient to hear what account he gives of the matter. I hope he will be able to abandon this--I won't call her names; for she loves the wretch; and that, if he be just to _you_, will be her punishment. What care ought these young widows to take of their reputation?--And how watchful ought they to be over themselves!--She was hardly out of her weeds, and yet must go to a masquerade, and tempt her fate, with all her passions about her, with an independence, and an affluence of fortune, that made her able to think of nothing but gratifying them. She has good qualities--is generous--is noble--but has strong passions, and is thoughtless and precipitant. My lord came home last Tuesday, with a long story of my brother and her: for I had kept the matter as secret as I could, for his sake and yours. It seems he had it from Sir John----, uncle to the young Lord C., who is very earnest to bring on a treaty of marriage between her and his nephew, who is in love with her, and is a fine young gentleman; but has held back, on the liberties she has lately given herself with my brother. I hope she is innocent, as to fact; but I know not what to say to it. He ought to be hanged, if he did not say she was. Yet I have great opinion of his veracity: and yet he is so bold a wretch!--And her inconsideration is so great! But lest I should alarm your fears, I will wait till I have the account he gives you of this dark affair; till when, I congratulate you upon the leave you have obtained to quit the town, and on your setting out for a place so much nearer to Tunbridge. Forgive me, Pamela; but he is an intriguing wretch, and I would not have you to be too secure, lest the disappointment should be worse for you, than what you knew before: but assure yourself, that I am in all cases and events, _your affectionate sister and admirer_, B. DAVERS. LETTER LXXVII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ MY DEAREST LADY, Mr. B. came back from Bedfordshire to his time. Every thing being in readiness, we set out with my baby, and his nurse. Mrs. Jervis, when every thing in London is settled by her direction, goes to Bedfordshire. We were met by my father and mother in a chaise and pair, which your kind brother had presented to them unknown to me, that they might often take the air together, and go to church in it (which is at some distance) on Sundays. The driver is clothed in a good brown cloth suit, but no livery; for that my parents could not have borne, as Mr. B.'s goodness made him consider. Your ladyship must needs think, how we were all overjoyed at this meeting: for my own part I cannot express how much I was transported when we arrived at the farm-house, to see all I delighted in, upon one happy spot together. Mr. B. is much pleased with the alterations here: and it is a sweet, rural, and convenient place. We were welcomed into these parts by the bells, and by the minister, and people of most note; and were at church together on Sunday. Mr. B. is to set out on Tuesday for Tunbridge, with my papers. A happy issue, attend that affair, I pray God! He has given me the following particulars of it, to the time of my trial, beginning at the masquerade. He says, that at the masquerade, when, pleased with the fair Nun's shape, air and voice, he had followed her to a corner most unobserved, she said in Italian, "Why are my retirements invaded, audacious Spaniard?"--"Because, my dear Nun, I hope you would have it so." "I can no otherwise," returned she, "strike dead thy bold presumption, than to shew thee my scorn and anger thus!"--"And she unmasking surprised me," said Mr. B., "with a face as beautiful, but not so soft as my Pamela's."--"And I," said Mr. B., "to shew I can defy your resentment, will shew you a countenance as intrepid as yours is lovely." And so he drew aside his mask too. He says, he observed his fair Nun to be followed wherever she went, by a mask habited like Testimony in Sir Courtly Nice, whose attention was fixed upon her and him; and he doubted not, that it was Mr. Turner. So he and the fair Nun took different ways, and he joined me and Miss Darnford, and found me engaged as I before related to your ladyship, and his Nun at his elbow unexpected. That afterwards as he was engaged in French with a lady who had the dress of an Indian Princess, and the mask of an Ethiopian, his fair Nun said, in broken Spanish, "Art thou at all complexions?--By St. Ignatius, I believe thou'rt a rover!" "I am trying," replied he in Italian, "whether I can meet with any lady comparable to my lovely Nun." "And what is the result?"--"Not one: no not one."--"I wish you could not help being in earnest," said she; and slid from him. He engaged her next at the sideboard, drinking under her veil a glass of Champaign. "You know, Pamela," said he, "there never was a sweeter mouth in the world than the Countess's except your own." She drew away the glass, as if unobserved by any body, to shew me the lower part of her face. "I cannot say, but I was struck with her charming manner, and an unreservedness of air and behaviour, that I had not before seen so becoming. The place, and the freedom of conversation and deportment allowed there, gave her great advantages in my eye, although her habit required, as I thought, a little more gravity and circumspection: and I could not tell how to resist a secret pride and vanity, which is but too natural to both sexes, when they are taken notice of by persons so worthy of regard. "Naturally fond of every thing that carried the face of an intrigue, I longed to know who this charming Nun was. And next time I engaged her, 'My good sister,' said I, 'how happy should I be, if I might be admitted to a conversation with you at your grate!' "'Answer me,' said she, 'thou bold Spaniard,' (for that was a name she seemed fond of, which gave me to imagine, that boldness was a qualification she was not displeased with. 'Tis not unusual with our vain sex," observed he, "to construe even reproaches to our advantage,") 'is the lady here, whose shackles thou wearest?'--'Do I look like a man shackled, my fairest Nun?'--'No--no! not much like such an one. But I fancy thy wife is either a _Widow_ or a _Quaker_.'--'Neither,' replied I, taking, by equivocation, her question literally. "'And art thou not a married wretch? Answer me quickly!--We are observed.'--'No,' said I.--'Swear to me, thou art not.'--'By St. Ignatius, then;' for, my dear, I was no _wretch_, you know.--'Enough!' said she, and slid away; and the Fanatic would fain have engaged her, but she avoided him as industriously. "Before I was aware, she was at my elbow, and, in Italian, said, 'That fair Quaker, yonder, is the wit of the assemblée; her eyes seem always directed to thy motions; and her person shews some intimacies have passed with somebody; is it with thee?'--'It would be my glory if it was,' said I, 'were her face answerable to her person.'--'Is it not?'--'I long to know,'" replied Mr. B.--"I am glad thou dost not."--"I am glad to hear my fair Nun say that."--"Dost thou," said she, "hate shackles? Or is it, that thy hour is not yet come?" "I wish," replied he, "this be not the hour, the very hour!" pretending (naughty gentleman!--What ways these men have!) to sigh. She went again to the side-board, and put her handkerchief upon it. Mr. B. followed, and observed all her motions. She drank a glass of lemonade, as he of Burgundy; and a person in a domino, supposed to be the King, passing by, took up every one's attention but Mr. B.'s who eyed her handkerchief, not doubting but she laid it there on purpose to forget to take it up. Accordingly she left it there; and slipping by him, he, unobserved, as he believes, put it in his pocket, and at the corner found the cover of a letter--"To the Right Honourable the Countess Dowager of ----" That after this, the fair Nun was so shy, so reserved, and seemed so studiously to avoid him, that he had no opportunity to return her handkerchief; and the Fanatic observing how she shunned him, said, in French, "What, Monsieur, have you done to your Nun?" "I found her to be a very coquette; and told her so; and she is offended." "How could you affront a lady," replied he, "with such a _charming face?_ "By that I had reason to think," said Mr. B., "that he had seen her unmask; and I said, 'It becomes not any character, but that you wear, to pry into the secrets of others, in order to make ill-natured remarks, and perhaps to take ungentlemanlike advantages.'" "No man should make that observation," returned he, "whose views would bear prying into." "I was nettled," said Mr. B., "at this warm retort, and drew aside my mask: 'Nor would any man, who wore not a mask, tell me so!' "He took not the challenge, and slid from me, and I saw him no more that night." "So!" thought I, "another instance this might have been of the glorious consequences of masquerading." O my lady, these masquerades are abominable things! The King, they said, met with a free speaker that night: in truth, I was not very sorry for it; for if monarchs will lay aside their sovereign distinctions, and mingle thus in masquerade with the worst as well as the highest (I cannot say _best_) of their subjects, let 'em take the consequence. Perhaps they might have a chance to hear more truth here than in their palaces--the only good that possibly can accrue from them--that is to say, if they made a good use of it when they heard it. For you see, my monarch, though he told the truth, as it happened, received the hint with more resentment than thankfulness!--So, 'tis too likely did the monarch of us both. And now, my lady, you need not doubt, that so polite a gentleman would find an opportunity to return the Nun her handkerchief!--To be sure he would: for what man of honour would rob a lady of any part of her apparel? And should he, that wanted to steal a heart content himself with a handkerchief?--No no, that was not to be expected. So, what does he do, but resolve, the very next day, after dinner, to pursue this affair: accordingly, the poor Quaker little thinking of the matter, away goes her naughty Spaniard, to find out his Nun at her grate, or in her parlour rather. He asks for the Countess. Is admitted into the outward parlour--her woman comes down; requires his name and business. His name he mentioned not. His business was, to restore into her lady's own hands, something she had dropt the night before.--Was desired to wait. I should have said, that he was dressed very richly--having no design at all to make conquests; no, not he!--O this wicked love of intrigue!--A kind of olive-coloured velvet, and fine brocaded waistcoat. I said, when he took leave of me, "You're a charming Mr. B.," and saluted him, more pressingly than he returned it; but little did I think, when I plaited so smooth his rich laced ruffles, and bosom, where he was going, or what he had in his plotting heart. He went in his own chariot, that he did: so that he had no design to conceal who he was--But intrigue, a new conquest, vanity, pride!--O these men!--They had need talk of ladies!--But it is half our own fault, indeed it is, to encourage their vanity. Well, Madam, he waited till his stateliness was moved to send up again, that he would wait on her ladyship some other time. So down she came, dressed most richly, jewels in her breast, and in her hair, and ears--But with a very reserved and stately air. He approached her--Methinks I see him, dear saucy gentleman. You know, Madam, what a noble manner of address he has. He took the handkerchief from his bosom with an air; and kissing it, presented it to her, saying, "This happy estray, thus restored, begs leave, by me, to acknowledge its lovely owner!" "What mean you, Sir?--Who are you, Sir?--What mean you?" "Your ladyship will excuse me: but I am incapable of meaning any thing but what is honourable."--(_No, to be sure_)--"This, Madam, you left last night, when the domino took up every one's attention but mine, which was much better engaged; and I take the liberty to restore it to you." She turned to the mark; a coronet at one corner, "'Tis true, Sir, I see now it is one of mine: but such a trifle was not worthy of being brought by such a gentleman as you seem to be; nor of my trouble to receive it in person. Your servant, Sir, might have delivered the bagatelle to mine."--"Nothing should be called so that belongs to the Countess of ----"--"She was no Countess, Sir, that _dropt_ that handkerchief, and a gentleman would not attempt to penetrate, _unbecomingly_, through the disguises a lady thinks proper to assume; especially at such a place where every enquiry should begin and end." This, Madam, from a lady, who had unmasked--because _she would not be known_!--Very pretty, indeed!--Oh! these slight cobweb airs of modesty! so easily seen through. Hence such advantages against us are taken by the men. She had looked out of her window, and seen no arms quartered with his own; for you know, my lady, I would never permit any to be procured for me: so, she doubted not, it seems, but he was an unmarried gentleman, as he had intimated to her the night before. He told her it was impossible, after having seen the finest lady in the world, not to wish to see her again; and that he hoped he did not, _unbecomingly_, break through her ladyship's reserves: nor had he made any enquiries, either on the spot, or off it; having had a much better direction by accident. "As how, Sir?" said she, as he told me, with so bewitching an air, between attentive and pleasant, that, bold gentleman, forgetting all manner of distance, so early too! he clasped his arms around her waist, and saluted her, struggling with anger and indignation, he says; but I think little of that! "Whence this insolence? How, now, Sir! Begone!" were her words, and she rung the bell; but he set his back against the door--(I never heard such boldness in my life, Madam!)--till she would forgive him. And, it is plain, she was not so angry as she pretended: for her woman coming, she was calmer;--"Nelthorpe," said she, "fetch my snuff box, with the lavender in it." Her woman went; and then she said, "You told me, Sir, last night, of your intrepidness: I think you are the boldest man I ever met with: but, Sir, surely you ought to know, that you are not now in the Haymarket." I think, truly, Madam, the lady might have saved herself that speech: for, upon my word, they neither of them wore masks--Though they ought to have put on one of blushes--I am sure I do for them, while I am writing. Her irresistible loveliness served for an excuse, that she could not disapprove from a man she disliked not: and his irresistible--may I say, assurance, Madam?--found too ready an excuse. "Well, but, Sir," said I, "pray, when her ladyship was made acquainted that you were a married gentleman, how then?--Pray, did _she_ find it out, or did _you_ tell her?"--"Patience, my dear!"--"Well pray, Sir, go on.--What was next?" "Why, next, I put on a more respectful and tender air: I would have taken her hand indeed, but she would not permit it; and when she saw I would not go till her lavender snuff came down (for so I told her, and her woman was not in haste), she seated herself, and I sat by her, and began to talk about a charming lady I saw the night before, after parting with her ladyship, but not equal by any means to her: and I was confident this would engage her attention; for I never knew the lady who thought herself handsome, that was not taken by this topic. Flattery and admiration, Pamela, are the two principal engines by which our sex make their first approaches to yours; and if you listen to us, we are sure, either by the sap or the mine, to succeed, and blow you up when ever we please, if we do but take care to suit ourselves to your particular foibles; or, to carry on the metaphor, point our batteries to your weak side--for the strongest fortresses, my dear, are weaker in one place than another."--"A fine thing, Sir," said I, "to be so learned a gentleman!"--"I wish, however," thought I, "you had always come honestly by your knowledge." "When the lavender snuff came down, we were engaged in an agreeable disputation, which I had raised on purpose to excite her opposition, she having all the advantage in it; and in order to my giving it up, when she was intent upon it, as a mark of my consideration for her." "I the less wonder, Sir," said I, "at your boldness (pardon the word!) with such a lady, in your first visit, because of her freedoms, when masked, her unmasking, and her handkerchief, and letter cover. To be sure, the lady, when she saw, next day, such a fine gentleman and handsome equipage, had little reason, after her other freedoms, to be so very nice with you as to decline an ensnaring conversation, calculated on purpose to engage her attention, and to lengthen out your visit. But did she not ask you who you were?" "Her servants did of mine. And her woman (for I knew all afterwards, when we were better acquainted), whispered her lady, that I was Mr. B. of Bedfordshire; and had an immense estate, to which they were so kind as to add two or three thousand pounds a year, out of pure good will to me: I thank them." "But pray, dear Sir, what had you in view in all this? Did you intend to carry this matter, at first, as far as ever you could?"--"I had, at first, my dear, no view, but such as pride and vanity suggested to me. I was carried away by inconsideration, and the love of intrigue, without even thinking about the consequences. The lady, I observed, had abundance of fine qualities. I thought I could converse with her, on a very agreeable foot, and her honour I knew, at any time, would preserve me mine, if ever I should find it in danger; and, in my soul, I preferred my Pamela to all the ladies on earth, and questioned not, but that, and your virtue, would be another barrier to my fidelity. "In a word, therefore, pride, vanity, thoughtlessness, were my misguiders, as I said. The Countess's honour and character, and your virtue and merit, my dear, and my obligations to you, were my defences: but I find one should avoid the first appearances of evil. One knows not one's own strength. 'Tis presumptuous to depend upon it, where wit and beauty are in the way on one side, and youth and strong passions on the other." "You certainly, Sir, say right. But be pleased to tell me what her ladyship said when she knew you were married."--"The Countess's woman was in my interest, and let me into some of her lady's secrets, having a great share in her confidence; and particularly acquainted me, how loth her lady was to believe I was married. I had paid her three visits in town, and one to her seat upon the Forest, before she heard that I was. But when she was assured of it, and directed her Nelthorpe to ask me about it, and I readily owned it, she was greatly incensed, though nothing but general civilities, and intimacies not inconsistent with honourable friendship, had passed between us. The consequence was, she forbad my ever seeing her again, and set out with her sister and the Viscount for Tunbridge, where she staid about three weeks. "I thought I had already gone too far, and blamed myself for permitting her so long to believe me single; and here the matter had dropped, in all probability, had not a ball, given by my Lord ----, to which, unknown to each other, we were both, as also the Viscountess, invited, brought us again together. The lady soon withdrew, with her sister, to another apartment; and being resolved upon personal recrimination (which is what a lady, who is resolved to break with a favoured object, should never trust herself with,) sent for me, and reproached me on my conduct, in which her sister joined. "I owned frankly, that gaiety, rather than design, made me give cause, at the masquerade, for her ladyship to think I was not married; for that I had a wife, with a thousand excellencies, who was my pride, and my boast: that I held it very possible for a gentleman and lady to carry on an innocent and honourable friendship, in a _family_ way; and I was sure, when she and her sister saw my spouse, they would not be displeased with her acquaintance; all that I had to reproach myself with, was, that after having, at the masquerade, given reason to think I was not married, I had been both, _officiously_, to say I was, although I never intended to conceal it. In short, I acquitted myself so well with both ladies, that a family intimacy was consented to. I renewed my visits; and we accounted to one another's honour, by entering upon a kind of Platonic system, in which sex was to have no manner of concern. "But, my dear Pamela, I must own myself extremely blameable, because I knew the world and human nature, I will say, better than the lady, who never before had been trusted into it upon her own feet: and who, notwithstanding that wit and vivacity which every one admires in her, gave herself little time for consideration. I ought, therefore, to have more carefully guarded against inconveniencies, which I knew were so likely to arise from such intimacies; and the rather, as I hinted, because the lady had no apprehension at all of any: so that, my dear, if I have no excuse from human frailty, from youth, and the charms of the object, I am entirely destitute of any." "I see, Mr. B.," said I, "there is a great deal to be said for the lady. I wish I could say there was for the gentleman. But such a fine lady had been safe, with all her inconsideration; and so (forgive me. Sir,) would the gentleman, with all his intriguing spirit, had it not been for these vile masquerades. Never, dear Sir, think of going to another."--"Why, my dear, those are least of all to be trusted at these diversions, who are most desirous to go to them.--Of this I am now fully convinced."--"Well, Sir, I long to hear more particulars of this story: for this generous openness, now the affair is over, cannot but be grateful to me, as it shews me you have no reserve, and tends to convince me, that the lady was less blameable than I apprehended: for I love, for the honour of my sex, to find ladies of birth and quality innocent, who have so many opportunities of knowing and practising their duties, above what meaner persons can have." "Well observed, my dear: this is like your generous and deep way of thinking." "But, dear Sir, proceed--Your reconciliation is now effected; a friendship quadripartite is commenced. And the Viscountess and I are to find cement for the erecting of an edifice, that is to be devoted to Platonic love. What, may I ask, came next? And what did you design should come of it?" "The Oxford journey, my dear, followed next; and it was my fault you were not a party in it, both ladies being very desirous of your company: but it was the time you were not going abroad, after your lying-in, so I excused you to them. Yet they both longed to see you: especially as by this time, you may believe, they knew all your story: and besides, whenever you were mentioned, I did justice, as well to your mind, as to your person." "Well, Sir, to be sure this was very kind; and little was I disposed (knowing what I did,) to pass so favourable a construction in your generosity to me." "My question to her ladyship at going away, whether you were not the charmingest girl in the world, which seeing you both together, rich as she was drest, and plain as you, gave me the double pleasure (a pleasure she said afterwards I exulted in,) of deciding in your favour; my readiness to explain to you what we both said, and her not ungenerous answer, I thought entitled me to a better return than a flood of tears; which confirmed me that your past uneasiness was a jealousy I was not willing to allow in you: though I should have been more indulgent to it had I known the grounds you thought you had for it: and for this reason I left you so abruptly as I did." Here, Madam, Mr. B. broke off, referring to another time the conclusion of his narrative. I will here close this letter (though possibly I may not send it, till I send the conclusion of this story in my next,) with the assurance that I am _your ladyship's obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXVIII My dear lady, Now I will proceed with my former subject: and with the greater pleasure, as what follows makes still more in favour of the Countess's character, than what went before, although that set it in a better light than it had once appeared to me in. I began as follows: "Will you be pleased, Sir, to favour me with the continuation of our last subject?"--"I will, my dear."--"You left off, Sir, with acquitting me for breaking out into that flood of tears, which occasioned your abrupt departure. But, dear Sir, will you be pleased, to satisfy me about that affecting information, of your intention and my lady's to live at Tunbridge together?" "'Tis absolute malice and falsehood. Our intimacy had not proceeded so far; and, thoughtless as my sister's letters suppose the lady, she would have spurned at such a proposal, I dare say." "Well, but then, Sir, as to the expression to her uncle, that she had rather have been a certain gentleman's second wife?" "I believe she might, in a passion, say something like it to him: he had been teazing her (from the time that I held an argument in favour of that foolish topic _polygamy_, in his company and his niece's, and in that of her sister and the Viscount,) with cautions against conversing with a man, who, having, as he was pleased to say behind my back, married beneath him, wanted to engage the affections of a lady of birth, in order to recover, by doubling that fault upon her, his lost reputation. "She despised his insinuation enough to answer him, that she thought my arguments in behalf of _polygamy_ were convincing. This set him a raving, and he threw some coarse reflections upon her, which could not be repeated, if one may guess at them, by her being unable to tell me them; and then to vex him more, and to revenge herself, she said something like what was reported: which was handle enough for her uncle; who took care to propagate it with an indiscretion peculiar to himself; for I heard it in three different companies, before I knew any thing of it from herself; and when I did, it was so repeated, as you, my dear, would hardly have censured her for it, the provocation considered." "Well, but then, dear Sir, there is nothing at all amiss, at this rate, in the correspondence between my lady and you?" "Not on her side, I dare say, if her ladyship can be excused to punctilio, and for having a greater esteem for a married man, than he can deserve, or than may be strictly defended to a person of your purity and niceness." "Well, Sir, this is very noble in you. I love to hear the gentlemen generous in points where the honour of our sex is concerned. But pray. Sir, what then was there on _your_ side, in that matter, that made you give me so patient and so kind a hearing?" "Now, my dear, you come to the point: at first it was nothing in me but vanity, pride, and love of intrigue, to try my strength, where I had met with some encouragement, as I thought, at the masquerade; where the lady went farther, too, than she would have done, had she not thought I was a single man. For, by what I have told you, Pamela, you will observe, that she tried to satisfy herself on that head, as soon as she well could. Mrs. Nelthorpe acquainted me afterwards, when better known to each other, that her lady was so partial in my favour, (who can always govern their fancies, my dear?) as to think, so early as at the masquerade, that if every thing answered appearances, and that I were a single man, she, who has a noble and independent fortune, might possibly be induced to make me happy in her choice. "Supposing, then, that I was unmarried, she left a signal for me in her handkerchief. I visited her; had the honour, after the customary first shyness, of being well received; and continued my visits, till, perhaps, she would have been glad I had not been married, but on finding I was, she avoided me, as I have told you, till the accident I mentioned threw us again upon each other: which renewed our intimacy upon terms you would think too inconsiderable on one side, and too designing on the other. "For myself, what can I say? only that you gave me great disgusts (without cause, as I thought,) by your unwonted reception of me, ever in tears and grief; the Countess ever cheerful and lively; and fearing that your temper was entirely changing, I believe I had no bad excuse to try to make myself easy and cheerful abroad, since my home became more irksome to me than ever I believed it could be. Then, as we naturally love those who love us, I had vanity, and some reason for my vanity (indeed all vain men believe they have,) to think the Countess had more than an indifference for me. She was so exasperated by the wrong methods taken with an independent lady of her generous spirit, to break off our acquaintance, that, in revenge, she denied me less than ever opportunities of her company. The pleasure we took in each other's conversation was reciprocal. The world's reports had united us in one common cause: and you, as I said, had made home less delightful to me than it used to be: what might not then have been apprehended from so many circumstances concurring with the lady's beauty and my frailty? "I waited on her to Tunbridge. She took a house there. Where people's tongues will take so much liberty, without any foundation, and where the utmost circumspection is used, what will they not say, where so little of the latter is observed? No wonder, then, that terms were said to be agreed upon between us: from her uncle's story, of polygamy proposed by me, and seemingly agreed to by her, no wonder that all your Thomasine Fuller's information was surmised. Thus stood the matter, when I was determined to give your cause for uneasiness a hearing, and to take my measures according to what should result from that hearing." "From this account, dear Sir," said I, "it will not be so difficult, as I feared, to end this affair even to her _ladyship's_ satisfaction."--"I hope not, my dear."--"But if, now, Sir, the Countess should still be desirous not to break with you; from so charming a lady, who knows what may happen!" "Very true, Pamela; but to make you still easier, I will tell you that her ladyship has a first cousin married to a person going with a public character to several of the Italian courts, and, had it not been for my persuasions, she would have accepted of their earnest invitations, and passed a year or two in Italy, where she once resided for three years together, which makes her so perfect a mistress of Italian. "Now I will let her know, additionally to what I have written to her, the uneasiness I have given you, and, so far as it is proper, what is come to your ears, and your generous account of her, and the charms of her person, of which she will not be a little proud; for she has really noble and generous sentiments, and thinks well (though her sister, in pleasantry, will have it a little enviously,) of you; and when I shall endeavour to persuade her to go, for the sake of her own character, to a place and country of which she was always fond, I am apt to think she will come into it; for she has a greater opinion of my judgment than it deserves: and I know a young lord, who may be easily persuaded to follow her thither, and bring her back his lady, if he can obtain her consent: and what say you, Pamela, to this?" "O, Sir! I believe I shall begin to love the lady dearly, and that is what I never thought I should. I hope this will be brought about. "But I see, give me leave to say, Sir, how dangerously you might both have gone on, under the notion of this Platonic love, till two precious souls had been lost: and this shews one, as well in spirituals as temporals, from what slight beginnings the greatest mischiefs sometimes spring; and how easily at first a breach may be stopped, that, when neglected, the waves of passion will widen till they bear down all before them." "Your observation, my dear, is just," replied Mr. B., "and though, I am confident the lady was more in earnest than myself in the notion of Platonic love, yet I am convinced, and always was, that Platonic love is Platonic nonsense: 'tis the fly buzzing about the blaze, till its wings are scorched; or, to speak still stronger, it is a bait of the devil to catch the unexperienced, and thoughtless: nor ought such notions to be pretended to, till the parties are five or ten years on the other side of their grand climateric: for age, old age, and nothing else, must establish the barriers to Platonic love. But this was my comparative consolation, though a very bad one, that had I swerved, I should not have given the only instance, where persons more scrupulous than I pretended to be, have begun friendships even with spiritual views, and ended them as grossly as I could have done, were the lady to have been as frail as her tempter." Here Mr. B. finished his narrative. He is now set out for Tunbridge with all my papers. I have no doubt in his honour and kind assurances, and hope my next will be a joyful letter; and that I shall inform you in it, that the affair which went so near my heart, is absolutely concluded to my satisfaction, to Mr. B.'s and the Countess's; for if it be so to all three, my happiness, I doubt not, will be founded on a permanent basis. Meantime I am, my dear good lady, _your most affectionate, and obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXIX A new misfortune, my dear lady!--But this is of God Almighty's sending; so I must bear it patiently. My dear baby is taken with the small-pox!--To how many troubles are the happiest of us subjected in this life! One need not multiply them by one's own wilful mismanagements!--I am able to mind nothing else! I had so much joy (as I told your ladyship in the beginning of my last letter but one) to see, on our arrival at the farm-house, my dearest Mr. B., my beloved baby, and my good parents, all upon one happy spot, that I fear I was too proud--Yet I was truly thankful, I am sure!--But I had, notwithstanding too much pride, and too much pleasure, on this happy occasion. I said, in my last, that your dear brother set out on Tuesday morning for Tunbridge with my papers; and I longed to know the result, hoping that every thing would be concluded to the satisfaction of all three: "For," thought I, "if this be so, my happiness must be permanent:" but alas! there is nothing permanent in this life. I feel it by experience now!--I knew it before by theory: but that was not so near and interesting by half. For, with all my pleasures and hopes; in the midst of my dear parents' joy and congratulations on our arrival, and on what had passed so happily since we were last here together, (in the birth of the dear child, and my safety, for which they had been so apprehensive,) the poor baby was taken ill. It was on that very Tuesday his papa set out for Tunbridge; but we knew not it would be the small-pox till Thursday. O Madam! how are all the pleasures I had formed to myself sickened now upon me! for my Billy is very bad. They talk of a kind sort: but alas: they talk at random: for they come not out at all!--I fear the nurse's constitution is too hale and too rich for the dear baby!--Had _I_ been permitted--But hush, all my repining _ifs!_--except one _if_; and that is, _if_ it be got happily over, it will be best he had it so young, and while at the breast!-- Oh! Madam, Madam! the small appearance that there was is gone in again: and my child, my dear baby, will die! The doctors seem to think so. They wanted to send for Mr. B. to keep me from him!--But I forbid it!--For what signifies life, or any thing, if I cannot see my baby, while he is so dangerously ill! My father and mother are, for the first time, quite cruel to me; they have forbid me, and I never was so desirous of disobeying them before, to attend the darling of my heart: and why?--For fear of this poor face!--For fear I should get it myself!--But I am living very low, and have taken proper precautions by bleeding, and the like, to lessen the distemper's fury, if I should have it; and the rest I leave to Providence. And if Mr. B.'s value is confined so much to this poor transitory sightliness, he must not break with his Countess, I think; and if I am ever so deformed in person, my poor intellects, I hope will not be impaired, and I shall, if God spare my Billy, be useful in his first education, and be helpful to dear Miss Goodwin--or to any babies--with all my heart--he may make me an humble nurse too!--How peevish, sinfully so, I doubt, does this accident, and their affectionate contradiction, make one! I have this moment received the following from Mr. B. _Maidstone_. "My dearest love, "I am greatly touched with the dear boy's malady, of which I have this moment heard. I desire you instantly to come to me hither, in the chariot with the bearer, Colbrand. I know what your grief must be: but as you can do the child no good, I beg you'll oblige me. Everything is in a happy train; but I can think only of you, and (for your sake principally, but not a little for _my own_) my boy. I will set out to meet you; for I choose not to come myself, lest you should try to persuade me to permit your tarrying about him; and I should be sorry to deny you any thing. I have taken handsome apartments for you, till the event, which I pray God may be happy, shall better determinate me what to do. I will be ever _your affectionate and faithful_." Maidstone indeed is not so very far off, but one may hear every day, once or twice, by a man and horse; so I will go, to shew my obedience, since Mr. B. is so intent upon it--But I cannot live, if I am not permitted to come back--Oh! let me be enabled, gracious Father! to close this letter more happily than I have begun it! I have been so dreadfully uneasy at Maidstone, that Mr. B. has been so good as to return with me hither; and I find my baby's case not yet quite desperate--I am easier now I see him, in presence of his beloved papa who lets me have all my way, and approves of my preparative method for myself; and he tells me that since I will have it so, he will indulge me in my attendance on the child, and endeavour to imitate my reliance on God--that is his kind expression--and leave the issue to him. And on my telling him, that I feared nothing in the distemper, but the loss of his love, he said, in presence of the doctors, and my father and mother, pressing my hand to his lips--"My dearest life, make yourself easy under this affliction, and apprehend nothing for yourself: I love you more, for your mind than for your face. That and your person will be the same; and were that sweet face to be covered with seams and scars, I will value you the more for the misfortune: and glad I am, that I had your picture so well drawn in town, to satisfy those who have heard of your loveliness, what you were, and hitherto are. For myself, my admiration lies deeper;" and, drawing me to the other end of the room, whisperingly he said, "The last uneasiness between us, I now begin to think, was necessary, because it has turned all my delight in you, more than ever, to the perfections of your mind: and so God preserves to me the life of my Pamela, I care not for my own part, what ravages the distemper makes here," and tapped my cheek.--How generous, how noble, how comforting was this! When I went from my apartment, to go to my child, my dear Mr. B. met me at the nursery door, and led me back again. "You must not go in again, my dearest. They have just been giving the child other things to try to drive out the malady; and some pustules seem to promise on his breast." I made no doubt, my baby was then in extremity; and I would have given the world to have shed a few tears, but I could not. With the most soothing goodness he led me to my desk, and withdrew to attend the dear baby himself--to see his last gaspings, poor little lamb, I make no doubt! In this suspense, my own strange hardness of heart would not give up one tear, for the passage from _that_ to my _eyes_ seemed quite choaked up, which used to be so open and ready on other occasions, affecting ones too. Two days have passed, dreadful days of suspense: and now, blessed be God! who has given me hope that our prayers are heard, the pustules come kindly out, very thick in his breast, and on his face: but of a good sort, they tell me.--They won't let me see him; indeed they won't!--What cruel kindness is this! One must believe all they tell one! But, my dear lady, my spirits are so weak; I have such a violent headache, and have such a strange shivering disorder all running down my back, and I was so hot just now, and am so cold at this present--aguishly inclined--I don't know how! that I must leave off, the post going away, with the assurance, that I am, and will be, to the last hour of my life, _your ladyship's grateful and obliged sister and servant_, P.B. LETTER LXXX _From Mr. B. to Lady Davers._ MY DEAR SISTER, I take very kindly your solicitude for the health of my beloved Pamela. The last line she wrote was to you, for she took to her bed the moment she laid down her pen. I told her your kind message, and wishes for her safety, by my lord's gentleman; and she begged I would write a line to thank you in her name for your affectionate regards to her. She is in a fine way to do well: for with her accustomed prudence, she had begun to prepare herself by a proper regimen, the moment she knew the child's illness was the small-pox. The worst is over with the boy, which keeps up her spirits; and her mother is so excellent a nurse to both, and we are so happy likewise in the care of a skilful physician, Dr. M. (who directs and approves of every thing the good dame does,) that it is a singular providence this malady seized them here; and affords no small comfort to the dear creature herself. When I tell you, that, to all appearance, her charming face will not receive any disfigurement by this cruel enemy to beauty, I am sure you will congratulate me upon a felicity so desirable: but were it to be otherwise, if I were capable of slighting a person, whose principal beauties are much deeper than the skin, I should deserve to be thought the most unworthy and superficial of husbands. Whatever your notions have been, my ever-ready censuring Lady Davers, of your brother, on a certain affair, I do assure you, that I never did, and never can, love any woman as I love my Pamela. It is indeed impossible I can ever love her better than I do; and her outward beauties are far from being indifferent to me; yet, if I know myself, I am sure I have justice enough to love her _equally_, and generosity enough to be _more tender_ of her, were she to suffer by this distemper. But, as her humility, and her affection to me, would induce her to think herself under greater obligation to me, for such my tenderness to her, were she to lose any the _least_ valuable of her perfections, I rejoice that she will have no reason for mortification on that score. My respects to Lord Davers, and your noble neighbours. I am, _your affectionate brother, and humble servant_. LETTER LXXXI _From Lady Davers, in answer to the preceding_. MY DEAR BROTHER, I do most heartily congratulate you on the recovery of Master Billy, and the good way my sister is in. I am the more rejoiced, as her sweet face is not like to suffer by the malady; for, be the beauties of the mind what they will, those of the person are no small recommendation, with some folks, I am sure; and I began to be afraid, that when it was hardly possible for _both conjoined_ to keep a roving mind constant, that _one only_ would not be sufficient. This news gives me more pleasure, because I am well informed, that a certain gay lady was pleased to give herself airs upon learning of my sister's illness, as, That she would not be sorry for it; for now she should look upon herself as the prettiest woman in England.--She meant only, I suppose, as to _outward_ prettiness, brother! You give me the name of a _ready censurer_. I own, I think myself to be not a little interested in all that regards my brother, and his honour. But when some people are not readier to _censure_, than others to _trespass_, I know not whether they can with justice be styled censorious. But however that be, the rod seems to have been held up, as a warning--and that the blow, in the irreparable deprivation, is not given, is a mercy, which I hope will be deserved; though you never can those very signal ones you receive at the Divine hands, beyond any man I know. For even (if I shall not be deemed censorious again) your very vices have been turned to your felicity, as if God would try the nobleness of the heart he has given you, by overcoming you (in answer to my sister's constant prayers, as well as mine) by mercies rather than by judgments. I might give instances of the truth of this observation, in almost all the actions and attempts of your past life; and take care (if you _are_ displeased, I _will_ speak it), take care, thou bold wretch, that if this method be ungratefully slighted, the uplifted arm fall not down with double weight on thy devoted head! I must always love and honour my brother, but cannot help speaking my mind: which, after all, is the natural result of that very love and honour, and which obliges me to style myself _your truly affectionate sister_, B. Davers. LETTER LXXXII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers_. MY DEAREST LADY, My first letter, and my first devoirs, after those of thankfulness to that gracious God, who has so happily conducted me through two such heavy trials, as my child's and my own illness, must be directed to you, with all due acknowledgment of your generous and affectionate concern for me. We are now preparing for our journey to Bedfordshire; and there, to my great satisfaction, I am to be favoured with the care of Miss Goodwin. After tarrying about a month there, Mr. B. will make a tour with me through several counties (taking the Hall in the way) for about a fortnight, and shew me what is remarkable, every where as we pass; for this, he thinks, will better contribute to my health, than any other method. The distemper has left upon me a kind of weariness and listlessness; and he proposes to be out with me till the Bath season begins; and by the aid of those healing and balsamic waters, he hopes, I shall be quite established. Afterwards to return to Bedfordshire for a little while; then to London; and then to Kent; and, if nothing hinders, has a great mind to carry me over to Paris. Thus most kindly does he amuse and divert me with his agreeable proposals. But I have made one amendment to them; and that is, that I must not be denied to pay my respects to your ladyship, at your seat, and to my good Lady Countess in the same neighbourhood, and this will be far from being the least of my pleasures. I have had congratulations without number upon my recovery; but one, among the rest, I did not expect; from the Countess Dowager (could you think it, Madam?) who sent me by her gentleman the following letter from Tunbridge. "MADAM, "I hope, among the congratulations of your numerous admirers, on your happy recovery, my very sincere ones will not be unacceptable. I have no other motive for making you my compliments on this occasion, on so slender an acquaintance, than the pleasure it gives me, that the public, as well as your private friends, have not been deprived of a lady whose example, in every duty of life, is of so much concern to both.--May you, Madam, long rejoice in an uninterrupted state of happiness, answerable to your merits, and to your own wishes, are those of _your most obedient humble servant_." To this kind letter I returned the following: "MADAM, "I am under the highest obligation to your generous favour, in your kind compliments of congratulation on my recovery. There is something so noble and so condescending in the honour you have done me, on so slender an acquaintance, that it bespeaks the exalted mind and character of a lady, who, in the principles of generosity, and in true nobleness of nature, has no example. May God Almighty bless you, my dear lady, with all the good you wish me, and with increase of honour and glory, both here and hereafter, prays, and will always pray, _your ladyship's most obliged and obedient servant_, P.B." This leads me to mention, what my illness would not permit me to do before, that Mr. B. met with such a reception and audience from the Countess, when he attended her, in all he had to offer and propose to her, and in her patient hearing of what he thought fit to read her, from your ladyship's letters and mine, that he said, "Don't be jealous, my dear Pamela; but I must admire her as long as I live." He gave me the particulars, so much to her ladyship's honour, that I told him, he should not only be welcome to admire her ladyship, but that I would admire her too. They parted very good friends, and with great professions of esteem for each other.--And as Mr. B. had undertaken to inspect into some exceptionable accounts and managements of her ladyship's bailiff, one of her servants brought a letter for him on Monday last, wholly written on that subject. But she was so considerate, as to send it unsealed, in a cover directed to me. When I opened it, I was frightened to see it begin to Mr. B. and I hastened to find him--"Dear Sir--Here's some mistake--You see the direction is to Mrs. B.--'Tis very plain--But, upon my word, I have not read it."--"Don't be uneasy, my love.--I know what the subject must be; but I dare swear there is nothing, nor will there ever be, but what you or any body may see." He read it, and giving it to me, said, "Answer yourself the postscript, my dear." That was--"If, Sir, the trouble I give you, is likely to subject you or your lady to uneasiness or apprehensions, I beg you will not be concerned in it. I will then set about the matter myself; for my uncle I will not trouble; yet women enter into these particulars with as little advantage to themselves as inclination." I told him, I was entirely easy and unapprehensive; and, after all his goodness to me, should be so, if he saw the Countess every day. "That's kindly said, my dear; but I will not trust myself to see her every day, or at all, for the present. But I shall be obliged to correspond with her for a month or so, on this occasion; unless you prohibit it; and it shall be in your power to do so." I said, with my whole heart, he might; and I should be quite easy in both their honours. "Yet I will not," said he, "unless you see our letters: for I know she will always, now she has begun, send in a cover to you, what she will write to me, unsealed; and whether I am at home or abroad, I shall take it unkindly, if you do not read them." He went in, and wrote an answer, which he sent by the messenger; but would make me, whether I would or not, read it, and seal it up with his seal. But all this needed not to me now, who think so much better of the lady than I did before; and am so well satisfied in his own honour and generous affection for me; for you saw, Madam, in what I wrote before, that he always loved me, though he was angry at times, at my change of temper, as he feared, not knowing that I was apprised of what had passed between him and the Countess. I really am better pleased with his correspondence, than I should have been, had it not been carried on; because the servants, on both sides, will see, by my deportment on the occasion (and I will officiously, with a smiling countenance, throw myself in their observation), that it is quite innocent; and this may help to silence the mouths of those who have so freely censured their conduct. Indeed, Madam, I think I have received no small good myself by that affair, which once lay so heavy upon me: for I don't believe I shall be ever jealous again; indeed I don't think I shall. And won't that be an ugly foible overcome? I see what may be done, in cases not favourable to our wishes, by the aid of proper reflection; and that the bee is not the only creature that may make honey out of the bitter flowers as well as the sweet. My most grateful respects and thanks to my good Lord Davers; to the Earl, and his excellent Countess; and most particularly to Lady Betty (with whose kind compliments your ladyship acquaints me), and to Mr. H. for all your united congratulations on my recovery. What obligations do I lie under to such noble and generous well-wishers!--I can make no return but by my prayers, that God, by his goodness, will supply all my defects. And these will always attend you, from, my dearest lady, _your ever obliged sister, and humble servant_, P.B. Mr. H. is just arrived. He says, he comes a special messenger, to make a report how my face has come off. He makes me many compliments upon it. How kind your ladyship is, to enter so favourably into the minutest concerns, which you think, may any way affect my future happiness in your dear brother's opinion!--I want to pour out all my joy and my thankfulness to God, before you, and the good Countess of C----! For I am a happy, yea, a blessed creature! Mr. B.'s boy, your ladyship's boy, and my boy, is charmingly well; quite strong, and very forward, for his months; and his papa is delighted with him more and more. LETTER LXXXIII MY DEAR MISS DARNFORD, I hope you are happy and well. You kindly say you can't be so, till you hear of my perfect recovery. And this, blessed be God! you have heard already from Mr. B. As to your intimation of the fair Nun, 'tis all happily over. Blessed be God for that too! And I have a better and more endearing husband than ever. Did you think that could be? My Billy too improves daily, and my dear parents seem to have their youth renewed like the eagle's. How many blessings have I to be thankful for! We are about to turn travellers, to the northern counties. I think quite to the borders: and afterwards to the western, to Bath, Bristol, and I know not whither myself: but among the rest, to Lincolnshire, that you may be sure of. Then how happy shall I be in my dear Miss Darnford! I long to hear whether poor Mrs. Jewkes is better or worse for the advice of the doctor, whom I ordered to attend her from Stamford, and in what frame her mind is. Do vouchsafe her a visit in my name; tell her, if she be low spirited, what God hath done for me, as to _my_ recovery, and comfort her all you can; and bid her spare neither expence nor attendance, nor any thing her heart can wish for; nor the company of any relations or friends she may desire to be with her. If she is in her _last stage_, poor soul! how noble will it be in you to give her comfort and consolation in her dying hours! Although we can merit nothing at the hand of God, yet I have a notion, that we cannot deserve more of one another, and in some sense, for that reason, of him, than in our charities on so trying an exigence! When the poor soul stands shivering, as it were, on the verge of death, and has nothing strong, but its fears and doubts; then a little balm poured into the wounds of the mind, a little comforting advice to rely on God's mercies, from a good person, how consolatory must it be! And how, like morning mists before the sun, must all diffidences and gloomy doubts, be chased away by it! But, my dear, the great occasion of my writing to you just now, is by Lady Davers's desire, on a quite different subject. She knows how we love one another. And she has sent me the following lines by her kinsman, who came to Kent, purposely to enquire how my face fared in the small-pox; and accompanied us hither, [_i.e._ to Bedfordshire,] and sets out to-morrow for Lord Davers's. "MY DEAR PAMELA, "Jackey will tell you the reason of his journey, my curiosity on your own account; and I send this letter by him, but he knows not the contents. My good Lord Davers wants to have his nephew married, and settled in the world: and his noble father leaves the whole matter to my lord, as to the person, settlements, &c. Now I, as well as he, think so highly of the prudence, the person, and family of your Miss Darnford, that we shall be obliged to you, to sound the young lady on this score. "I know Mr. H. would wish for no greater happiness. But if she is engaged, or cannot love my nephew, I don't care, nor would my lord, that such a proposal should be received with undue slight. His birth, and the title and estate he is heir to, are advantages that require a lady's consideration. He has not so much wit as Miss, but enough for a lord, whose friends are born before him, as the phrase is; is very good-humoured, no tool, no sot, no debauchee: and, let me tell you, this is not to be met with every day in a young man of quality. "As to settlements, fortunes, &c. I fancy there would be no great difficulties. The business is, if Miss Darnford could love him well enough for a husband? _That_ we leave you to sound the young lady; and if she thinks she can, we will directly begin a treaty with Sir Simon. I am, my dearest Pamela, _your ever affectionate sister_, B. Davers." Now, my dear friend, as my lady has so well stated the case, I beg you to enable me to return an answer. I will not say one word _pro_ or _con_. till I know your mind--Only, that I think he is good-humoured and might be easily persuaded to any thing a lady should think reasonable. I must tell you another piece of news in the matrimonial way. Mr. Williams has been here to congratulate us on our multiplied blessings; and he acquainted Mr. B. that an overture has been made him by his new patron, of a kinswoman of his lordship's, a person of virtue and merit, and a fortune of three thousand pounds, to make him amends, as the earl tell him, for quitting a better living to oblige him; and that he is in great hope of obtaining the lady's consent, which is all that is wanting. Mr. B. is much pleased with so good a prospect in Mr. Williams's favour, and was in the lady's company formerly at a ball, at Gloucester; he says, she is prudent and deserving; and offers to make a journey on purpose to forward it, if he can be of service to him. I suppose you know that all is adjusted, according to the scheme I formerly acquainted you with, between Mr. Adams and that gentleman; and both are settled in their respective livings. But I ought to have told you, that Mr. Williams, upon mature deliberation, declined the stipulated eighty pounds _per annum_ from Mr. Adams, as he thought it would have a simoniacal appearance. But now my hand's in, let me tell you of a third matrimonial proposition, which gives me more puzzle and dislike a great deal. And that is, Mr. Adams has, with great reluctance, and after abundance of bashful apologies, asked me, if I have any objection to his making his addresses to Polly Barlow? which, however, he told me, he had not mentioned to her, nor to any body living, because he would first know whether I should take it amiss, as her service was so immediately about my person. This unexpected motion much perplexed me. Mr. Adams is a worthy man. He has now a very good living; yet just entered upon it; and, I think, according to his accustomed prudence in other respects, had better have turned himself about first. But that is not the point with me neither. I have a great regard to the function. I think it is as necessary, in order to preserve the respect due to the clergy, that their wives should be nearly, if not quite as unblemished, and as circumspect, as themselves; and this for the gentleman's own sake, as well as in the eye of the world: for how shall he pursue his studies with comfort to himself, if made uneasy at home! or how shall he expect his female parishioners will regard his _public_ preaching, if he cannot have a due influence over the _private_ conduct of his wife? I can't say, excepting in the instance of Mr. H. but Polly is a good sort of body enough so far as I know; but that is such a blot in the poor girl's escutcheon, a thing not _accidental_, nor _surprised_ into, not owing to _inattention_, but to cool _premeditation_, that, I think, I could wish Mr. Adams a wife more unexceptionable. 'Tis true, Mr. Adams knows not this, but _that_ is one of my difficulties. If I acquaint him with it, I shall hurt the poor girl irreparably, and deprive her of a husband, to whom she may possibly make a good wife--For she is not very meanly descended--much better than myself, as the world would say were a judgment to be made from my father's low estate, when I was exalted--I never, my dear, shall be ashamed of these retrospections! She is genteel, has a very innocent look, a good face, is neat in her person, and not addicted to any excess that I know of. But _still_, that one _premeditated_ fault, is so sad a one, though she might make a good wife for any middling man of business, yet she wants, methinks, that discretion, that purity, which I would always have in the wife of a good clergyman. Then, she has not applied her thoughts to that sort of economy, which the wife of a country clergyman ought to know something of; and has such a turn to dress and appearance, that I can see, if indulged, she would not be one that would help to remove the scandal which some severe remarkers are apt to throw upon the wives of _parsons_, as they call them. The maiden, I believe, likes Mr. Adams not a little. She is very courteous to every body, but most to him of any body, and never has missed being present at our Sunday's duties; and five or six times, Mrs. Jervis tells me, she has found her desirous to have Mr. Adams expound this text, and that difficulty; and the good man is taken with her piety, which, and her reformation, I hope, is sincere; but she is very sly, very subtle, as I have found in several instances, as foolish as she was in the affair I hint at. "So," sometimes I say to myself, "the girl may love Mr. Adams."--"Ay," but then I answer, "so she did Mr. H. and on his own very bad terms too."--In short--but I won't be too censorious neither. So I'll say no more, than that I was perplexed; and yet should be very glad to have Polly well married; for, since _that_ time, I have always had some diffidences about her--Because, you know, Miss--her fault was so enormous, and, as I have said, so premeditated. I wanted you to advise with.--But this was the method I took.--I appointed Mr. Adams to drink a dish of tea with me. Polly attended, as usual; for I can't say I love men attendants in these womanly offices. A tea-kettle in a man's hand, that would, if there was no better employment for him, be fitter to hold a plough, or handle a flail, or a scythe, has such a look with it!--This is like my low breeding, some would say, perhaps,--but I cannot call things polite, that I think unseemly; and, moreover. Lady Davers keeps me in countenance in this my notion; and who doubts her politeness? Well, but Polly attended, as I said; and there were strange simperings, and bowing, and curt'sying, between them; the honest gentleman seeming not to know how to let his mistress wait upon him; while she behaved with as much respect and officiousness, as if she could not do too much for him. "Very well," thought I, "I have such an opinion of your veracity, Mr. Adams, that I dare say you have not mentioned the matter to Polly; but between her officiousness, and your mutual simperings and complaisance, I see you have found a language between you, that is full as significant as plain English words. Polly," thought I, "sees no difficulty in _this_ text; nor need you, Mr. Adams, have much trouble to make her understand you, when you come to expound upon _this_ subject." I was forced, in short, to put on a statelier and more reserved appearance than usual, to make them avoid acts of complaisance for one another, that might not be proper to be shewn before me, for one who sat as my companion, to my servant. When she withdrew, the modest gentleman hemmed, and looked on one side, and turned to the right and left, as if his seat was uneasy to him, and, I saw, knew not how to speak; so I began in mere compassion to him, and said--"Mr. Adams, I have been thinking of what you mentioned to me, as to Polly Barlow." "Hem! hem!" said he; and pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his mouth--"Very well. Madam; I hope no offence, Madam!" "No, Sir, none at all. But I am at a loss how to distinguish in this case; whether it may not be from a motive of too humble gratitude, that you don't think yourself above matching with Polly, as you may suppose her a favourite of mine; or whether it be your value for her person and qualities, that makes her more agreeable in your eyes, than any other person would be." "Madam--Madam," said the bashful gentleman, hesitatingly--"I do--I must needs say--I can't but own--that--Mrs. Mary--is a person-whom I think very agreeable; and no less modest and virtuous." "You know, Sir, your own circumstances. To be sure you have a very pretty house, and a good living, to carry a wife to. And a gentleman of your prudence and discretion wants not any advice; but you have reaped no benefits by your living. It has been an expence to you rather, which you will not presently get up: do you propose an early marriage, Sir? Or were it not better to suspend your intentions of that sort for a year or two more?"--"Madam, if your ladyship choose not to part with--"--"Nay, Mr. Adams," interrupted I, "I say not any thing for my own sake in this point: that is out of the question with me. I can very willingly part with Polly, were it to-morrow, for her good and yours."--"Madam, I humbly beg pardon;--but--but--delays may breed dangers."--"Oh I very well," thought I; "if the artful girl has not let him know, by some means or other, that she has another humble servant." And so, Miss, it has proved--For, dismissing my gentleman, with assuring him, that I had no objection at all to the matter, or to parting with Polly, as soon as it suited with their conveniency--I sounded her, and asked, if she thought Mr. Adams had any affection for her?--She said he was a very good gentleman. "I know it, Polly; and are you not of opinion he loves you a little?"--"Dear Ma'am--love me--I don't know what such a gentleman as Mr. Adams should see in me, to love me!"--"Oh!" thought I, "does the doubt lie on _that_ side then?--I see 'tis not of _thine_." "Well, but, Polly, if you have _another_ sweetheart, you should do the fair thing; it would be wrong, if you encourage any body else, if you thought of Mr. Adams."--"Indeed, Ma'am, I had a letter sent me--a letter that I received--from--from a young man in Bedford; but I never answered it." "Oh!" thought I, "then thou wouldst not encourage _two at once_;" and this was as plain a declaration as I wanted, that she had thoughts of Mr. Adams. "But how came Mr. Adams, Polly, to know of this letter?"--"How came he to know of it, Ma'am!"--repeated she--half surprised--"Why, I don't know, I can't tell how it was--but I dropped it near his desk--pulling out my handkerchief, I believe, Ma'am, and he brought it, and gave it me again."--"Well," thought I, "thou'rt an intriguing slut, I doubt, Polly."--"_Delays may breed dangers_," quoth the poor gentleman!--"Ah! girl, girl!" thought I, but did not say so, "thou deservest to have thy plot spoiled, that thou dost--But if thy forwardness should expose thee afterwards to evils which thou mayest avoid if thy schemes take place, I should very much blame myself. And I see he loves thee--So let the matter take its course; I will trouble myself no more about it. I only wish, that thou wilt make Mr. Adams as good a wife as he deserves." And so I dismissed her, telling her, that whoever thought of being a clergyman's wife, should resolve to be as good as himself; to set an example to all her sex in the parish, and shew how much his doctrines had weight with her; should be humble, circumspect, gentle in her temper and manners, frugal, not proud, nor vying in dress with the ladies of the laity; should resolve to sweeten his labour, and to be obliging in her deportment to poor as well as rich, that her husband get no discredit through her means, which would weaken his influence upon his auditors; and that she must be most of all obliging to him, and study his temper, that his mind might be more disengaged, in order to pursue his studies with the better effect. And so much for _your_ humble servant; and for Mr. Williams's and Mr. Adams's matrimonial prospect;--and don't think me so disrespectful, that I have mentioned my Polly's affair in the same letter with yours. For in high and low (I forget the Latin phrase--I have not had a lesson a long, long while, from my dear tutor) love is in all the same!--But whether you'll like Mr. H. as well as Polly does Mr. Adams, that's the question. But, leaving that to your own decision, I conclude with one observation; that, although I thought our's was a house of as little intriguing as any body's, since the dear master of it has left off that practice, yet I cannot see, that any family can be clear of some of it long together, where there are men and women worth plotting for, as husbands and wives. My best wishes and respects attend all your worthy neighbours. I hope ere long, to assure them, severally (to wit, Sir Simon, my lady, Mrs. Jones, Mr. Peters, and his lady and niece, whose kind congratulations make me very proud, and very thankful) how much I am obliged to them; and particularly, my dear, how much I am _your ever affectionate and faithful friend and servant_, P. B, LETTER LXXXIV _From Miss Darnford, in answer to the preceding._ MY DEAR MRS. B., I have been several times (in company with Mr. Peters) to see Mrs. Jewkes. The poor woman is very bad, and cannot live many days. We comfort her all we can; but she often accuses herself of her past behaviour to so excellent a lady; and with blessings upon blessings, heaped upon you, and her master, and your charming little boy, is continually declaring how much your goodness to her aggravates her former faults to her own conscience. She has a sister-in-law and her niece with her, and has settled all her affairs, and thinks she is not long for this world.--Her distemper is an inward decay, all at once as it were, from a constitution that seemed like one of iron; and she is a mere skeleton: you would not know her, I dare say. I will see her every day; and she has given me up all her keys, and accounts, to give to Mr. Longman, who is daily expected, and I hope will be here soon; for her sister-in-law, she says herself, is a woman of _this world_, as _she_ has been. Mr. Peters calling upon me to go with him to visit her, I will break off here. Mrs. Jewkes is much as she was; but your faithful steward is come. I am glad of it--and so is she--Nevertheless I will go every day, and do all the good I can for the poor woman, according to your charitable desires. I thank you for your communication of Lady Davers's letter, I am much obliged to my lord, and her ladyship; and should have been proud of an alliance with that noble family, but with all Mr. H.'s good qualities, as my lady paints them out, and his other advantages, I could not, for the world, make him my husband. I'll tell you one of my objections, in confidence, however, (for you are only to _sound_ me, you know:) and I would not have it mentioned that I have taken any thought about the matter, because a stronger reason may be given, such a one as my lord and lady will both allow; which I will communicate to you by and bye.--My objection arises even from what you intimate, of Mr. H.'s good humour, and his persuadableness, if I may so call it. Now, were I of a boisterous temper, and high spirit, such an one as required great patience in a husband to bear with me, then Mr. H.'s good humour might have been a consideration with me. But when I have (I pride myself in the thought) a temper not wholly unlike your own, and such an one as would not want to contend for superiority with a husband, it is no recommendation to me, that Mr. H. is a good-humoured gentleman, and will bear with faults I design not to be guilty of. But, my dear Mrs. B., my husband must be a man of sense, and give me reason to think he has a superior judgment to my own, or I shall be unhappy. He will otherwise do wrong-headed things: I shall be forced to oppose him in them: he will be tenacious and obstinate, be taught to talk of prerogative, and to call himself a _man_, without knowing how to behave as one, and I to despise him, of course; so be deemed a bad wife, when, I hope, I have qualities that would make me a tolerable good one, with a man of sense for my husband. Now you must not think I would dispense with real good-humour in a man. No, I make it one of my _indispensables_ in a husband. A good-natured man will put the best constructions on what happens; but he must have sense to _distinguish_ the best. He will be kind to little, unwilful, undesigned failings: but he must have judgment to distinguish what _are_ or are _not so_. But Mr. H.'s good-humour is softness, as I may call it; and my husband must be such an one, in short, as I need not be ashamed to be seen with in company; one who, being my head, must not be beneath all the gentlemen he may happen to fall in with, and who, every time he is adjusting his mouth for speech, will give me pain at my heart, and blushes in my face, even before he speaks. I could not bear, therefore, that every one we encountered should be prepared, whenever he offered to open his lips, by their contemptuous smiles, to expect some weak and silly things from him; and when he _had_ spoken, that he should, with a booby grin, seem pleased that he had not disappointed them. The only recommendatory point in Mr. H. is, that he dresses exceedingly smart, and is no contemptible figure of a man. But, dear Madam, you know, that's so much the worse, _when_ the man's talent is not taciturnity, except before his aunt, or before Mr. B. or you; _when_ he is not conscious of internal defect, and values himself upon outward appearance. As to his attempts upon your Polly, though I don't like him the better for it, yet it is a fault so wickedly common among men, that when a woman resolves never to marry, till a quite virtuous man addresses her, it is, in other words, resolving to die single; so that I make not this the _chief_ objection; and yet, I would abate in my expectations of half a dozen other good qualities, rather than that one of virtue in a husband--But when I reflect upon the figure Mr. H. made in that affair, I cannot bear him; and, if I may judge of other coxcombs by him, what wretches are these smart, well-dressing querpo fellows, many of whom you and I have seen admiring themselves at the plays and operas! This is one of my infallible rules, and I know it is yours too; that he who is taken up with the admiration of his own person, will never admire a wife's. His delights are centred in himself, and he will not wish to get out of that exceeding narrow circle; and, in my opinion, should keep no company but that of taylors, wig-puffers, and milliners. But I will run on no further upon this subject; but will tell you a reason, which you _may_ give to Lady Davers, why her kind intentions to me cannot be answered; and which she'll take better than what I _have said_, were she to know it, as I hope you won't let her: and this is, my papa has had a proposal made to him from a gentleman you have seen, and have thought polite. It is from Sir W.G. of this county, who is one of your great admirers, and Mr. B.'s too; and that, you must suppose, makes me have never the worse opinion of him, or of his understanding; although it requires no great sagacity or penetration to see how much you adorn our sex, and human nature too. Every thing was adjusted between my papa and mamma, and Sir William, on condition we approved of each other, before I came down; which I knew not, till I had seen him here four times; and then my papa surprised me into half an approbation of him: and this, it seems, was one of the reasons why I was so hurried down from you. I can't say, but I like the man as well as most I have seen; he is a man of sense and sobriety, to give him his due, in very easy circumstances, and much respected by all who know him; which is no bad earnest in a marriage prospect. But, hitherto, he seems to like me better than I do him. I don't know how it is; but I often observe, that when any thing is in our power, we are not half so much taken with it, as we should be, perhaps, if we were kept in suspense! Why should this be?--But this I am convinced of, there is no comparison between Sir William and Mr. Murray. Now I have named this brother-in-law of mine; what do you think?--Why, that good couple have had their house on fire three times already. Once it was put out by Mr. Murray's mother, who lives near them; and twice Sir Simon has been forced to carry water to extinguish it; for, truly, Mrs. Murray would go home again to her papa; she would not live with such a surly wretch: and it was with all his heart; a fair riddance! for there was no bearing the house with such an ill-natured wife:--her sister Polly was worth a thousand of her!--I am heartily sorry for their unhappiness. But could she think every body must bear with her, and her fretful ways?--They'll jangle on, I reckon, till they are better used to one another; and when he sees she can't help it, why he'll bear with her, as husbands generally do with ill-tempered wives; he'll try to make himself happy abroad, and leave her to quarrel with her maids, instead of him; for she must have somebody to vent her spleen upon--poor Nancy!--I am glad to hear of Mr. Williams's good fortune. As Mr. Adams knows not Polly's fault, and it was prevented in time, they may be happy enough. She is a _sly_ girl. I always thought her so: something so innocent, and yet so artful in her very looks: she is an odd compound. But these worthy and piously turned young gentlemen, who have but just quitted the college, are mere novices, as to the world: indeed they are _above_ it, while _in_ it; they therefore give themselves little trouble to study it, and so, depending on the goodness of their own hearts, are more liable to be imposed upon than people of half their understanding. I think, since he seems to love her, you do right not to hinder the girl's fortune. But I wish she may take your advice, in her behaviour to _him_, at least: for as to her carriage to her neighbours, I doubt she'll be one of the heads of the parish, presently, in her own estimation. 'Tis pity, methinks, any worthy man of the cloth should have a wife, who, by her bad example, should pull down, as fast as he, by a good one, can build up. This is not the case of Mrs. Peters, however; whose example I wish was more generally followed by gentlewomen, who are made so by marrying good clergymen, if they were not so before. Don't be surprised, if you should hear that poor Jewkes is given over!--She made a very exemplary--Full of blessings--And more easy and resigned, than I apprehended she would be. I know you'll shed a tear for the poor woman:--I can't help it myself. But you will be pleased that she had so much time given her, and made so good use of it. Mr. Peters has been every thing that one would wish one of his function to be, in his attendance and advice to the poor woman. Mr. Longman will take proper care of every thing. So, I will only add, that I am, with the sincerest respect, in hopes to see you soon (for I have a multitude of things to talk to you about), dear Mrs. B., _your ever faithful and affectionate_ POLLY DARNFORD. LETTER LXXXV _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers._ MY DEAR LADY DAVERS, I understand from Miss Darnford, that before she went down from us, her papa had encouraged a proposal made by Sir W.G. whom you saw, when your ladyship was a kind visitor in Bedfordshire. We all agreed, if you remember, that he was a polite and sensible gentleman, and I find it is countenanced on all hands. Poor Mrs. Jewkes, Madam, as Miss informs me, has paid her last debt. I hope, through mercy, she is happy!--Poor, poor woman! But why say I so!--Since, in _that_ case, she will be richer than an earthly monarch! Your ladyship was once mentioning a sister of Mrs. Worden's whom you wished to recommend to some worthy family. Shall I beg of you. Madam, to oblige Mr. B.'s in this particular? I am sure she must have merit if your ladyship thinks well of her; and your commands in this, as well as in every other particular in my power, shall have their due weight with _your ladyship's obliged sister and humble servant_, P.B. Just now, dear Madam, Mr. B. tells me I shall have Miss Goodwill brought me hither to-morrow. LETTER LXXXVI _From Lady Davers to Mrs. B. in answer to the preceding._ MY DEAR PAMELA, I am glad Miss Darnford is likely to be so happy in a husband, as Sir W.G. will certainly make her. I was afraid that my proposal would not do with her, had she not had so good a tender. I want _too_, to have the foolish fellow married--for several reasons; one of which is, he is continually teasing us to permit him to go up to town, and reside there for some months, in order that he may _see the world_, as he calls it. But we are convinced he would _feel_ it, as well as _see_ it, if we give way to his request: for in understanding, dress, and inconsiderate vanity, he is so exactly cut out and sized for a town fop, coxcomb, or pretty fellow, that he will undoubtedly fall into all the vices of those people; and, perhaps, having such expectations as he has, will be made the property of rakes and sharpers. He complains that we use him like a child in a go-cart, or a baby with leading-strings, and that he must not be trusted out of our sight. 'Tis a sad thing, that these _bodies_ will grow up to the stature of men, when the _minds_ improve not at all with them, but are still those of boys and children. Yet, he would certainly make a fond husband: for he has no very bad qualities. But is such a Narcissus!--But this between ourselves, for his uncle is wrapt up in the fellow--And why? Because he is good-humoured, that's all. He has vexed me lately, which makes me write so angrily about him--But 'tis not worth troubling you with the particulars. I hope Mrs. Jewkes is happy, as you say!--Poor woman! she seemed to promise for a longer life! But what shall we say? Your compliment to me, about my Beck's sister, is a very kind one. Mrs. Oldham is a sober, grave widow, a little aforehand, in the world, but not much; has lived well; understands house-hold management thoroughly; is diligent; and has a turn to serious things, which will make you like her the better. I'll order Beck and her to wait on you, and she will satisfy you in every thing as to what you may, or may not expect of her. You can't think how kindly I take this motion from you. You forget nothing that can oblige your friends. Little did I think you would remember me of (what I had forgotten in a manner) my favourable opinion and wishes for her expressed so long ago.--But you are what you are--a dear obliging creature. Beck is all joy and gratitude upon it, and her sister had rather serve you than the princess. You need be under no difficulties about terms: she would serve you for nothing, if you would accept of her service. I am glad, because it pleases you so much, that Miss Goodwin will be soon put into your care. It will be happy for the child, and I hope she will be so dutiful as to give you no pain for your generous goodness to her. Her mamma has sent me a present of some choice products of that climate, with acknowledgments of my kindness to Miss. I will send part of it to you by your new servant; for so I presume to call her already. What a naughty sister are you, however, to be so far advanced again as to be obliged to shorten your intended excursions, and yet not to send me word of it yourself? Don't you know how much I interest myself in every thing that makes for my brother's happiness and your's? more especially in so material a point as is the increase of a family that it is my boast to be sprung from. Yet I must find this out by accident, and by other hands!--Is not this very slighting!--But never do so again, and I'll forgive you now because of the joy it gives me; who am _your truly affectionate and obliged sister_, B. DAVERS. I thank you for your book upon the plays you saw. Inclosed is a list of some others, which I desire you to read, and to oblige me with your remarks upon them at your leisure; though you may not, perhaps, have seen them by the time you will favour me with your observations. LETTER LXXXVII _From Mrs. B. to Lady Davers_. MY DEAR LADY DAVERS, I have a valuable present made me by the same lady; and therefore hope you will not take it amiss, that, with abundance of thanks, I return your's by Mrs. Worden, whose sister I much approve of, and thank your ladyship for your kind recommendation of so worthy a person. We begin with so much good liking to one another, that I doubt not we shall be very happy together. A moving letter, much more valuable to me than the handsome present, was put into my hands, at the same time with that; of which the following is a copy: _From Mrs. Wrightson (formerly Miss Sally Godfrey) to Mrs. B._ "HAPPY, DESERVEDLY HAPPY, DEAR LADY, "Permit these lines to kiss your hands from one, who, though she is a stranger to your person, is not so to your character: _that_ has reached us here, in this remote part of the world, where you have as many admirers as have heard of you. But I more particularly am bound to be so, by an obligation which I can never discharge, but by my daily prayers for you, and the blessings I continually implore upon you and yours. "I can write my whole mind _to_ you, though I cannot, from the most deplorable infelicity, receive _from_ you the wished-for favour of a few lines in return, written with the same unreservedness: so unhappy am I, from the effects of an inconsideration and weakness on one hand, and temptation on the other, which you, at a tender age, most nobly, for your own honour, and that of your sex, have escaped: whilst I--but let my tears in these blots speak the rest--as my heart bleeds, and has constantly bled ever since, at the grievous remembrance--but believe, however, dear Madam, that 'tis shame and sorrow, and not pride and impenitence, that make me both to speak out, to so much purity of life and manners, my own odious weakness. "Nevertheless, I ought, and I _will_ accuse myself by name. Imagine then, illustrious lady, truly illustrious for virtues, infinitely superior to all the advantages of birth and fortune!--Imagine, I say, that in this letter, you see before you the _once_ guilty, and therefore, I doubt, _always_ guilty, but _ever penitent_, Sarah Godfrey; the unhappy, though fond and tender mother of the poor infant, to whom your generous goodness has, I hear, extended itself, so as to make you desirous of taking her under your worthy protection: God for ever bless you for it! prays an indulgent mother, who admires at an awful distance, that virtue in you, which she could not practise herself. "And will you, dearest lady, take under your own immediate protection, the poor unguilty infant? will you love her, for the sake of her suffering mamma, whom you know not; for the sake of the gentleman, now so dear to you, and so worthy of you, as I hear, with pleasure, he is? And will you, by the best example in the world, give me a moral assurance, that she will never sink into the fault, the weakness, the crime (I ought not to scruple to call it so) of her poor inconsiderate-But you are her mamma _now_: I will not think of a _guilty_ one therefore. What a joy is it to me, in the midst of my heavy reflections on my past misconduct, that my beloved Sally can boast a _virtuous_ and _innocent mamma_, who has withstood the snares and temptations, that have been so fatal--elsewhere!--and whose example, and instructions, next to God's grace, will be the strongest fences to her honour!--Once more I say, and on my knees I write it, God for ever bless you here, and augment your joys hereafter, for your generous goodness to my poor, and, till now, _motherless_ infant. "I hope she, by her duty and obligingness, will do all in her little power to make you amends, and never give you cause to repent of this your _unexampled_ kindness to her and to _me_. She cannot, I hope (except her mother's crime has had an influence upon her, too much like that of an original stain), be of a sordid, or an ungrateful nature. And, O my poor Sally! if you _are_, and if ever you fail in your duty to your new mamma, to whose care and authority I transfer my _whole_ right in you, remember that you have no more a mamma in me, nor can you be entitled to my blessing, or my prayers, which I make now, on that _only_ condition, your implicit obedience to all your new mamma's commands and directions. "You may have the curiosity, Madam, to wish to know how I live: for no doubt you have heard all my sad, sad story!--Know, then, that I am as happy, as a poor creature can be, who has once so deplorably, so inexcusably fallen. I have a worthy gentleman for my husband, who married me as a widow, whose only child by my former was the care of her papa's friends, particularly of good Lacy Davers and her brother. Poor unhappy I! to be under such a sad necessity to disguise the truth!--Mr. Wrightson (whose name I am unworthily honoured by) has often entreated me to send for the poor child, and to let her be joined as his--killing thought, that it cannot be!--with two children I have by him!--Judge, my good lady, how that very generosity, which, had I been guiltless, would have added to my joys, must wound me deeper than even ungenerous or unkind usage from him could do! and how heavy that crime must lie upon me, which turns my very pleasures to misery, and fixes all the joy I _can_ know, in repentance for my past misdeeds!--How happy are YOU, Madam, on the contrary; YOU, who have nothing of this sort to pall, nothing to mingle with your felicities! who, blessed in an honour untainted, and a conscience that cannot reproach you, are enabled to enjoy every well deserved comfort, as it offers itself; and can _improve_ it too, by reflection on _your_ past conduct! While _mine_, alas! like a winter frost, nips in the bud every rising satisfaction. "My husband is rich as well as generous, and very tender of me--Happy, if I could think _myself_ as deserving as _he_ thinks me!--My principal comfort, as I hinted, is in my penitence for my past faults; and that I have a merciful God for my judge, who knows that penitence to be sincere! "You may guess, Madam, from what I have said, in what light I _must_ appear here; and if you would favour me with a line or two, in answer to the letter you have now in your hand, it will be one of the greatest pleasures I_ can_ receive: a pleasure next to that which I _have_ received in knowing, that the gentleman you love best, has had the grace to repent of all his evils; has early seen his errors; and has thereby, I hope, freed_ two_ persons from being, one day, mutual accusers of each other; for now I please myself to think, that the crimes of both may be washed away in the blood of that Saviour God, whom both have so grievously offended! "May that God, who has not suffered me to be abandoned entirely to my own shame, as I deserved, continue to shower down upon you those blessings, which a virtue like yours may expect from his mercy! May you long be happy in the possession of all you wish! and late, very late (for the good of thousands, I wish this!) may you receive the reward of your piety, your generosity, and your filial, your social, and conjugal virtues! are the prayers of _your most unworthy admirer, and obliged humble servant_, "SARAH WRIGHTSON. "Mr. Wrightson begs your acceptance of a small present, part of which can have no value, but what its excelling qualities, for what it is, will give it at so great a distance as that dear England, which I once left with so much shame and regret; but with a laudable purpose, _however_, because I would not incur still _greater_ shame, and of consequence give cause for still _greater_ regret!" To this letter, my dear Lady Davers, I have written the following answer, which Mr. B. will take care to have conveyed to her. "DEAREST MADAM, "I embrace with great pleasure the opportunity you have so kindly given me, of writing to a lady whose person though I have not the honour to know, yet whose character, and noble qualities, I truly revere. "I am infinitely obliged to you. Madam, for the precious trust you have reposed in me, and the right you make over to me, of your maternal interest in a child, on whom I set my heart, the moment I saw her. "Lady Davers, whose love and tenderness for Miss, as well for her mamma's sake, as your late worthy spouse's, had, from her kind opinion of me, consented to grant me this favour: and I was, by Mr. B.'s leave, in actual possession of my pretty ward about a week before your kind letter came to my hands. "As I had been long very solicitous for this favour, judge how welcome your kind concurrence was: and the rather, as, had I known, that a letter from you was on the way to me, I should have feared you would insist upon depriving the surviving friends of her dear papa, of the pleasure they take in the dear child. Indeed, Madam, I believe we should one and all have joined to disobey you, had _that_ been the case; and it is a great satisfaction to us, that we are not under so hard a necessity, as to dispute with a tender mamma the possession of her own child. "Assure yourself, worthiest Madam, of a care and tenderness in me to the dear child truly maternal, and answerable, as much as in my power, to the trust you repose in me. The little boy, that God has given me, shall not be more dear to me than my sweet Miss Goodwin shall be; and my care, by God's grace, shall extend to her _future_ as well as to her _present_ prospects, that she may be worthy of that piety, and _truly_ religious excellence, which I admire in your character. "We all rejoice, dear Madam, in the account you give of your present happiness. It was impossible that God Almighty should desert a lady so exemplarily deserving; and he certainly conducted you in your resolutions to abandon every thing that you loved in England, after the loss of your dear spouse, because it seems to have been his intention that you should reward the merit of Mr. Wrightson, and meet with your own reward in so doing. "Miss is very fond of my little Billy: she is a charming child, is easy and genteel in her shape, and very pretty; she dances finely, has a sweet air, and is improving every day in music; works with her needle, and reads admirably for her years; and takes a delight in both, which gives me no small pleasure. But she is not very forward in her penmanship, as you will see by what follows: the inditing too is her own; but in that, and the writing, she took a good deal of time, on a separate paper. "DEAREST DEAR MAMMA, "Your Sally is full of joy, to have any commands from her honoured mamma. I promise to follow all your directions. Indeed, and upon my word, I will. You please me mightily in giving me so dear a new mamma here. Now I know indeed I have a mamma, and I will love and obey her, as if she was you your own self. Indeed I will. You must always bless me, because I will be always good. I hope you will believe me, because I am above telling fibs. I am, my honoured mamma on the other side of the water, and ever will be, as if you was here, _your dutiful daughter_, "SALLY GOODWIN." "Miss (permit me, dear Madam, to subjoin) is a very good tempered child, easy to be persuaded, and I hope loves me dearly; and I will endeavour to make her love me better and better; for on that love will depend the regard which, I hope, she will pay to all I shall say and do for her good. "Repeating my acknowledgements for the kind trust you repose in me, and with thanks for the valuable present you have sent me, we all here join in respects to worthy Mr. Wrightson, and in wishing you. Madam, a continuance and increase of worldly felicity; and I particularly beg leave to assure you, that I am, and ever will be, with the highest respect and gratitude, though personally unknown, dearest Madam, _the affectionate admirer of your piety, and your obliged humble servant_, "P.B." Your ladyship will see how I was circumscribed and limited; otherwise I would have said (what I have mentioned more than once), how I admire and honour her for her penitence, and for that noble resolution, which enabled her to do what thousands could not have had the heart to do, abandon her country, her relations, friends, baby, and all that was dear to her, as well as the seducer, whom she too well loved, and hazard the sea, the dangers of pirates, and possibly of other wicked attempters of the mischievous sex, in a world she knew nothing of, among strangers; and all to avoid repeating a sin she had been unhappily drawn into; and for which she still abhors herself. Must not such a lady as this, dear Madam, have as much merit as many even of those, who, having not had her temptations, have not fallen? This, at least, one may aver, that next to not committing an error, is the resolution to retrieve it all that one may, to repent of it, and studiously to avoid the repetition. But who, besides this excellent Mrs. Wrightson, having so fallen, and being still so ardently solicited and pursued, (and flattered, perhaps, by fond hopes, that her spoiler would one day do her all the justice he _could_--for who can do complete justice to a woman he has robbed of her honour?)--could resolve as she resolved, and act as she acted? Miss Goodwin is a sweet child; but, permit me to say, has a little of her papa's spirit; hasty, yet generous and acknowledging when she is convinced of her fault; a little haughtier and prouder than I wish her to be; but in every thing else deserves the character I give of her to her mamma. She is very fond of fine clothes, is a little too lively to the servants.--Told me once, when I took notice that softness and mildness of speech became a young lady, that they were _but_ servants! and she could say no more than, "Pray," and "I desire," and "I wish you'd be so kind," to her uncle or to me. I told her, that good servants deserved any civil distinctions; and that so long as they were ready to oblige in every thing, by a kind word, it would be very wrong to give them imperative ones, which could serve for no other end but to convince observers of the haughtiness of one's own temper; and looked, as if one would question their compliance with our wills, unless we would exact it with an high hand; which might cast a slur upon the command we gave, as if we thought it was hardly so reasonable as otherwise to obtain their observation of it. "Besides, my dear," said I, "you don't consider, that if you speak as haughtily and commandingly to them on common, as on extraordinary occasions, you weaken your own authority, if even you should be permitted to have any, and they'll regard you no more in the one case than in the other." She takes great notice of what I say, and when her little proud heart is subdued by reasonings she cannot answer, she will sit as if she were studying what to say, to come off as flying as she can, and as the case requires, I let her go off easily, or push the little dear to her last refuge, and make her quit her post, and yield up her spirit a captive to Reason and Discretion: two excellent commanders, with whom, I tell her, I must bring her to be intimately acquainted. Yet, after all, till I can be sure that I can inspire her with the love of virtue, for its _own_ sake, I will rather try to conduct her spirit to proper ends, than endeavour totally to subdue it; being sensible that our passions are given us for excellent ends, and that they may, by a proper direction, be made subservient to the noblest purposes. I tell her sometimes, there may be a decent pride in humility, and that it is very possible for a young lady to behave with so much _true_ dignity, as shall command respect by the turn of her eye, sooner than by asperity of speech; that she may depend upon it, the person, who is always finding faults, frequently causes them; and that it is no glory to be better born than servants, if she is not better behaved too. Besides, I tell her humility is a grace that shines in a _high_ condition, but cannot equally in a _low_ one; because that is already too much humbled, perhaps: and that, though there is a censure lies against being _poor and proud_, yet I would rather forgive pride in a poor body, than in a rich: for in the rich it is insult and arrogance, proceeding from their high condition; but in the poor it may be a defensative against dishonesty, and may shew a natural bravery of mind, perhaps, if properly directed, and manifested on right occasions, that the frowns of fortune cannot depress. She says she hears every day things from me, which her governess never taught her. That may very well be, I tell her, because her governess has _many_ young ladies to take care of: I but _one_; and that I want to make her wise and prudent betimes, that she may be an example to other Misses; and that governesses and mammas shall say to their Misses, "When will you be like Miss Goodwin? Do you ever hear Miss Goodwin say a naughty word? Would Miss Goodwin, think you, have done so or so?" She threw her arms about my neck, on one such occasion as this; "Oh," said she, "what a charming mamma have I got! I will be in every thing as like you, as ever I can!--and then you will love me, and so will my uncle, and so will every body else." Mr. B. whom now-and-then, she says, she loves as well as if he was her own papa, sees with pleasure how we go on. But she tells me, I must not have any daughter but her, and is very jealous on the occasion about which your ladyship so kindly reproaches me. There is a pride, you know, Madam, in some of our sex, that serves to useful purposes, is a good defence against improper matches, and mean actions; and is not wholly to be subdued, for that reason; for, though it is not _virtue_, yet, if it can be virtue's _substitute_, in high, rash, and inconsiderate minds, it; may turn to good account. So I will not quite discourage my dear pupil neither, till I see what discretion, and riper years, may add to her distinguishing faculty. For, as some have no notion of pride, separate from imperiousness and arrogance, so others know no difference between humility and meanness. There is a golden mean in every thing; and if it please God to spare us both, I will endeavour to point her passions, and such even of those foibles, which seem too deeply rooted to be soon eradicated, to useful purposes; choosing to imitate physicians, who, in certain chronical illnesses, as I have read in Lord Bacon, rather proceed by palliatives, than by harsh extirpatives, which, through the resistance given to them by the constitution, may create such ferments in it, as may destroy that health it was their intention to establish. But whither am I running?--Your ladyship, I hope, will excuse this parading freedom of my pen: for though these notions are well enough with regard to Miss Goodwin, they must be very impertinent to a lady, who can so much better instruct Miss's tutoress than that vain tutoress can her pupil. And, therefore, with my humblest respects to my good Lord Davers, and your noble neighbours, and to Mr. H. I hasten to conclude myself _your ladyship's obliged sister, and obedient servant_, P.B. Your Billy, Madam, is a charming dear!--I long to have you see him. He sends you a kiss upon this paper. You'll see it stained, just here. The charmer has cut two teeth, and is about more: so you'll excuse the dear, pretty, slabbering boy. Miss Goodwin is ready to eat him with love: and Mr. B. is fonder and fonder of us all: and then your ladyship, and my good Lord Davers love us too. O, Madam, what a blessed creature am I! Miss Goodwin begs I'll send her duty to her _noble_ uncle and aunt; that's her just distinction always, when she speaks of you both. She asked me, pretty dear, just now, If I think there is such a happy girl in the world as she is? I tell her, God always blesses good Misses, and makes them happier and happier. LETTER LXXXVIII MY DEAR LADY DAVERS, I have three marriages to acquaint you with, in one letter. In the first place, Sir W.G. has sent, by the particular desire of my dear friend, that he was made one of the happiest men in England, on the 18th past; and so I have no longer my Miss Darnford to boast of. I have a very good opinion of the gentleman; but if he be but half so good a husband as she will make a wife, they will be exceedingly happy in one another. Mr. Williams's marriage to a kinswoman of his noble patron (as you have heard was in treaty) is the next; and there is great reason to believe, from the character of both, that they will likewise do credit to the state. The third is Mr. Adams and Polly Barlow; and I wish them, for both their sakes, as happy as either of the former. They are set out to his living, highly pleased with one another; and I hope will have reason to continue so to be. As to the first, I did not indeed think the affair would have been so soon concluded; and Miss kept it off so long, as I understood, that her papa was angry with her: and, indeed, as the gentleman's family, circumstances, and character, were such, that there could lie no objection against him, I think it would have been wrong to have delayed it. I should have written to your ladyship before; but have been favoured with Mr. B.'s company into Kent, on a visit to my good mother, who was indisposed. We tarried there a week, and left both my dear parents, to my thankful satisfaction, in as good health as ever they were in their lives. Mrs. Judy Swynford, or Miss Swynford (as she refuses not being called, now and then), has been with us for this week past; and she expects her brother, Sir Jacob, to fetch her away in about a week hence. It does not become me to write the least word that may appear disrespectful of any person related to your ladyship and Mr. B. Otherwise I should say, that the B----s and the S----s are directly the opposites of one another. But yet, as she never saw your ladyship but once, you will forgive me to mention a word or two about her, because she is a character that is in a manner new to me. She is a maiden lady, as you know, and though she will not part with the green leaf from her hand, one sees by the grey-goose down on her brows and her head, that she cannot be less than fifty-five. But so much pains does she take, by powder, to have never a dark hair in her head, because she has one half of them white, that I am sorry to see, what is a subject for reverence, should be deemed, by the good lady, matter of concealment. She is often seemingly reproaching herself, that she is an _old maid_, and an _old woman_; but it is very discernible, that she expects a compliment, that she is _not so_, every time she is so free with herself: and if nobody makes her one, she will say something of that sort in her own behalf. She takes particular care, that of all the public transactions which happen to be talked of, her memory will never carry her back above thirty years! and then it is--"About thirty years ago; when I was a girl," or "when I was in hanging sleeves;" and so she makes herself, for twenty years of her life, a very useless and insignificant person. If her teeth, which, for her age, are very good, though not over white (and which, by her care of them, she seems to look upon as the last remains of her better days), would but fail, it might help her to a conviction, that would set her ten years forwarder at least. But, poor lady, she is so _young_, in spite of her wrinkles, that I am really concerned for her affectation; because it exposes her to the remarks and ridicule of the gentlemen, and gives one pain for her. Surely, these ladies don't act prudently at all; since, for every year Mrs. Judy would take from her age, her censurers add two to it; and, behind her back, make her going on towards seventy; whereas, if she would lay claim to her _reverentials_, as I may say, and not try to conceal her age, she would have many compliments for looking so well at her years.--And many a young body would hope to be the better for her advice and experience, who now are afraid of affronting her, if they suppose she has lived much longer in the world than themselves. Then she looks back to the years she owns, when more flippant ladies, at the laughing time of her life, delight to be frolic: she tries to sing too, although, if ever she had a voice, she has outlived it; and her songs are of so antique a date, that they would betray her; only, as she says, they were learnt her by her grandmother, who was a fine lady at the Restoration. She will join in a dance; and though her limbs move not so pliantly as might be expected of a lady no older than she would be thought, and whose dancing-days are not entirely over, yet that was owing to a fall from her horse some years ago, which, she doubts, she shall never recover, though she finds she grows better and better, _every year_. Thus she loses the respect, the reverence, she might receive, were it not for this miserable affectation; takes pains, by aping youth, to make herself unworthy of her years, and is content to be thought less discreet than she might otherwise be deemed, for fear she should be imagined older if she appeared wiser. What a sad thing is this, Madam!--What a mistaken conduct! We pray to live to old age; and it is promised as a blessing, and as a reward for the performance of certain duties; and yet, when we come to it, we had rather be thought as foolish as youth, than to be deemed wise, and in possession of it. And so we shew how little we deserve what we have been so long coveting; and yet covet on: for what? Why, to be more and more ashamed, and more and more unworthy of that we covet! How fantastic a character is this!-Well may irreverent, unthinking youth despise, instead of revere, the hoary head which the wearer is so much ashamed of. The lady boasts a relationship to you, and Mr. B. and, I think, I am very bold. But my reverence for years, and the disgust I have to see anybody behave unworthy of them, makes me take the greater liberty: which, however, I shall wish I had not taken, if it meets not with that allowance, which I have always had from your ladyship in what I write. God knows whether ever I may enjoy the blessing I so much revere in others. For now my heavy time approaches. But I was so apprehensive before, and so troublesome to my best friends, with my vapourish fears, that now (with a perfect resignation to the Divine Will) I will only add, that I am _your ladyship's most obliged sister and servant_, P.B. My dear Billy, and Miss Goodwin, improve every day, and are all I can desire or expect them to be. Could Miss's poor mamma be here with a wish, and back again, how much would she be delighted with one of our afternoon conferences; our Sunday employments especially!--And let me add, that I am very happy in another young gentleman of the dean's recommending, instead of Mr. Adams. LETTER LXXXIX MY DEAREST LADY, I am once more, blessed be God for all his mercies to me! enabled, on my upsitting, to thank you, and my noble lord, for all your kind solicitudes for my welfare. Billy every day improves. Miss is all I wish her to be, and my second dear boy continues to be as lovely and as fine a baby as your ladyship was pleased to think him; and their papa, the best of husbands! I am glad to hear Lady Betty is likely to be so happy. Mr. B. says, her noble admirer is as worthy a gentleman as any in the peerage; and I beg of you to congratulate the dear lady, and her noble parents, in my name, if I should be at a distance, when the nuptials are celebrated. I have had the honour of a visit from my lady, the Countess Dowager, on occasion of her leaving the kingdom for a year or two, for which space she designs to reside in Italy, principally at Naples or Florence; a design she took up some time ago, but which it seems she could not conveniently put into execution till now. Mr. B. was abroad when her ladyship came, and I expected him not till the next day. She sent her gentleman, the preceding evening, to let me know that business had brought her as far as Wooburn; and if it would not be unacceptable, she would pay her respects to me at breakfast, the next morning, being speedily to leave England. I returned, that I should be very proud of that honour. And about ten her ladyship came. She was exceedingly fond of my two boys, the little man, and the pretty baby, as she called them; and I had very different emotions from the expression of her love to Billy, and her visit to me, from what I had once before. She was sorry, she said, Mr. B. was abroad; though her business was principally with me. "For, Mrs. B.," said she, "I come to tell you all that passed between Mr. B. and myself, that you may not think worse of either of us, than we deserve; and I could not leave England till I had waited on you for this purpose; and yet, perhaps, from the distance of time, you'll think it needless now. And, indeed, I should have waited on you before, to have cleared up my character with you, had I thought I should have been so long kept on this side of the water."--I said, I was very sorry I had ever been uneasy, when I had two persons of so much honour--"Nay," said she, interrupting me, "you have no need to apologize; things looked bad enough, as they were presented to you, to justify greater uneasiness than you expressed." She asked me, who that pretty genteel Miss was?--I said, a relation of Lord Davers, who was entrusted lately to my care. "Then, Miss," said her ladyship, and kissed her, "you are very happy." Believing the Countess was desirous of being alone with me, I said, "My dear Miss Goodwin, won't you go to your little nursery, my love?" for so she calls my last blessing--"You'd be sorry the baby should cry for you." For she was so taken with the charming lady, that she was loth to leave us--But, on my saying this, withdrew. When we were alone, the Countess began her story, with a sweet confusion, which added to her loveliness. She said she would be brief, because she should exact all my attention, and not suffer me to interrupt her till she had done. She began with acknowledging, that she thought, when she first saw Mr. B. at the masquerade, that he was the finest gentleman she had ever seen; that the allowed freedoms of the place had made her take liberties in following him, and engaging him wherever he went. She blamed him very freely for passing for a single man; for that, she said, since she had so splendid a fortune of her own, was all she was solicitous about; having never, as she confessed, seen a man she could like so well; her former marriage having been in some sort forced upon her, at an age when she knew not how to distinguish; and that she was very loth to believe him married, even when she had no reason to doubt it. "Yet this I must say," said she, "I never heard a man, when he owned he was married, express himself with more affectionate regard and fondness than he did of you; which made me long to see you; for I had a great opinion of those personal advantages which every one flattered me with; and was very unwilling to yield the palm of beauty to you. "I believe you will censure me, Mrs. B., for permitting his visits after I knew he was married. To be sure, that was a thoughtless, and a faulty part of my conduct. But the world's saucy censures, and my friends' indiscreet interposals, incensed me; and, knowing the uprightness of my own heart, I was resolved to disgrace both, when I found they could not think worse of me than they did. "I am naturally of a high spirit, impatient of contradiction, always gave myself freedoms, for which, satisfied with my own innocence, I thought myself above being accountable to any body--And then Mr. B. has such noble sentiments, a courage and fearlessness, which I saw on more occasions than one, that all ladies who know the weakness of their own sex, and how much they want the protection of the brave, are taken with. Then his personal address was so peculiarly distinguishing, that having an opinion of his honour, I was embarrassed greatly how to deny myself his conversation; although, you'll pardon me, Mrs. B., I began to be afraid that my reputation might suffer in the world's opinion for the indulgence. "Then, when I had resolved, as I did several times, to see him no more, some unforeseen accident threw him in my way again, at one entertainment or other; for I love balls and concerts, and public diversions, perhaps, better than I ought; and then I had all my resolves to begin again. Yet this I can truly say, whatever his views were, I never heard from him the least indecent expression, nor saw in his behaviour to me much to apprehend; saving, I began to fear, that by his insinuating address, and noble manner, I should be too much in his power, and too little in my own, if I went on so little doubting, and so little alarmed, if ever he should avow dishonourable designs. "I had often lamented, that our sex were prohibited, by the designs of the other upon their honour, and by the world's censures, from conversing with the same ease and freedom with gentlemen, as with one another. And when once I asked myself, to what this conversation might tend at last? and where the pleasure each seemed to take in the other's, might possibly end? I resolved to break it off; and told him my resolution next time I saw him. But he stopped my mouth with a romantic notion, as I since think it, (though a sorry plea will have weight in favour of a proposal, to which one has no aversion) of Platonic love; and we had an intercourse by letters, to the number of six or eight, I believe, on that and other subjects. "Yet all this time, I was the less apprehensive, because he always spoke so tenderly, and even with delight, whenever he mentioned his lady; and I could not find, that you were at all alarmed at our acquaintance: for I never scrupled to send my letters, by my own livery, to your house, sealed with my own seal. At last, indeed, he began to tell me, that from the sweetest and evenest temper in the world, you seemed to be leaning towards melancholy, were always in tears, or shewed you had been weeping, when he came home; and that you did not make his return to you so agreeable as he used to find it. "I asked if it were not owing to some alteration in his own temper? If you might not be uneasy at our acquaintance, and at his frequent absence from you, and the like? He answered, No; that you were above disguises, were of a noble and frank nature, and would have hinted it to him, if you had. This, however, when I began to think seriously of the matter, gave me but little satisfaction; and I was more and more convinced, that my honour required it of me, to break off this intimacy. "And although I permitted Mr. B. to go with me to Tunbridge, when I went to take a house there, yet I was uneasy, as he saw. And, indeed, so was he, though he tarried a day or two longer than he designed, on account of a little excursion my sister and her lord, and he and I, made into Sussex, to see an estate I thought of purchasing; for he was so good as to look into my affairs, and has put them upon an admirable establishment. "His uneasiness, I found, was upon your account, and he sent you a letter to excuse himself for not waiting on you on Saturday, and to say, he would dine with you on Monday. And I remember when I said, 'Mr. B., you seem to be chagrined at something; you are more thoughtful than usual: 'his answer was, 'Madam, you are right, Mrs. B. and I have had a little misunderstanding. She is so solemn, and so melancholy of late, I fear it will be no difficult matter to put her out of her right mind: and I love her so well, that then I should hardly keep my own.' "'Is there no reason, think you,' said I, 'to imagine that your acquaintance with me gives her uneasiness? You know, Mr. B., how that villain T.' (a man," said she, "whose insolent address I rejected with the contempt it deserved) 'has slandered us. How know you, but he has found a way to your wife's ear, as he has done to my uncle's, and to all my friends'? And if so, it is best for us both to discontinue a friendship, that may be attended with disagreeable consequences.' "He said, he should find it out on his return. 'And will you,' said I, 'ingenuously acquaint me with the issue of your inquiries? for,' added I, 'I never beheld a countenance, in so young a lady, that seemed to mean more than Mrs. B.'s, when I saw her in town; and notwithstanding her prudence I could see a reserve and thoughtfulness in it, that, if it was not natural to it, must indicate too much.' "He wrote to me, in a very moving letter, the issue of your conference, and referred to some papers of your's, that he would shew me, as soon as he could procure them, they being of your own hands; and let me know that T. was the accuser, as I had suspected. "In brief, Madam, when you went down into Kent, he read to me some part of your account to Lady Davers, of your informant and information; your apprehensions; your prudence; your affection for him; the reason of your melancholy; and, to all appearance, reason enough you had, especially from the letter of Thomasine Fuller, which was one of T.'s vile forgeries: for though we had often, for argument's sake, talked of polygamy (he arguing for it, I against it), yet had not Mr. B. dared, nor was he inclined, I verily believe, to propose any such thing to me: no, Madam, I was not so much abandoned to a sense of honour, as to give reason for any one, but my impertinent and foolish uncle, to impute such a folly to me; and he had so behaved to me, that I cared not what _he_ thought. "Then, what he read to me, here and there, as he pleased, gave me reason to admire you for your generous opinion of one you had so much seeming cause to be afraid of: he told me his apprehensions, from your uncommon manner, that your mind was in some degree affected, and your strange proposal of parting with a husband every one knows you so dearly love: and we agreed to forbear seeing each other, and all manner of correspondence, except by letter, for one month, till some of my affairs were settled, which had been in great disorder, and were in his kind management then; and I had not one relation, whom I cared to trouble with them, because of their treatment of me on Mr. B.'s account. And this, I told him, should not be neither, but through your hands, and with your consent. "And thus, Madam," said her ladyship, "have I told you the naked truth of the whole affair. I have seen Mr. B. very seldom since: and when I have, it has been either at a horse-race, in the open field, or at some public diversion, by accident, where only distant civilities have passed between us. "I respect him greatly; you must allow me to say that. Except in the article of permitting me to believe, for some time, that he was a single gentleman, a fault he cannot be excused for, and which made me heartily quarrel with him, when I first knew it, he has behaved to me with so much generosity and honour, that I could have wished I had been of his sex, since he had a lady so much more deserving than myself; and then, had he had the same esteem for me, there never would have been a more perfect friendship. I am now going," continued she, "to embark for France, and shall pass a year or two in Italy; and then I shall, I hope, return as solid, as grave, as circumspect, though not so wise, as Mrs. B." Thus the Countess concluded her narrative: I said, I was greatly obliged to her for the honour of this visit, and the kind and considerate occasion of it: but that Mr. B. had made me entirely happy in every particular, and had done her ladyship the justice she so well deserved, having taken upon himself the blame of passing as a single man at his first acquaintance with her. I added, that I could hope her ladyship might be prevented, by some happy man, from leaving a kingdom, to which she was so great an ornament, as well by her birth, her quality and fortune, as by her perfections of person and mind. She said, she had not been the happiest of her sex in her former marriage: although nobody, her youth considered, thought her a bad wife; and her lord's goodness to her, at his death, had demonstrated his own favourable opinion of her by deeds, as he had done by words upon all occasions: but that she was yet young; a little too gay and unsettled: and had her head turned towards France and Italy, having passed some time in those countries, which she thought of with pleasure, though then only twelve or thirteen: that for this reason, and having been on a late occasion still more unsettled (looking down with blushes, which often overspread her face, as she talked), she had refused some offers, not despicable: that indeed Lord C. threatened to follow her to Italy, in hopes of meeting better success there, than he had met with here: but if he did, though she would make no resolutions, she might be too much offended with him, to give him reason to boast of his journey; and this the rather, as she believed he had once entertained no very honourable notions of her friendship for Mr. B. She wished to see Mr. B. and to take leave of him, but not out of my company, she was pleased to say.--"Your ladyship's consideration for me," replied I, "lays me under high obligation; but indeed, Madam, there is no occasion for it, from any diffidences I have in your's or Mr. B.'s honour. And if you will give me the pleasure of knowing when it will be most acceptable, I will beg of Mr. B. to oblige me with his company to return this favour, the first visit I make abroad." "You are very kind, Mrs. B.," said she: "but I think to go to Tunbridge for a fortnight, when I have disposed of every thing for my embarkation, and so set out from thence. And if you should then be both in Kent, I should be glad to take you at your word." To be sure, I said, Mr. B. at least, would attend her ladyship there, if any thing should happen to deprive me of that honour. "You are very obliging," said she, "I take great concern to myself, for having caused you a moment's uneasiness formerly: but I must now try to be circumspect, in order to retrieve my character, which has been so basely traduced by that presumptuous fellow Turner, who hoped, I suppose, by that means, to bring me down to his level." Her ladyship would not be prevailed upon to stay dinner; and, saying she would be at Wooburn all the next day, took a very tender leave of me, wishing me all manner of happiness, as I did her. Mr. B. came home in the evening, and next morning rode to Wooburn, to pay his respects to the Countess, and came back in the evening. Thus happily, and to the satisfaction of all three, as I hope, ended this perplexing affair. Mr. B. asks me how I relish Mr. Locke's _Treatise on Education_? which he put into my hands some time since, as I told your ladyship. I answered, Very well; and I thought it an excellent piece in the main. "I'll tell you," said he, "what you shall do. You have not shewed me any thing you have written for a good while. I could wish you to fill up your leisure-time with your observations on that treatise, that I may know what you can object to it; for you say _in the main_, which shews, that you do not entirely approve of every part of it." "But will not that be presumptuous, Sir?" "I admire Mr. Locke," replied he; "and I admire my Pamela. I have no doubt of his excellencies, but I want to know the sentiments of a young mother, as well as of a learned gentleman, upon the subject of education; because I have heard several ladies censure some part of his regimen, when I am convinced, that the fault lies in their own over-great fondness for their children." "As to myself, Sir, who, in the early part of my life, have not been brought up too tenderly, you will hardly meet with any objection to the part which I imagine you have heard most objected to by ladies who have been more indulgently treated in their first stage. But there are a few other things that want clearing up to my understanding; but, which, however, may be the fault of that." "Then, my dear," said he, "suppose me at a distance from you, cannot you give me your remarks in the same manner, as if you were writing to Lady Davers, or to Miss Darnford, that was?" "Yes, Sir, depending on your kind favour to me, I believe I could." "Do then; and the less restraint you write with, the more I shall be pleased with it. But I confine you not to time or place. We will make our excursions as I once proposed; and do you write to me now-and-then upon the subject; for the places and remarkables you will see, will be new only to yourself; nor will either of those ladies expect from you an itinerary, or a particular description of countries, which are better described by authors who have made it their business to treat upon those subjects. By this means, you will be usefully employed in your own way, which may turn to good account to us both, and to the dear children, which it may please God to bestow upon us." "You don't expect, Sir, any thing regular, or digested from me." "I don't, my dear. Let your fancy and your judgment be both employed, and I require no method; for I know, in your easy, natural way, that would be a confinement, which would cramp your genius, and give what you write a stiff, formal air, that I might expect in a pedagogue, but not in my Pamela." "Well, but, Sir, although I may write nothing to the purpose, yet if Lady Davers desires it, you will allow me to transmit what I shall write to her, when you have perused it yourself? For your good sister is so indulgent to my scribble, she will expect to be always hearing from me; and this way I shall oblige her ladyship while I obey her brother." "With all my heart," he was pleased to say. So, my lady, I shall now-and-then pay my respects to you in the writing way, though I must address myself, it seems, to my dearest Mr. B.; and I hope to be received on these my own terms, since they are your brother's also, and, at the same time, such as will convince you, how much I wish to approve myself, to the best of my poor ability, _your ladyship's most obliged sister, and humble servant_, P.B. LETTER XC My dearest Mr. B., I have been considering of your commands, in relation to Mr. Locke's book, and since you are pleased to give me time to acquit myself of the task, I shall beg to include in a little book my humble sentiments, as I did to Lady Davers, in that I shewed you in relation to the plays I had seen. And since you confine me not to time or place, I may be three or four years in completing it, because I shall reserve some subjects to my further experience in children's ways and tempers, and in order to benefit myself by the good instructions I shall receive from your delightful conversation, in that compass of time, if God spare us to one another: and then it will, moreover, be still worthier of the perusal of the most honoured and best beloved of all my correspondents, much honoured and beloved as they all are. I must needs say, my dear Mr. B., that this is a subject to which I was always particularly attentive; and among the charities your bountiful heart permits me to dispense to the poor and indigent, I have had always a watchful eye upon the children of such, and endeavoured, by questions put to them, as well as to their parents, to inform myself of their little ways and tempers, and how nature delights to work in different minds, and how it might be pointed to their good, according to their respective capacities; and I have for this purpose erected, with your approbation, a little school of seven or eight children, among which is four in the earliest stages, when they can but just speak, and call for what they want and love: and I am not a little pleased to observe, when I visit them in their school time that principles of goodness and virtue may be instilled into their little hearts much earlier than is usually imagined. And why should it not be so? for may not the child, that can tell its wants, and make known its inclination, be easily made sensible of _yours_, and what you expect from it, provided you take a proper method? For, sometimes, signs and tokens (and even looks), uniformly practised, will do as well as words; as we see in such of the young of the brute creation as we are disposed to domesticate, and to teach to practise those little tricks, of which the aptness or docility of their natures makes them capable. But yet, dearest Sir, I know not enough of the next stage, the _maturer_ part of life, to touch upon that as I wish to do: and yet there is a natural connection and progression from the one to the other: and I would not be thought a vain creature, who believes herself equal to _every_ subject, because she is indulged with the good opinion of her friends, in a _few_, which are supposed to be within her own capacity. For, I humbly conceive, that it is no small point of wisdom to know, and not to mistake, one's own talents: and for this reason, permit me, Sir, to suspend, till I am better qualified for it, even my own proposal of beginning my little book; and, in the mean time, to touch upon a few places of the admirable author, that seem to me to warrant another way of thinking, than that which he prescribes. But, dear Sir, let me premise, that all that your dear babies can demand of my attention for some time to come, is their health; and God has blessed them with such sound limbs, and, to all appearances, good constitutions, that I have very little to do, but to pray for them every time I pray for their dear papa; and that is hourly; and yet not so often as you confer upon me benefits and favours, and new obligations, even to the prevention of all my wishes, were I to sit down and study for what must be the next. As to this point of _health_, Mr. Locke gives these plain and easy to be observed rules. He prescribes first, _plenty of open air_. That this is right, the infant will inform one, who, though it cannot speak, will make signs to be carried abroad, and is never so well pleased, as when enjoying the open and free air; for which reason I conclude, that this is one of those natural pointings, as I may say, that are implanted in every creature, teaching it to choose its good, and to avoid its evil. _Sleep_ is the next, which he enjoins to be indulged to its utmost extent: an admirable rule, as I humbly conceive; since sound sleep is one of the greatest nourishers of nature, both to the once young and to the _twice_ young, if I may use the phrase. And I the rather approve of this rule, because it keeps the nurse unemployed, who otherwise may be doing it the greatest mischief, by cramming and stuffing its little bowels, till ready to burst. And, if I am right, what an inconsiderate and foolish, as well as pernicious practice it is, for a nurse to _waken_ the child from its nourishing sleep, for fear it should suffer by hunger, and instantly pop the breast into its pretty mouth, or provoke it to feed, when it has no inclination to either, and for want of digestion, must have its nutriment turned to repletion, and bad humours! Excuse me, dear Sir, these lesser particulars. Mr. Locke begins with them; and surely they may be allowed in a young _mamma_, writing (however it be to a gentleman of genius and learning) to a _papa_, on a subject, that in its lowest beginnings ought not to be unattended to by either. I will therefore pursue my excellent author without farther apology, since you have put his work into my hands. The next thing, then, which he prescribes, is _plain diet_. This speaks for itself, for the baby can have no corrupt taste to gratify: all is pure, as out of the hand of Nature; and what is not plain and natural, must vitiate and offend. Then, _no wine_, or _strong drink_. Equally just; and for the same reasons. _Little_ or _no physic_. Undoubtedly right. For the _use_ of physic, without necessity, or by way of _precaution_, as some call it, begets the _necessity_ of physic; and the very _word_ supposes _distemper_ or _disorder_; and where there is none, would a parent beget one; or, by frequent use, render the salutary force of medicine ineffectual, when it was wanted? Next, he forbids _too warm_ and _too strait clothing_. This is just as I wish it. How often has my heart ached, when I have seen poor babies rolled and swathed, ten or a dozen times round; then blanket upon blanket, mantle upon that; its little neck pinned down to one posture; its head, more than it frequently needs, triple-crowned like a young pope, with covering upon covering; its legs and arms, as if to prevent that kindly stretching, which we rather ought to promote, when it is in health, and which is only aiming at growth and enlargement, the former bundled up, the latter pinned down; and how the poor thing lies on the nurse's lap, a miserable little pinioned captive, goggling and staring with its eyes, the only organ it has at liberty, as if supplicating for freedom to its fettered limbs! Nor has it any comfort at all, till with a sigh or two, like a dying deer, it drops asleep; and happy then will it be till the officious nurse's care shall awaken it for its undesired food, as if resolved to try its constitution, and willing to see how many difficulties it could overcome. Then he advises, that the head and feet should be kept cold; and the latter often used to cold water, and exposed to wet, in order to lay the foundation, as he says, of an healthy and hardy constitution. Now, Sir, what a pleasure it is to your Pamela, that her notions, and her practice too, fall in so exactly with this learned gentleman's advice that, excepting one article, which is, that your Billy has not yet been accustomed to be _wet-shod_, every other particular has been observed! And don't you see what a charming, charming baby he is?--Nay, and so is your little Davers, for his age--pretty soul! Perhaps some, were they to see this, would not be so ready, as I know _you_ will be, to excuse me; and would be apt to say, "What nursery impertinences are these to trouble a man with!"--But with all their wisdom, they would be mistaken; for if a child has not good health, (and are not these rules the moral foundation, as I may say, of that blessing?) its animal organs will play but poorly in a weak or crazy case. These, therefore, are necessary rules to be observed for the first two or three years: for then the little buds of their minds will begin to open, and their watchful mamma will be employed like a skilful gardener, in assisting and encouraging the charming flower through its several hopeful stages to perfection, when it shall become one of the principal ornaments of that delicate garden, your honoured family. Pardon me, Sir, if in the above paragraph I am too figurative. I begin to be afraid I am out of my sphere, writing to your dear self, on these important subjects. But be that as it may, I will here put an end to this my first letter (on the earliest part of my subject), rejoicing in the opportunity you have given me of producing a fresh instance of that duty and affection, wherewith I am, and shall ever be, my dearest Mr. B., _your grateful, happy_, P.B. LETTER XCI I will now, my dearest, my best beloved correspondent of all, begin, since the tender age of my dear babies will not permit me to have an eye yet to their _better_ part, to tell you what are the little matters to which I am not quite so well reconciled in Mr. Locke: and this I shall be better enabled to do, by my observations upon the temper and natural bent of my dear Miss Goodwin, as well as by those which my visits to the bigger children of my little school, and those at the cottages adjacent, have enabled me to make; for human nature, Sir, you are not to be told, is human nature, whether in the high-born, or in the low. This excellent author (Section 52), having justly disallowed of slavish and corporal punishments in the education of those we would have to be wise, good, and ingenuous men, adds, "On the other side, to flatter children by rewards of things that are pleasant to them, is as carefully to be avoided. He that will give his son apples, or sugar-plums, or what else of this kind he is most delighted with, to make him learn his book, does but authorize his love of pleasure, and cockers up that dangerous propensity, which he ought, by all means, to subdue and stifle in him. You can never hope to teach him to master it, whilst you compound for the check you give his inclination in one place, by the satisfaction you propose to it in another. To make a good, a wise, and a virtuous man, 'tis fit he should learn to cross his appetite, and deny his inclination to riches, finery, or pleasing his palate, &c." This, Sir, is well said; but is it not a little too philosophical and abstracted, not only for the generality of children, but for the age he supposes them to be of, if one may guess by the apples and the sugar-plums proposed for the rewards of their well-doing?--Would not this require that memory or reflection in children, which, in another place, is called the concomitant of prudence and age, and not of childhood? It is undoubtedly very right, to check an unreasonable appetite, and that at its first appearance. But if so small and so reasonable an inducement will prevail, surely, Sir, it might be complied with. A generous mind takes delight to win over others by good usage and mildness, rather than by severity; and it must be a great pain to such an one, to be always inculcating, on his children or pupils, the doctrine of self-denial, by methods quite grievous to his own nature. What I would then humbly propose, is, that the encouragements offered to youth, should, indeed, be innocent ones, as the gentleman enjoins, and not such as would lead to luxury, either of food or apparel; but I humbly think it necessary, that rewards, proper rewards, should be proposed as incentives to laudable actions: for is it not by this method that the whole world is influenced and governed? Does not God himself, by rewards and punishments, make it our interest, as well as our duty, to obey him? And can we propose ourselves, for the government of our children, a better example than that of the Creator? This fine author seems to think he had been a little of the strictest, and liable to some exception. "I say not this," proceeds he, (Section 53) "that I would have children kept from the conveniences or pleasures of life, that are not injurious to their health or virtue. On the contrary, I would have their lives made as pleasant and as agreeable to them as may be, in a plentiful enjoyment of whatsoever might innocently delight them."-And yet he immediately subjoins a very hard and difficult proviso to this indulgence.--"Provided," says he, "it be with this caution, that they have those enjoyments only as the consequences of the state of esteem and acceptation they are in with their parents and governors." I doubt, my dear Mr. B., this is expecting such a distinction and discretion in children, as they seldom have in their tender years, and requiring capacities not commonly to be met with; so that it is not prescribing to the _generality_, as this excellent author intended. 'Tis, I humbly conceive, next to impossible that their tender minds should distinguish beyond facts; they covet this or that play-thing, and the parent, or governor, takes advantage of its desires, and annexes to the indulgence such or such a task or duty, as a condition; and shews himself pleased with its compliance with it: so the child wins its plaything, and receives the commendation so necessary to lead on young minds to laudable pursuits. But shall it not be suffered to enjoy the innocent reward of its compliance, unless it can give satisfaction, that its greatest delight is not in having the thing coveted, but in performing the task, or obeying the injunctions imposed upon it as a condition of its being obliged? I doubt, Sir, this is a little too strict, and not to be expected from children. A servant, full-grown, would not be able to shew, that, on condition he complied with such and such terms (which, it is to be supposed by the offer, he would not have complied with, but for that inducement), he should have such and such a reward; I say, he would hardly be able to shew, that he preferred the pleasure of performing the requisite conditions to the stipulated reward. Nor is it necessary he should: for he is not the less a good servant, or a virtuous man, if he own the conditions painful, and the reward necessary to his low state in the world, and that otherwise he would not undergo any service at all.--Why then should this be exacted from a child? Let, therefore, innocent rewards be proposed, and let us be contented to lead on the ductile minds of children to a love of their duty, by obliging them with such: we may tell them what we expect in this case; but we ought not, I humbly conceive, to be too rigorous in exacting it; for, after all, the inducement will naturally be the uppermost consideration with the child: not, as I hinted, had it been offered to it, if the parent himself had not thought so. And, therefore, we can only let the child know his duty in this respect, and that he _ought_ to give a preference to that; and then rest ourselves contented, although we should discern, that the reward is the chief incentive, of it. For this, from whatever motive inculcated, may beget a habit in the child of doing it: and then, as it improves in years, one may hope, that reason will take place, and enable him, from the most solid and durable motives, to give a preference to the duty. Upon the whole, then, can we insist upon it, that the child should so nicely distinguish away its little _innate_ passions, as if we expected it to be born a philosopher? Self-denial is, indeed, a most excellent doctrine to be inculcated into children, and it must be done _early_: but we must not be too severe in our exacting it; for a duty too rigidly insisted upon, will make it odious. This Mr. Locke, too, observes in another place, on the head of too great severity; which he illustrates by a familiar comparison: "Offensive circumstances," says he, "ordinarily infect innocent things which they are joined with. And the very sight of a cup, wherein any one uses to take nauseous physic, turns his stomach; so that nothing will relish well out of it, though the cup be never so clean and well-shaped, and of the richest materials." Permit me to add, that Mr. Locke writes still more rigorously on the subject of rewards; which I quote, to shew I have not misunderstood him: "But these enjoyments," says he, "should _never_ be offered or bestowed on children, as the rewards of this or that particular performance that they shew an aversion to, or to which they would not have applied themselves without that temptation." If, dear Sir, the minds of children can be led on by innocent inducements to the performance of a duty, of which they are capable, what I have humbly offered, is enough, I presume, to convince one, that it _may_ be done. But if ever a particular study be proposed to be mastered, or a bias to be overcome (that is not an _indispensable_ requisite to his future life of morals) to which the child shews an aversion, I would not, methinks, have him be too much tempted or compelled to conquer or subdue it, especially if it appear to be a _natural_ or rivetted aversion. For, permit me to observe, that the education and studies of children ought, as much as possible, to be suited to their capacities and inclination, and, by these means, we may expect to have always _useful_ and often _great_ men, in different professions; for that genius which does not prompt to the prosecution of one study, may shine in another no less necessary part of science. But, if the promise of innocent rewards _would_ conquer this aversion, yet they should not be applied with this view; for the best consequences that can be hoped for, will be tolerable skill in one thing, instead of most excellent in another. Nevertheless, I must repeat, that if, as the child grows up, and is capable of so much reason, that, from the love of the _inducement_, one can raise his mind to the love of the _duty_, it should be done by all means. But, my dear Mr. B., I am afraid that _that_ parent or tutor will meet with but little success, who, in a child's tender years, shall refuse to comply with its foibles, till he sees it value its duty, and the pleasure of obeying his commands, beyond the little enjoyment on which his heart is fixed. For, as I humbly conceive, that mind which can be brought to prefer its duty to its appetites, will want little of the perfection of the wisest philosophers. Besides, Sir, permit to me say, that I am afraid this perpetual opposition between the passions of the child and the duty to be enforced, especially when it sees how other children are indulged (for if this regimen could be observed by _any_, it would be impossible it should become _general_, while the fond and the inconsiderate parents are so large a part of mankind), will cow and dispirit a child, and will, perhaps produce, a necessity of making use of severity, to subdue him to this temper of self-denial; for if the child refuses, the parent must insist; and what will be the consequence? must it not introduce a harsher discipline than this gentleman allows of?--and which, I presume to say, did never yet do good to any but to slavish and base spirits, if to them; a discipline which Mr. Locke every where justly condemns. See here, dear Sir, a specimen of the presumption of your girl: "What will she come to in time!" you will perhaps say, "Her next step will be to arraign myself." No, no, dear Sir, don't think so: for my duty, my love, and my reverence, shall be your guards, and defend you from every thing saucy in me, but the bold approaches of my gratitude, winch shall always testify for me, how much I am _your obliged and dutiful servant_, P.B. LETTER XCII MY DEAREST MR. B., I will continue my subject, although I have not had an opportunity to know whether you approve of my notions or not by reason of the excursions you have been pleased to allow me to make in your beloved company to the sea-ports of this kingdom, and to the more noted inland towns of Essex, Kent, Sussex, Hampshire, and Dorsetshire, which have given me infinite delight and pleasure, and enlarged my notions of the wealth and power of the kingdom, in which God's goodness has given you so considerable a stake. My next topic will be upon a _home_ education, which Mr. Locke prefers, for several weighty reasons, to a _school_ one, provided such a tutor can be procured, as he makes next to an impossibility to procure. The gentleman has set forth the inconveniencies of both, and was himself so discouraged, on a review of them, that he was ready, as he says, to throw up his pen. My chief cares, dear Sir, on this head, are three: 1st, The difficulty which, as I said, Mr. Locke makes almost insuperable, to find a qualified tutor. 2ndly, The necessity there is, according to Mr. Locke, of keeping the youth out of the company of the meaner servants, who may set him bad examples. And, 3rdly, Those still greater difficulties which will arise from the example of his parents, if they are not very discreet and circumspect. As to the qualifications of the tutor, Mr. Locke supposes, that he is to be so learned, so discreet, so wise, in short, so _perfect_ a man, that I doubt, and so does Mr. Locke, such an one can hardly be met with for this _humble_ and _slavish_ employment. I presume, Sir, to call it so, because of the too little regard that is generally paid to these useful men in the families of the great, where they are frequently put upon a foot with the uppermost servants, and the rather, if they happen to be men of modesty. "I would," says he, "from children's first beginning to talk, have some discreet, sober, nay, _wise_ person about them, whose care it should be to fashion them right, and to keep them from all ill; especially the infection of bad company. I think this province requires great sobriety, temperance, tenderness, diligence, and discretion; qualities hardly to be found united in persons that are to be had for ordinary salaries, nor easily to be found any where." If this, Sir, be the case, does not this excellent author recommend a scheme that is rendered in a manner impracticable from this difficulty? As to these qualities being more rarely to be met with in persons that are to be had for _ordinary salaries_, I cannot help being of opinion (although, with Mr. Locke, I think no expence should be spared, if that _would_ do) that there is as good a chance for finding a proper person among the needy scholars (if not of a low and sordid turn of mind) as among the more affluent: because the narrow circumstances of the former (which probably became a spur to his own improvement) will, it is likely, at first setting out in the world, make him be glad to embrace such an offer in a family which has interest enough to prefer him, and will quicken his diligence to make him _deserve_ preferment; and if such an one wanted any of that requisite politeness, which some would naturally expect from scholars of better fortune, might not that be supplied to the youth by the conversation of parents, relations, and visitors, in conjunction with those other helps which young men of family and large expectations constantly have, and which few learned tutors can give him? I say not this to countenance the wretched niggardliness (which this gentleman justly censures) of those who grudge a handsome consideration to so necessary and painful a labour as that of a tutor, which, where a deserving man can be met with, cannot be too genteelly rewarded, nor himself too respectfully treated. I only beg to deliver my opinion, that a low condition is as likely as any other, with a mind not ungenerous, to produce a man who has these good qualities, as well for the reasons I have hinted at, as for others which might be mentioned. But Mr. Locke thus proceeds: "To form a young gentleman as he should be, 'tis fit his governor should be well bred, understand the ways of carriage, and measures of civility, in all the variety of _persons_, _times_, and _places_ and keep his pupil, as far as his age requires, constantly to the observation of them. This is an art not to be learnt or taught by books.--Nothing can give it but good company and observation joined together." And in another place says, "Besides being well-bred, the tutor should know the world well; the ways, the humours, the follies, the cheats, the faults of the age he has fallen into, and particularly of the country he lives in: these he should be able to shew to his pupil, as he finds him capable; teach him skill in men and their manners; pull off the mask which their several callings and pretences cover them with; and make his pupil discern what lies at the bottom, under such appearances, that he may not, as unexperienced young men are apt to do, if they are unwarned, take one thing for another, judge by the outside, and give himself up to show, and the insinuations of a fair carriage, or an obliging application; teach him to guess at, and beware of, the designs of men he hath to do with, neither with too much suspicion, nor too much confidence." This, dear Sir, is excellently said: 'tis noble _theory_; and if the tutor be a man void of resentment and caprice, and will not be governed by partial considerations, in his own judgment of persons and things, all will be well: but if otherwise, may he not take advantage of the confidence placed in him, to the injury of some worthy person, and by degrees monopolize the young gentleman to himself, and govern his passions as absolutely, as I have heard some first ministers have done those of their prince, equally to his own personal disreputation, and to the disadvantage of his people? But all this, and much more, according to Mr. Locke, is the duty of a tutor: and on the finding out such an one, depends his scheme of a home education. No wonder, then, that he himself says, "When I consider the scruples and cautions I here lay in your way, methinks it looks as if I advised you to something which I would have offered at, but in effect not done," &c.--Permit me, dear Sir, in this place to express my fear that it is hardly possible for any one, with talents inferior to those of Mr. Locke himself, to come up to the rules he has laid down upon this subject; and 'tis to be questioned, whether even _he_, with all that vast stock of natural reason and solid sense, for which, as you tell me, Sir, he was so famous, had attained to these perfections, at his first setting out into life. Now, therefore, dear Sir, you can't imagine how these difficulties perplex me, as to my knowing how to judge which is best, a _home_ or a _school_ education. For hear what this excellent author justly observes on the latter, among other things, no less to the purpose: "I am sure, he who is able to be at the charge of a tutor at home, may there give his son a more genteel carriage, more manly thoughts, and a sense of what is worthy and becoming, with a greater proficiency in learning, into the bargain, and ripen him up sooner into a man, than any school can do. Not that I blame the schoolmaster in this," says he, "or think it to be laid to his charge. The difference is great between two or three pupils in the same house, and three or four score boys lodged up and down; for, let the master's industry and skill be never so great, it is impossible he should have fifty or an hundred scholars under his eye any longer than they are in the school together." But then, Sir, if there be such a difficulty as Mr. Locke says, to meet with a proper tutor for the home education, which he thus prefers, what a perplexing thing is this. But still, according to this gentleman, another difficulty attends a home education; and that is, what I hinted at before, in my second article, the necessity of keeping the youth out of the company of the meaner servants, who may set him bad examples. For thus he says, "Here is another great inconvenience, which children receive from the ill examples which they meet with from the meaner servants. They are _wholly_, if possible, to be kept from such conversation: for the contagion of these ill precedents, both in civility and virtue, horribly infects children, as often as they come within the reach of it. They frequently learn from unbred or debauched servants, such language, untowardly tricks and vices, as otherwise they would be ignorant of all their lives. 'Tis a hard matter wholly to prevent this mischief," continues he; "you will have very good luck, if you never have a clownish or vicious servant, and if from them your children never get any infection." Then, Sir, my third point (which I mentioned in the beginning of this letter) makes a still stronger objection, as it may happen, against a home education; to wit, the example of the parents themselves, if they be not very circumspect and discreet. All these difficulties being put together, let me, dear Sir, humbly propose it, as a matter for your consideration and determination, whether there be not a middle way to be found out in a school education, that may remedy some of these inconveniencies? For suppose you cannot get a tutor so qualified as Mr. Locke thinks he ought to be, for your Billy as he grows up. Suppose there is danger from your meaner servants; or we his parents should not be able to lay ourselves under the requisite restraints, in order to form his mind by our own examples, which I hope, by God's grace, however, will not be the case--Cannot some master be found, who shall be so well rewarded for his care of a _few_ young gentlemen, as to make it worth his while to be contented with those _few?_--suppose from five to eight at most; whose morals and breeding he may attend to, as well as to their learning? The farther this master lives from the young gentleman's friends, the better it may be. We will hope, that he is a man of a mild disposition, but strict in his discipline, and who shall make it a rule not to give correction for small faults, or till every other method has been tried; who carries such a just dignity in his manner, without the appearance of tyranny, that his looks may be of greater force than the blows of others; and who will rather endeavour to shame than terrify, a youth out of his faults. Then, suppose this gentleman was to allot a particular portion of time for the _more learned_ studies; and before the youth was tired with _them_, suppose another portion was allotted for the _writing_ and _arithmetic_; and then to relieve his mind from both, suppose the _dancing-master_ should take his part; and innocent exercises of mere diversion, to fill up the rest, at his own choice, in which, diverted by such a rotation of employments (all thus rendered delightful by their successive variety), he would hardly wish to pass much time. For the dancing of itself, with the dancing-master's instruction, if a well-bred man, will answer both parts, that of breeding and that of exercise: and thus different studies at once be mastered. Moreover, the emulation which will be inspired, where there are several young gentlemen, will be of inconceivable use both to tutor and pupil, in lessening the trouble of the one, and advancing the learning of the other, which cannot be expected where there is but a single youth to be taken care of. Such a master will know it to be his interest, as well as duty, to have a watchful eye over the conduct and behaviour of his servants. His assistants, in the different branches of science and education, will be persons of approved prudence, for whom he will think himself answerable, since his own _reputation_, as well as _livelihood_, will depend upon their behaviour. The youths will have young gentlemen for their companions, all under the influence of the same precepts and directions; and if some chosen period were fixed, as a reward for some excellence, where, at a little desk, raised a step or two above the other seats, the excelling youth should be set to read, under the master's direction, a little portion from the best translations of the Greek and Roman historians, and even from the best English authors; this might, in a very engaging manner, initiate them into the knowledge of the history of past times, and of their own country, and give them a curiosity to pass some of their vacant hours in the same laudable pursuit: for, dear Sir, I must still insist that rewards, and innocent gratifications, as also little honours and distinctions, must needs be very attractive to the minds of youth. For, is not the pretty ride, and dairy house breakfasting, by which Miss Goodwin's governess distinguishes the little ladies who excel in their allotted tasks, a fine encouragement to their ductile minds?--Yes, it is, to be sure!--And I have often thought of it with pleasure, and partaken of the delight with which I have supposed their pretty hearts must be filled with on that occasion. And why may not such little triumphs be, in proportion, as incentives, to children, to make them try to master laudable tasks; as the Roman triumphs, of different kinds, and their mural and civic crowns, all which I have heard you speak of, were to their heroes and warriors of old? For Mr. Dryden well observes, that-- "Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites are apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain." Permit me. Sir, to transcribe four or five lines more, for the beauty of the thought: "And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing: But like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view--" Improving the thought: methinks I can see the dear little Miss, who has, in some eminent task, borne away the palm, make her public entry, as I may call it, after her dairy breakfast and pretty airing, into the governess's court-yard, through a row of her school-fellows, drawn out on each side to admire her; her governess and assistants receiving her at the porch, their little capitol, and lifting her out with applauses and encomiums, with a _Thus shall it be done to the Miss, whom her governess delighteth to honour!_ I see not why the dear Miss in this case, as she moves through her admiring school-fellows, may not have her little heart beat with as much delight, be as gloriously elated, proportionably, as that of the greatest hero in his triumphal car, who has returned from exploits, perhaps, much less laudable. But how I ramble!--Yet surely, Sir, you don't expect method or connection from your girl. The education of our sex will not permit that, where it is best. We are forced to struggle for knowledge, like the poor feeble infant in the month, who is pinned and fettered down upon the nurse's lap; and who, if its little arms happen, by chance, to escape its nurse's observation, and offer but to expand themselves, are immediately taken into custody, and pinioned down to their passive behaviour. So, when a poor girl, in spite of her narrow education, breaks out into notice, her genius is immediately tamed by trifling employments, lest, perhaps, she should become the envy of one sex, and the equal of the other. But you. Sir, act more nobly with your Pamela; for you throw in her way all opportunities of improvement; and she has only to regret, that she cannot make a better use of them, and, of consequence, render herself more worthy of your generous indulgence. I know not how, Sir, to recover my thread; and so must break off with that delight which I always take when I come near the bottom of my letters to your dear self; because then I can boast of the honour which I have in being _your ever dutiful_, P.B. LETTER XCIII Well, but, my dear Mr. B., you will perhaps think, from my last rambling letter, that I am most inclined to a _school_ education for your Billy, and some years hence, if it should please God to spare him to us. Yet I cannot say that I am; I only lay several things together in my usual indigested way, to take your opinion upon, which, as it ought, will be always decisive with me. And indeed I am so thoroughly convinced by Mr. Locke's reasons, where the behaviour of servants can be so well answered for, as that of yours can be, and where the example of the parents will be, as I hope, rather edifying than otherwise, that without being swayed, as I think, by maternal fondness, in this case, I must needs give a preference to the home education; and the little scheme I presumed to form in my last, was only on a supposition, that those necessary points could not be so well secured. In my observations on this head, I shall take the liberty, in one or two particulars, a little to differ from an author, that I admire exceedingly; and that is the present design of my writing these letters; for I shall hereafter, if God spare my life, in my little book (when you have kindly decided upon the points in which I presume to differ) shew you, Sir, my great reverence and esteem for him; and can then let you know all my sentiments on this important subject, and that more undoubtedly, as I shall be more improved by years and your conversation; especially, Sir, if I have the honour and happiness of a foreign tour with you, of which you give me hope; so much are you pleased with the delight I take in these improving excursions, which you have now favoured me with, at different times, through more than half the kingdom. Well then, Sir, I will proceed to consider a little more particularly the subject of a home education, with an eye to those difficulties, of which Mr. Locke takes notice, as I mentioned in my last. As to the first, that of finding a qualified tutor; we must not expect so much perfection, I doubt, as he lays down as necessary. What, therefore, I humbly conceive is best to be done, will be to avoid choosing a man of bigoted and narrow principles; who yet shall not be tainted with sceptical or heterodox notions, nor a mere scholar or pedant; who has travelled, and yet preserved his moral character untainted; and whose behaviour and carriage is easy, unaffected, unformal, and genteel, as well acquiredly as naturally so, if possible; who shall not be dogmatical, positive, overbearing, on one hand; nor too yielding, suppliant, fawning, on the other; who shall study the child's natural bent, in order to direct his studies to the point he is most likely to excel in; and to preserve the respect due to his own character from every one, he must not be a busy body in the family, a whisperer, a tale-bearer, but of a benevolent turn of mind, ready to compose differences; who shall avoid, of all things, that foppishness of dress and appearance, which distinguishes the _petit-maitres_, and French ushers (that I have seen at some boarding schools), for coxcombs rather than guides of education: for, as I have heard you, my best tutor, often observe, the peculiarities of habit, where a person aims at something fantastic, or out of character, are an undoubted sign of a wrong head; for such a one is so kind as always to hang out on his sign what sort of furniture he has in his shop, to save you the trouble of asking questions about him; so that one may as easily know by his outward appearance what he _is_, as one can know a widow by her weeds. Such a person as I have thus negatively described, may be found without very much difficulty, perhaps, because some of these requisites are personal, and others are such as are obvious at first sight, to a common penetration; or, where not so, may be found out, by inquiry into his general character and behaviour: and to the care of such a one, dear Sir, let me suppose your Billy is committed: and so we acquit ourselves of the first difficulty, as well as we can, that of the tutor; who, to become more perfect, may form himself, as to what he wants, by Mr. Locke's excellent rules on that head. But before I quit this subject, I beg to remind you of your opinion upon it, in a conversation with Sir George Stuart, and his nephew, in London; in which you seemed to prefer a Scottish gentleman for a tutor, to those of your own nation, and still more than to those of France? Don't you remember it, dear Sir? And how much those gentlemen were pleased with your facetious freedom with their country, and said, you made them amends for that, in your preference to their learned and travelled youth? If you have forgot it, I will here transcribe it from my _records_, as I call my book of memorandums; for every time I am pleased with a conversation, and have leisure, before it quits my memory, I enter it down in as near the very words as I can; and now you have made me your correspondent, I shall sometimes, perhaps, give you back some valuables from your own treasure.--Miss Darnford, and Mr. Turner, and Mr. Fanshaw, were present, I well remember. These were your words: "Since the union of the two kingdoms, we have many persons of condition, who have taken their tutors for their sons from Scotland; which practice, to speak impartially, has been attended with some advantageous circumstances, that should not be overlooked. For, Sir George, it must be confessed that, notwithstanding your narrow and stiff manner of education in Scotland, a spirit of manly learning, a kind of poetic liberty, as I may call it, has begun to exert itself in that part of the island. The blustering north--forgive me, gentlemen--seems to have hardened the foreheads of her hungry sons; and the keenness with which they set out for preferment in the kindlier south, has taught them to know a good deal of the world betimes. Through the easy terms on which learning is generally attained there, as it is earlier inculcated, so it may, probably, take deeper root: and since 'tis hardly possible--forgive me, dear Sirs--they can go to a worse country on this side Greenland, than some of the northern parts of Scotland; so their education, with a view to travel, and to better themselves by settlements in other countries, may, perhaps, be so many reasons to take greater pains to qualify themselves for this employment, and may make them succeed better in it; especially when they have been able to shake off the fetters which are rivetted upon them under the narrow influence of a too tyrannical kirk discipline, which you, Sir George, have just now so freely censured. "To these considerations, when we add the necessity, which these remote tutors lie under, of behaving well; first, because they seldom wish to return to their own country; and next, because _that_ cannot prefer them, if it would; and thirdly, because it would not, if it could, if the gentleman be of an enlarged genius, and generous way of thinking; I say, when we add to the premises these considerations, they all make a kind of security for their good behaviour: while those of our own country have often friends or acquaintances on whose favour they are apt to depend, and for that reason give less attention to the duties requisite for this important office. "Besides, as their kind friend �olus, who is accustomed to spread and strengthen the bold muscles of the strong-featured Scot, has generally blown away that inauspicious bashfulness, which hangs a much longer time, commonly, on the faces of the southern students; such a one (if he fall not too egregiously into the contrary extreme, so as to become insufferable) may still be the more eligible person for a tutor, as he may teach a young gentleman, betimes, that necessary presence of mind, which those who are confined to a private education sometimes want. "But, after all, if a gentleman of this nation be chosen for this employment, it may be necessary that he should be one who has had as genteel and free an education himself, as his country will afford; and the native roughness of his climate filed off by travel and conversation; who has made, at least, the tour of France and Italy, and has a taste for the politeness of the former nation: but from the boisterousness of a North Britain, and the fantastic politeness of a Frenchman, if happily blended, such a mixture may result, as will furnish out a more complete tutor, than either of the two nations, singly, may be able to produce. But it ought to be remembered that this person must have conquered his native brogue, as I may call it, and be a master of the English pronunciation; otherwise his conversation will be disagreeable to an English ear. "And permit me to add, that, as an acquaintance with the Muses contributes not a little to soften the manners, and give a graceful and delicate turn to the imagination, and a kind of polish to severer studies, it would not be amiss that he should have a taste of poetry, although perhaps it were not to be wished he had such strong inclinations that way, as to make that lively and delectable amusement his predominant passion: for we see very few poets, whose warm imaginations do not run away with their judgments. And yet, in order to learn the dead languages in their purity, it will be necessary to inculcate both the love and the study of the ancient poets, which cannot fail of giving the youth a taste for poetry, in general." Permit me, dear Sir, to ask you, whether you advanced this for argument sake, as sometimes you love to amuse and entertain your friends in an uncommon way? For I should imagine, that our two universities, which you have shewn me, and for which I have ever since had a greater reverence than I had before, are capable of furnishing as good tutors as any nation in the world: for here the young gentlemen seem to me to live both in the _world_ and in the _university_; and we saw several gentlemen who had not only fine parts, but polite behaviour, and deep learning, as you assured me; some of whom you entertained, and were entertained by, in so elegant a manner, that no travelled gentleman, if I may be allowed to judge, could excel them! And besides, my dear Mr. B., I know who is reckoned one of the politest and best-bred gentlemen in England by every body, and learned as well as polite, and yet had his education in one of those celebrated seats of learning. I wish your Billy may never fall short of the gentleman I mean, in all these acquirements; and he will be a very happy creature, I am sure. But how I wander again from my subject. I have no other way to recover myself, when I thus ramble, but by returning to that one delightful point of reflection, that I have the honour to be, dearest Sir, _your ever dutiful and obliged_, P.B. LETTER XCIV DEAREST SIR, I now resume my subject. I had gone through the article of the tutor, as well as I could; and will now observe upon what Mr. Locke says, That children are wholly, if possible, to be kept from the conversation of the meaner servants; whom he supposes to be, as too frequently they are, _unbred_ and _debauched_, to use his own words. Now, Sir, I think it is very difficult to keep children from the conversation of servants at all times. The care of personal attendance, especially in the child's early age, must fall upon servants of one denomination or other, who, little or much, must be conversant with the inferior servants, and so be liable to be tainted by their conversation; and it will be difficult in this case to prevent the taint being communicated to the child. Wherefore it will be a _surer_, as well as a more _laudable_ method, to insist upon the regular behaviour of the whole family, than to expect the child, and its immediate attendant or tutor, should be the only good ones in it. Nor is this so difficult to effect, as may be imagined. Your family affords an eminent instance of it: the good have been confirmed, the remiss have been reformed, the passionate have been tamed; and there is not a family in the kingdom, I will venture to say, to the honour of every individual in it, more uniform, more regular, and freer from evil, and more regardful of what they say and do, than yours. And you will allow, that though always honest, yet they were not always so laudable, so exemplarily virtuous, as of late: which I mention only to shew the practicableness of a reformation, even where bad habits have taken place--For your Pamela, Sir, arrogates not to herself the honour of this change: 'tis owing to the Divine grace shining upon hearts naturally good; for else an example so easy, so plain, so simple, from so young a mistress, who moreover had been exalted from their own station, could not have been attended with such happy effects. You see, dear Sir, what a master and mistress's example could do, with a poor soul so far gone as Mrs. Jewkes. And I dare be confident, that if, on the hiring of a new servant, sobriety of manners and a virtuous conversation were insisted upon, and a general inoffensiveness in words as well as actions was required from them, as indispensable conditions of their service: and that a breach of that kind would be no more passed over, than a wilful fraud, or an act of dishonesty; and if, added to these requisites, their principals take care to support these injunctions by their own example; I say, then, I dare be confident, that if such a service did not _find_ them good, it would _make_ them so. And why should we not think this a very practicable scheme, considering the servants we take are at years of discretion, and have the strong ties of _interest_ superadded to the obligations we require of them? and which, they must needs know (let 'em have what bad habits they will) are right for _themselves_ to discharge, as well as for _us_ to exact. We all know of how much force the example of superiors is to inferiors. It is too justly said, that the courts of princes abound with the most profligate of men, insomuch that a man cannot well have a more significantly bad title, than that of COURTIER: yet even among these, one shall see the force of _example_, as I have heard you, Sir, frequently observe: for, let but the land be blest with a pious and religious prince, who makes it a rule with him to countenance and promote men of virtue and probity; and to put the case still stronger, let such a one even succeed to the most libertine reign, wherein the manners of the people are wholly depraved: yet a wonderful change will be immediately effected. The flagitious livers will be chased away, or reformed; or at least will think it their duty, or their _interest_, which is a stronger tie with such, to _appear_ reformed; and not a man will seek for the favour or countenance of his prince, but by laudable pretences, or by worthy actions. In the reign of King Richard III, as I have read, deformity of body was the fashion, and the nobility and gentry of the court thought it an indispensable requisite of a graceful form to pad for themselves a round shoulder, because the king was crooked. And can we think human nature so absurdly wicked, that it would not much rather have tried to imitate a personal perfection, than a deformity so shocking in its appearance, in people who were naturally straight? 'Tis melancholy to reflect, that of all professions of men, the mariners, who most behold the wonders of Almighty power displayed in the great deep (a sight that has struck me with awe and reverence only from a coast prospect), and who every moment, while at sea, have but one frail plank betwixt themselves and inevitable destruction, are yet, generally speaking, said to be the most abandoned invokers and blasphemers of the name of that God, whose mercies they every moment unthankfully, although so visibly, experience. Yet, as I once heard at your table, Sir, on a particular occasion, we have now a commander in the British navy, who, to his honour, has shewn the force of an excellent example supporting the best precepts: for, on board of his ship, not an oath or curse was to be heard; while volleys of both (issued from impious mouths in the same squadron, out of his knowledge) seemed to fill the sails of other ships with guilty breath, calling aloud for that perdition to overtake them, which perhaps his worthy injunctions and example, in his own, might be of weight to suspend. If such then, dear Sir, be the force of a good example, what have parents to do, who would bring up a child at home under their own eye, according to Mr. Locke's advice, but, first, to have a strict regard to _their_ conduct! This will not want its due influence on the servants; especially if a proper enquiry be first made into their characters, and a watchful eye had over them, to keep them up to those characters afterwards. And when they know they must forfeit the favour of a worthy master, and their places too (which may be thought to be the best of places, because an _uniform_ character must make all around it easy and happy), they will readily observe such rules and directions, as shall be prescribed to them--Rules and directions, which their own consciences will tell them are _right_ to be prescribed; and even right for them to follow, were they not insisted upon by their superiors: and this conviction must go a great way towards their _thorough_ reformation: for a person wholly convinced is half reformed. And thus the hazard a child will run of being corrupted by conversing with the servants, will be removed, and all Mr. Locke's other rules be better enforced. I have the boldness, Sir, to make another objection; and that is, to the distance which Mr. Locke prescribes to be kept between children and servants: for may not this be a means to fill the minds of the former with a contempt of those below them, and an arrogance that is not warranted by any rank or condition, to their inferiors of the same species? I have before transcribed what Mr. Locke has enjoined in relation to this distance, where he says, that the children are by all means to be kept _wholly_ from the conversation of the meaner servants. But how much better advice does the same author give for the behaviour of children to servants in the following words which, I humbly think, are not so entirely consistent with the former, as might be expected from so admirable an author. "Another way," says he (Section 111), "to instil sentiments of humanity, and to keep them lively in young folks, will be, to accustom them to civility in their language and deportment towards their inferiors, and meaner sort of people, particularly servants. It is not unusual to observe the children in gentlemen's families treat the servants of the house with domineering words, names of contempt, and an imperious carriage, as if they were of another race, or species beneath them. Whether ill example, the advantage of fortune or their natural vanity, inspire this haughtiness, it should be prevented or weeded out; and a gentle, courteous, affable carriage towards the lower ranks of men placed in the room of it. No part of their superiority will be hereby lost, but the distinction increased, and their authority strengthened, when love in inferiors is joined to outward respect, and the esteem of the person has a share in their submission: and domestics will pay a more ready and cheerful service, when they find themselves not spurned, because fortune has laid them below the level of others at their master's feet." These, dear Sir, are certainly the sentiments of a generous and enlarged spirit: but I hope, I may observe, that the great distance Mr. Locke before enjoins to be kept between children and servants, is not very consistent with the above-cited paragraph: for if we would prevent this undue contempt of inferiors in the temper of children, the best way, as I humbly presume to think, is not to make it so unpardonable a fault for them, especially in their early years, to be in their company. For can one make the children shun the servants without rendering them odious or contemptible to them, and representing them to the child in such disadvantageous light, as must needs make the servants vile in their eyes, and themselves lofty and exalted in their own? and thereby cause them to treat them with "domineering words, and an imperious carriage, as if they were of another race or species beneath them; and so," as Mr. Locke says, "nurse up their natural pride into an habitual contempt of those beneath them; and then," as he adds, "where will that probably end, but in oppression and cruelty?" But this matter, dear Sir, I presume to think, will all be happily accommodated and reconciled, when the servants' good behaviour is secured by the example and injunctions of the principals. Upon the whole, then, of what Mr. Locke has enjoined, and what I have taken the liberty to suggest on this head, it shall be my endeavour, in that early part of your dear Billy's education, which you will intrust to me, to inculcate betimes in his mind the principles of universal benevolence and kindness to others, especially to inferiors. Nor shall I fear, that the little dear will be wanting to himself in assuming, as he grows up, an air of superiority and distance of behaviour equal to his condition, or that he will descend too low for his station. For, Sir, there is a pride and self-love natural to human minds, that will seldom be kept so low, as to make them humbler than they ought to be. I have observed, before now, instances of this, in some of the families we visit, between the young Masters or Misses, and those children of lower degree, who have been brought to play with them, or divert them. On the Masters' and Misses' side I have always seen, they lead the play and prescribe the laws of it, be the diversion what it will; while, on the other hand, their lower-rank play-fellows have generally given into their little humours, though ever so contrary to their own; and the difference of dress and appearance, and the notion they have of the more eminent condition of their play-fellows' parents, have begot in them a kind of awe and respect, that perhaps more than sufficiently secures the superiority of the one, and the subordination of the other. The advantage of this universal benevolence to a young gentleman, as he grows up, will be, as I humbly conceive, so to diffuse itself over his mind, as to influence all his actions, and give a grace to every thing he does or says, and make him admired and respected from the best and most durable motives; and will be of greater advantage to him for his attaining a handsome address and behaviour (for it will make him conscious that he _merits_ the distinction he will meet with, and encourage him still _more_ to merit it), than the best rules that can be given him for that purpose. I will therefore teach the little dear courteousness and affability, from the properest motives I am able to think of; and will instruct him in only one piece of pride, that of being above doing a mean or low action. I will caution him not to behave in a lordly or insolent manner, even to the lowest servants. I will tell him that that superiority is the most commendable, and will be the best maintained, which is owing to humanity and kindness, and grounded on the perfections of the _mind_, rather than on the _accidental_ advantage of _fortune_ and _condition_: that if his conduct be such as it ought to be, there will be no occasion to tell a servant, that he will be observed and respected: that _humility_, as I once told my Miss Goodwin, is a charming grace, and most conspicuously charming in persons of distinction; for that the poor, who are humbled by their condition, cannot glory in it, as the rich may; and that it makes the lower ranks of people love and admire the high-born, who can so condescend: whereas _pride_, in such, is meanness and insult, as it owes its boast and its being to accidental advantages; which, at the same time, are seldom of _his_ procuring, who can be so mean as to be proud: that even I would sooner forget pride in a low degree than in a high; for it may be a security in the first against doing a base thing: but in the rich, it is a base thing itself, and an impolitic one too; for the more distinction a proud mind grasps at, the less it will have; and every poor despised person can whisper such a one in the ear, when surrounded with, and adorned by, all his glittering splendours, that he _was_ born, and _must_ die, in the _same manner_ with those whom he despises. Thus will the doctrine of benevolence and affability, implanted early in the mind of a young gentleman, and duly cultivated as he grows up, inspire him with the requisite conduct to command respect from _proper_ motives; and while it will make the servants observe a decorum towards him, it will oblige them to have a guard upon their words and actions in presence of one, whose manner of education and training-up would be so great a reproach to them, if they were grossly faulty: so thus, I conceive, a mutual benefit will flow to the manners of each; and _his_ good behaviour will render him, in some measure, an instructive monitor to the whole family. But permit me, Sir, to enlarge on the hint I have already given, in relation to the example of parents, in case a preference be given to the home education. For if this point cannot be secured, I should always imagine it were best to put the child to such a school, as I formerly mentioned. But yet the subject might be spared by me in this case, as I write with a view only to your family; though you will remember, that while I follow Mr. Locke, whose work is public, I must be considered as directing myself to the generality of the world: for, Sir, I have the pleasure to say, that your conduct in your family is unexceptionable; and the pride to think that mine is no disgrace to it. No one hears a word from your mouth unbecoming the character of a polite gentleman; and I shall always be very regardful of what falls from mine. Your temper, Sir, is equal and kind to all your servants, and they love you, as well as awfully respect you: and well does your beautiful and considerate mind, deserve it of them all: and they, seeing I am watchful over my own conduct, so as not to behave unworthy of your kind example, regard me as much as I could wish they should; for well do they know, that their beloved master will have it so, and greatly honours and esteems me himself. Your table-talk is such as persons of the strictest principles may hear, and join in: your guests, and your friends are, generally speaking, persons of the genteelest life, and of the best manners. So that Mr. Locke would have advised _you_, of all gentlemen, had he been living, and known you, to give your children a home education, and assign these, and still stronger reasons for it. But were we to speak to the generality of parents, I fear this would be an almost insuperable objection to a home education. For (I am sorry to say it) when one turns one's eyes to the bad precedents given by the heads of some families, it is hardly to be wondered at, that there is so little virtue and religion among men. For can those parents be surprised at the ungraciousness of their _children_, who hardly ever shew them, that their _own_ actions are governed by reasonable or moral motives? Can the gluttonous father expect a self-denying son? With how ill a grace must a man who will often be disguised in liquor, preach sobriety? a passionate man, patience? an irreligious man, piety? How will a parent, whose hands are seldom without cards, or dice in them, be observed in lessons against the pernicious vice of gaming? Can the profuse father, who is squandering away the fortunes of his children, expect to be regarded in a lesson of frugality? 'Tis impossible he should, except it were that the youth, seeing how pernicious his father's example is, should have the grace to make a proper use of it, and look upon it as a sea-mark, as it were, to enable him to shun the dangerous rocks, on which he sees his father splitting. And even in this _best_ case, let it be considered, how much shame and disgrace his thoughtless parent ought to take to himself, who can admonish his child by nothing but the _odiousness_ of his own vice; and how little it is owing to him, that his guilt is not _doubled_, by his son's treading in his steps! Let such an unhappy parent duly weigh this, and think how likely he is to be, by his bad example, the cause of his child's perdition, as well as his own, and stand unshocked and unamended, if he can! It is then of no avail to wish for discreet servants, if the conduct of the parents is faulty. If the fountain-head be polluted, how shall the under-currents run clear? That master and mistress, who would exact from their servants a behaviour which they themselves don't practice, will be but ill observed. And that child, who discovers excesses and errors in his parents, will be found to be less profited by their good precepts, than prejudiced by bad examples. Excessive fondness this hour; violent passions and perhaps execrations, the next; unguarded jests, and admiration of fashionable vanities, rash censures, are perhaps the best, that the child sees in, or hears from those, who are most concerned to inculcate good precepts into his mind. And where it is so, a home education must not surely be chosen. Having thus, as well as my slender abilities will permit, presumed to deliver my opinion upon three great points, _viz_. the qualifications of a tutor; the necessity of having an eye to the morals of servants; and the example of parents (all which, being taken care of, will give a preference, as I imagine, to a home education); permit me, dear Sir, to speak a little further to a point, that I have already touched upon. It is that of _emulation_; which I humbly conceive to be of great efficacy to lead children on in their duties and studies. And how, dear Sir, shall this advantage be procured for a young master, who has no school-fellows and who has no example to follow, but that of his tutor, whom he cannot, from the disparity of years, and other circumstances, without pain (because of this disparity), think of emulating? And this, I conceive, is a very great advantage to such a school education, as I mentioned in my former letter, where there are no more scholars taken in, than the master can with ease and pleasure instruct. But one way, in my humble opinion, is left to answer this objection, and still preserve the reason for the preference which Mr. Locke gives to a home education; and that is, what I formerly hinted, to take into your family the child of some honest neighbour of but middling circumstances, and like age of your own, but who should give apparent indications of his natural promptitude, ingenuous temper, obliging behaviour and good manners; and to let him go hand-in-hand with yours in his several studies and lessons under the same tutor. The child would be sensible of the benefit, as well as of the distinction, he received, and consequently of what was expected from him, and would double his diligence, and exert all his good qualities, which would inspire the young gentleman with the wished-for emulation, and, as I imagine, would be so promotive of his learning, that it would greatly compensate the tutor for his pains with the additional scholar; for the young gentleman would be ashamed to be outdone by one of like years and stature with himself. And little rewards might be proposed to the greatest proficient, in order to heighten the emulation. Then, Sir, the _generosity_ of such a method, to a gentleman of your fortune, and beneficent mind, would be its own reward, were there no other benefit to be received from it. Moreover, such an ingenious youth might, by his good morals and industry, hereafter be of service, in some place of trust in the family; or it would be easy for a gentleman of your interest in the world, if such a thing offered not, to provide for the youth in the navy, in some of the public offices, or among your private friends. If he proved faulty in his morals, his dismission would be in your own power, and would be punishment enough. But, if on the other hand, he proved a sober and hopeful youth, he would make an excellent companion for your Billy in riper years; as he would be, in a manner, a corroborator of his morals; for, as his circumstances would not support him in any extravagance, so they would be a check upon his inclination; and this being seconded by the hopes of future preferment from your favour and interest, which he could not expect but upon the terms of his perseverance in virtue, he would find himself under a necessity of setting such an example, as might be of great benefit to his companion, who should be watched, as he grew up, that he did not (if his ample fortune became dangerous to his virtue) contribute out of his affluence to draw the other after him into extravagance. And to this end, as I humbly conceive, the noble doctrine of _independence_ should be early instilled into both their minds, and upon all occasions, inculcated and inforced; which would be an inducement for the one to endeavour to _improve_ his fortune by his honest industry, lest he never be enabled to rise out of a state of dependence; and to the other, to _keep,_ if not to _improve,_ his own, lest he ever fall into such a servile state, and thereby lose the glorious power of conferring happiness on the deserving, one of the highest pleasures that a generous mind can know; a pleasure, Sir, which you have oftener experienced than thousands of gentlemen: and which may you still continue to experience for a long and happy succession of years, is the prayer of one, the most obliged of all others in her own person, as well as in the persons of her dearest relations, and who owes to this glorious beneficence the honour she boasts, of being _your ever affectionate and grateful_ P.B. LETTER XCV But now, my dear Mr. B., if you will indulge me in a letter or two more, preparative to my little book, I will take the liberty to touch upon one or two other places, wherein I differ from this learned gentleman. But first, permit me to observe, that if parents are, above all things, to avoid giving bad examples to their children, they will be no less careful to shun the practice of such fond fathers and mothers, as are wont to indulge their children in bad habits, and give them their head, at a time when, like wax, their tender minds may be moulded into what shape they please. This is a point that, if it please God, I will carefully attend to, because it is the foundation on which the superstructure of the whole future man is to be erected. For, according as he is indulged or checked in his childish follies, a ground is laid for his future happiness or misery; and if once they are suffered to become habitual to him, it cannot but be expected, that they will grow up with him, and that they will hardly ever be eradicated. "Try it," says Mr. Locke, speaking to this very point, "in a dog, or a horse, or any other creature, and see whether the ill and resty tricks they have learned when young, are easily to be mended, when they are knit; and yet none of these creatures are half so wilful and proud, or half so desirous to be masters of themselves, as men." And this brings me, dear Sir, to the head of _punishments_, in which, as well as in the article of _rewards_, which I have touched upon, I have a little objection to what Mr. Locke advances. But permit me, however, to premise, that I am exceedingly pleased with the method laid down by this excellent writer, rather to shame the child out of his fault, than beat him; which latter serves generally for nothing but to harden his mind. _Obstinacy_, and telling a _lie_, and committing a _wilful_ fault, and then persisting in it, are, I agree with this gentleman, the only causes for which the child should be punished with stripes: and I admire the reasons he gives against a too rigorous and severe treatment of children. But I will give Mr. Locke's words, to which I have some objection. "It may be doubted," says he, "concerning whipping, when, as the _last_ remedy, it comes to be necessary, at _what time_, and by whom, it should be done; whether presently, upon the committing the fault, whilst it is yet fresh and hot. I think it should not be done presently," adds he, "lest passion mingle with it; and so, though it exceed the just proportion, yet it lose of its due weight. For even children discern whenever we do things in a passion." I must beg leave, dear Sir, to differ from Mr. Locke in this point; for I think it ought rather to be a rule with parents, who shall chastise their children, to conquer what would be extreme in _their own_ passion on this occasion (for those who cannot do it, are very unfit to be the punishers of the wayward passions of their children), than to _defer_ the punishment, especially if the child knows its fault has reached its parent's ear. It is otherwise, methinks, giving the child, if of an obstinate disposition, so much more time to harden its mind, and bid defiance to its punishment. Just now, dear Sir, your Billy is brought into my presence, all smiling, crowing to come to me, and full of heart-cheering promises; and the subject I am upon goes to my heart. Surely I can never beat your Billy!--Dear little life of my life! how can I think thou canst ever deserve it, or that I can ever inflict it?--No, my baby, that shall be thy papa's task, if ever thou art so heinously naughty; and whatever _he_ does, must be right. Pardon my foolish fondness, dear Sir!--I will proceed. If, then, the fault be so atrocious as to deserve whipping, and the parent be resolved on this exemplary punishment, the child ought not, as I imagine, to come into one's presence without meeting with it: or else, a fondness too natural to be resisted, will probably get the upper hand of one's resentment, and how shall one be able to whip the dear creature one had ceased to be angry with? Then after he has once seen one without meeting his punishment, will he not be inclined to hope for connivance at his fault, unless it should be repeated? And may he not be apt (for children's resentments are strong) to impute to cruelty a correction (when he thought the fault had been forgotten) that should always appear to be inflicted with reluctance, and through motives of love? If, from anger at his fault, one should go _above the due proportion_, (I am sure I might be trusted for this!) let it take its course!--How barbarously, methinks, I speak!--He ought to _feel_ the lash, first, because he _deserves_ it, poor little soul? Next, because it is _proposed_ to be exemplary. And, lastly, because it is not intended to be _often_ used: and the very passion or displeasure one expresses (if it be not enormous) will shew one is in earnest, and create in him a necessary awe, and fear to offend again. The _end_ of the correction is to shew him the difference between right and wrong. And as it is proper to take him at his first offer of a full submission and repentance (and not before), and instantly dispassionate one's self, and shew him the difference by acts of pardon and kindness (which will let him see that one punishes him out of necessity rather than choice), so one would not be afraid to make him smart so sufficiently, that he should not soon forget the severity of the discipline, nor the disgrace of it. There's a cruel mamma for you, Mr. B.! What my _practice_ may be, I cannot tell; but this _theory_, I presume to think, is right. As to the _act_ itself, I much approve Mr. Locke's advice, to do it by pauses, mingling stripes and expostulations together, to shame and terrify the more; and the rather, as the parent, by this slow manner of inflicting the punishment, will less need to be afraid of giving too violent a correction; for those pauses will afford _him_, as well as the _child_, opportunities for consideration and reflection. But as to the _person_, by whom the discipline should be performed, I humbly conceive, that this excellent author is here also to be objected to. "If you have a discreet servant," says he, "capable of it, and has the place of governing your child (for if you have a tutor, there is no doubt), I think it is best the smart should come immediately from another's hand, though by the parent's order, who should see it done, whereby the parent's authority will be preserved, and the child's aversion for the pain it suffers, rather be turned on the person that immediately inflicts it. For I would have a father seldom strike a child, but upon very urgent necessity, and as the last remedy." 'Tis in such an urgent case that we are supposing that it should be done at all. If there be not a reason strong enough for the father's whipping the child himself, there cannot be one for his ordering another to do it, and standing by to see it done. But I humbly think, that if there be a necessity, no one can be so fit as the father himself to do it. The child cannot dispute his authority to punish, from whom he receives and expects all the good things of his life: he cannot question _his_ love to him, and after the smart is over, and his obedience secured, must believe that so tender, so indulgent a father could have no other end in whipping him, but his good. Against _him_, he knows he has no remedy, but must passively submit; and when he is convinced he _must_, he will in time conclude that he _ought_. But to have this severe office performed by a servant, though at the father's command, and that professedly, that the aversion of the child for the pain it suffers should be turned on the person who immediately inflicts it, is, I humbly think, the _reverse_ of what ought to be done. And _more_ so, if this servant has any direction of the child's education; and still much _more_ so, if it be his tutor, though Mr. Locke says, there is no doubt, if there be a tutor, that it should be done by him. For, dear Sir, is there no doubt, that the tutor should lay himself open to the aversion of the child, whose manners he is to form? Is not the best method a tutor can take, in order to enforce the lessons he would inculcate, to try to attract the love and attention of his pupil by the most winning ways he can possibly think of? And yet is _he_, this very tutor _out of all doubt_, to be the instrument of doing an harsh and disgraceful thing, and that in the last resort, when all other methods are found ineffectual; and that too, because he ought to incur the child's resentment and aversion, rather than the father? No, surely, Sir, it is not reasonable it should be so: quite contrary, in my humble notion, there can be no doubt, but that it should be _otherwise_. It should, methinks, be enough for a tutor, in case of a fault in the child, to threaten to complain to his father; but yet not to make such a complaint, without the child obstinately persists in his error, which, too, should be of a nature to merit such an appeal: and this might highly contribute to preserve the parent's authority; who, on this occasion, should never fail of extorting a promise of amendment, or of instantly punishing him with his own hands. And, to soften the distaste he might conceive in resentment of too rigid complainings, it might not be amiss, that his interposition in the child's favour, were the fault not too flagrant, should be permitted to save him once or twice from the impending discipline. 'Tis certain that the passions, if I may so call them, of affection and aversion, are very early discoverable in children; insomuch that they will, even before they can speak, afford us marks for the detection of an hypocritical appearance of love to it before the parents' faces. For the fondness or averseness of the child to some servants, will at any time let one know, whether their love to the baby is uniform and the same, when one is absent, as present. In one case the child will reject with sullenness all the little sycophancies made to it in one's sight; while on the other, its fondness of the person, who generally obliges it, is an infallible rule to judge of such an one's sincerity behind one's back. This little observation shews the strength of a child's resentments, and its sagacity, at the earliest age, in discovering who obliges, and who disobliges it: and hence one may infer, how improper a person _he_ is, whom we would have a child to love and respect, or by whose precepts we would have it directed, to be the punisher of its faults, or to do any harsh or disagreeable office to it. For my own part, I beg to declare, that if the parent were not to inflict the punishment himself, I think it much better it should be given him, in the parent's presence, by the servant of the lowest consideration in the family, and whose manners and example one would be the least willing of any other he should follow. Just as the common executioner, who is the lowest and most flagitious officer of the commonwealth, and who frequently deserves, as much as the criminal, the punishment he is chosen to inflict, is pitched upon to perform, as a mark of greater ignominy, sentences intended as examples to deter others from the commission of heinous crimes. The Almighty took this method when he was disposed to correct severely his chosen people; for, in that case, he generally did it by the hands of the most profligate nations around them, as we read in many places of the Old Testament. But the following rule I admire in Mr. Locke: "When," says he (for any misdemeanour), "the father or mother looks sour on the child, every one else should put on the same coldness to him, and nobody give him countenance till forgiveness is asked, and a reformation of his fault has set him right again, and restored him to his former credit. If this were constantly observed," adds he, "I guess there would be little need of blows or chiding: their own ease or satisfaction would quickly teach children to court commendation, and avoid doing that which they found every body condemned, and they were sure to suffer for, without being chid or beaten. This would teach them modesty and shame, and they would quickly come to have a natural abhorrence for that which they found made them slighted and neglected by every body." This affords me a pretty hint; for if ever your charming Billy shall be naughty, I will proclaim throughout your worthy family, that the little dear is in disgrace! And one shall shun him, another decline answering him, a third say, "No, master, I cannot obey you, till your mamma is pleased with you"; a fourth, "Who shall mind what little masters bid them do, when they won't mind what their mammas say to them?" And when the dear little soul finds this, he will come in my way, (and I see, pardon me, my dear Mr. B., he has some of his papa's spirit, already, indeed he has!) and I will direct myself with double kindness to your beloved Davers, and to my Miss Goodwin, and not notice the dear creature, if I can help it, till I can see his _papa_ (forgive my boldness) banished from his little sullen brow, and all his _mamma_ rise to his eyes. And when his musical tongue shall be unlocked to own his fault, and promise amendment--O then! how shall I clasp him to my bosom! and tears of joy, I know, will meet his tears of penitence! How these flights, dear Sir, please a body!-What delights have those mammas (which some fashionable dear ladies are quite unacquainted with) who can make their babies, and their first educations, their entertainment and diversion! To watch the dawnings of reason in them, to direct their little passions, as they shew themselves, to this or that particular point of benefit or use; and to prepare the sweet virgin soil of their minds to receive the seeds of virtue and goodness so early, that, as they grow up, one need only now a little pruning, and now a little water, to make them the ornaments and delights of the garden of this life! And then their pretty ways, their fond and grateful endearments, some new beauty every day rising to observation--O my dearest Mr. B., whose enjoyments and pleasures are so great, as those of such mothers as can bend their minds two or three hours every day to the duties of the nursery? I have a few other things to observe upon Mr. Locke's treatise, which, when I have done, I shall read, admire, and improve by the rest, as my years and experience advance; of which, in my proposed little book, I shall give you better proofs than I am able to do at present; raw, crude, and indigested as the notions of so young a mamma must needs be. But these shall be the subjects of another letter; for now I am come to the pride and the pleasure I always have, when I subscribe myself, dearest Sir, _your ever dutiful and grateful_ P.B. LETTER XCVI DEAR SIR, Mr. Locke gives a great many very pretty instructions relating to the play-games of children: but I humbly presume to object to what he says in one or two places. He would not indulge them in any playthings, but what they make themselves, or endeavour to make. "A smooth pebble, a piece of paper, the mother's bunch of keys, or any thing they cannot hurt themselves with," he rightly says, "serve as much to divert little children, as those more chargeable and curious toys from the shops, which are presently put out of order, and broken." These playthings may certainly do for little ones: but methinks, to a person of easy circumstances, since the making these toys employs the industrious poor, the buying them for the child might be complied with, though they _were_ easily broken; and especially as they are of all prices, and some less costly, and more durable than others. "Tops, gigs, battledores," Mr. Locke observes, "which are to be used with labour, should indeed be procured them--not for variety, but exercise; but if they had a top, the scourge-stick and leather strap should be left to their own making and fitting." But I may presume to say, that whatever be the good Mr. Locke proposes by this, it cannot be equal to the mischief children may do themselves in making these playthings! For must they not have implements to work with? and is not a knife, or other edged tool, without which it is impossible they can make or shape a scourge-stick, or _any_ of their playthings, a fine instrument in a child's hands! This advice is the reverse of the caution warranted from all antiquity, _That it is dangerous to meddle with edged tools!_ and I am afraid, the tutor must often act the surgeon, and follow the indulgence with a styptic and plaister; and the young gentleman's hands might be so often bound up as to be one way to cure him of his earnest desire to play; but I can hardly imagine any other good that it can do him; for I doubt the excellent consequences proposed by our author from this doctrine, such as to teach the child moderation in his desires, application, industry, thought, contrivance, and good husbandry, qualities that, as he says, will be useful to him when he is a man, are too remote to be ingrafted upon such beginnings; although it must be confessed, that, as Mr. Locke wisely observes, good habits and industry cannot be too early inculcated. But then, Sir, may I ask, Are not the very plays and sports, to which children accustom themselves, whether they make their own playthings or not, equivalent to the work or labour of grown persons! Yes, Sir, I will venture to say, they are, and more than equivalent to the exercises and labour of many. Mr. Locke advises, that the child's playthings should be as few as possible, which I entirely approve: that they should be in his tutor's power, who is to give him but one at once. But since it is the nature of the human mind to court most what is prohibited, and to set light by what is in its own power; I am half doubtful (only that Mr. Locke says it, and it may not be so very important as other points, in which I have ventured to differ from that gentleman), whether the child's absolute possession of his own playthings in some little repository, of which he may be permitted to keep the key, especially if he makes no bad use of the privilege, would not make him more indifferent to them: while the contrary conduct might possibly enhance his value of them. And if, when he had done with any plaything, he were obliged to put it into its allotted place, and were accustomed to keep account of the number and places of them severally; this would teach him order, and at the same time instruct him to keep a proper account of them, and to avoid being a squanderer or waster: and if he should omit to put his playthings in their places, or be careless of them, the taking them away for a time, or threatening to give them to others, would make him the more heedful. Mr. Locke says, that he has known a child so distracted with the number and variety of his playthings, that he tired his maid every day to look them over: and was so accustomed to abundance, that he never thought he had enough, but was always asking, "What more? What new thing shall I have?"--"A good introduction," adds he, ironically, "to moderate desires, and the ready way to make a contented happy man." All that I shall offer to this, is, that few _men_ are so philosophical as one would wish them to be, much less _children_. But, no doubt, this variety engaged the child's activity; which, of the two might be turned to better purposes than sloth or indolence; and if the maid was tired, it might be, because she was not so much _alive_ as the child; and perhaps this part of the grievance might not be so great, because if she was his attendant, 'tis probable she had nothing else to do. However, in the main, as Mr. Locke says, it is no matter how few playthings the child is indulged with; but yet I can hardly persuade myself, that plenty of them can have such bad consequences as he apprehends; and the rather, because they will excite his attention, and promote his industry and activity. His enquiry after new things, let him have few or many, is to be expected as a consequence to those natural desires which are implanted in him, and will every day increase: but this may be observed, that as he grows in years, he will be above some playthings, and so the number of the old ones will be always reducible, perhaps in a greater proportion, than the new ones will increase. On the head of good-breeding, he observes, that, "there are two sorts of ill-breeding; the one a sheepish bashfulness, and the other a misbecoming negligence and disrespect in our carriage; both which," says he, "are avoided by duly observing this one rule, not to think meanly of ourselves, and not to think meanly of others." I think, as Mr. Locke explains this rule, it is an excellent one. But I would beg to observe upon it, that however discommendable a bashful temper is, in some instances, where it must be deemed a weakness of the mind, yet, in my humble opinion, it is generally the mark of an ingenuous one, and is always to be preferred to an undistinguishing and hardy confidence, which, as it seems to me, is the genuine production of invincible ignorance. What is faulty in it, which he calls _sheepishness_, should indeed be shaken off as soon as possible, because it is an enemy to merit in its advancement in the world: but, Sir, were I to choose a companion for your Billy, as he grows up, I should not think the worse of the youth, who, not having had the opportunities of knowing men, or seeing the world, had this defect. On the contrary, I should be apt to look upon it as an outward fence or inclosure to his virtue, which might keep off the lighter attacks of immorality, the _Hussars_ of vice, as I may say, who are not able to carry on a formal siege against his morals; and I should expect such a one to be docile, humane, good-humoured, diffident of himself, and therefore most likely to improve as well in mind as behaviour: while a hardened mind, that never doubts itself, must be a stranger to its own infirmities, and suspecting none, is impetuous, over-bearing, incorrigible; and, if rich, a tyrant; if not, possibly an invader of other men's properties; or at least, such a one as allows itself to walk so near the borders of injustice, that where _self_ is concerned, it hardly ever does right things. Mr. Locke proposes (Section 148) a very pretty method to cheat children, as it were, into learning: but then he adds, "There may be dice and playthings, with the letters on them, to teach children the alphabet by playing." And (Section 151) "I know a person of great quality, who, by pasting on the six vowels (for in our language _y_ is one) on the six sides of a dice, and the remaining eighteen consonants on the sides of three other dice, has made this a play for his children, that _he_ shall win, who at one cast throws most words on these four dice; whereby his eldest son, yet in coats, has _played_ himself _into spelling_ with great eagerness, and without once having been chid for it, or forced to it." But I had rather your Billy should be a twelvemonth backwarder for want of this method, than forwarded by it. For what may not be feared from so early inculcating the use of dice and gaming, upon the minds of children? Let Mr. Locke himself speak to this in his Section 208, and I wish I could reconcile the two passages in this excellent author. "As to cards and dice," says he, "I think the safest and best way is, never to learn any play upon them, and so to be incapacitated for these dangerous temptations, and encroaching wasters of useful time." And, he might have added, of the noblest estates and fortunes; while sharpers and scoundrels have been lifted into distinction upon their ruins. Yet, in § 153, Mr. Locke proceeds to give directions in relation to the dice he recommends. But after all, if some innocent plays were fixed upon to cheat children into reading, that, as he says, should look as little like a task as possible, it must needs be of use for that purpose. But let every gentleman, who has a fortune to lose, and who, if he games, is on a foot with the vilest company, who generally have nothing at all to risque, tremble at the thoughts of teaching his son, though for the most laudable purposes, the early use of dice and gaming. But how much I am charmed with a hint in Mr. Locke, which makes your Pamela hope, she may be of greater use to your children, even as they _grow up_, than she could ever have flattered herself to be. 'Tis a charming paragraph; I must not skip one word of it. Thus it begins, and I will observe upon it as I go along. § 177: "But under whose care soever a child is put to be taught, during the tender and flexible years of his life, this is certain, it should be one who thinks Latin and language the least part of education." How agreeable is this to my notions; which I durst not have avowed, but after so excellent a scholar! For I have long had the thought, that much time is wasted to little purpose in the attaining of Latin. Mr. H., I think, says he was ten years in endeavouring to learn it, and, as far as I can find, knows nothing at all of the matter neither!--Indeed he lays that to the wicked picture in his grammar, which he took for granted (as he has often said, as well as once written) was put there to teach boys to rob orchards, instead of improving their minds in learning, or common honesty. But (for this is too light an instance for the subject) Mr. Locke proceeds--"One who knowing how much virtue and a well-tempered soul is to be preferred to any sort of _learning or language_," [_What a noble writer is this!_] "makes it his chief business to form the mind of his scholars, and give that a right disposition:" [_Ay, there, dear Sir, is the thing!_] "which, if once got, though all the rest should be neglected," [_charmingly observed!_] "would, in _due time_," [_without wicked dice, I hope!_] "produce all the rest; and which, if it be not got and settled, so to keep out ill and vicious habits, _languages_ and _sciences_, and all the other accomplishments of education, will be to no purpose, but to make the worse or more dangerous man." [_Now comes the place I am so much delighted with!_] "And indeed, whatever stir there is made about getting of Latin, as the great and difficult business, his mother" [_thank you, dear Sir, for putting this excellent author into my hands!_] "may teach it him herself, if she will but spend two or three hours in a day with him," [_If she will! Never fear, but I will, with the highest pleasure in the world!_] "and make him read the Evangelists in Latin to her." [_How I long to be five or six years older, as well as my dearest babies, that I may enter upon this charming scheme!_] "For she need but buy a Latin Testament, and having got somebody to mark the last syllable but one, where it is long, in words above two syllables (which is enough to regulate her pronunciation and accenting the words), read daily in the Gospels, and then let her avoid understanding them in Latin, if she can." Why, dear Sir, you have taught me almost all this already; and you, my beloved tutor, have told me often, I read and pronounce Latin more than tolerably, though I don't understand it: but this method will teach _me_, as well as your dear _children_--But thus the good gentleman proceeds--"And when she understands the Evangelists in Latin, let her in the same manner read Aesop's Fables, and so proceed on to Eutropius, Justin, and such other books. I do not mention this," adds Mr. Locke, "as an imagination of what I fancy _may_ do, but as of a thing I have known done, and the Latin tongue got with ease this way." He then mentions other advantages, which the child may receive from his mother's instruction, which I will try more and more to qualify myself for: particularly, after he has intimated, that "at the same time that the child is learning French and Latin, he may be entered also in arithmetic, geography, chronology, history, and geometry too; for if," says he, "these be taught him in French or Latin, when he begins once to understand either of these tongues, he will get a knowledge of these sciences, and the language to boot." He then proceeds: "Geography, I think, should be begun with: for the learning of the figure of the globe, the situation and boundaries of the four parts of the world, and that of particular kingdoms and countries, being only an exercise of the eyes and memory, a child with pleasure will learn and retain them. And this is so certain, that I now live in a house with a child, whom his MOTHER has so well instructed this way in geography," [_But_ _had she not, do you think, dear Sir, some of this good gentleman's kind assistance?_] "that he knew the limits of the four parts of the world; would readily point, being asked, to any country upon the globe, or any county in the map of England; knew all the great rivers, promontories, streights, and bays in the world, and could find the longitude and latitude of any place, before he was six years old." There's for you, dear Sir!--See what a mother can do if she pleases! I remember, Sir, formerly, in that sweet chariot conference, at the dawning of my hopes, when all my dangers were happily over (a conference I shall always think of with pleasure), that you asked me, how I would bestow my time, supposing the neighbouring ladies would be above being seen in my company; when I should have no visits to receive or return; no parties of pleasure to join in; no card-tables to employ my winter evenings? I then, Sir, transported with my opening prospects, prattled to you, how well I would try to pass my time, in the family management and accounts, in visits now and then to the indigent and worthy poor; in music sometimes; in reading, in writing, in my superior duties--And I hope I have not behaved quite unworthily of my promise. But I also remember, what once you said on a certain occasion, which _now_, since the fair prospect is no longer distant, and that I have been so long your happy wife, I may repeat without those blushes which then covered my face; thus then, with a _modest_ grace, and with that _virtuous_ endearment that is so _beautiful_ in _your_ sex, as well as in _ours_, whether in the character of lover or husband, maiden or wife, you were pleased to say--"And I hope, my Pamela, to have superadded to all these, such an employment as--" in short, Sir, I am now blessed with, and writing of; no less than the useful part I may be able to take in the first education of your beloved babies! And now I must add, that this pleasing hope sets me above all other diversions: I wish for no parties of pleasure but with you, my dearest Mr. B., and these are parties that will improve me, and make me more capable of the other, and more worthy of your conversation, and of the time you pass (beyond what I could ever have promised to my utmost wishes) in such poor company as mine, for no other reason but because I love to be instructed, and take my lessons well, as you are pleased to say; and indeed I must be a sad dunce, if I did not, from so skilful and so beloved a master. I want no card-table amusements; for I hope, in a few years (and a proud hope it is), to be able to teach your dear little ones the first rudiments, as Mr. Locke points the way, of Latin, of French, and of geography, and arithmetic. O, my dear Mr. B., by your help and countenance, what may I not be able to teach them, and how may I prepare the way for a tutor's instructions, and give him up minds half cultivated to his hands!--And all this time improve myself too, not only in science, but in nature, by tracing in the little babes what all mankind are, and have been, from infancy to riper years, and watching the sweet dawnings of reason, and delighting in every bright emanation of that ray of divinity, lent to the human mind, for great and happy purposes, when rightly pointed and directed. There is no going farther after these charming recollections and hopes, for they bring me to that grateful remembrance, to whom, under God, I owe them all, and also what I have been for so happy a period, and what I am, which will ever be my pride and my glory; and well it may, when I look back to my beginning with humble acknowledgment, and can call myself, dearest Mr. B., _your honoured and honouring, and, I hope to say, in time, useful wife_, P.B. LETTER XCVII MY DEAREST MR. B., Having in my former letters said as much as is necessary to let you into my notion of the excellent book you put into my hands, and having touched those points in which the children of both sexes may be concerned (with some _art_ in my intention, I own), in hope that they would not be so much out of the way, as to make you repent of the honour you have done me, in committing the dear Miss Goodwin to my care; I shall now very quickly set myself about the proposed little book. You have been so good as to tell me (at the same time that you disapprove not these my specimen letters as I may call them), that you will kindly accept of my intended present, and encourage me to proceed in it; and as I shall leave one side of the leaf blank for your corrections and alterations, those corrections will be a fine help and instruction to me in the pleasing task which I propose to myself, of assisting in the early education of your dear children. And as I may be years in writing it, as the dear babies improve, as I myself improve, by the opportunities which their advances in years will give me, and the experience I shall gain, I may then venture to give my notions on the more material and nobler parts of education, as well as the inferior: for (but that I think the subjects above my present abilities) Mr. Locke's book would lead me into several remarks, that might not be unuseful, and which appear to me entirely new; though that may be owing to my slender reading and opportunities, perhaps. But what I would now touch upon, is a word or two still more particularly upon the education of my own sex; a topic which naturally arises to me from the subject of my last letter. For there, dear Sir, we saw, that the mothers might teach the child _this_ part of science, and _that_ part of instruction; and who, I pray, as our sex is generally educated, shall teach the _mothers_? How, in a word, shall _they_ come by their knowledge? I know you'll be apt to say, that Miss Goodwin gives all the promises of becoming a fine young lady, and takes her learning, loves reading, and makes very pretty reflections upon all she reads, and asks very pertinent questions, and is as knowing, at her years, as most young ladies. This is very true, Sir; but it is not every one that can boast of Miss Goodwin's capacity, and goodness of temper, which have enabled her to get up a good deal of _lost_ time, as I must call it; for her first four years were a perfect blank, as far as I can find, just as if the pretty dear was born the day she was four years old; for what she had to _unlearn_ as to temper, and will, and such things, set against what little improvements she had made, might very fairly be compounded for, as a blank. I would indeed have a girl brought up to her needle, but I would not have _all_ her time employed in samplers, and learning to mark, and do those unnecessary things, which she will never, probably, be called upon to practise. And why, pray, are not girls entitled to the same _first_ education, though not to the same plays and diversions, as boys; so far, at least, as is supposed by Mr. Locke a mother can instruct them? Would not this lay a foundation for their future improvement, and direct their inclinations to useful subjects, such as would make them above the imputations of some unkind gentlemen, who allot to their part common tea-table prattle, while they do all they can to make them fit for nothing else, and then upbraid them for it? And would not the men find us better and more suitable companions and assistants to them in every useful purpose of life?--O that your lordly sex were all like my dear Mr. B.--I don't mean that they should all take raw, uncouth, unbred, lowly girls, as I was, from the cottage, and, destroying all distinction, make such their wives; for there is a far greater likelihood, that such a one, when she comes to be lifted up into so dazzling a sphere, would have her head made giddy with her exaltation, than that she would balance herself well in it: and to what a blot, over all the fair page of a long life, would this little drop of dirty ink spread itself! What a standing disreputation to the choice of a gentleman! But _this_ I mean, that after a gentleman had entered into the marriage state with a young creature (saying nothing at all of birth or descent) far inferior to him in learning, in parts, in knowledge of the world, and in all the graces which make conversation agreeable and improving, he would, as you do, endeavour to make her fit company for himself, as he shall find she is _willing_ to improve, and _capable_ of improvement: that he would direct her taste, point out to her proper subjects for her amusement and instruction; travel with her now and then, a month in a year perhaps; and shew her the world, after he has encouraged her to put herself forward at his own table, and at the houses of his friends, and has seen, that she will not do him great discredit any where. What obligations, and opportunities too, will this give her to love and honour such a husband, every hour, more and more! as she will see his wisdom in a thousand instances, and experience his indulgence to her in ten thousand, to the praise of his politeness, and the honour of them both!--And then, when select parties of pleasure or business engaged him not abroad, in his home conversation, to have him delight to instruct and open her views, and inspire her with an ambition to enlarge her mind, and more and more to excel! What an intellectual kind of married life would such persons find theirs! And how suitable to the rules of policy and self-love in the gentleman; for is not the wife, and are not her improvements, all _his own_?--_Absolutely_, as I may say, _his own_? And does not every excellence she can be adorned by, redound to her husband's honour because she is his, even more than to _her own_!--In like manner as no dishonour affects a man so much, as that which he receives from a bad wife. But where is such a gentleman as Mr. B. to be met with? Look round and see where, with all the advantages of sex, of education, of travel, of conversation in the open world, a gentleman of his abilities to instruct and inform, is to be found? And there are others, who, perhaps, will question the capacities or inclinations of our sex in general, to improve in useful knowledge, were they to meet with such kind instructors, either in the characters of parents or husbands. As to the first, I grant, that it is not easy to find such a gentleman: but for the second (if excusable in me, who am one of the sex, and so may be thought partial to it), I could by comparisons drawn from the gentlemen and ladies within the circle of my own acquaintance, produce instances, which are so flagrantly in their favour, as might make it suspected, that it is policy more than justice, in those who would keep our sex unacquainted with that more eligible turn of education, which gives the gentlemen so many advantages over us in _that_; and which will shew, they have none at all in _nature_ or _genius_. I know you will pardon me, dear Sir; for you are so exalted above your Pamela, by nature and education too, that you cannot apprehend any inconvenience from bold comparisons. I will beg, therefore, to mention a few instances among our friends, where the ladies, notwithstanding their more cramped and confined education, make _more_ than an equal figure with the gentlemen in all the graceful parts of conversation, in spite of the contempts poured out upon our sex by some witty gentlemen, whose writings I have in my eye. To begin then with Mr. Murray, and Miss Damford that was; Mr. Murray has the reputation of scholarship, and has travelled too; but how infinitely is he surpassed in every noble and useful quality, and in greatness of mind, and judgment, as well as wit, by the young lady I have named! This we saw, when last at the Hall, in fifty instances, where the gentleman was, you know, Sir, on a visit to Sir Simon and his lady. Next, dear Sir, permit me to observe, that my good Lord Davers, with all his advantages, born a counsellor of the realm, and educated accordingly, does not surpass his lady. _My_ countess, as I delight to call her, and Lady Betty, her eldest daughter, greatly surpassed the Earl and her eldest brother in every point of knowledge, and even learning, as I may say, although both ladies owe that advantage principally to their own cultivation and acquirement. Let me presume, Sir, to name Mr. H.: and when I _have_ named him, shall we not be puzzled to find any where in our sex, one remove from vulgar life, a woman that will not out-do Mr. H.? Lady Darnford, upon all useful subjects, makes a much brighter figure than Sir Simon, whose knowledge of the world has not yet made him acquainted with himself.--Mr. Arthur excels not his lady. Mrs. Towers, a maiden lady, is an over-match for half a dozen of the neighbouring gentlemen I could name, in what is called wit and politeness, and not inferior to any of them in judgment. I could multiply such instances, were it needful, to the confutation of that low, and I had almost said, _unmanly_ contempt, with which a certain celebrated genius treats our sex in general in most of his pieces, I have seen; particularly his _Letter of Advice to a new married Lady_; so written, as must disgust, instead of instruct; and looks more like the advice of an enemy to the _sex_, and a bitter one too, than a friend to the _particular Lady_. But I ought to beg pardon for this my presumption, for two reasons: first, because of the truly admirable talents of this writer; and next, because we know not what ladies the ingenious gentleman may have fallen among in his younger days. Upon the whole, therefore, I conclude, that Mr. B. is almost the only gentleman, who excels _every_ lady that I have seen; so _greatly_ excels, that even the emanations of his excellence irradiate a low cottage-born girl, and make her pass among ladies of birth and education for somebody. Forgive my pride, dear Sir; but it would be almost a crime in your Pamela not to exult in the mild benignity of those rays, by which her beloved Mr. B. endeavours to make her look up to his own sunny sphere: while she, by the advantage only of his reflected glory, in _his_ absence, which makes a dark night to her, glides along with her paler and fainter beaminess, and makes a distinguishing figure among such lesser planets, as can only poorly twinkle and glimmer, for want of the aid she boasts of. I dare not, Sir, conjecture whence arises this more than parity in the genius of the sexes, among the above persons, notwithstanding the disparity of education, and the difference in the opportunities of each. This might lead one into too proud a thought in favour of a sex too contemptuously treated by some _other_ wits I could name, who, indeed, are the less to be regarded, as they love to jest upon all God Almighty's works: yet might I better do it, too, than anybody, since I am so infinitely transcended by my husband, that no competition, pride or vanity, could be apprehended from me. But, however, I would only beg of those who are so free in their contempts of us, that they would, for _their own sakes_ (and that, with such generally goes a great way), rather try to _improve_ than _depreciate_ us: we should then make better daughters, better wives, better mothers, and better mistresses: and who (permit me, Sir, to ask them) would be so much the better for these opportunities and amendments, as our upbraiders themselves! On re-perusing this, I must repeatedly beg your excuse for these proud notions in behalf of my sex, which, I can truly say, are not owing to partiality because, I have the honour to be one of it; but to a far better motive; for what does this contemptuous treatment of one half, if not the better half, of the human species, naturally produce, but libertinism and abandoned wickedness? for does it not tend to make the daughters, the sisters, the wives of gentlemen, the subjects of profligate attempts?--Does it not render the sex vile in the eyes of the most vile? And when a lady is no longer beheld by such persons with that dignity and reverence, with which perhaps, the graces of her person, and the innocence of her mind, should sacredly, as it were, encompass her, do not her very excellencies become so many incentives for base wretches to attempt her virtue, and bring about her ruin? What then may not wicked wit have to answer for, when its possessors prostitute it to such unmanly purposes! And as if they had never had a mother, a sister, a daughter of their own, throw down, as much as in them lies, those sacred fences which may lay the fair inclosure open to the invasions of every clumsier and viler beast of prey; who, though destitute of _their_ wit, yet corrupted by it, shall fill their mouths, as well as their hearts, with the borrowed mischief, and propagate it from one to another to the end of time; and who, otherwise, would have passed by the uninvaded fence, and only shewed their teeth, and snarled at the well secured fold within it? You cannot, my dearest Mr. B., I know be angry at this romantic painting: since you are not affected by it: for when at worst, you acted (more dangerously, 'tis true, for the poor innocents) a _principal_ part, and were as a lion among beasts--Do, dear Sir, let me say _among_, this one time--You scorned to borrow any man's wit; and if nobody had followed your example, till they had had your qualities, the number of rakes would have been but small. Yet, don't mistake me, neither; I am not so mean as to bespeak your favour by extenuating your failings; if I _were_, you would deservedly despise me. For, undoubtedly (I _must_ say it, Sir), your faults were the greater for your perfections: and such talents misapplied, as they made you more capable of mischief, so did they increase the evil of your practices. All then that I mean by saying you are not affected by this painting, is, that you are not affected by my description of clumsy and sordid rakes, whose _wit_ is _borrowed_, and their _wickedness_ only what they may call _their own_. Then, dear Sir, since that noble conversation you held with me at Tunbridge, in relation to the consequences that might, had it not been for God's grace intervening, have followed the masquerade affair, I have the inexpressible pleasure to find a thorough reformation, from the _best_ motives, taking place; and your joining with me in my closet (as opportunity permits) in my evening duties, is the charming confirmation of your kind and voluntary, and I am proud to say, _pious_ assurances; so that this makes me fearless of your displeasure, while I rather triumph in my joy for your precious soul's sake, than presume to think of recriminating; and when (only for this once) I take the liberty of looking back from the delightful _now_, to the painful _formerly!_ But, what a rambler am I again! You command me to write to you all I think, without fear. I obey, and, as the phrase is, do it without either _fear_ or _wit_. If you are _not_ displeased, it is a mark of the true nobleness of your nature, and the sincerity of your late pious declarations. If you _are_, I shall be sure I have done wrong in having applied a corrosive to eat away the _proud flesh_ of a _wound_, that is not yet so thoroughly _digested_, as to bear a painful application, and requires balsam and a gentler treatment. But when we were at Bath, I remember what you said once of the benefit of retrospection: and you charged me, whenever a _proper_ opportunity offered, to remind you, by that one word, _retrospection_, of the charming conversation we had there, on our return from the rooms. If this be not one of them, forgive, dearest Sir, the unreasonableness of your very impertinent, but, in intention and resolution, _ever dutiful_, P.B. LETTER XCVIII _From Mrs. B. to her Father and Mother_ EVER DEAR, AND EVER HONOURED, I must write this one letter, although I have had the happiness to see you so lately; because Mr. B. is now about to honour me with the tour he so kindly promised; and it may therefore be several months, perhaps, before I have again the pleasure of paying you the like dutiful respects. You know his kind promise, that he would for every dear baby I present him with, take an excursion with me afterwards, in order to establish and confirm my health. The task I have undertaken of dedicating all my writing amusements to the dearest of men; the full employment I have, when at home; the frequent rambles he has so often indulged me in, with my dear Miss Goodwin, to Kent, London, Bedfordshire, Lincolnshire, and to my lady Davers, take from me the necessity of writing to you, to my Miss Damford that was, and to Lady Davers, so often as I formerly thought myself obliged to do, when I saw all my worthy friends so seldom; the same things, moreover, with little variation, occurring this year, as to our conversations, visits, friends, employments, and amusements, that fell out the last, as must be the case in a family so uniform and methodical as ours. I have for these reasons, more leisure to pursue my domestic duties, which are increased upon me; and when I have said, that I am every day more and more happy in my beloved Mr. B., in Miss Goodwin, my Billy, my Davers, and now, newly, in my sweet little Pamela (for so, you know, Lady Davers would have her called, rather than by her own name), what can I say more? As to the tour I spoke of, you know, the first part of Mr. B.'s obliging scheme is to carry me to France; for he has already travelled with me over the greatest part of England; and I am sure, by my passage last year, to the Isle of Wight, I shall not be afraid of crossing the water from Dover thither; and he will, when we are at Paris, he says, take _my_ farther directions (that was his kind expression) whither to go next. My Lord and Lady Davers are so good as to promise to accompany us to Paris, provided Mr. B. will give them our company to Aix-la-Chapelle, for a month or six weeks, whither my lord is advised to go. And Mr. H. if he can get over his fear of crossing the salt water, is to be of the party. Lady G., Miss Damford that was (who likewise has lately lain-in of a fine daughter), and I, are to correspond as opportunity offers; and she promises to send you what I write, as formerly: but I have refused to say one word in my letters of the manners, customs, curiosities, &c. of the places we see; because, first, I shall not have leisure; and, next, those things are so much better described in books written by persons who made stricter and better observations that I can pretend to make: so that what I shall write will relate only to our private selves, and be as brief as possible. If we are to do as Mr. B. has it in his thoughts, he intends to be out of England two years:--but how can I bear that, if for your sakes only, and for those of my dear babies!--But this must be my time, my _only_ time, Mr. B. says, to ramble and see distant places and countries; for as soon as his little ones are capable of my instructions, and begin to understand my looks and signs, he will not spare me from them a week together; and he is so kind as to propose, that my dear bold boy (for every one sees how greatly he resembles his papa in his dear forward spirit) shall go with us; and this pleases Miss Goodwin highly, who is very fond of _him_, and my little Davers; but vows she will never love so well my pretty black-eyed Pamela. You see what a sweet girl Miss is, and you admired her much: did I tell you, what she said to me, when first she saw you both, with your silver hairs, and reverend countenances?--"Madam, I dare say, your papa, and mamma, _honoured their father and mother_:"--"They did, my dear; but what is your reason for saying so?"--"Because _they have lived so long in the land which the LORD their GOD has given them_." I took the charmer in my arms, and kissed her three or four times, as she deserved; for was not this very pretty in the child? I must, with inexpressible pleasure, write you word how happily God's providence has now, at last, turned that affair, which once made me so uneasy, in relation to the fine Countess (who has been some time abroad), of whom you had heard, as you told me, some reports, which, had you known at the time, would have made you very apprehensive for Mr. B.'s morals, as well as for my repose. I will now (because I can do it with the highest pleasure, by reason of the event it has produced), explain that dark affair so far as shall make you judges of my present joy: although I had hitherto avoided entering into that subject to you. For now I think myself, by God's grace, secure to the affection and fidelity of the best of husbands, and that from the worthiest motives; as you shall hear. There was but one thing wanting to complete all the happiness I wished for in this life; which was, the remote hope I had entertained, that one day, my dear Mr. B. who from a licentious gentleman became a moralist, would be so touched by the divine grace, as to become in time, more than moral, a religious man, and, at last, join in the duties which he had the goodness to countenance. For this reason I began with mere _indispensables_. I crowded not his gates with objects of charity: I visited them at their homes, and relieved them; distinguishing the worthy indigent (made so by unavoidable accidents and casualties) from the wilfully, or perversely, or sottishly such, by _greater_ marks of my favour. I confined my morning and evening devotions to my own private closet, lest I should give offence and discouragement to so gay a temper, so unaccustomed (poor gentleman!) to acts of devotion and piety; whilst I met his household together, only on mornings and evenings of the Sabbath-day, to prepare them for their public duties in the one, and in hopes to confirm them in what they had heard at church in the other; leaving them to their own reflections for the rest of the week; after I had suggested a method I wished them to follow, and in which they constantly obliged me. This good order had its desired effect, and our Sabbath-day assemblies were held with so little parade, that we were hardly any of us missed. All, in short, was done with cheerful ease and composure: and every one of us was better disposed to our domestic duties: I, to attend the good pleasure of my best friend; and they, that of us both. Thus we went on very happily, my neighbourly visits of charity, taking up no more time than common airings, and passing many of them for such; my private duties being only between my FIRST, my HEAVENLY BENEFACTOR, and myself, and my family ones personally confined to the day separated for these best of services, and Mr. B. pleased with my manner beheld the good effects, and countenanced me by his praises and his endearments, as acting discreetly, as not falling into enthusiasm, and (as he used to say) as not aiming at being _righteous overmuch_. But still I wanted, and waited for, with humble patience, and made it part of my constant prayers, that the divine Grace would at last touch his heart, and make him _more_ than a countenancer, _more_ than an applauder of my duties; that he might for his own dear sake, become a partaker in them. "And then," thought I, "when we can, hand in hand, heart in heart, one spirit as well as one flesh, join in the same closet, in the same prayers and thanksgiving, what a happy creature shall I be." I say, _closet_: for I durst not aspire so high, as to hope the favour of his company among his servants, in our Sunday devotions.--I knew it would be going too far, in _his_ opinion, to expect it from him. In _me_ their mistress, had I been ever so high-born, it was not amiss, because I, and they, _every one_ of us, were _his_; I in one degree, Mr. Longman in another, Mrs. Jervis in another--But from a man of his high temper and manner of education, I knew I could never hope for it, so would not lose _every_ thing, by grasping at _too much_. But in the midst of all these comfortable proceedings, and my further charming hopes, a nasty masquerade threw into his way a temptation, which for a time blasted all my prospects, and indeed made me doubt my own head almost. For, judge my disappointment, when I found all my wishes frustrated, all my prayers rendered ineffectual; his very morality, which I had flattered myself, in time, I should be an humble instrument to exalt into religion, shocked, and in danger; and all the work to begin over again, if offended Grace should ever again offer itself to the dear wilful trespasser! But who should pretend to scrutinize the councils of the Almighty?--for out of all this _evil appearance_ was to proceed the _real good_, I had been so long, and so often, supplicating for! The dear man _was_ to be on the brink of relapsing: it was proper, that I should be so very uneasy, as to assume a conduct not natural to my temper, and to raise his generous concern for me: and, in the very crisis, divine Grace interposed, made him sensible of his danger, made him resolve against his error, before it was yet too late: and his sliding feet, quitting the slippery path he was in, collected new strength, and he stood the firmer and more secure for his peril. For having happily put a stop to that affair, and by his uniform conduct, for a considerable time, shewed me that I had nothing to apprehend from it, he was pleased, when we were last at Tunbridge, and in very serious discourse upon divine subjects, to say to this effect: "Is there not, my Pamela, a text, _That the unbelieving husband shall be saved by the believing wife, whilst he beholds her chaste conversation coupled with fear?_" "I need not tell you, my dear Mr. B., that there is, nor where it is." "Then, my dear, I begin to hope, _that_ will be my case; for, from a former affair, of which this spot of ground puts me more in mind, I see so much reason to doubt my own strength, which I had built, and, as I thought securely, on _moral_ foundations, that I must look out for a _better_ guide to conduct me, than the proud word _honour_ can be, in the general acceptance of it among us lively young gentlemen. "How often have I promised (and I never promised but I intended to perform) that I would be faithfully and only yours! How often declared, that I did not think I could possibly deserve my Pamela, till I could shew her, in my own mind, a purity as nearly equal to hers, as my past conduct would admit of! "But I depended too much upon my own strength: and I am now convinced, that nothing but RELIGIOUS CONSIDERATIONS, and a resolution to watch over the very _first_ appearances of evil, and to check them as they arise, can be of sufficient weight to keep steady to his good purpose, a vain young man, too little accustomed to restraint, and too much used to play upon the brink of dangers, from a temerity, and love of intrigue, natural to enterprising minds. "I would not make this declaration of my convictions to you, till I had thoroughly examined myself, and had reason to hope, that I should be enabled to make it good. And now, my Pamela, from this instant you shall be my guide; and, only taking care, that you do not, all at once, by injunctions too rigorous, damp and discourage the rising flame, I will leave it to you to direct as you please, till, by degrees, it may be deemed worthy to mingle with your own." Judge how rapturous my joy was upon this occasion, and how ready I was to bless God for a danger (so narrowly escaped) which was attended with the _very_ consequences that I had so long prayed for; and which I little thought the divine providence was bringing about by the very means, that, I apprehended, would put an end to all my pleasing hopes and prospects of that nature. It is in vain for me to seek words to express what I felt, and how I acted, on this occasion. I heard him out with twenty different and impatient emotions; and then threw myself at his feet, embracing his knees, with arms the most ardently clasped! My face lifted up to Heaven, and to him, by turns; my eyes overflowing with tears of joy, which half choked up the passage of my words.--At last, his kind arms clasping my neck, and kissing my tearful cheek, I could only say--"My ardent prayers, are at last-heard--May God Almighty confirm your pious purposes! And, Oh I what a happy Pamela have you at your feet!" I wept for joy till I sobbed again--and he raising me to his kind arms, I said--"To have this _heavenly_ prospect, O best beloved of my heart! added to all my _earthly_ blessings!--How shall I contain my joy!--For, oh! to think that he is, and will be mine, and I his, through the mercies of God, when this transitory life is past and gone, to all eternity; what a rich thought is this!--Methinks I am already, dear Sir, ceasing to be mortal, and beginning to taste the perfections of those joys, which this thrice welcome declaration gives me hope of hereafter!--But what shall I say, obliged as I was beyond expression before, and now doubly obliged in the rapturous view you have opened to me, into a happy futurity!" He said, he was delighted with me beyond expression; that I was his ecstatic charmer!--That the love I shewed for his future good was the moving proof of the purity of my heart, and my affection for him. And that very evening he joined with me in my retired duties; and, at all proper opportunities, favours me with his company in the same manner; listening attentively to all my lessons, as he calls my cheerful discourses on serious subjects. And now, my dear parents, do you not rejoice with me in this charming, charming appearance? For, _before_ I had the most generous, the most beneficent, the most noble, the most affectionate, but _now_ I am likely to have the most _pious_, of husbands! What a happy wife, what a happy daughter, is _his_ and _your_ Pamela! God of his infinite mercy, continue and improve the ravishing prospect! I was forced to leave off here, to enjoy the charming reflections, which this lovely subject, and my blessed prospects, filled me with; and now proceed to write a few lines more. I am under some concern on account of our going to travel into some Roman Catholic countries, for fear we should want the public opportunities of divine service: for I presume, the ambassador's chapel will be the only Protestant place of worship allowed of, and Paris the only city in France where there is one. But we must endeavour to make it up in our private and domestic duties: for, as the phrase is--"When we are at Rome, we must do as they do at Rome;" that is to say, so far as not to give offence, on the one hand, to the people we are among; nor scandal, on the other, by compliances hurtful to one's conscience. But my protector knows all these things so well (no place in what is called the grand tour, being new to him), that I have no reason to be very uneasy. And now let me, by letter, as I did on my knees at parting, beg the continuance of your prayers and blessings, and that God will preserve us to one another, and give us, and all our worthy friends, a happy meeting again. Kent, you may be sure, will be our first visit, on our return, for your sakes, for my dear Davers's, and my little Pamela's sake, who will be both put into your protection; while my Billy, and Miss Goodwin (for, since I began this letter, it is so determined), are to be my delightful companions; for Mr. B. declared, his temper wants looking after, and his notices of every thing are strong and significant. Poor little dear! he has indeed a little sort of perverseness and headstrongness, as one may say, in his will: yet he is but a baby, and I hope to manage him pretty well; for he notices all I say, and every look of mine already.--He is, besides, very good humoured, and willing to part with anything for a kind word: and this gives me hopes of a docile and benevolent disposition, as he grows up. I thought, when I began the last paragraph but one, that I was within a line of concluding; but it is _to_ you, and _of_ my babies, I am writing; so shall go on to the bottom of this new sheet, if I do not directly finish: which I do, with assuring you both, that wherever I am, I shall always be thoughtful of you, and remember you in my prayers, as becomes _your ever dutiful daughter_, P.B. My respects to all your good neighbours in general. Mr. Longman will visit you now and then. Mrs. Jervis will take one journey into Kent, she says, and it shall be to accompany my babies, when carried down to you. Poor Jonathan, and she, good folks! seem declining in their health, which grieves me.--Once more, God send us all a happy meeting, if it be his blessed will! Adieu, adieu, my dear parents! _your ever dutiful, &c._ LETTER XCIX My Dear Lady G., I received your last letter at Paris, as we were disposing every thing for our return to England, after an absence of near two years; in which, as I have informed you, from time to time, I have been a great traveller, into Holland, the Netherlands, through the most considerable province of France, into Italy; and, in our return to Paris again (the principal place of our residence), through several parts of Germany. I told you of the favours and civilities we received at Florence, from the then Countess Dowager of----, who, with her humble servant Lord C----(that had so assiduously attended her for so many months in Italy), accompanied us from Florence to Inspruck. Her ladyship made that worthy lord happy in about a month after she parted from us, and the noble pair gave us an opportunity at Paris, in their way to England, to return some of the civilities which we received from them in Italy; and they are now arrived at her ladyship's seat on the Forest. Her lord is exceedingly fond of her, as he well may; for she is one of the most charming ladies in England; and behaves to him with so much prudence and respect, that they are as happy in each other as can be wished. And let me just add, that both in Italy and at Paris, Mr. B.'s demeanour and her ladyship's to one another, was so nobly open, and unaffectedly polite, as well as highly discreet, that neither Lord C. who had once been jealous of Mr. B. nor the _other party_, who had had a tincture of the same yellow evil, as you know, because of the Countess, had so much as a shadow of uneasiness remaining on the occasion. Lord Davers has had his health (which had begun to decline in England) so well, that there was no persuading Lady Davers to return before now, although I begged and prayed I might not have another little Frenchman, for fear they should, as they grew up, forget, as I pleasantly used to say, the obligations which their parentage lays them under to dearer England. And now, my dearest friend, I have shut up my rambles for my whole life; for three little English folks, and one little Frenchman (but a charming baby as well as the rest, Charley by name), and a near prospect of a further increase, you will say, are family enough to employ all my cares at home. I have told you, from time to time, although I could not write to you so often as I would, because of our being constantly in motion, what was most worthy of your knowledge relating to every particular, and how happy we all have been in one another. And I have the pleasure to confirm to you what I have often written, that Mr. B. and my Lord and Lady Davers are all that I could wish and hope for, with regard to their first duties. We are indeed a happy family, united by the best and most solid ties! Miss Goodwin is a charming young lady!--I cannot express how much I love her. She is a perfect mistress of the French language and speaks Italian very prettily! And, as to myself, I have improved so well under my dear tutor's lessons, together with the opportunity of conversing with the politest and most learned gentry of different nations, that I will discourse with you in two or three languages, if you please, when I have the happiness to see you. There's a learned boaster for you, my dear friend! (if the knowledge of different languages makes one learned.)--But I shall bring you an heart as entirely English as ever, for all that! We landed on Thursday last at Dover, and directed our course to the dear farm-house; and you can better imagine, than I express, our meeting with my dear father and mother, and my beloved Davers and Pamela, who are charming babies.--But is not this the language of every fond mamma? Miss Goodwin is highly delighted now with my sweet little Pamela, and says, she shall be her sister indeed! "For, Madam," said she, "Miss is a beauty!--And we see no French beauties like Master Davers and Miss."--"Beauty! my dear," said I; "what is beauty, if she be not a good girl? Beauty is but a specious, and, as it may happen, a dangerous recommendation, a mere skin-deep perfection; and if, as she grows up, she is not as good as Miss Goodwin, she shall be none of my girl." What adds to my pleasure, my dear friend, is to see them both so well got over the small-pox. It has been as happy for them, as it was for their mamma and her Billy, that they had it under so skilful and kind a manager in that distemper, as my dear mother. I wish if it please God, it was as happily over with my little pretty Frenchman. Every body is surprised to see what the past two years have done for Miss Goodwin and my Billy.--O, my dear friend, they are both of them almost--nay, quite, I think, for their years, all that I wish them to be. In order to make them keep their French, which Miss so well speaks, and Billy so prettily prattles, I oblige them, when they are in the nursery, to speak nothing else: but at table, except on particular occasions, when French may be spoken, they are to speak in English; that is, when they do speak: for I tell them, that little masters must only ask questions for information, and say--"Yes," or--"No," till their papas or mammas permit them to speak; nor little ladies neither, till they are sixteen; for--"My dear loves," cry I, "you would not speak before you know _how_; and knowledge is obtained by _hearing_, and not by _speaking_." And setting my Billy on my lap, in Miss's presence--"Here," said I, taking an ear in the fingers of each hand, "are two ears, my Billy," and then, pointing to his mouth, "but one tongue, my love; so you must be sure to mind that you _hear_ twice as much as you _speak_, even when you grow a bigger master than you are now." "You have so many pretty ways to learn one, Madam," says Miss, now and then, "that it is impossible we should not regard what you say to us!" Several French tutors, when we were abroad, were recommended to Mr. B. But there is one English gentleman, now on his travels with young Mr. R. with whom Mr. B. has agreed; and in the mean time, my best friend is pleased to compliment me, that the children will not suffer for want of a tutor, while I can take the pains I do: which he will have to be too much for me: especially that now, on our return, my Davers and my Pamela are added to my cares. But what mother can take too much pains to cultivate the minds of her children?--If, my dear Lady G., it were not for these _frequent_ lyings-in!--But this is the time of life.--Though little did I think, so early, I should have so many careful blessings! I have as great credit as pleasure from my little family. All our neighbours here admire us more and more. You'll excuse my seeming (for it is but seeming) vanity: I hope I know better than to have it real--"Never," says Mrs. Towers, who is still a single lady, "did I see, before, a lady so much advantaged by her residence in that fantastic nation" (for she loves not the French) "who brought home with her nothing of their affectation!"--She says, that the French politeness, and the English frankness and plainness of heart, appear happily blended in all we say and do. And she makes me a thousand compliments upon Lord and Lady Davers's account, who, she would fain persuade me, owe a great deal of improvement (my lord in his conversation, and my lady in her temper) to living in the same house with us. My Lady Davers is exceeding kind and good to me, is always magnifying me to every body, and says she knows not how to live from me: and that I have been a means of saving half a hundred souls, as well as her dear brother's. On an indisposition of my Lord's at Montpellier, which made her very apprehensive, she declared, that were she to be deprived of his lordship, she would not let us rest till we had consented to her living with us; saying that we had room enough in Lincolnshire, and she would enlarge the Bedfordshire seat at her own expense. Mr. H. is Mr. H. still; and that's the best I can say of him; for I verily think, he is more of an ape than ever. His _whole_ head is now French. 'Twas _half_ so before. We had great difficulties with him abroad: his aunt and I endeavouring to give him a serious and religious turn, we had like to have turned him into a Roman Catholic. For he was much pleased with the shewy part of that religion, and the fine pictures, and decorations in the churches of Italy; and having got into company with a Dominican at Padua, a Franciscan at Milan, and a Jesuit at Paris, they lay so hard at him, in their turns, that we had like to have lost him to each assailant: so were forced to let him take his own course; for, his aunt would have it, that he had no other defence from the attacks of persons to make him embrace a faulty religion, than to permit him to continue as he was; that is to say, to have none at all. So she suspended attempting to proselyte the thoughtless creature, till he came to England. I wish her success here: but, I doubt, he will not be a credit to any religion, for a great while. And as he is very desirous to go to London, it will be found, when there, that any fluttering coxcomb will do more to make him one of that class, in an hour, than his aunt's lessons, to make him a good man, in a twelvemonth. "_Where much is given, much is required_." The contrary of this, I doubt, is all poor Mr. H. has to trust to. We have just now heard that his father, who has been long ill, is dead. So now, he is a lord indeed! He flutters and starts about most strangely, I warrant, and is wholly employed in giving directions as to his mourning equipage.--And now there will be no holding him in, I doubt; except his new title has so much virtue in it, as to make him a wiser and better man. He will now have a seat in the House of Peers of Great Britain; but I hope, for the nation's sake, he will not find many more like himself there!--For, to me, that is one of the most venerable assemblies in the world; and it appears the more so, since I have been abroad; for an English gentleman is respected, if he be any thing of a man, above a foreign nobleman; and an English nobleman above some petty sovereigns. If our travelling gentry duly considered this distinction in their favour, they would, for the honour of their country, as well as for their own credit, behave in a better manner, in their foreign tours, than, I am sorry to say, some of them do. But what can one expect from the unlicked cubs (pardon the term) sent abroad with only stature, to make them look like men, and equipage to attract respect, without one other qualification to enforce it? Here let me close this, with a few tears, to the memory of my dear Mrs. Jervis, my other mother, my friend, my adviser, my protectress, in my single state; and my faithful second and partaker in the comforts of my higher life, and better fortunes! What would I have given to have been present, as it seems, she so earnestly wished, to close her dying eyes! I should have done it with the piety and the concern of a truly affectionate daughter. But that melancholy happiness was denied to us both; for, as I told you in the letter on the occasion, the dear good woman (who is now in the possession of her blessed reward, and rejoicing in God's mercies) was no more, when the news reached me, so far off as Heidelburgh, of her last illness and wishes. I cannot forbear, every time I enter her parlour (where I used to see, with so much delight, the good woman sitting, always employed in some useful or pious work), shedding a tear to her memory; and in my Sabbath duties, missing _her_, I miss half a dozen friends, methinks; and I sigh in remembrance of her; and can only recover that cheerful frame, which the performance of those duties always gave me, by reflecting, that she is now reaping the reward of that sincere piety, which used to edify and encourage us all. The servants we brought home, and those we left behind, melt in tears at the name of Mrs. Jervis. Mr. Longman, too, lamented the loss of her, in the most moving strain. And all I can do now, in honour of her memory and her merit, is to be a friend to those she loved most, as I have already begun to be, and none of them shall suffer in those concerns that can be answered, now she is gone. For the loss of so excellent a friend and relation, is loss enough to all who knew her, and claimed kindred with her. Poor worthy Jonathan, too, ('tis almost a misery to have so soft, so susceptible an heart as I have, or to have such good servants and friends as one cannot lose without such emotions as I feel for the loss of them!) his silver hairs, which I have beheld with so much delight, and thought I had a father in presence, when I saw them adorning so honest and comely a face, are now laid low!--Forgive me, he was not a common servant; neither are _any_ of ours so: but Jonathan excelled all that excelled in his class!-I am told, that these two worthy folks died within two days of one another: on which occasion I could not help saying to myself, in the words of David over Saul and his son Jonathan, the name-sake of our worthy butler--"_They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided._" I might have continued on in the words of the royal lamenter; for, surely, never did one fellow-servant love another in my maiden state, nor servant love a mistress in my exalted condition, better than Jonathan loved me! I could see in his eyes a glistening pleasure, whenever I passed by him: if at such times I spoke to him, as I seldom failed to do, with a--"_God bless you too!_" in answer to his repeated blessings, he had a kind of rejuvenescence (may I say?) visibly running through his whole frame: and, now and then, if I laid my hands upon his folded ones, as I passed him on a Sunday morning or evening, praying for me, with a--"_How do you, my worthy old acquaintance?_" his heart would spring to his lips in a kind of rapture, and his eyes would run over. O my beloved friend! how the loss of these two worthies of my family oppresses me at times! Mr. B. likewise shewed a generous concern on the occasion: and when all the servants welcomed us in a body, on our return--"Methinks my dear," said he, "I miss your Mrs. Jervis, and honest Jonathan." A starting tear, and--"They are happy, dear honest souls!" and a sigh, were the tribute I paid to their memories, on their beloved master's so kindly repeating their names. Who knows, had I been here--But away, too painful reflections--They lived to a good old age, and fell like fruit fully ripe: they _died the death of the righteous_; I must follow them in time, God knows how soon; and, _Oh! that my latter end may be like theirs!_ Once more, forgive me, my dear friend, this small tribute to their memories: and believe, that I am not so ungrateful for God's mercies, as to let the loss of these dear good folks lessen with me the joy and delight I have still left me, in the health and the love of the best of husbands, and good men; in the children, charming as ever mother could boast of--charming, I mean, principally, in the dawning beauties of their minds, and in the pleasure their towardliness of nature gives me; including, as I always do, my dear Miss Goodwin, and have reason to do, from her dutiful love of me, and observation of all I say to her; in the preservation to me of the best and worthiest of parents, hearty, though aged as they are; in the love and friendship of good Lord and Lady Davers, and my excellent friend Lady G.; not forgetting even worthy Mr. Longman. God preserve all these to me, as I am truly thankful for his mercies!--And then, notwithstanding my affecting losses, as above, who will be so happy as I? That you, my dear Lady G. may long continue so, likewise in the love of a worthy husband, and the delights of an increasing hopeful family, which will make you some amends for the heavy losses you also have sustained, in the two last years of an affectionate father, and a most worthy mother, and, in Mrs. Jones, of a good neighbour, prays _your ever affectionate friend and servant_, P.B. * * * * * LETTER C MY BELOVED LADY G., You will excuse my long silence, when I shall tell you the occasions of it. In the first place, I was obliged to pay a dutiful visit to Kent, where my good father was taken ill of a fever, and my mother of an ague; and think. Madam, how this must affect me, at their time of life! Mr. B. kindly accompanied me, apprehending that his presence would be necessary, if the recovery of them both, in which I thankfully rejoice, had not happened; especially as a circumstance I am, I think, always in, added more weight to his apprehensions. I had hardly returned from Kent to Bedfordshire, and looked around, when I was obliged to set out to attend Lady Davers, who said she should _die_, if she saw me not, to comfort and recover, by my counsel and presence (so she was pleased to express herself) her sick lord who had just got out of an intermittent fever, which left him without any spirit, and was occasioned by fretting at the conduct of her _stupid nephew_ (those also were her words). For you must have heard (every body hears when a man of quality does a foolish thing!), and it has been in all the newspapers, that, "On Wednesday last the Right Honourable John" (Jackey they should have said), "Lord H., nephew to the Right Honourable William Lord Davers, was married to the Honourable Mrs. P., relict of J.P. of Twickenham, Esq., a lady of celebrated beauty and ample fortune." Now, you must know, that this celebrated lady is, 'tis true, of the----family, whence her title of _honourable_; but is indeed so _celebrated_, that every fluttering coxcomb in town can give some account of her, even before she was in keeping of the Duke of----who had cast her on the town he had robbed of her. In short, she is quite a common woman; has no fortune at all, as one may say, only a small jointure incumbered; and is much in debt. She is a shrew into the bargain, and the poor wretch is a father already; for he has already had a girl of three years old (her husband has been dead seven) brought him home, which he knew nothing of, nor even inquired, whether his widow had a child!--And he is now paying the mother's debts, and trying to make the best of his bargain. This is the fruit of a London journey, so long desired by him, and his fluttering about there with his new title. He was drawn in by a brother of his lady, and a friend of that brother's, two town sharpers, gamesters, and bullies. Poor Sir Joseph Wittol! This was his case, and his character, it seems, in London. Shall I present you with a curiosity? "Tis a copy of his letter to his uncle, who had, as you may well think, lost all patience with him, on occasion of this abominable folly. "MY LORD DAVERS, "For iff you will not call me neffew, I have no reason to call you unkell; surely you forgett who it was you held up your kane to: I have as little reason to valew you displeassure, as you have me: for I am, God be thanked, a lord and a pere of the realme, as well as you; and as to youre nott owneing me, nor your brother B. not looking upon me, I care not a fardinge: and, bad as you think I have done, I have marry'd a woman of family. Take thatt among you! "As to your personal abuses of her, take care whatt you say. You know the stattute will defend us as well as you.--And, besides, she has a brother that won't lett her good name be called in question.--Mind thatt! "Some thinges I wish had been otherwise--perhapps I do.--What then?--Must you, my lord, make more mischiefe, and adde to my plagues, iff I have any?--Is this your unkelship? "Butt I shan't want youre advice. I have as good an estate as you have, and am as much a lord as yourselfe.--Why the devill then, am I to be treated as I am?--Why the plague--But I won't sware neither. I desire not to see you, any more than you doe me, I can tell you thatt. And iff we ever meet under one roofe with my likeing, it must be at the House of Peeres where I shall be upon a parr with you in every thing, that's my cumfurte. "As to Lady Davers, I desire not to see her ladyship; for she was always plaguy nimbel with her fingers; but, lett my false stepp be what itt will, I have in other respectes, marry'd a lady who is as well descended as herseife, and no disparagement neither; so have nott thatt to answer for to her pride; and who has as good a spiritt too, if they were to come face to face, or I am mistaken: nor will shee take affmntes from any one. So my lord, leave mee to make the best of my matters, as I will of youres. So no more, but that I am _youre servante_, H. "P.S. I mean no affrunte to Mrs. B. She is the best of yee all--by G--." I will not take up your time with further observations upon this poor creature's bad conduct: his reflection must proceed from _feeling_; and will, that's the worst of it, come too late, come _when_ or _how_ it will. I will only say, I am sorry for it on his own account, but more for that of Lord and Lady Davers, who take the matter very heavily, and wish he had married the lowest born creature in England (so she had been honest and virtuous), rather than done as he has done. But, I suppose, the poor gentleman was resolved to shun, at all adventures, Mr. B.'s fault, and keep up to the pride of descent and family;--and so married the only creature, as I hope (since it cannot be helped), that is so great a disgrace to both: for I presume to flatter myself, for the sake of my sex, that, among the poor wretches who are sunk so low as the town-women are, there are very few of birth or education; but such, principally, as have had their necessities or their ignorance taken advantage of by base men; since birth and education must needs set the most unhappy of the sex above so sordid and so abandoned a guilt, as the hourly wickedness of such a course of life subjects them to. But let me pursue my purpose of excusing my long silence. I had hardly returned from Lady Davers's, and recovered my family management, and resumed my nursery duties, when my fourth dear boy, my Jemmy (for, I think am I going on to make out the number Lady Davers allotted me), pressed so upon me, as not to be refused, for one month or six weeks close attention. And then a journey to Lord Davers's, and that noble pair accompanying us to Kent; and daily and hourly pleasures crowding upon us, narrow and confined as our room there was (though we went with as few attendants as possible), engrossed _more_ of my time. Thus I hope you will forgive me, because, as soon as I returned, I set about writing this, as an excuse for myself, in the first place; to promise you the subject you insist upon, in the next; and to say, that I am incapable of forgetfulness or negligence to such a friend as Lady G. For I must always be your _faithful and affectionate humble servant_, P.B. LETTER CI MY DEAR LADY G., The remarks, your cousin Fielding says, I have made on the subject of young gentlemen's travelling, and which you request me to communicate to you, are part of a little book upon education, which I wrote for Mr. B.'s correction and amendment, on his putting Mr. Locke's treatise on that subject into my hands, and requiring my observations upon it. I cannot flatter myself they will answer your expectation; for I am sensible they must be unworthy even of the opportunities I have had in the excursions, in which I have been indulged by the best of men. But your requests are so many laws to me; and I will give you a short abstract of what I read Miss Fielding, who has so greatly overrated it to you. The gentleman's book contains many excellent rules on education; but this of travel I will only refer you to at present. You will there see his objections against the age at which young gentlemen are sent abroad, from sixteen to twenty-one, the time in all their lives, he says, at which young gentlemen are the least suited to these improvements, and in which they have the least fence and guard against their passions. The age he proposes is from seven to fourteen, because of the advantage they will then have to master foreign languages, and to form their tongue to the true pronunciation; as well as that they will be more easily directed by their tutors or governors. Or else he proposes that more sedate time of life, when the gentleman is able to travel without a tutor, and to make his own observations; and when he is thoroughly acquainted with the laws and fashions, the natural and moral advantages and defects of his own country; by which means, as Mr. Locke wisely observes, the traveller will have something to exchange with those abroad, from whose conversation he hopes to reap any knowledge. And he supports his opinion by excellent reasons, to which I refer you. What I have written in my little book, not yet quite finished on _this_ head, relates principally to _Home Travelling_, which Mr. B. was always resolved his sons should undertake, before they entered upon a foreign tour. I have there observed, that England abounds with curiosities, both of art and nature, worth the notice of a diligent inquirer, and equal with some of those we admire in foreign parts; and that if the youth be not sent abroad at Mr. Locke's earliest time, from seven to fourteen (which I can hardly think will be worth while, merely for the sake of attaining a perfection in the languages), he may with good advantage begin, at fourteen or fifteen, the tour of Great Britain, now-and-then, by excursions, in the summer months, between his other studies, and as a diversion to him. This I should wish might be entered upon in his papa's company, as well as his tutor's, if it could conveniently be done; who thus initiating both the governed and governor in the methods he would have observed by both, will obtain no small satisfaction and amusement to himself. For the father would by this means be an eye-witness of the behaviour of the one and the other, and have a specimen how fit the young man was to be trusted, or the tutor to be depended upon, when they went abroad, and were out of his sight: as _they_ would of what was expected from them by the father. And hence a thousand benefits may arise to the young gentleman from the occasional observations and reflections of his father, with regard to expence, company, conversation, hours, and such like. If the father could not himself accompany his son, he might appoint the stages the young gentleman should take, and enjoin both tutor and son to give, at every stage, an account of whatever they observed curious and remarkable, not omitting the minutest occurrences. By this means, and the probability that he might hear of them, and their proceedings, from his friends, acquaintance, and relations, who might fall in with them, they would have a greater regard to their conduct; and so much the more, if the young gentleman were to keep an account of his expences, which, upon his return, he might lay before his father. By seeing thus the different customs, manners, and economy of different persons and families (for in so mixed a nation as ours is, there is as great a variety of that sort to be met with, as in most), and from their different treatment, at their several stages, a great deal of the world may be learned by the young gentleman. He would be prepared to go abroad with more delight to himself, as well as more experience, and greater reputation to his family and country. In such excursions as these, the tutor would see his temper and inclination, and might notice to the father any thing amiss, that it might be set right, while the youth was yet in his reach, and more under his inspection, than he would be in a foreign country; and his observations, on his return, as well as in his letters, would shew how fit he was to be trusted; and how likely to improve, when at a greater distance. After England and Wales, as well the inland parts as the sea-coasts, let them if they behave according to expectation, take a journey into Scotland and Ireland, and visit the principal islands, as Guernsey, Jersey, &c. the youth continuing to write down his observations all the way, and keeping a journal of occurrences; and let him employ the little time he will be on board of ship, in these small trips from island to island, or coastwise, in observing upon the noble art of navigation; of the theory of which, it will not be amiss that he has some notion, as well as of the curious structure of a ship, its tackle, and furniture: a knowledge very far from being insignificant to a gentleman who is an islander, and has a stake in the greatest maritime kingdom in the world; and hence he will be taught to love and value that most useful and brave set of men, the British sailors, who are the natural defence and glory of the realm. Hereby he will confirm his theory in the geography of the British dominions in Europe, he will be apprised of the situation, conveniences, interests, and constitution of his own country; and will be able to lay a ground-work for the future government of his thoughts and actions, if the interest he bears in his native country should call him to the public service in either house of parliament. With this foundation, how excellently would he be qualified to go abroad! and how properly then would he add to the knowledge he had attained of his own country, that of the different customs, manners, and forms of government of others! How would he be able to form comparisons, and to make all his inquiries appear pertinent and manly. All the occasions of that ignorant wonder, which renders a novice the jest of all about him, would be taken away. He would be able to ask questions, and to judge without leading strings. Nor would he think he has seen a country, and answered the ends of his father's expence, and his own improvement, by running through a kingdom, and knowing nothing of it, but the inns and stages, at which he stopped to eat and drink. For, on the contrary, he would make the best acquaintance, and contract worthy friendships with such as would court and reverence him as one of the rising geniuses of his country. Whereas most of the young gentlemen who are sent abroad raw and unprepared, as if to wonder at every thing they see, and to be laughed at by all that see them, do but expose themselves and their country. And if, at their return, by interest of friends, by alliances, or marriages, they should happen to be promoted to places of honour or profit, their unmerited preferment will only serve to make those foreigners, who were eye-witnesses of their weakness and follies, when among them, conclude greatly in disfavour of the whole nation, or, at least, of the prince, and his administration, who could find no fitter subjects to distinguish. This, my dear friend, is a brief extract from my observations on the head of qualifying young gentlemen to travel with honour and improvement. I doubt you'll be apt to think me not a little out of my element; but since you _would_ have it, I claim the allowances of a friend; to which my ready compliance with your commands the rather entitles me. I am very sorry Mr. and Mrs. Murray are so unhappy in each other. Were he a generous man, the heavy loss the poor lady has sustained, as well as her sister, my beloved friend, in so excellent a mother, and so kind a father, would make him bear with her infirmities a little. But, really, I have seen, on twenty occasions, that notwithstanding all the fine things gentlemen say to ladies before marriage, if the latter do not _improve_ upon their husbands' hands, their imputed graces when single, will not protect them from indifference, and, probably, from worse; while the gentleman, perhaps, thinks _he_ only, of the two, is entitled to go backward in acts of kindness and complaisance. A strange and shocking difference which too many ladies experience, who, from fond lovers, prostrate at their feet, find surly husbands, trampling upon their necks! You, my dear friend, were happy in your days of courtship, and are no less so in your state of wedlock. And may you continue to be so to a good old age, _prays your affectionate and faithful friend,_ P.B. LETTER CII My dear Lady G., I will cheerfully cause to be transcribed for you the conversation you desire, between myself, Mrs. Towers, and Lady Arthur, and the three young ladies their relations, in presence of the dean and his daughter, and Mrs. Brooks; and glad I shall be, if it may be of use to the two thoughtless Misses your neighbours; who, you are pleased to tell me, are great admirers of my story and my example; and will therefore, as you say, pay greater attention to what I write, than to the more passionate and interested lessons of their mamma. I am only sorry you should be concerned about the supposed trouble you give me, by having mislaid my former relation of it. For, besides obliging my dear Lady G., the hope of doing service by it to a family so worthy, in a case so nearly affecting its honour, as to make two headstrong young ladies recollect what belongs to their sex and their characters, and what their filial duties require of them, affords me high pleasure; and if it shall be attended with the wished effects, it will add to my happiness. I said, _cause_ to be transcribed, because I hope to answer a double end by it; for, on reconsideration, I set Miss Goodwin to transcribe it, who writes a pretty hand, and is not a little fond of the task, nor, indeed, of any task I set her; and will be more affected as she performs it, than she could be by _reading_ it only; although she is a very good girl at present, and gives me hopes that she will continue to be so. I will inclose it when done, that it may be read to the parties without this introduction, if you think fit. And you will forgive me for having added a few observations, with a view to the cases of your inconsiderate young ladies, and for having corrected the former narrative in several places. My dear Lady G., The papers you have mislaid, as to the conversation between me and the young ladies, relations of Mrs. Towers, and Lady Anne Arthur, in presence of these two last-named ladies, Mrs. Brooks, and the worthy dean, and Miss L. (of which, in order to perfect your kind collection of my communications you request another copy) contained as follows. I first stated, that I had seen these three ladies twice or thrice before, as visitors, at their kinswomen's houses so that they and I were not altogether strangers to one another: and my two neighbours acquainted me with their respective tastes and dispositions, and their histories preparatory to this visit, to the following effects: That MISS STAPYLTON is over-run with the love of poetry and romance, and delights in flowery language and metaphorical flourishes: is about eighteen, wants not either sense or politeness; and has read herself into a vein, more amorous (that was Mrs. Towers's word) than discreet. Has extraordinary notions of a _first sight_ love; and gives herself greater liberties, with a pair of fine eyes (in hopes to make sudden conquests in pursuance of that notion), than is pretty in her sex and age; which makes those who know her not, conclude her bold and forward; and is more than suspected, with a mind thus prepared for instantaneous impressions, to have experienced the argument to her own disadvantage, and to be _struck_ by (before she had _stricken_) a gentleman, whom her friends think not at all worthy of her, and to whom she was making some indiscreet advances, under the name of PHILOCLEA to PHILOXENUS, in a letter which she entrusted to a servant of the family, who, discovering her design, prevented her indiscretion for that time. That, in other respects, she has no mean accomplishments, will have a fine fortune, is genteel in her person, though with some visible affectation, dances well, sings well, and plays prettily on several instruments; is fond of reading, but affects the action, and air, and attitude of a tragedian; and is too apt to give an emphasis in the wrong place, in order to make an author mean significantly, even where the occasion is common, and, in a mere historical fact, that requires as much simplicity in the reader's accent, as in the writer's style. No wonder then, that when she reads a play, she will put herself into a sweat, as Mrs. Towers says; distorting very agreeable features, and making a _multitude_ of wry mouths with _one_ very pretty one, in order to convince her hearers, what a near neighbour her heart is to her lips. MISS COPE is a young lady of nineteen, lovely in her person, with a handsome fortune in possession, and great prospects. Has a soft and gentle turn of mind, which disposes her to be easily imposed upon. Is addressed by a libertine of quality, whose courtship, while permitted, was imperiousness; and whose tenderness, insult: having found the young lady too susceptible of impression, open and unreserved, and even valuing him the more, as it seemed, for treating her with ungenerous contempt; for that she was always making excuses for slights, ill manners, and even rudeness, which no other young lady would forgive. That this docility on her side, and this insolence on his, and an over-free, and even indecent degree of romping, as it is called, with her, which once her mamma surprised them in, made her papa forbid _his_ visits, and _her_ receiving them. That this however, was so much to Miss Cope's regret, that she was detected in a design to elope to him out of the private garden-door; which, had she effected, in all probability, the indelicate and dishonourable peer would have triumphed over her innocence; having given out since, that he intended to revenge himself on the daughter, for the disgrace he had received from the parents. That though convinced of this, it was feared she still loved him, and would again throw herself in his way; urging, that his rash expressions were the effect only of his passion; for that she knows he loves her too well to be dishonourable to her; and by the same degree of favourable prepossession, she will have it, that his brutal roughness is the manliness of his nature; that his most shocking expressions are sincerity of heart; that his boasts of former lewdness are but instances that he knows the world; that his freedoms with her person are but excess of love and innocent gaiety of temper; that his resenting the prohibition he has met with, and his threats, are other instances of his love and his courage: and peers of the realm ought not to be bound down by little narrow rules like the vulgar; for, truly, their _honour_ is in the greatest cases regarded as equal with the _oath_ of a common gentleman, and is a security that a lady may trust to, if he is not a profligate indeed; and that Lord P. _cannot_ be. That excepting these weaknesses, Miss has many good qualities; is charitable, pious, humane, humble; sings sweetly, plays on the spinnet charmingly; is meek, fearful, and never was resolute or courageous enough to step out of the regular path, till her too flexible heart became touched with a passion, that is said to polish the most brutal temper, and therefore her rough peer has none of it; and to animate the dove, of which Miss Cope has too much. That Miss Sutton, a young lady of the like age with the two former, has too lively and airy a turn of mind; affects to be thought well read in the histories of kingdoms, as well as in polite literature. Speaks French fluently, talks much upon all subjects; and has a great deal of flippant wit, which makes more enemies than friends. However, is innocent, and unsuspectedly virtuous hitherto; but makes herself cheap and accessible to fops and rakes, and has not the worse opinion of a man for being such. Listens eagerly to stories told to the disadvantage of some of her own sex; though affecting to be a great stickler for the honour of it in general: will unpityingly propagate them: thinks (without considering to what the imprudence of her own conduct may subject her) the woman that slips inexcusable; and the man who seduces her, much less faulty; and thus encourages the one sex in their vileness, and gives up the other for their weakness, in a kind of silly affectation, to shew her security in her own virtue; at the same time, that she is dancing upon the edge of a precipice, presumptuously inattentive to her own danger. The worthy dean, knowing the ladies' intention in this visit to me, brought his daughter with him, as if by accident; for Miss L. with many good qualities, is of a remarkable soft temper, though not so inconsiderately soft as Miss Cope: but is too credulous; and, as her papa suspects, entertains more than a liking to a wild young gentleman, the heir to a noble fortune, who makes visits to her, full of tenderness and respect, but without declaring himself. This gives the dean much uneasiness; and he is very desirous that his daughter should be in my company on all occasions, as she is so kind to profess a great regard to my opinion and judgment. 'Tis easy to see the poor young lady is in love; and she makes no doubt that the young gentleman loves _her_; but, alas! why then (for he is not a bashful man, as you shall hear) does he not say so?--He has deceived already two young creatures. His father has cautioned the dean against his son. Has told him, that he is sly, subtle, full of stratagem, yet has so much command of himself (which makes him more dangerous), as not to precipitate his designs; but can wait with patience till he thinks himself secure of his prey, and then pulls off the mask at once; and, if he succeeds, glories in his villainy. Yet does his father beg of the dean to permit his visits, for he wishes him to marry Miss L. though greatly unequal in fortune to his son, wishing for nothing so much as that he _would_ marry. And the dean, owing his principal preferment to the old gentleman, cares not to disoblige him, or affront his son, without some apparent reason for it, especially as the father is wrapt up in him, having no other child, and being himself half afraid of him, least, if too much thwarted, he should fly out entirely. So here, Madam, are four young ladies of like years, and different inclinations and tempers, all of whom may be said to have dangers to encounter, resulting from their respective dispositions: and who, professing to admire my character and example, were brought to me, to be benefited, as Mrs. Towers was pleased to say, by my conversation: and all was to be as if accidental, none of them knowing how well I was acquainted with their several characters. How proud would this compliment have made me from such a lady as Mrs. Towers, had I not been as proud as proud could be before, of the good opinion of four beloved persons, Mr. B., Lady Davers, the Countess of C. and your dear self. We were attended only by Polly Barlow, who in some points was as much concerned as any body. And this being when Lord and Lady Davers, and the noble Countess, were with us, 'tis proper to say, they were abroad together upon a visit, from which, knowing how I was to be engaged, they excused me. The dean was well known to, and valued by, all the ladies; and therefore was no manner of restraint upon the freedom of our conversation. I was in my closet when they came; and Mrs. Towers, having presented each young lady to me when I came down, said, being all seated, "I can guess at your employment, Mrs. B. Writing, I dare say? I have often wished to have you for a correspondent; for every one who can boast of that favour, exalts you to the skies, and says, your letters exceed your conversation, but I always insisted upon it that _that_ was impossible." "Mrs. Towers," said I, "is always saying the most obliging things in the world of her neighbours: but may not one suffer, dear Madam, for these kind prepossessions, in the opinion of greater strangers, who will judge more impartially than your favour will permit you to do?" "That," said Lady Arthur, "will be so soon put out of doubt, when Mrs. B. begins to speak, that we will refer to that, and to put an end to every thing that looks like compliment." "But, Mrs. B.," says Mrs. Towers, "may one ask, what particular subject was at this time your employment?" I had been writing (you must know, Lady G.) for the sake of suiting Miss Stapylton's flighty vein, a little sketch of the style she is so fond of; and hoped for some such opportunity as this question gave me, to bring it on the carpet; for my only fear, with her and Miss Cope, and Miss Sutton, was, that they would deem me too grave; and so what should fall in the course of conversation, would make the least impression upon them. For the best instructions, you know, will be ineffectual, if the manner of conveying them is not adapted to the taste and temper of the person you would wish to influence. And moreover, I had a view in it, to make this little sketch the introduction to some future observations on the stiff and affected style of romances, which might put Miss Stapylton out of conceit with them, and make her turn the course of her studies another way, as I shall mention in its place. I answered that I had been meditating upon the misfortunes of a fine young lady, who had been seduced and betrayed by a gentleman she loved, and who, notwithstanding, had the grace to stop short (indeed, later than were to be wished), and to abandon friends, country, lover, in order to avoid any further intercourse with him; and that God had blessed her penitence and resolution, and she was now very happy in a neighbouring dominion. "A fine subject," said Miss Stapylton. "Was the gentleman a man of wit, Madam? Was the lady a woman of taste?" we condemn every man who dresses well, and is not a sloven, as a fop or a coxcomb?" "No doubt, when this is the case. But you hardly ever saw a man _very_ nice about his person and dress, that had any thing he thought of _greater_ consequence to himself to regard. 'Tis natural it should be so; for should not the man of _body_ take the greater care to set out and adorn the part for which he thinks himself most valuable? And will not the man of _mind_ bestow his principal care in improving that mind? perhaps to the neglect of dress, and outward appearance, which is a fault. But surely, Madam, there is a middle way to be observed, in these, as in most other cases; for a man need not be a sloven, any more than a fop. He need not shew an utter disregard to dress, nor yet think it his first and chief concern; be ready to quarrel with the wind for discomposing his peruke, or fear to put on his hat, lest he should depress his foretop; more dislike a spot upon his clothes, than in his reputation; be a self-admirer, and always at the glass, which he would perhaps never look into, could it shew him the deformity of his mind, as well as the finery of his person; who has a taylor for his tutor, and a milliner for his school-mistress; who laughs at men of sense (excusably enough, perhaps in revenge because they laugh at him); who calls learning pedantry, and looks upon the knowledge of the fashions as the only useful science to a fine gentleman. "Pardon me, ladies; I could proceed with the character of this species of men, but I need not; for every lady present would despise such an one, as much as I do, were he to fall in her way: or the rather, because he who admires himself, will never admire his lady as he ought; and if he maintains his niceness after marriage, it will be with a preference to his own person; if not, will sink, very probably, into the worst of slovens. For whoever is capable of one extreme (take almost the cases of human life through) when he recedes from that, if he be not a man of prudence, will go over into the other. "But to return to the former subject" (for the general attention encouraged me to proceed), "permit me, Miss Sutton, to add, that a lady must run great risks to her reputation, if not to her virtue, who will admit into her company any gentleman who shall be of opinion, and know it to be _hers_, that it is _his_ province to ask a favour, which it will be _her_ duty to deny." "I believe, Madam, I spoke these words a little too carelessly; but I meant _honourable_ questions, to be sure." "There can be but _one_ honourable question," replied I; "and that is seldom asked, but when the affair is brought near a conclusion, and there is a probability of its being granted; and which a single lady, while she has parents or guardians, should never think of permitting to be put to herself, much less of approving, nor, perhaps, as the case may be of denying. But I make no doubt that you meant honourable questions. A young lady of Miss Sutton's good sense, and worthy character, could not mean otherwise. And I have said, perhaps, more than I need upon the subject, because we all know how ready the presuming of the other sex are, right or wrong to construe the most innocent meetings in favour of their own views." "Very true," said she; but appeared to be under an agreeable confusion, every lady, by her eye, seeming to think she had met with a deserved rebuke; and which not seeming to expect, it abated her liveliness all the time after. Mrs. Towers seasonably relieved us both from a subject _too applicable_, if I may so express it, saying--"But, dear Mrs. B., will you favour us with the result of your meditation, if committed to writing, on the unhappy case you mentioned?" "I was rather. Madam, exercising my fancy than my judgment, such as it is, upon the occasion. I was aiming at a kind of allegorical or metaphorical style, I know not which to call it; and it is not fit to be read before such judges, I doubt." "O pray, dear Madam," said Miss Stapylton, "favour us with it _to choose_; for I am a great admirer of that style." "I have a great curiosity," said Lady Arthur, "both from the _subject_ and the _style_, to hear what you have written: and I beg you will oblige us all." "It is short and unfinished. It was written for the sake of a friend, who is fond of such a style; and what I shall add to it, will be principally some slight observations upon this way of writing. But, let it be ever so censurable, I should be more so, if I made any difficulties after such an unanimous request." So, taking it out of my letter-case, I read as follows: "While the _banks_ of _discretion_ keep the _proud water_ of _passion_ within their natural channel, all calm and serene glides along the silver current, enlivening the adjacent meadows, as it passes, with a brighter and more flowery verdure. But if the _torrents_ of _sensual love_ are permitted to descend from the _hills_ of _credulous hope_, they may so swell the gentle stream, as to make it difficult, if not impossible, to be retained betwixt its usual bounds. What then will be the consequence?--Why, the _trees of resolution_, and the _shrubs of cautious fear_, which grew upon the frail mound, and whose intertwining roots had contributed to support it, being loosened from their hold, _they_, and all that would swim of the _bank_ itself, will be seen floating on the surface of the triumphant waters. "But here, a dear lady, having unhappily failed, is enabled to set her _foot_ in the _new-made_ breach, while yet it is _possible_ to stop it, and to say, with little variation in the language of that power, which only could enable _her_ to say it. _Hither, ye proud waves of dissolute love, although you_ HAVE _come, yet no farther_ SHALL _ye come;_ is such an instance of magnanimous resolution and self-conquest, as is very rarely to be met with." Miss Stapylton seemed pleased (as I expected), and told me, that she should take it for a high favour, to be permitted, if not improper, to see the whole letter when finished. I said, I would oblige her with all my heart.-"But you must not expect, Madam, that although I have written what I have read to you, I shall approve of it in my observations upon it; for I am convinced, that no style can be proper, which is not plain, simple, easy, natural and unaffected." She was sure, she was pleased to say, that whatever my observations were, they would be equally just and instructive. "I too," said the dean, "will answer for that; for I dare say, by what I have already heard, that Mrs. B. will distinguish properly between the style (and the matter too) which captivates the imagination, and that which informs the judgment." Our conversation, after this, took a more general turn; which I thought right, lest the young ladies should imagine it was a designed thing against them: yet it was such, that every one of them found her character and taste, little or much, concerned in it; and all seemed, as Mrs. Towers afterwards observed to me, by their silence and attention, to be busied in private applications. The dean began it with a high compliment to me; having a view, no doubt, by his kind praises, to make my observations have the greater weight upon the young ladies. He said, it was matter of great surprise to him, that, my tender years considered, I should be capable of making those reflections, by which persons of twice my age and experience might be instructed.-"You see, Madam," said he, "our attention, when your lips begin to open; and I beg we may have nothing to do, but to _be_ attentive." "I have had such advantages, Sir, from the observations and cautions of my late excellent lady, that did you but know half of them, you would rather wonder I had made _no greater_ improvement, than that I have made _so much._ She used to think me pretty, and not ill-tempered, and, of _course_ not incredulous, where I conceived a good opinion; and was always arming me on that side, as believing I might be the object of wicked attempts, and the rather, as my low fortune subjected me to danger. For, had I been born to rank and condition, as these young ladies here, I should have had reason to think of _myself_, as justly as, no doubt, _they_ do, and, of consequence, beyond the reach of any vile intriguer; as I should have been above the greatest part of that species of mankind, who, for want of understanding or honour, or through pernicious habits, give themselves up to libertinism." "These were great advantages," said Miss Sutton; "but in _you_, they met with a surprising genius, 'tis very plain, Madam; and there is not, in my opinion, a lady of England, of your years, who would have improved by them as you have done." I answered, that I was much obliged by her good opinion: and that I had always observed, the person who admired any good qualities in another, gave a kind of _natural_ demonstration, that she had the same in an eminent degree herself, although, perhaps, her modest diffidence would not permit her to trace the generous principle to its source. The dean, to renew the subject of _credulity_, repeated my remark, that it was safer, in cases where so much depended upon the issue, as a lady's honour and reputation, to _fear_ an _enemy_, than to _hope_ a _friend_; and praised my observation, that even a _weak_ enemy is not to be too much despised. I said, I had very high notions of the honour and value of my own sex, and very mean ones of the gay and frothy part of the other; insomuch, that I thought they could have no strength, but what was founded in our weakness: that the difference of education must give men advantages, even where the genius is naturally equal; besides, they have generally more hardness of heart, which makes women, where they meet not with men of honour, engage with that sex upon very unequal terms; for that it is so customary with them to make vows and promises, and to set light by them, _when made_, that an innocent lady cannot guard too watchfully against them; and, in my opinion, should believe nothing they said, or even _vowed_, but what carried demonstration with it. "I remember my lady used often to observe, there is a time of life in all young persons, which may properly be called _the romantic_, which is a very dangerous period, and requires therefore a great guard of prudence; that the risque is not a little augmented by reading novels and romances; and the poetical tribe have much to answer for, by reason of their heightened and inflaming descriptions, which do much hurt to thoughtless minds, and lively imaginations. For to those, she would have it, are principally owing, the rashness and indiscretion of _soft_ and _tender_ dispositions: which, in breach of their duty, and even to the disgrace of their sex, too frequently set them upon enterprises, like those they have read in those pernicious writings, which not seldom make them fall a sacrifice to the base designs of some wild intriguer; and even in cases where their precipitation ends the best, that is to say, in _marriage_, they too frequently (in direct opposition to the cautions and commands of their _tried_, their _experienced_, and _unquestionable_ friends) throw themselves upon an _almost stranger_, who, had he been worthy of them, would not, nor _needed_ to have taken indirect methods to obtain their favour. "And the misfortune is, the most innocent are generally the most credulous. Such a lady would do no harm to others, and cannot think others would do her any. And as to the particular person who has obtained, perhaps, a share in her confidence, _he_ cannot, she thinks, be so _ungrateful_, as to return irreparable mischief for her good-will to him. Were all the men in the world besides to prove false, the _beloved_ person cannot. 'Twould be unjust to _her own merit_, as well as to _his views_, to suppose it: and so _design_ on his side, and _credulity_ and _self-opinion_, on the lady's, at last enrol the unhappy believer in the list of the too-late repenters." "And what, Madam," said the dean, "has not that wretch to answer for, who makes sport of destroying a virtuous character, and in being the wicked means of throwing, perhaps, upon the town, and into the dregs of prostitution, a poor creature, whose love for him, and confidence in him, was all her crime? and who otherwise might have made a worthy figure at the head of a reputable family, and so have been an useful member of the commonwealth, propagating good examples, instead of ruin and infamy, to mankind? To say nothing of, what is still worse, the dreadful crime of occasioning the loss of a soul; since final impenitence too generally follows the first sacrifice which the poor wretch is seduced to make of her honour!" "There are several gentlemen in our neighbourhood," said Mrs. Brooks, "who might be benefited by this touching reflection, if represented in the same strong lights from the pulpit. And I think, Mr. Dean, you should give us a sermon upon this subject, for the sake of both sexes, one for caution, the other for conviction." "I will think of it," replied he, "but I am sorry to say, that we have too many among our younger gentry who would think themselves pointed at were I to touch this subject ever so cautiously." "I am sure," said Mrs. Towers, "there cannot well be a more useful one; and the very reason the dean gives, is a convincing proof of it to me." "When I have had the pleasure of hearing the further sentiments of such an assembly as this, upon the delicate subject," replied this polite divine, "I shall be better enabled to treat it. And pray, ladies, proceed; for it is from your conversation that I must take my hints." "You have only, then," said Mrs. Towers, "to engage Mrs. B. to speak, and you may be sure, we will all be as attentive to _her_, as we shall be to _you_, when we have the pleasure to hear so fine a genius improving upon her hints, from the pulpit." I bowed to Mrs. Towers; and knowing she praised me, with the dean's view, in order to induce the young ladies to give the greater attention to what she wished me to speak, I said, it would be a great presumption in me, after so high a compliment, to open my lips: nevertheless, as I was sure, by speaking, I should have the benefit of instruction, whenever it made _them_ speak, I would not be backward to enter upon any subject; for that I should consider myself as a young counsel, in some great cause, who served but to open it and prepare the way for those of greater skill and abilities. "I beg, then, Madam," said Miss Stapylton, "you will _open the cause_, be the subject what it will. And I could almost wish, that we had as many gentlemen here as ladies, who would have reason to be ashamed of the liberties they take in censuring the conversations of the tea-table; since the pulpit, as the worthy dean gives us reason to hope, may be beholden to that of Mrs. B." "Nor is it much wonder," replied I, "when the dean himself is with us, and it is graced by so distinguished a circle." "If many of our young gentlemen, were here," said Mrs. Towers, "they might improve themselves in all the graces of polite and sincere complaisance. But, compared to this, I have generally heard such trite and coarse stuff from our race of would-be wits, that what they say may be compared to the fawnings and salutations of the ass in the fable, who, emulating the lap-dog, merited a cudgel rather than encouragement. "But, Mrs. B.," continued she, "begin, I pray you, to _open_ and _proceed_ in the cause; for there will be no counsel employed but you, I can tell you." "Then give me a subject that will suit me, ladies, and you shall see how my obedience to your commands will make me run on." "Will you, Madam," said Miss Stapylton, "give us a few cautions and instructions on a theme of your own, that a young lady should rather _fear_ too much than _hope_ too much? A necessary doctrine, perhaps; but a difficult one to be practised by one who has begun to love, and who supposes all truth and honour in the object of her favour." "_Hope_, Madam," said I, "in my opinion, should never be unaccompanied by _fear_; and the more reason will a lady ever have to fear, and to suspect herself, and doubt her lover, when she once begins to find in her own breast an inclination to him. For then her danger is doubled, since she has _herself_ (perhaps the more dangerous enemy of the two) to guard against, as well as _him._ "She may secretly wish the best indeed: but what _has been_ the fate of others _may be_ her own; and though she thinks it not _probable_, from such a faithful protester, as he appears to her to be, yet, while it is _possible_, she should never be off her guard: nor will a prudent woman trust to his mercy or honour; but to her own discretion: and the rather, because, if he mean well, he _himself_ will value her the more for her caution, since every man desires to have a virtuous and prudent wife; if not well, she will detect him the sooner, and so, by her prudence, frustrate all his base designs. "But let me, my dear ladies, ask, what that passion is, which generally we dignify by the name of love; and which, when so dignified, puts us upon a thousand extravagances? I believe, if examined into, it would be found too generally to owe its original to _ungoverned fancy;_ and were we to judge of it by the consequences that usually attend it, it ought rather to be called _rashness, inconsideration, weakness_, and thing but _love;_ for very seldom, I doubt, is the solid judgment so much concerned in it, as the _airy fancy._ But when once we dignify the wild mis-leader with the name of _love_, all the absurdities which we read in novels and romances take place, and we are induced to follow examples that seldom end happily but in _them._ "But, permit me further to observe, that love, as we call it, operates differently in the two sexes, as to its effects. For in woman it is a _creeping_ thing, in a man an _incroacher;_ and this ought, in my humble opinion, to be very seriously attended to. Miss Sutton intimated thus much, when she observed that it was the man's province to ask, the lady's to deny:--excuse me. Madam, the observation was just, as to the men's notions; although, methinks, I would not have a lady allow of it, except in cases of caution to themselves. "The doubt, therefore, which a lady has of her _lover's_ honour, is needful to preserve _her own_ and _his_ too. And if she does him wrong, and he should be too just to deceive her, she can make him amends, by instances of greater confidence, when she pleases. But if she has been accustomed to grant him little favours, can she easily recal them? And will not the _incroacher_ grow upon her indulgence, pleading for a favour to-day, which was not refused him yesterday, and reproaching her want of confidence, as a want of esteem; till the poor lady, who, perhaps, has given way to the _creeping, insinuating_ passion, and has avowed her esteem for him, puts herself too much in his power, in order to manifest, as she thinks, the _generosity_ of her affection; and so, by degrees, is carried farther than she intended, or nice honour ought to have permitted; and all, because, to keep up to my theme, she _hopes_ too much, and _doubts_ too little? And there have been cases, where a man himself, pursuing the dictates of his _incroaching_ passion, and finding a lady _too conceding_, has taken advantages, of which, probably, at first he did not presume to think." Miss Stapylton said, that _virtue_ itself spoke when _I_ spoke; and she was resolved to recollect as much of this conversation as she could, and write it down in her common-place book, where it would make a better figure than any thing she had there. "I suppose, Miss," said Mrs. Towers, "your chief collections are flowers of rhetoric, picked up from the French and English poets, and novel-writers. I would give something for the pleasure of having it two hours in my possession." "Fie, Madam," replied she, a little abashed, "how can you expose your kinswoman thus, before the dean and Mrs. B.?" "Mrs. Towers," said I, "only says this to provoke you to shew your collections. I wish I had the pleasure of seeing them. I doubt not but your common-place book is a store-house of wisdom." "There is nothing bad in it, I hope," replied she; "but I would not, that Mrs. B. should see it for the world. But, Madam" (to Mrs. Towers), "there are many beautiful things, and good instructions, to be collected from novels and plays, and romances; and from the poetical writers particularly, light as you are pleased to make of them. Pray, Madam" (to me), "have you ever been at all conversant in such writers?" "Not a great deal in the former: there were very few novels and romances that my lady would permit me to read; and those I did, gave me no great pleasure; for either they dealt so much in the _marvellous_ and _improbable_, or were so unnaturally _inflaming_ to the _passions_, and so full of _love_ and _intrigue_, that most of them seemed calculated to _fire_ the _imagination_, rather than to _inform_ the _judgment._ Titles and tournaments, breaking of spears in honour of a mistress, engaging with monsters, rambling in search of adventures, making unnatural difficulties, in order to shew the knight-errant's prowess in overcoming them, is all that is required to constitute the _hero_ in such pieces. And what principally distinguishes the character of the _heroine_ is, when she is taught to consider her father's house as an enchanted castle, and her lover as the hero who is to dissolve the charm, and to set at liberty from one confinement, in order to put her into another, and, too probably, a worse: to instruct her how to climb walls, leap precipices, and do twenty other extravagant things, in order to shew the mad strength of a passion she ought to be ashamed of; to make parents and guardians pass for tyrants, the voice of reason to be drowned in that of indiscreet love, which exalts the other sex, and debases her own. And what is the instruction that can be gathered from such pieces, for the conduct of common life? "Then have I been ready to quarrel with these writers for another reason; and that is, the dangerous notion which they hardly ever fail to propagate, of a _first-sight_ love. For there is such a susceptibility supposed on both sides (which, however it may pass in a man, very little becomes the female delicacy) that they are smitten with a glance: the fictitious blind god is made a _real_ divinity: and too often prudence and discretion are the first offerings at his shrine." "I believe, Madam," said Miss Stapylton, blushing, and playing with her fan, "there have been many instances of people's loving at first sight, which have ended very happily." "No doubt of it," replied I. "But there are three chances to one, that so precipitate a liking does not. For where can be the room for caution, enquiry, the display of merit and sincerity, and even the assurance of a _grateful return_, to a lady, who thus suffers herself to be prepossessed? Is it not a random shot? Is it not a proof of weakness? Is it not giving up the negative voice, which belongs to the sex, even while she is not sure of meeting with the affirmative one from him whose affection she wishes to engage? "Indeed, ladies," continued I, "I cannot help concluding (and I am the less afraid of speaking my mind, because of the opinion I have of the prudence of every lady that hears me), that where this weakness is found, it is no way favourable to a lady's character, nor to that discretion which ought to distinguish it. It looks to me, as if a lady's _heart_ were too much in the power of her _eye_, and that she had permitted her _fancy_ to be much more busy than her _judgment_." Miss Stapylton blushed, and looked around her. "But I observe," said Mrs. Towers, "whenever you censure any indiscretion, you seldom fail to give cautions how to avoid it; and pray let us know what is to be done in this case? That is to say, how a young lady ought to guard against and overcome the first favourable impressions?" "What I imagine," replied I, "a young lady ought to do, on any the least favourable impressions of the kind, is immediately to _withdraw into herself_, as one may say; to reflect upon what she owes to her parents, to her family, to her character, and to her sex; and to resolve to check such a random prepossession, which may much more probably, as I hinted, make her a prey to the undeserving than otherwise, as there are so many of that character to one man of real merit. "The most that I apprehend a _first-sight_ approbation can do, is to inspire a _liking_; and a liking is conquerable, if the person will not brood over it, till she hatches it into _love_. Then every man and woman has a black and a white side; and it is easy to set the imperfections of the person against the supposed perfections, while it is only a _liking_. But if the busy fancy be permitted to work as it pleases, uncontrolled, then 'tis very likely, were the lady but to keep herself in countenance for receiving first impressions, she will see perfections in the object, which no other living soul can. And it may be expected, that as a consequence of her first indiscretion, she will confirm, as an act of her judgment, what her wild and ungoverned fancy had misled her to think of with so much partial favour. And too late, as it probably may happen, she will see and lament her fatal, and, perhaps, undutiful error. "We are talking of the ladies only," added I (for I saw Miss Stapylton was become very grave): "but I believe first-sight love often operates too powerfully in both sexes: and where it does so, it will be very lucky, if either gentleman or lady find reason, on cool reflection, to approve a choice which they were so ready to make without thought." "'Tis allowed," said Mrs. Towers, "that rash and precipitate love _may_ operate pretty much alike in the rash and precipitate of both sexes: and which soever loves, generally exalts the person beloved above his or her merits: but I am desirous, for the sake of us maiden ladies, since it is a science in which you are so great an adept, to have your advice, how we should watch and guard its first incroachments and that you will tell us what you apprehend gives the men most advantage over us." "Nay, now, Mrs. Towers, you rally my presumption, indeed!" "I admire you, Madam," replied she, "and every thing you say and do; and I won't forgive you to call what I so seriously _say_ and _think_, raillery. For my own part," continued she, "I never was in love yet, nor, I believe, were any of these young ladies." (Miss Cope looked a little silly upon this.) "And who can better instruct us to guard _our hearts_, than a lady who has so well defended _her own_?" "Why then, Madam, if I must speak, I think, what gives the other sex the greatest advantage over even many of the most deserving ones, is that dangerous foible, the _love of praise_, and the desire to be _flattered_ and _admired_, a passion I have observed to predominate, more or less, from sixteen to sixty, in most of our sex. We are too generally delighted with the company of those who extol our graces of person or mind: for, will not a _grateful_ lady study hard to return a_ few_ compliments to a gentleman who makes her so _many_! She is concerned to _prove_ him a man of distinguished sense, or a polite man, at least, in regard to what she _thinks_ of herself; and so the flatterer shall be preferred to such of the sincere and worthy, as cannot say what they do not think. And by this means many an excellent lady has fallen a prey to some sordid designer. "Then, I think, nothing can give gentlemen so much advantage over our sex, as to see how readily a virtuous lady can forgive the capital faults of the most abandoned of the other; and that sad, sad notion, _that a reformed rake makes the best husband_; a notion that has done more hurt, and discredit too, to our sex (as it has given more encouragement to the profligate, and more discouragement to the sober gentlemen), than can be easily imagined. A fine thing, indeed I as if the wretch, who had run through a course of iniquity, to the endangering of soul and body, was to be deemed the best companion for life, to an innocent and virtuous young lady, who is to owe the kindness of his treatment to her, to his having never before accompanied with a modest woman; nor, till his interest on one hand (to which his extravagance, perhaps, compels him to attend), and his impaired constitution on the other, oblige him to it, so much as _wished_ to accompany with one; and who always made a jest of the marriage state, and perhaps, of every thing either serious or sacred!" "You observe, very well," said Mrs. Towers: "but people will be apt to think, that you have less reason than any of our sex, to be severe against such a notion: for who was a greater rake than a certain gentleman, and who is a better husband?" "Madam," replied I, "the gentleman you mean, never was a common town rake: he is a man of sense, and fine understanding: and his reformation, _secondarily_, as I may say, has been the natural effect of those extraordinary qualities. But also, I will presume to say, that that gentleman, as he has not many equals in the nobleness of his nature, so he is not likely, I doubt, to have many followers, in a reformation begun in the bloom of youth, upon _self-conviction_, and altogether, humanly speaking, _spontaneous_. Those ladies who would plead his example, in support of this pernicious notion, should find out the same generous qualities in the man, before they trust to it: and it will then do less harm; though even then, I could not wish it to be generally entertained." "It is really unaccountable," said Mrs. Towers, "after all, as Mrs. B., I remember, said on another occasion, that our sex should not as much insist upon virtue and sobriety, in the character of a man, as a man, be he ever such a rake, does in that of a lady. And 'tis certainly a great encouragement to libertinism, that a worn-out debauchee should think himself at any time good enough for a husband, and have the confidence to imagine, that a modest woman will accept of his address, with a_ preference_ of him to any other." "I can account for it but one way," said the dean: "and that is, that a modest woman is apt to be _diffident_ of her own merit and understanding and she thinks this diffidence an imperfection. A rake _never_ is troubled with it: so he has in perfection a quality she thinks she wants; and, knowing _too little _of the world, imagines she mends the matter by accepting of one who knows_ too much_." "That's well observed, Mr. Dean," said Mrs. Towers: "but there is another fault in our sex, which Mrs. B. has not touched upon; and that is, the foolish vanity some women have, in the hopes of reforming a wild fellow; and that they shall be able to do more than any of their sex before them could do: a vanity that often costs them dear, as I know in more than one instance." "Another weakness," said I, "might be produced against some of our sex, who join too readily to droll upon, and sneer at, the misfortune of any poor young creature, who has shewn too little regard for her honour: and who (instead of speaking of it with concern, and inveighing against the seducer) too lightly sport with the unhappy person's fall; industriously spread the knowledge of it--" [I would not look upon Miss Sutton, while I spoke this], "and avoid her, as one infected; and yet scruple not to admit into their company the vile aggressor; and even to smile with him, at his barbarous jests, upon the poor sufferer of their own sex." "I have known three or four instances of this in my time," said Mrs. Towers, that Miss Sutton might not take it to herself; for she looked down and was a little serious. "This," replied I, "puts me in mind of a little humourous copy of verses, written, as I believe by Mr. B. And which, to the very purpose we are speaking of, he calls _"'Benefit of making others' misfortunes our own._ "'Thou'st heard it, or read it, a million of times, That men are made up of falsehood and crimes; Search all the old authors, and ransack the new, Thou'lt find in love stories, scarce one mortal true. Then why this complaining? And why this wry face? Is it 'cause thou'rt affected _most_ with thy own case? Had'st thou sooner made _others'_ misfortunes thy own, Thou never _thyself_, this disaster hadst known; Thy _compassionate caution_ had kept thee from evil, And thou might'st have defy'd mankind and the devil.'" The ladies were pleased with the lines; but Mrs. Towers wanted to know at what time of Mr. B.'s life they could be written. "Because," added she, "I never suspected, before, that the good gentleman ever took pains to write cautions or exhortations to our sex, to avoid the delusions of his own." These verses, and these facetious, but severe, remarks of Mrs. Towers, made every young lady look up with a cheerful countenance; because it pushed the ball from _self_: and the dean said to his daughter, "So, my dear, you, that have been so attentive, must let us know what useful inferences you can draw from what Mrs. B. and the other ladies so excellently said." "I observe. Sir, from the faults the ladies have so justly imputed to some of our sex, that the advantage the gentlemen _chiefly_ have over us, is from our own weakness: and that it behoves a prudent woman to guard against _first impressions_ of favour, since she will think herself obliged, in compliment to _her own_ judgment, to find reasons, if possible, to confirm them. "But I wish to know if there be any way that a woman can judge, whether a man means honourably or not, in his address to her!" "Mrs. B. can best inform you of that, Miss L.," said Mrs. Towers: "what say you, Mrs. B.?" "There are a few signs," answered I, "easy to be known, and, I think, almost infallible." "Pray let's have them," said Lady Arthur; and they all were very attentive. "I lay it down as an undoubted truth," said I, "that true love is one of the most _respectful_ things in the world. It strikes with awe and reverence the mind of the man who boasts its impressions. It is chaste and pure in word and deed, and cannot bear to have the least indecency mingled with it. "If, therefore, a man, be his birth or quality what it will, the higher the worse, presume to wound a lady's ears with indecent words: if he endeavour, in his expressions or sentiments, to convey gross or impure ideas to her mind: if he is continually pressing for _her confidence_ in _his_ honour: if he requests favours which a lady ought to refuse: if he can be regardless of his conduct or behaviour to her: if he can use _boisterous_ or _rude_ freedoms, either to her _person_ or _dress_--" [Here poor Miss Cope, by her blushes, bore witness to her case.] "If he avoids _speaking_ of _marriage_, when he has a _fair opportunity_ of doing it--" [Here Miss L. looked down and blushed]--"or leaves it _once_ to a lady to wonder that he does not:-- "In any, or in all these cases, he is to be suspected, and a lady can have little hope of such a person; nor, as I humbly apprehend, consistent with honour and discretion, encourage his address." The ladies were so kind as to applaud all I said, and so did the dean. Miss Stapylton, Miss Cope, and Miss L. were to write down what they could remember of the conversation: and our noble guests coming in soon after, with Mr. B., the ladies would have departed; but he prevailed upon them to pass the evening; and Miss L., who had an admirable finger on the harpsichord, as I have before said, obliged us with two or three lessons. Each of the ladies did the like, and prevailed upon me to play a tune or two: but Miss Cope, as well as Miss L., surpassed me much. We all sung too in turns, and Mr. B. took the violin, in which he excels. Lord Davers obliged us on the violincello: Mr. H. played on the German flute, and sung us a fop's song, and performed it in character; so that we had an exceeding gay evening, and parted with great satisfaction on all sides, particularly on the young ladies; for this put them all in good humour, and good spirits, enlivening the former scene, which otherwise might have closed, perhaps more gravely than efficaciously. The distance of time since this conversation passed, enables me to add what I could not do, when I wrote the account of it, which you have mislaid: and which take briefly, as follows: Miss Stapylton was as good as her word, and wrote down all she could recollect of the conversation: and I having already sent her the letter she desired, containing my observations upon the flighty style she so much admired, it had such an effect upon her, as to turn the course of her reading and studies to weightier and more solid subjects; and avoiding the gentleman she had begun to favour, gave way to her parents' recommendations, and is happily married to Sir Jonathan Barnes. Miss Cope came to me a week after, with the leave of both her parents, and tarried with me three days; in which time she opened all her heart to me, and returned in such a disposition, and with such resolutions, that she never would see her peer again; nor receive letters from him, which she owned to me she had done clandestinely before; and she is now the happy lady of Sir Michael Beaumont, who makes her the best of husbands, and permits her to follow her charitable inclinations according to a scheme which she consulted me upon. Miss L., by the dean's indulgent prudence and discretion, has escaped her rake; and upon the discovery of an intrigue he was carrying on with another, conceived a just abhorrence of him; and is since married to Dr. Jenkins, as you know, with whom she lives very happily. Miss Sutton is not quite so well off as the three former; though not altogether so unhappy neither, in her way. She could not indeed conquer her love of dress and tinsel, and so became the lady of Col. Wilson: and they are thus far easy in the marriage state, that, being seldom together, they have probably a multitude of misunderstandings; for the colonel loves gaming, in which he is generally a winner; and so passes his time mostly in town. His lady has her pleasures, neither laudable nor criminal ones, which she pursues in the country. And now and then a letter passes on both sides, by. the inscription and subscription of which they remind one another that they have been once in their lives at one church together, And what now, my dear Lady G., have I to add to this tedious account (for letter I can hardly call it) but that I am, with great affection, _your true friend and servant_, P.B. LETTER CIII MY DEAR LADY G., You desire to have a little specimen of my _nursery tales_ and _stories_, with which, as Miss Fenwick told you, on her return to Lincolnshire, I entertain my Miss Goodwin and my little boys. But you make me too high a compliment, when you tell me, it is for your _own_ instruction and example. Yet you know, my dear Lady G., be your motives what they will, I must obey you, although, were others to see it, I might expose myself to the smiles and contempt of judges less prejudiced in my favour. So I will begin without any further apology; and, as near as I can, give you those very stories with which Miss Fenwick was so pleased, and of which she has made so favourable a report. Let me acquaint you, then, that my method is to give characters of persons I have known in one part or other of my life, in feigned names, whose conduct may serve for imitation or warning to my dear attentive Miss; and sometimes I give instances of good boys and naughty boys, for the sake of my Billy and my Davers; and they are continually coming about me, "Dear Madam, a pretty story," now cries Miss: "and dear mamma, tell me of good boys, and of naughty boys," cries Billy. Miss is a surprising child of her age, and is very familiar with many of the best characters in the Spectators; and having a smattering of Latin, and more than a smattering of Italian, and being a perfect mistress of French, is seldom at a loss for a derivation of such words as are not of English original. And so I shall give you a story in feigned names, with which she is so delighted, that she has written it down. But I will first trespass on your patience with one of my childish tales. Every day, once or twice, I cause Miss Goodwin, who plays and sings very prettily, to give a tune or two to me, my Billy and my Davers, who, as well as my Pamela, love and learn to touch the keys, young as the latter is; and she will have a sweet finger; I can observe that; and a charming ear; and her voice is music itself!-"O the fond, fond mother!" I know you will say, on reading this. Then, Madam, we all proceed, hand-in-hand, together to the nursery, to my Charley and Jemmy: and in this happy retirement, so much my delight in the absence of my best beloved, imagine you see me seated, surrounded with the joy and the hope of my future prospects, as well as my present comforts. Miss Goodwin, imagine you see, on my right hand, sitting on a velvet stool, because she is eldest, and a Miss; Billy on my left, in a little cane elbow-chair, because he is eldest, and a good boy; my Davers, and my sparkling-ey'd Pamela, with my Charley between them, on little silken cushions, at my feet, hand-in-hand, their pleased eyes looking up to my more delighted ones; and my sweet-natured promising Jemmy, in my lap; the nurses and the cradle just behind us, and the nursery maids delightedly pursuing some useful needle-work for the dear charmers of my heart-All as hush and as still as silence itself, as the pretty creatures generally are, when their little, watchful eyes see my lips beginning to open: for they take neat notice already of my rule of two ears to one tongue, insomuch that if Billy or Davers are either of them for breaking the mum, as they call it, they are immediately hush, at any time, if I put my finger to my lip, or if Miss points hers to her ear, even to the breaking of a word in two, as it were: and yet all my boys are as lively as so many birds: while my Pamela is cheerful, easy, soft, gentle, always smiling, but modest and harmless as a dove. I began with a story of two little boys, and two little girls, the children of a fine gentleman, and a fine lady, who loved them dearly; that they were all so good, and loved one another so well, that every body who saw them, admired them, and talked of them far and near; that they would part with any thing to the another; loved the poor; spoke kindly to the servants; did every thing they were bid to do; were not proud; knew no strife, but who should learn their books best, and be the prettiest scholar; that the servants loved them, and would do any thing they desired; that they were not proud of fine clothes; let not their heads run upon their playthings when they should mind their books; said grace before they eat, their prayers before they went to bed, and as soon as they rose; were always clean and neat; would not tell a fib for the world, and were above doing any thing that required one; that God blessed them more and more, and blessed their papa and mamma, and their uncles and aunts, and cousins, for their sakes. "And there was a happy family, my dear loves!-No one idle; all prettily employed; the Masters at their books; the Misses at their books too, or at their needles; except at their play-hours, when they were never rude, nor noisy, nor mischievous, nor quarrelsome: and no such word was ever heard from their mouths, as, 'Why mayn't I have this or that, as well as Billy or Bobby?' Or, 'Why should Sally have this or that, any more than I?' But it was, 'As my mamma pleases; my mamma knows best;' and a bow and a smile, and no surliness, or scowling brow to be seen, if they were denied any thing; for well did they know that their papa and mamma loved them so dearly, that they would refuse them nothing that was for their good; and they were sure when they were refused, they asked for something that would have done them hurt, had it been granted. Never were such good boys and girls as these I And they grew up; and the Masters became fine scholars, and fine gentlemen, and every body honoured them: and the Misses became fine ladies, and fine housewives; and this gentleman, when they grew to be women, sought to marry one of the Misses, and that gentleman the other; and happy was he that could be admitted into their companies I so that they had nothing to do but to pick and choose out of the best gentlemen in the country: while the greatest ladies for birth and the most remarkable for virtue (which, my dears, is better than either birth or fortune), thought themselves honoured by the addresses of the two brothers. And they married, and made good papas and mammas, and were so many blessings to the age in which they lived. There, my dear loves, were happy sons and daughters; for good Masters seldom fail to make good gentlemen; and good Misses, good ladies; and God blesses them with as good children as they were to their parents; and so the blessing goes round!-Who would not but be good?" "Well, but, mamma, we will all be good:-Won't we, Master Davers?" cries my Billy. "Yes, brother Billy. But what will become of the naughty boys? Tell us, mamma, about the naughty boys!" "Why, there was a poor, poor widow woman, who had three naughty sons, and one naughty daughter; and they would do nothing that their mamma bid them do; were always quarrelling, scratching, and fighting; would not say their prayers; would not learn their books; so that the little boys used to laugh at them, and point at them, as they went along, for blockheads; and nobody loved them, or took notice of them, except to beat and thump them about, for their naughty ways, and their undutifulness to their poor mother, who worked hard to maintain them. As they grew up, they grew worse and worse, and more and more stupid and ignorant; so that they impoverished their poor mother, and at last broke her heart, poor poor widow woman!--And her neighbours joined together to bury the poor widow woman: for these sad ungracious children made away with what little she had left, while she was ill, before her heart was quite broken; and this helped to break it the sooner: for had she lived, she saw she must have wanted bread, and had no comfort with such wicked children." "Poor poor widow woman!" said my Billy, with tears; and my little dove shed tears too, and Davers was moved, and Miss wiped her fine eyes. "But what became of the naughty boys, and the naughty girl, mamma?" "Became of them! Why one son was forced to go to sea, and there he was drowned: another turned thief (for he would not work), and he came to an untimely end: the third was idle and ignorant, and nobody, who knew how he used his poor mother, would employ him; and so he was forced to go into a far country, and beg his bread. And the naughty girl, having never loved work, pined away in sloth and filthiness, and at last broke her arm, and died of a fever, lamenting, too late, that she had been so wicked a daughter to so good a mother!--And so there was a sad end to all the four ungracious children, who never would mind what their poor mother said to them; and God punished their naughtiness as you see!--While the good children I mentioned before, were the glory of their family, and the delight of every body that knew them." "Who would not be good?" was the inference: and the repetition from Billy, with his hands clapt together, "Poor widow woman!" gave me much pleasure. So my childish story ended, with a kiss of each pretty dear, and their thanks for my story: and then came on Miss's request for a woman's story, as she called it. I dismissed my babies to their play; and taking Miss's hand, she standing before me, all attention, began in a more womanly strain to _her_; for she is very fond of being thought a woman; and indeed is a prudent sensible dear, comprehends any thing instantly, and makes very pretty reflections upon what she hears or reads as you will observe in what follows: "There is nothing, my dear Miss Goodwin, that young ladies should be so watchful over, as their reputation: 'tis a tender flower that the least frost will nip, the least cold wind will blast; and when once blasted, it will never flourish again, but wither to the very root. But this I have told you so often, I need not repeat what I have said. So to my story. "There were four pretty ladies lived in one genteel neighbourhood, daughters of four several families; but all companions and visitors; and yet all of very different inclinations. Coquetilla we will call one, Prudiana another, Profusiana the third, and Prudentia the fourth; their several names denoting their respective qualities. "Coquetilla was the only daughter of a worthy baronet, by a lady very gay, but rather indiscreet than unvirtuous, who took not the requisite care of her daughter's education, but let her be over-run with the love of fashion, dress, and equipage; and when in London, balls, operas, plays, the Park, the Ring, the withdrawing-room, took up her whole attention. She admired nobody but herself, fluttered about, laughing at, and despising a crowd of men-followers, whom she attracted by gay, thoughtless freedoms of behaviour, too nearly treading on the skirts of immodesty: yet made she not one worthy conquest, exciting, on the contrary, in all sober minds, that contempt of herself, which she so profusely would be thought to pour down upon the rest of the world. After she had several years fluttered about the dangerous light, like some silly fly, she at last singed the wings of her reputation; for, being despised by every worthy heart, she became too easy and cheap a prey to a man the most unworthy of all her followers, who had resolution and confidence enough to break through those few cobweb reserves, in which she had encircled her precarious virtue; and which were no longer of force to preserve her honour, when she met with a man more bold and more enterprising than herself, and who was as designing as she was thoughtless. And what then became of Coquetilla?-Why, she was forced to pass over sea to Ireland, where nobody knew her, and to bury herself in a dull obscurity; to go by another name, and at last, unable to support a life so unsuitable to the natural gaiety of her temper, she pined herself into a consumption, and died, unpitied and unlamented, among strangers, having not one friend but whom she bought with her money." "Poor Lady Coquetilla!" said Miss Goodwin; "what a sad thing it is to have a wrong education; and how happy am I, who have so good a lady to supply the place of a dear distant mamma!-But be pleased, Madam, to proceed to the next." "Prudiana, my dear, was the daughter of a gentleman who was a widower, and had, while the young lady was an infant, buried her mamma. He was a good sort of man; but had but one lesson to teach to Prudiana, and that was to avoid all sort of conversation with the men; but never gave her the right turn of mind, nor instilled into it that sense of her religious duties, which would have been her best guard in all temptations. For, provided she kept out of the sight and conversation of the gentlemen, and avoided the company of those ladies who more freely conversed with the other sex, it was all her papa desired of her. This gave her a haughty, sullen, and reserved turn; made her stiff, formal, and affected. She had sense enough to discover early the faults of Coquetilla, and, in dislike to them, fell the more easily into that contrary extreme, which a recluse education, and her papa's cautions, naturally led her. So that pride, reserve, affectation, and censoriousness, made up the essentials of her character, and she became more unamiable even than Coquetilla; and as the other was too accessible, Prudiana was quite unapproachable by gentlemen, and unfit for any conversation, but that of her servants, being also deserted by those of her own sex, by whom she might have improved, on account of her censorious disposition. And what was the consequence? Why this: every worthy person of both sexes despising her, and she being used to see nobody but servants, at last throws herself upon one of that class: in an evil hour, she finds something that is taking to her low taste in the person of her papa's valet, a wretch so infinitely beneath her (but a gay coxcomb of a servant), that every body attributed to her the scandal of making the first advances; for, otherwise, it was presumed, he durst not have looked up to his master's daughter. So here ended all her pride. All her reserves came to this! Her censoriousness of others redoubled people's contempt upon herself, and made nobody pity her. She was finally turned out of doors, without a penny of fortune: the fellow was forced to set up a barber's shop in a country town; for all he knew was to shave and dress a peruke: and her papa would never look upon her more: so that Prudiana became the outcast of her family, and the scorn of all that knew her; and was forced to mingle in conversation and company with the wretches of her husband's degree!" "Poor, miserable Prudiana!" said Miss--"What a sad, sad fall was hers. And all owing to the want of a proper education too!--And to the loss of such a mamma, as I have an aunt; and so wise a papa as I have an uncle!--How could her papa, I wonder, restrain her person as he did, like a poor nun, and make her unacquainted with the generous restraints of the mind? "I am sure, my dear good aunt, it will be owing to you, that I shall never be a Coquetilla, nor a Prudiana neither. Your table is always surrounded with the best of company, with worthy gentlemen as well as ladies: and you instruct me to judge of both, and of every new guest, in such a manner, as makes me esteem them all, and censure nobody; but yet to see faults in some to avoid, and graces in others to imitate; but in nobody but yourself and my uncle, any thing so like perfection, as shall attract one's admiration to one's own ruin." "You are young, yet, my love, and must always doubt your own strength; and pray to God, more and more, as your years advance, to give you more and more prudence, and watchfulness over your conduct. "But yet, my dear, you must think justly of yourself too; for let the young gentlemen be ever so learned and discreet, your education entitles you to think as well of yourself as of them: for, don't you see, the ladies who are so kind as to visit us, that have not been abroad, as you have been, when they were young, yet make as good figures in conversation, say as good things as any of the gentlemen? For, my dear, all that the gentlemen know more than the ladies, except here and there such a one as your dear uncle, with all their learned education, is only, that they have been _disciplined_, perhaps, into an observation of a few accuracies in speech, which, if they know no more, rather distinguish the _pedant_ than the _gentleman_: such as the avoiding of a false concord, as they call it, and which you know how to do, as well as the best; not to put a _was_ for a _were_, an _are_ for an _is_, and to be able to speak in mood and tense, and such like valuable parts of education: so that, my dear, you can have no reason to look upon that sex in so high a light, as to depreciate your own: and yet you must not be proud nor conceited neither; but make this one rule your guide: "In your _maiden state_, think yourself _above_ the gentlemen, and they'll think you so too, and address you with reverence and respect, if they see there be neither pride nor arrogance in your behaviour, but a consciousness of merit, a true dignity, such as becomes virgin modesty, and untainted purity of mind and manners, like that of an angel among men; for so young ladies should look upon themselves to be, and will then be treated as such by the other sex. "In your _married state_, which is a kind of state of humiliation for a lady, you must think yourself subordinate to your husband; for so it has pleased God to make the wife. You must have no will of your own, in _petty_ things; and if you marry a gentleman of sense and honour, such a one as your uncle, he will look upon you as his equal; and will exalt you the more for your abasing yourself. In short, my dear, he will act by you, just as your dear uncle does by me: and then, what a happy creature will you be!" "So I shall, Madam! To be sure I shall!--But I know I shall be happy whenever I marry, because I have such wise directors, and such an example, before me: and, if it please God, I will never think of any man (in pursuance of your constant advice to young ladies at the tea-table), who is not a man of sense, and a virtuous gentleman. But now, dear Madam, for your next character. There are two more yet to come, that's my pleasure! I wish there were ten!" "Why the next was Profusiana, you may remember, my love. Profusiana took another course to _her_ ruin. She fell into some of Coquetilla's foibles, but pursued them for another end, and in another manner. Struck with the grandeur and magnificence of what weak people call the _upper life_, she gives herself up to the circus, to balls, to operas, to masquerades, and assemblies; affects to shine at the head of all companies, at Tunbridge, at Bath, and every place of public resort; plays high, is always receiving and paying visits, giving balls, and making treats and entertainments; and is so much _above_ the conduct which mostly recommends a young lady to the esteem of the deserving of the other sex, that no gentleman, who prefers solid happiness, can think of addressing her, though she is a fine person, and has many outward graces of behaviour. She becomes the favourite toast of the place she frequents, is proud of that distinction; gives the fashion, and delights in the pride, that she can make apes in imitation, whenever she pleases. But yet endeavouring to avoid being thought proud, makes herself cheap, and is the subject of the attempts of every coxcomb of eminence; and with much ado, preserves her virtue, though not her character. "What, all this while, is poor Profusiana doing? She would be glad, perhaps, of a suitable proposal, and would, it may be, give up some of her gaieties and extravagances: for Profusiana has wit, and is not totally destitute of reason, when she suffers herself to think. But her conduct procures her not one solid friendship, and she has not in a twelvemonth, among a thousand professions of service, one devoir that she can attend to, or a friend that she can depend upon. All the women she sees, if she excels them, hate her: the gay part of the men, with whom she accompanies most, are all in a plot against her honour. Even the gentlemen, whose conduct in the general is governed by principles of virtue, come down to these public places to partake of the innocent freedoms allowed there, and oftentimes give themselves airs of gallantry, and never have it in their thoughts to commence a treaty of marriage with an acquaintance begun upon that gay spot. What solid friendships and satisfactions then is Profusiana excluded from! "Her name indeed is written in every public window, and prostituted, as I may call it, at the pleasure of every profligate or sot, who wears a diamond to engrave it: and that it may be, with most vile and barbarous imputations and freedoms of words, added by rakes, who very probably never exchanged a syllable with her. The wounded trees are perhaps also taught to wear the initials of her name, linked, not unlikely, and widening as they grow, with those of a scoundrel. But all this while she makes not the least impression upon one noble heart: and at last, perhaps, having run on to the end of an uninterrupted race of follies, she is cheated into the arms of some vile fortune-hunter; who quickly lavishes away the remains of that fortune which her extravagance had left; and then, after the worst usage, abandoning her with contempt, she sinks into an obscurity that cuts short the thread of her life, and leaves no remembrance, but on the brittle glass, and still more faithless bark, that ever she had a being." "Alas, alas! what a butterfly of a day," said Miss (an expression she remembered of Lady Towers), "was poor Profusiana!--What a sad thing to be so dazzled by worldly grandeur, and to have so many admirers, and not one real friend!" "Very true, my dear; and how carefully ought a person of a gay and lively temper to watch over it I And what a rock may public places be to a lady's reputation, if she be not doubly vigilant in her conduct, when she is exposed to the censures and observations of malignant crowds of people; many of the worst of whom spare the least those who are most unlike themselves." "But then, Madam," said Miss, "would Profusiana venture to play at public places? Will ladies game, Madam? I have heard you say, that lords, and sharpers but just out of liveries, in gaming, are upon a foot in every thing, save that one has nothing to lose, and the other much, besides his reputation! And will ladies so disgrace their characters, and their sex, as to pursue this pernicious diversion in public?" "Yes, my dear, they will too often, the more's the pity! And don't you remember, when we were at Bath, in what a hurry I once passed by some knots of genteel people, and you asked what those were doing? I told you, whisperingly, they were gaming; and loath I was, that my Miss Goodwin should stop to see some sights, to which, till she arrived at the years of discretion, it was not proper to familiarize her eye; in some sort acting like the ancient Romans, who would not assign punishments to certain atrocious crimes, because they had such an high idea of human nature, as to suppose it incapable of committing them; so I was not for having you, while a little girl, see those things, which I knew would give no credit to our sex, and which I thought, when you grew older, should be new and shocking to you: but now you are so much a woman in discretion, I may tell you any thing." She kissed my hand, and made me a fine curtsey-and told me, that now she longed to hear of Prudentia's conduct. "_Her_ name, Madam," said she, "promises better things than those of her three companions; and so it had need: for how sad is it to think, that out of four ladies of distinction, three of them should be naughty, and, _of course_, unhappy."-"These two words, _of course_, my dear," said I, "were very prettily put in: let me kiss you for it: since every one that is naughty, first or last, must be _certainly_ unhappy. "Far otherwise than what I have related, was it with the amiable Prudentia. Like the industrious bee, she makes up her honey-hoard from every flower, bitter as well as sweet; for every character is of use to her, by which she can improve her own. She had the happiness of an aunt, who loved her, as I do you; and of an uncle who doated on her, as yours does: for, alas! poor Prudentia lost her papa and mamma almost in her infancy, in one week: but was so happy in her uncle and aunt's care, as not to miss them in her education, and but just to remember their persons. By reading, by observation, and by attention, she daily added new advantages to those which her education gave her. She saw, and pitied, the fluttering freedoms and dangerous nights of Coquetilla. The sullen pride, the affectation, and stiff reserves, which Prudiana assumed, she penetrated, and made it her study to avoid. And the gay, hazardous conduct, extravagant temper, and love of tinselled grandeur, which were the blemishes of Profusiana's character, she dreaded and shunned. She fortifies herself with the excellent examples of the past and present ages, and knows how to avoid the faults of the faulty, and to imitate the graces of the most perfect. She takes into her scheme of that future happiness, which she hopes to make her own, what are the true excellencies of her sex, and endeavours to appropriate to herself the domestic virtues, which shall one day make her the crown of some worthy gentleman's earthly happiness: and which, _of course_, as you prettily said, my dear, will secure and heighten her own. "That noble frankness of disposition, that sweet and unaffected openness and simplicity, which shines in all her actions and behaviour, commend her to the esteem and reverence of all mankind; as her humility and affability, and a temper uncensorious, and ever making the best of what she said of the absent person, of either sex, do to the love of every lady. Her name, indeed, is not prostituted on windows, nor carved on the barks of trees in public places: but it smells sweet to every nostril, dwells on every tongue, and is engraven on every heart. She meets with no address but from men of honour and probity: the fluttering coxcomb, the inveigling parasite, the insidious deceiver, the mercenary fortune-hunter, spread no snares for a heart guarded by discretion and prudence, as hers is. They see, that all her amiable virtues are the happy result of an uniform judgment, and the effects of her own wisdom, founded in an education to which she does the highest credit. And at last, after several worthy offers, enough to perplex a lady's choice, she blesses some one happy gentleman, more distinguished than the rest, for learning, good sense, and _true politeness_, which is but another word for _virtue_ and _honour_; and shines, to her last hour, in all the duties of domestic life, as an excellent wife, mother, mistress, friend, and Christian; and so confirms all the expectations of which her maiden life had given such strong and such edifying presages." Then folding my dear Miss in my arms, and kissing her, tears of pleasure standing in her pretty eyes, "Who would not," said I, "shun the examples of the Coquetilla's, the Prudiana's, and the Profusiana's of this world, and choose to' imitate the character of Prudentia!-the happy, and the happy-making Prudentia." "O Madam! Madam!" said the dear creature, smothering me with her rapturous kisses, "Prudentia is YOU!--Is YOU indeed!--It _can_ be nobody else!--O teach me, good God! to follow _your_ example, and I shall be a Second Prudentia--Indeed I shall!" "God send you may, my beloved Miss! And may he bless you more, if possible, than Prudentia was blessed!" And so, my dear Lady G., you have some of my nursery tales; with which, relying on your kind allowances and friendship, I conclude myself _your affectionate and faithful_ P.B. CONCLUSION The Editor thinks proper to conclude in this place, that he may not be thought to deserve a suspicion, that the extent of the work was to be measured by the patience of its readers. But he thinks it necessary, in order to elucidate the whole, to subjoin a note of the following facts. Mr. B. (after the affair which took date at the masquerade, and concluded so happily) continued to be one of the best and most exemplary of men, an honour to his country, both in his public and private capacity; having, at the instances of some of his friends in very elevated stations, accepted of an honourable employment abroad in the service of the state; which he discharged in such a manner, as might be expected from his qualifications and knowledge of the world: and on his return, after an absence of three years, resisting all the temptations of ambition, devoted himself to private duties, and joined with his excellent lady in every pious wish of her heart; adorning the married life with all the warmth of an elegant tenderness; beloved by his tenants, respected by his neighbours, revered by his children, and almost adored by the poor, in every county where his estates gave him interest, as well for his own bountiful temper, as for the charities he permitted to be dispensed, with so liberal a hand, by his lady. She made him the father of seven fine children, five sons, and two daughters, all adorned and accomplished by nature, to be the joy and delight of such parents; being educated, in every respect, by the rules of their inimitable mother, laid down in that book which she mentions to have been written by her for the revisal and correction of her consort; the contents of which may be gathered from her remarks upon Mr. Locke's Treatise on Education, in her letters to Mr. B., and in those to Lady G. Miss GOODWIN, at the age of eighteen, was married to a young gentleman of fine parts, and great sobriety and virtue: and both she and he, in every material part of their conduct, and in their behaviour to one another, emulate the good example set them by Mr. and Mrs. B. Lord DAVERS dying two years before this marriage, his lady went to reside at the Hall in Lincolnshire, the place of her birth, that she might enjoy the company and conversation of her excellent sister; who, for conveniency of the chapel, and advantage of room and situation, had prevailed upon Mr. B. to make it the chief place of his residence; and there the noble lady lived long (in the strictest friendship with the happy pair) an honourable relict of her affectionate lord. The worthy Mr. ANDREWS, and his wife, lived together in the sweet tranquillity set forth in their letters, for the space of twelve years, at the Kentish farm: the good old gentlewoman died first, full of years and comfort, her dutiful daughter performing the last pious offices to so beloved and so loving a parent: her husband survived her about a year only. Lady G., Miss DARNFORD that was, after a happy marriage of several years, died in child-bed of her fourth child, to the inexpressible concern of her affectionate consort, and of her dear friend Mrs. B. Lord H., after having suffered great dishonour by the ill courses of his wife, and great devastations in his estate, through her former debts, and continued extravagance (intimidated and dispirited by her perpetual insults, and those of her gaming brother, who with his bullying friends, terrified him into their measures), threw himself upon the protection of Mr. B. who, by his spirit and prudence, saved him from utter ruin, punished his wife's accomplices, and obliged her to accept a separate maintenance; and then taking his affairs into his own management, in due course of time, entirely re-established them: and after some years his wife dying, he became wiser by his past sufferings, and married a second, of Lady Davers's recommendation, who, by her prudence and virtue, made him happy for the remainder of his days. Mr. LONGMAN lived to a great age in the worthy family, much esteemed by every one, having trained up a diligent youth, whom he had recommended, to ease him in his business, and who, answering expectation, succeeded him in it after his death. He dying rich, out of his great love and gratitude to the family, in whose service he had acquired most of his fortune, and in disgust to his nearest relations, who had perversely disobliged him; he bequeathed to three of them one hundred pounds a-piece, and left all the rest to his honoured principal, Mr. B.; who, as soon as he came to know it, being at that time abroad, directed his lady to call together the relations of the old gentleman, and, after touching them to the heart with a just and effectual reproof, and finding them filled with due sense of their demerit, which had been the cause of their suffering, then to divide the whole, which had been left him, among them, in greater proportions as they were more nearly related: an action worthy prayers and blessings, not only of the benefited, but all who heard of it. For it is easy to imagine, how cheerfully, and how gracefully, his benevolent lady discharged a command so well suited to her natural generosity. THE END