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74 Home, Swee^fc Horae• ddcE_
75 Joy after So^rr°5! H. Ridddl.
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79 The Buling pasSj°g; pjddell.
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Engagement.'
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86 Bitter Sweets. Jogeph Hauon.
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91 Christopher
92 Now or -N^^tham-Edwards.
93 The Sylvestres^am EdwardSi
94 sweet and T^f0^er Collins.
95 Frances. Mortimer Collins.
96 A Eight wit\Bft-SrceoUm9.
97 Spring Comedie Lady Barber.
98 The Queen of
99 Bobin Gray. charlcs Gibbon.
100 Eor Lack of ^°^-es Gibbon.
101 Hirell. j0hn Saunders.
102 Fighting ^^ence Marryat.
103 Harvest of Marryat.
105 Love that Kills.^ Q, iviUs.
106 Cruel London^gepti Hatton.
107 Paul Benedict. Dr> Holland.
Bedford Street, Strand.
THE SYLVESTRES.
THE SYLVESTRES
DY
M. BETHAM-EDWARDS,
AUTHOR OF "DOCTOR JACOB," "A WINTER WITH THE SWALLOWS
" NOW OR NEVER," ETC., ETC,
A NE W EDITION.
LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.,
BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
CONTENTS,
chapter page
I. INGARETHA 1
II. MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE TELLS HIS STORY - - 12
III. POET AND PHILANTHROPIST 21
IV. MR. AND MRS. MINIFIE 29
Y. THE PEASEMARSH WIZARD - - - 31
VI. HAPPY HOURS 41
VII. CLERICAL LOVE-MAKING 46
VIII. A ROMANTIC ADVENTURE 55
IX. THE RICH SENT EMPTY AWAY 63
X. A SOCIALIST'S CONFESSION 72
XI. WHAT SHALL SHE DO WITH IT? - - 79
XII. RED-LETTER DAYS 89
XIII. STORMS - -- .-.--98
XIV. A SYLVAN CONCLAVE 106
XV. LOVER AND HERO 113
XVI. GOING INTO EXILE 121
XVII. THE GATES OF EDEN ARE OPENED - 127
XVIII. FIRST DAYS IN PARADISE - - - - 136
vi Contents,
CHAPTER PAGE
XIX. THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY IS BEGUN - 144
XX. MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE'S SERMON ON THE MIL-
LENNIUM - - - - " - - - 150
XXI. MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE'S SERMON -ON TIIE MIL-
lennium—continued 15G
xxii. laying the foundation - - - - 162
xxiii. rene's letter 168
xxiv. a betrothal 173
xxv. euphrosyne's counsels 180
xxvi. new-comers - - 186
xxvii. aglae's story 192
xxviii. in the dairy ^ 199
xxix. ingaretha's flitting 204
xxx. winter at pilgrim's hatch - - - - 209
xxxi. mrs. minifie's prophecies - - - - 211
xxxii. the enemy strikes in the dark- - - 217
xxxiii. village radicalism 222
xxxiv. the rector speaks his mind - 228
xxxv. parting in sorrow 235
xxxvi. the trial 240
xxxvii. excommunicated 246
xxxviii. lover and friend 251
xxxix. a happy thought 258
xl. ghenilda's reign 265
xli. ingaretha as inquisitor - - - - 271
xlii. a confession 277
Contents.
c.iumit
xliil conflicts - - - - -
xliv. •besillusionne
xlv. ghenilba's reign - - -
xlvl first days of freedom
xlvil bride, bridegroom, and wedding guests -
xlviii. the eve of the wedding -
xlix. the eve of the wedding—continued
l. the eve of the wedding—continued
li. a ghostly banquet
lii. carew s tidings ------
liii. euphrosyne's vision -----
liv. carew ex cathedra - - - - -
lv. rest
lvi. a conspiracy
lvii. farewells
lviii. greetings : five YEARS AFTER -
vii
PAGE
286
291
295
300
306
313
317
322
328
333
337
343
349
354
360
363
THE SYLVESTRES.
OO^'O
CHAPTER I.
ingaretha.
Pleasant county of Suffolk! half park, half garden,
with little rivers threading abundant pastures, with elm
trees standing like majestic screens of subtle tracery
against the blue and white heavens, with sweeps of
reddish-gold corn-land and heath-empurpled wastes
running down to the unquiet northern seas!—who that
loved thee with the unforgetting love of childhood but
volunteers a gracious acknowledgment of thy homely
beauties in later life? It is not a land of surprises.
The stranger does not find himself upon the summit of
some stately Pisgah and look down upon promised
lands overflowing with milk and honey, nor is there
" merrye walking in the fayre forest to hear the small
birds sing," nor the noisy laughter of cascades in un-
expected places; but delicious little fastnesses in hazel
copses, where you may be imprisoned like the squirrel
between the green and the blue; breezy sheep-walks
covered with gorse, where you may study cloud-land
for hours and hear no sound but the bark of the shep-
1
2
The Sylvestres.
herd's dog marshalling his charge; of rivulets plenty,
and of rivers broad and bright one or two. Nor must
we forget the lanes overhung with brier and honey-
suckle, leading to quaint little homesteads, lost to the
outer world, but alive with the manifold business of the
farm; nor the stackyards of corn, pyramids of gold;
and the hundred pastoral graces that her painters have
copied and her poets have sung.
It is, indeed, an Arcadia, but an Arcadia of prose,
and not of poetry. Everything flourishes; the pigs
take to the process of fatting kindly; bullocks demolish
oil-cake as if they felt themselves destined to figure in
a festival of Apollo; the horses are sleek, and gifted
with a good deal of slow but reliable understanding;
the crops, whether of corn, hay, or roots, are unrivalled.
The people are sturdy and contented; two or three
words with them go a very long way, though mother-
wit of a homely kind is not wanting. Like Suffolk
dumpling, this crassa Minerva can hardly be appre-
ciated except by a native palate.
Any dreamer of Utopian dreams who should suddenly
wake in this happy corner of England, might well say
to himself, Eureka! Surely here, if anywhere, exists
an earthly paradise.
Miss Ingaretha Meadowcourt, so called from a certain
ancestress, Yngaretha de Pennington, for the health of
whose soul Ealph, her husband, had given a salt-work
with two patellae to the abbey of Eurness in the reign
of Henry II,—thus ran the pedigree—owned one of
the choicest spots in Suffolk, near the famous old town
of St. Beowulf's-bury. She was mistress of an antique,
picturesque mansion, called the Abbey, of a modest but
ample estate appended to it, and was lady of the manor
Ingaretha.
3
of Culpho. No wonder that the little world of St.
Beowulf's looked upon this young lady as a favoured
child of fortune, and pricked up its ears when, after
several years of foreign travel, she chose to settle in her
country home. " What will she do with it ?" asked the
world in a breath, concerning itself night and day with
her future career. What she had done with it hitherto
scandalised them not a little. It was now five years
since she lost her father, and the greater part of those
five years had been spent abroad. Instead of reading
to old women, catechising the school children, dispensing
Christmas doles, helping to embroider altar-cloths, and
otherwise doing her duty in the parish, she preferred to
travel and enj oy herself, spending one winter in Borne,
another in the East, and so on. The plain truth of the
matter was that Miss Ingaretha Meadowcourt had no
taste for English country life, and would never have
entered upon it but from a sense of duty. The monotony
of it, the narrowness of it, the conventionalism of it,
warred against a host of opposing idiosyncrasies. She
had, moreover, inherited some unpopularity. Her father
—whom she adored—had been an uncompromising
Badical in a strictly Conservative neighbourhood, and
to be so circumstanced is not to lie on a bed of roses.
Whatever Ingaretha did ainiss was doubly blamed,
because it was done by her father's daughter. If she
wore a dress of unusual pattern or colour, people said,
"What can you expect after such a bringing up?" If
she walked on foot she was considered a gipsy; if she
rode, an Amazon. There was nothing she did that was
not an offence, nothing she left undone that was not
an affront.
Eor good or for evil," however, she was a power in
1—2
4
The Sylvestres.
the place, and the Liberal and Conservative parties of
society waited eagerly till she should choose sides.
Hitherto she had shown friendliness all round, hut as
it is impossible to be friendly all round very long, the
High Church set and the Low Church set alternatively
quaked in its shoes. Never did spiritual shepherds
cast more longing looks upon stray sheep than were
cast by the different clerical leaders of St. Beowulf's
upon this lovely white lamb that coquetted outside the
fold, refusing to be caught, converted—and shorn.
Hardly less important than Ingaretha's choice of a
guide in religious matters seemed her choice of a partner
in affairs temporal. Whom would she marry? asked
the people breathlessly. And as there was only one
person within a somewhat liberal radius who could be
called a proper aspirant for such an honour, Miss Meadow-
court's choice was styled Hobson's choice, and to that
person she. was married by the Bates—so said public
opinion—whether she willed or not.
Mr. Carew Carew's estate joined Miss Meadowcourt's.
Mr. Carew Carew was neither too young nor too old for
Miss Meadowcourt, Mr. Carew Carew and Miss Meadow-
court were made for each other, and there only remained
the slight difficulty, that at present they did not seem
to realise the fact. There is a homely proverb, " One
man may lead a horse to the pond, but twenty cannot
make him drink," and it applies to sweet waters as well
as bitter, to human beings as well as horses, who know
well enough how good the draught would be for them,
but wilfully and provokingly abstain, in spite of per-
suasion. Mr. Carew and Miss Ingaretha had been
known to spend many and many a winter in the same
southern places of resort, had visited each other from
Ingaretha.
5
youth upwards, and had exchanged courtesies whenever
they happened to find themselves neighbours. It was
surely unpardonable of them not to oblige universal
expectation, and marry!
Miss Ingaretha Meadowcourt and Mr. Carew were
just the sort of people who never oblige universal ex-
pectation, doing the things polite society told them they
ought not to do, and leaving undone the things they
ought to have done. Both of them preferred ease to
elegance, freedom to chains, no matter how well encased
in rose-leaves, and estimated the forms of stereotyped
society exactly at the value of a straw. People liked
them and were amused by them, but were not a little
scandalised by their frequent deviations from ordinary
behaviour.
On a certain Midsummer-day, for instance, the young
mistress of the Abbey entertained two or three neigh-
hours to tea out of doors, and the following event hap-
pened, which proved beyond a doubt how unlike she
was to the rest of the world.
"Why are we so dull?" she asked—a glaring im-
propriety to begin with. " It is Midsummer-day. The
roses are all out. We have nothing ta do but amuse
ourselves, and yet how dull it is!"
Close at her elbow sat the Eector of Culpho, a cum-
bersome and mole-like person of about forty. One may
say mole-like advisedly, for he was sleek and slow, his
eyes were small, and he had a habit of retiring, with
ungainly haste, from the daylight of discussion to the
intellectual darkness in which he lived.
" I assure you," he said gallantly, " that I am never
dull when in your company."
" If I were a proper-minded person I should return
6
The Sylvestres.
the compliment," answered Ingaretha, " but you are too
charitable not to forgive me."
The rector's sentiment was echoed by the rest Of the
party, and emphatically by a young lady who admired
him as much as he admired Miss Meadowcourt.
" Then I can only say that I envy your good temper
and resignation," Ingaretha added; crying suddenly,
" Ah! thank heaven, there is Mr. Carew."
" I thought," said the rector cautiously, and with a
look of mortification, " that you and our good neighbour
were not exactly on visiting terms ?"
"We are always quarrelling like intractable children,"
she replied, blushing and smiling, at which the rector
looked puzzled, " but it has been set-fair with us for
some time nowwhereupon the rector frowned," though
I dare say the glass will go down to-day." And that
set the rector at his ease again.
Mr. Carew was neither young nor handsome, but he
was the sort of person about whose age and looks no
one thinks for a moment, possessing that gracious
manner, that delightful naiveU, that exquisite capacity
of enjoyment, which keep a man ever young and ever
fascinating.
" Always late and always welcome," said his hostess
cordially; "to-day later and more welcome than
ever."
" Of all the misguided little virtues I hold punctuality
to be the worst," Carew said laughing. " For whom
was the fatted calf killed? For the prodigal. For
whom do the angels rejoice ? Not the punctual sinner,
but the dilatory one. What a delicious day, and what
a heavenly place, Miss Meadowcourt!"
"Yet we were so dull just now that I felt inclined to
Ingaretha.
7
ask Mr. Wliitelock to preach a sermon by way of im-
proving the time," cried Ingaretha wickedly.
"What profanation!" said Carew; then, by way of
modifying the sarcasm, he added, " If there be sermons
in stone, mnch more must there be sermons in June
roses and water-lilies."
" Assuredly," said Mr. Whitelock. " Does not Solo-
mon say, ' I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the
valley V I do not aver that those precise verses convey
present application, but words of wisdom may surely be
dropped in season and outrof season by a minister."
"For my part, I hold with St. Paul, that everything
should be done decently and in order," said Ingaretha;
" and as we all seem in a serious mood, let us talk of
serious things. What does Mr. Carew think of our
proposed additions to the infant-school, for instance ?'
" Spare me," began Carew.
" Why should we spare you ? Because you have of
late been so helpful to us in parish business T
" Because it is Midsummer-day, and the roses are all
out," he said. "' What so rare as a day in June V "
" I accept your plea. We will go and gather some,"
Ingaretha answered.
She led the way to the miniature thicket of standard
roses, crimson, cream-colour, pink, and white, that skirted
the little river bounding the lawn. Then, dispensing
her treasures like a queen, she grew quite gay.
Anything more beautiful than the white-robed figure
of Ingaretha Meadowcourt standing among her rose-
trees, you could not see in the old world or the new.
She was tall, and stately in her carriage; she had an abun-
dance of the hair that poets praise, golden as the tip of
wheat-sheaves in August; a frank smile that came and
8
The Sylvestres.
went unbidden as sunbeams; large blue eyes always
discovering and admiring, a noble brow, and the sweetest
little mouth nature ever gave a woman. And nature
had been bountiful in other ways, bestowing upon her
the sort of playfulness which brightens and beautifies
every-day things. Existence came to her as to 'a happy
child, full of surprises and pleasant opportunities and
delicious little insights into hidden worlds of enchant-
ment and grace.
They stayed in the sunshine till every one's hands were
full of roses and every one's cheeks glowed, then skirting
the little river for a hundred yards entered by a rustic
bridge into the welcome shadow of the park. How cool
it was ! How fresh and enchanting ! The stockdove's
monotonous music seemed an accompaniment to the
trills and shakes and capriccios of the thrush and the
lark; murmurs of happy insects filled the air; breaths
of wild roses and freshly-mown hay were wafted hither
and thither; timid little fledglings flew from bough to
bough, exploring the world; butterflies, black and orange
and pale yellow, glanced in the sunshine; the grand old
oaks looking down in their fulness and majesty, as much
as to say, " Be merry, ye youngsters, it is your time."
Carew and Ingaretha led the way, their playful talk
and laughter sufficing for all. But a happy mood, like a
cup of wine, must be replenished to continue flowing for
ever, and after awhile they too grew silent and unsym-
pathetic like the rest.
Tea was soon spread on the lawn, and Ingaretha said
sotto voce to Carew as he helped her with the tea-
cups:
" If only 4 one sip of this would bathe the drooping
spirits in delight.'"
Ingaretha.
9
" ' Beyond, the bliss of dreams !' " he added laughing.
" But take comfort—we will soon have some music."
The melancholy little meal was drawing to a close,
and* the warm lustrous day was shutting like a flower,
when the gate clicked and two figures walked slowly and
wearily' up the avenue.
There was something inexpressibly pathetic and dig-
nified about these wayfarers as they emerged from the
dusky outer world into the gaily dressed circle lighted
up by Ingaretha's golden hair, the splendid silver tea-
service, and a pyramid of white roses in a crystal vase.
The man was tall, slim, and of striking appearance,
with a beautiful bloom of health in his thin old cheeks,
and a beautiful look of boyishness about his face and
figure, despite the white locks, soft as silk, that reached
to his shoulders. His clothes were made and mended
without any regard to the eyes of the world : the panta-
loons might have been cut out of a woman's gown, the
coat-pockets were so obviously unsafe that you felt sure
there was nothing in them, his shoes were worn out, and
the knapsack he bore was of the smallest and shabbiest;
yet he planted his foot on the ground with a buoyant air,
and greeted the company with incomparable grace.
The woman trudging by his side looked the older and
wearier of the two. She wore a broad-brimmed straw
hat tied under her chin, which gave homeliness to a face
not wanting in refinement, and she carried her scarecrow
garments with equal resignation but less dignity than
her companion. Her complexion was burnt to a deep
bronze, evidently by warmer suns than ours. If there
was a look in her face of a great tragedy, her large
benevolent careworn features were lighted up by bril-
liant brown eyes, and her thin well-shaped lips betokened
10
The Sylvestres.
wit and character. She also "bore a bundle, and like
the man, dropped it in order to greet Ingaretha, and her
guests.
" Monsieur Sylvestre !" cried Ingaretha incredulously.
" Madame Sylvestre !" said Carew, rising with hands
outstretched to the pair.
" Ah! we have taken you too much by surprise," said
the woman in soft plaintive French; " forgive us, dear
friend, we were so impatient to see you once more."
But Ingaretha's arms were thrown around the woman's
neck ere the words were fairly spoken, and after a kiss,
a hand clasp, and a whispered word of tenderest wel-
come, she introduced the new-comers to the rest of the
party.
"How wonderful it is to see you here!" she said,
making room for them on each side of her at the tea-
table; " and just now life seemed so uninteresting that I
thought wonders had ceased in the land. From whence
do you come ?"
" Straight from Africa," Monsieur Sylvestre answered,
as coolly as if Africa were no farther off than St. Beo-
wulf's ; " and I will leave you to guess," casting a sly
glance at the knapsack and bundle lying on the grass,
" whether or not our goods and chattels have impeded
our journey."
Ingaretha smiled, and asked Carew to go in-doors and
order fresh cream, fresh strawberries, the largest and
ripest, fresh tea, and everything to be had of the best,
for her new guests. They repaid her hospitality in the
most acceptable coin, namely, that of enjoyment. Carew,
who had known Madame Sylvestre abroad, found her as
usual a little sad, a little regretful, but full of humour and
observation. "What Monsieur Sylvestre said, though ad-
Ingaretha.
II
dressed to Ingaretha, stirred, quickened, and bewildered
the rest of the company, so piquant and original was he.
The dulness that had before hung round the little party
vanished like a fog, and the sun shone out. The dreary
ceremonial of tea became a feast indeed. Eyes shone,
cheeks glowed, laughter came and went unbidden. The
water had been turned into wine, none quite knew how.
By-and-by, Carew went indoors and began to play on
the piano.
" Why should we not dance V asked Monsieur Syl-
vestre of his hostess. " Our hearts are light. We have
met again after divers misadventures. Let us inaugurate
the joyful meeting with the immortal pastime."
" With all my heart," answered Ingaretha. The hint
was given to the musician. Tables and chairs were put
out of the way. Partners were chosen, and as the first
airy strains of a waltz sounded from the open window,
Ingaretha led off the dance with her latest visitor.
The waltz was followed by a cotillon, the cotillon by
a mazurka, the mazurka by a quadrille, nor did the
dancers desist till the nightingales were singing in the
dusky shrubberies, and the stars were coming out one
by one.
Then Ingaretha's guests, excepting Mr. Carew, drove
home, a little scandalised at her way of doing things, and
at the impropriety into which she had led them. To
dance in crowded ball-rooms and in evening costume
was proper enough, but there was certainly a spice of
looseness, vagabondage, call it what you will, about an
improvised dance in the open air; and though they had
enjoyed it during the time, they felt in duty bound to
grow ashamed afterwards.
Again, Ingaretha's affectionate reception of these tat-
12
The Sylvestres
terdemalion foreigners argued ill for the future. Better
churchmen and churchwomen could not he found than
the gentry of St. Beowulf's, but they had only one way
of reading Scripture, and were naturally shocked at such
a new interpretation of the parable of the great supper.
To feast the poor, and the halt, and the blind was highly
commendable; to bid the wearers of purple and fine
linen and the wearers of rags sit down at the same table
was wholly another thing.
CHAPTER II.
MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE TELLS HIS STORY.
"And now, dear friends," said Ingaretha when the little
party assembled in the drawing-room after dinner, " tell
me all that has happened to you since we last saw each
other. Mr. Carew will, I know, like to hear the story
as much as myself."
The generous wine as well as the cordial welcome of
his hostess had repaired for the time being Monsieur
Sylvestre's spent forces, and he flitted from one object
to another in the choicely-furnished drawing-room, gay
as a butterfly.
" I am never tired of telling my own story, because
it is so much better than other people's," he said.
" And so much sadder," put in his wife, with a sigh.
" But what a joyful finale to all our misadventures!"
he went on. " Well, Miss Meadowcourt commands,
and I, her leal servitor, have nothing to do but obey."
He leaned back on the mantelpiece, folded his arms
in an easy attitude, and was about to begin, when
Monsieur Sylvestre tells his Story. 13
Madame Sylvestre rose hurriedly and placed an easy-
chair beside him. "Thou art tired, Benjamin," she said
almost in a whisper. Tie sat down and began:
"To you, a philanthropist," he said in French, looking
at his hostess, " and to you, a poet," he said, turning to
Carew, "I need make no apology if at one time my
love of mankind, at another my imagination, carry me
away. We have spent happy days together in lovely
places—a bond of union freemasonry cannot outbid—
and we have talked of those things which bind people
to each other like a sacrament taken in company. The
good, the true, the beautiful, how we have loved and
courted them!"
Tie smiled, stretched out his hands, and looking
eagerly forward, as if seeing visions, added:
"I see it all before me, the little Fourierist settle-
ment in the purple plain, with its orchards of almond
and fig, its cornfields and olive-gardens, its flocks and
herds—the Paradise regained where a few choice souls
lived and worked and rejoiced together as brothers and
sisters. Do you remember how you came with your
English friends and abode with us ? What days were
those! We had a week of jubilee without a common
hour. The harvest of the past year had been abundant,
and our store-houses were full of corn, fruit, and wine.
There were no plagues in the land. The gorgeous wild-
flowers of the south covered the waste like Joseph's
coat of many colours. In those innocent bacchanalia we
grew drunken, but not with wine. Would that all
humanity followed our example 1"
Thereupon he glanced round at his audience with a
whimsically self-convicting expression, for, moderately
as he had partaken of Ingaretha's Bhenish wine, he was
14
The Sylvestres.
conscious of the flush on his cheek and the sparkle in
his eye.
" Soon after you left us," he continued, " our troubles
began. First of all, came the Arabs to plunder us. One
night our goats went, that was bad enough; but to lose
our poultry was worse still, and they began by stealing
the best—"
" Ah! a superb cock and five hens that never missed
laying," put in Madame Sylvestre with a great sigh.
"We had dogs, and we could have got help from the
soldiers," her husband went on, "but the Arabs were
driven to these deeds by the direst necessity, and really
wanted them more than we. In some places the
colonists made no ado, but guarded their property with
armed men; we, the lovers and propagandists of peace,
could not do that, however painful it was to be robbed.
Night after night I patrolled the premises at the peril
of my life; yet the things went, sometimes a sack of
grain, sometimes a hoe or a spade, sometimes a poor
stray chick or duckling. However, we held up our
hearts, for the corn promised well; and if the harvests
were abundant everywhere, the Arabs would have less
temptation to maraud! But one morning, as we were
dispersing to our field work, we saw flying from the
south three or four silvery-winged little creatures no
larger than humming-birds. My companions turned
deadly pale, and cried, ' The locusts ! the locusts!' It
was the beginning of the plague. First they came by
hundreds, like little harmless swarms of starlings
migrating in autumn. Then they came by thousands,
by hundreds of thousands, by millions, by millions of
millions, till the earth was covered with them, the
heavens were darkened, the pleasant world was turned
Monsieur Sylvestre tells his Story. 15
into a pandemonium. By night and day we waged
war with our persecutors, but it was like throwing a tea-
cup full of oil on a raging sea; slay, burn, impale as we
might, the numbers seemed greater than ever. When
at last the plague was over, and the stinking carcases
of the enemy covered the length and breadth of the
land, our hearts sank within us at the mischief that had
been done—the beautiful young crops were ruined, the
pastures gone, the fruit-trees were bare both of leaf and
blossom. We knew well enough what was at hand."
Here Monsieur Sylvestre resumed his declamatory
attitude by the fireplace, well-pleased at the breathless
interest he had kindled in his audience. Carew
listened as to a tragic story or poem; Ingaretha's hand
pressed Madame Sylvestre's, and she whispered a sym-
pathetic word from time to time. The poor French-
woman smiled through her tears, saying every now
and then:
" How beautifully he tells it, does he not ?"
Monsieur Sylvestre went on :
"How could we help knowing it? Our sleep was
haunted with haggard figures threatening to kill us if
we gave them no bread. But the reality was worse still.
First came the starving men and women we had seen
in our dreams, beseeching us in their hunger. We gave
what we could, but there was no one to work miracles,
and the little we had to spare was soon at an end.
Then men and women came to us no more, but instead
flocked hollow-eyed spectres, and raging maniacs, and
human beings turned into wild beasts by hunger. We
had no reason to fear for our granaries and hen-roosts,
they were all empty; but our lives- were not safe.
'' This is my child !' shrieked one. ' Feed us to-night,
16
The Sylvestres.
or he is killed and eaten!' 'Yon Europeans do not
die,' was the cry of others. 'We will murder you
unless you divide your secret stores with us.' The
government sent bread, but it would not feed hundreds
of thousands, and for weeks the people kept perishing
before our eyes. Still we stayed on, hoping for better
days. The fever came next—fever did I say ? It was
the plague, such a plague as is sure to follow dearth,
famine, and cannibalism, and we had grown familiar
with all these. Hitherto people had died slowly, after
days of raging madness and despair, or had lain down
in a corner to die like dogs.
" But now death did his work in a quicker fashion.
The wail of human nature turned savage was hushed.
Men, women, and little children walked about meekly
with a look of death in their faces, and dropped down
on a sudden. There was no mistaking that look. Eew
tried to heal, none to console each other. As they had
died of starvation before our eyes, with none to mourn
or bury them, now they died of the fever, stricken down
like soldiers in a battle-field. The whole land was
turned into a tomb—the tomb of nameless multitudes."
' Then came the worst of all," said Madame Sylvestre.
Her husband rebuked her for the interruption by a
gesture, and she was silent, following his looks and
words with a horror-stricken expression. The two
women drew closer to each other, and Ingaretha took
up the thin, brown, toil-worn hand of her companion
and kissed it reverently.
" How you must have suffered !" she cried.
" The awful year drew to a close under somewhat
better auspices," the narrator continued. "We had
survived assassination, famine, and pestilence, and
Monsieur Sylvestre tells his Story. 17
might fairly deem that the wrath of the gods was spent
at last. What seed-corn we had was put in the ground,
what" good cheer we could muster was devoted to the
inauguration of the new year. Till long past midnight
our little band of musicians made merry in the streets,
and with the remaining wine of our vintage we toasted
the immortal memory of Pourier, the regenerator of the
social world. We were sleeping peacefully as babes in a
cradle when, at day-break, something that sounded like
thunder awoke us. I started from my bed, but ere I could
reach the window, our little tenement was shaking like a
bird's nest rocked by the wind, A few seconds more, and
we found ourselves in the open air, we knew not how,
scared, distracted, paralysed. The earth heaved, under
our feet, making us sick and giddy. A horrid crash
sounded in our ears. Human cries rose up on every
side. 'The earthquake! The earthquake!' People
shrieked, wept, and prayed by turns. To add to our
misery, rain was falling in torrents, and we were but
half dressed. A few, indeed, escaped in their night-
clothes. Some delayed escape too long."
"Poor Blaise was lost to us that morning," sobbed
Madame Sylvestre; " he had a heart of gold, and
stopped to look for his dog."
" The Arabs taught us Christian folks a lesson then,"
Monsieur Sylvestre resumed. " ' It is the will of
Allah/ they said, stalking to and fro, stately as kings,
resigned as apostles. Ah, it was grand to see them!"
"They pilfered us directly our backs were turned,"
put in Madame Sylvestre.
" I will leave you to imagine that day of cold, desti-
tution, and misery. Wet to the skin, shelterless,
hungry, and for once desponding, we resolved to set out
2
i8
The SylvestreS.
in search of some encampment, where we should at
least have a tent over ©ur heads. The next village,
they brought us word, was in ruins, and the next" and
the next, but tents had been sent from the nearest
military station, so we departed. What a journey was
that! One must tread upon the heels of an earthquake
to realise the awfulness of it. We got a rude convey-
ance, and travelled slowly, by the light of a brilliant
moon, in search of shelter. But there was none to
spare. We warmed ourselves at the soldiers' watch-
fires, and went on, passing ghastly spectres of what had
been yesterday thriving little towns. Here and there a
house, split like a pomegranate, stood out from the chaos
of ruin. Through the stillness of the night came the
Avails of those who had been made widows and orphans.
The beautiful little city, embosomed in orange and lemon
gardens—Blidali—was deserted as if plague-stricken.
There Avas no choice for us but to reach the coast."
Monsieur Sylvestre paused, took breath, and added in
a passionate tone of reproach and entreaty:
" Call us not coAVards if the sight of the sea acted
like a charm, drawing us homewards ! All the treasure
that we had was buried in that bewitching but most
ungrateful country — sinews, endeavours, courage,
patience, life-blood, hope, we gave her our all, and she
repaid us thus! Decimated by fever, despoiled by
savages, ruined by pestilence, unhoused .by earthquake,
we had no choice but to turn our backs upon the land
of the palm, the fig, and the olive, and go forth to seek
bread and shelter elseAArhere."
He dashed aside a tear, and cried, stretching out his
hands, as if beholding the emblematical figure he apos-
trophised—
Monsieur Sylvesire tells his Story. 19
" Oh, Algerie ! Algerie! not thus shouldst thou have
repaid the pioneers of solidarity, the disciples of the
latter-day prophets ! How have we loved, trusted,
caressed thee! How hast thou played with us, chas-
tised, expelled us—a hand of martyrs crowned with
asphodel!"
" But now you shall wear wreaths of heart's-ease
and roses," Ingaretha said brightly, though tears were
in her eyes. " Here there are at least neither locusts
nor earthquakes, and you shall have a hit of land to turn
into an Eden after your own heart."
Monsieur Sylvestre's depression vanished like a child's
tears at the sight of sugar-plums. Had the company
present been disposed to hear him, he would at once have
described the Utopia that was to be created under In-
garetha's auspices, the last and best of so many. But it
was already late. Mr. Carew had a ride of five miles
before him, Madame Sylvestre had dropped asleep, and
even Ingaretha looked drowsy. The beautiful vision
was put off till a more fitting opportunity.
Ingaretha took her friend by the hand and led her
upstairs.
" These are your rooms," she said ; " I think they are
the prettiest in the house, and Monsieur Sylvestre will
enjoy the little dressing-room—study—call it what you
like—looking across the park, and the ruined gate-way
of the old cottage."
" What magnificence!" said the Frenchwoman sadly,
touching the furniture with gingerly hand. "What
carpets, what curtains, what pretty things ! Oh ! dear
friend, this is much too good for us."
The rooms were neither very spacious nor very im-
posing; but the bright blue hangings, the soft Persian
2—2
20
The Sylvestres.
rugs, the easy-chairs, and the hundred and one little
comforts, might well strike one accustomed to fewer hard-
ships than Madame Sylvestre. Ingaretha looked pained.
" The best cannot be too good for one's friends," she
said, kissing her affectionately. "Did you not tell me
so when I was a guest in your Phalanstery V
" Ah! what was our hospitality in comparison with
yours!"
Ingaretha chided her playfully, and had reached the
door when she went back again to where Madame
Sylvestre was standing.
"You have not told me a word about Rend V' she
asked, turning red as a rose. "Nor of Maddio. Where
are they ? What are they doing ?"
" Alas, we know not. They would stay behind, though
starvation stared them in the face. They could not be
persuaded to quit the land of their adoption."
" But they are well ?" she whispered eagerly. " The
fever spared them ?"
" Thank heaven, yes; Maddio made his adieux, gay &a
a child; poor Rene was a little sad, but both were well
when we parted."
" Thank heaven !" Ingaretha said fervently, and then
the last good-night was said.
Madame Sylvestre eyed her poor mended garments
ruefully as she took them off one by one. How out of
place they looked amid this elegance! Little enough
she cared for finery herself, poor soul; but she was
mortified through her affections. She knew that though
she should ever be the same to her husband and In-
garetha whether clad in rags or satin, they suffered
vicariously if she were sneered at or slighted by the
vulgar.
Poet and Philanthropist.
21
The unwonted softness of the pillows, however, and
the happy consciousness of a long 'and toilsome journey
achieved, acted like poppy juice on weary body and
brain. She fell asleep, and slept the rare delicious sleep
that lasts from midnight till the matins of the birds are
ended, and the hungry ploughman sits down to breakfast
beside the furrows he has turned since dawn.
CHAPTER III.
poet and philanthropist.
Pleasant and reviving it is to hear the sweet voice of
a woman about the house, and Ingaretha had a habit of
singing as she went, whenever her heart was light. Long
before her guests were astir, she had breakfasted and
was busy on a hundred schemes for their business
and pleasure, interspersing her thoughtful moods with
snatches of song. Having placed freshly-gathered
flowers on the table, dawdled in the garden a little
by the hand-carriage of the invalid aunt and godmother,
whose home had been Ingaretha's since childhood, she
mounted her unpretentious-looking mare and rode off
in the direction of the village. She was no patroness
of the hunt, a prodigy of equestrian excellence, but rode
with the inherited ease and grace of a well-bred woman
who feels as much at home in the saddle as in her
court-dress.
The skylarks were singing among the pearly clouds,
the fawns frisked hither and thither across the turf, a
hundred little flowers were opening their eyes, the trees
stood full-robed in the splendour of dune. Everything
22
The Sylvestres.
looked young and gay and beautiful. By-and-by, she
passed out of the park and entered a narrow by-road.
To the right stretched level fields of young green corn
and rich brown fallows, divided by hawthorn hedges;
to the left lay a pretty farm-house, with a well-kept
flower-garden in front, an orchard, roseate as sunset
cloud, with apple-blossoms on one side, farm-buildings,
corn-stacks, and meadows on the other. She was about
to pull up, when a straw hat appeared above the oppo-
site hedge, and Mr. Carew called out:
" Miss Meadowcourt, do ride as far as the stile, and
then I can speak to you."
In two minutes he was walking beside her, talking
eagerly about the Sylvestres, their strange story, their
wonderful youthfulness and fortitude under trouble.
Then he brought out his sketch-book with a sudden
change of idea. Showing her a water-colour drawing,
"See," he said, "such a weird little view lies within
gunshot of these trim fields! Will you alight for a
quarter of an hour and walk with me to look at it ?" he
asked.
She assented, gave him her hands, soft as little birds,
and sprang from the saddle. They skirted the fallow-
land, Carew leading the way. As they wTent, a sound
of pain and fear came from the hedge, and looking
round, they saw a young partridge lying in the grass,
that had evidently been wounded by a hawk or some
other enemy. There was something inexpressibly touch-
ing about the helplessness and despair of the little
creature as it stared at them with terrified eyes, unable
to fly or defend itself.
" Let us take it home to the gamekeeper," Ingaretha
said, picking it up carefully. " If it is past help, it
Poet and Philanthropist.
?3
shall be put out of its misery, Will you carry it in
your handkerchief V*
He obeyed somewhat unwillingly, A few steps
further on, they saw a beautiful little mole, just thrown
out of a trap, wounded, but not quite dead,
"It is hard to have no souls, and yet to suffer,"
Ingaretha said.
" Yes," he answered; " I could show you any happy
summer morning sadder things in your thickets and
glades than you dream of. Appalling, indeed, is the
tragedy of Nature, and the part we play in it. We live
in an age of mercy, but the Messiah of the animal
world is not yet come!"
" If the human world were happier, perhaps we could
spare one of its benefactors," Ingaretha said coldly and
sadly. " Strange that you should feel more for the
sufferings of partridges and moles than for the sufferings
of men and women. When. I talk to you of our poor
people, you show no enthusiasm."
" A man cannot change his nature, and I cannot turn
philanthropist," he said earnestly. "Tor your sake,
would it were possible!"
" You are a poet, an artist, a dreamer," she went on,
with the slightest shade of reproach in her voice, " and
I can well understand how it is that you reconcile your-
self to an irresponsible, pleasure-seeking—forgive me—
impression-seeking life. But is there not time enough
to do a little work as well as enjoy a good deal of
beauty V
They were now penetrating a little hazel copse, and
as they went the little branches caught her hair, first
one lock, then another, till it fell from the comb a
golden shower on her shoulders. How bright she
24
The Sylvestres.
looked, how eager, how beautiful! Carew answered
her, colouring to the brow:
" Seven years ago I said to you what I say now, and
what would be in my heart seven, nay, twice seven
years hence, if I might then speak to you of familiar
things. But I should be a hypocrite were I to pledge
myself to the life you hold most estimable. I acknow-
ledge and deplore the misery of the world, but I cannot
give heart and soul to Blue-books, and social science,
and criminal reform. As well blame a daffodil for not
being an apple-tree as blame a born artist for not being
a philanthropist."
" You preach an easy-going fatalism in which I do
not believe. Landowners, like ourselves, have no right
to enjoy our property without undertaking its responsi-
bilities."
" I have often wished myself quite poor," Carew said
wistfully. " Had I only a hundred pounds of my own
a year I am sure you would have liked me better."
" I should have blamed you less," Ingaretka answered.
He was silent for a few minutes, then burst out
passionately:
" Do not call the life wasted which is spent in the
pursuit of the lovely and the good. Sweep the universe
clean of all but the useful, and what would it be like ?
—fields without daisies, academies without poets, women
without grace! Good heavens! the beauty around us
would degenerate into ugliness if there were neither
poets nor painters to remind us of it, idealise it, inter-
pret it. And"—he said this pointedly and bitterly—
" you deceive yourself if you think that the world is
only made better by your Beform Bills and Sanitary
Associations and Beformatories. Granted that the artist
Poet and Philanthropist.
25
is an idler in these fields, are there no harvests to he
reaped elsewhere? Shall the soul perish whilst the
hody is superabundantly fed ?"
Ingaretha interrupted him in tones as eager as his own.
" You speak as if a song, a flower, or a happy inspira-
tion could he to the ignorant and debased'what they
are to us, who are enlightened and happy. Christ fed
the multitude as well as preached the truth to them."
" But the truth "went first. Oh ! take care how you
appraise Beauty as a moralising force, quickening, ex-
alting, enlarging. The enlightened and the happy—
what a minority are they! Do we two ever meet
without complaining to each other of the dead level of
moral and intellectual commonplace amid which we find
ourselves here ? And if a spark of enthusiasm or noble
feeling shines out, what breath is there to fan it into a
flame? You philanthropists and realists forget that
society can only be perfected by the love of intellectual
beauty working from within. Can legislation or inven-
tions, or even state education, keep the spirit alive ?
The dreamer of noble dreams helps most of all."
" Of noble dreams we have enough," Ingaretha said
sadly, " yet the people are starved, flesh and spirit."
"At least concede a little to those who bequeath
thoughts, if not deeds, to their fellow-creatures. A
lovely fancy, a fresh ideal, how good and reviving are
they ! For your sake," he added, fervently, " I would
fain become a politician and put my shoulder to the
wheel of public life, but my heart, my faith, my real
self would never be in the work. "Were one or two of
my little songs to float down the stream of time consoling
the unhappy, delighting young and old, I should count
my time better spent."
26
The Sylvestres,
She looked at him, half incredulous, half pitying.
"You despise me. I had better have left my apology
unsaid," he said.
" I do not understand you," she answered, " that is
an."
There seemed nothing more for Carew to say after
that little speech, though his heart was full. Had
Ingaretha been in a different mind, he would have
brought out a poem he had written in the hayfield just
before, but he withheld it without a hint of its existence.
They walked side by side, each rapt in secret thoughts.
By-and-by, they came to the edge of a huge chalk-pit,
and looking down, saw a gipsy encampment in the
hollow. Descending a little way, they found them-
selves shut in a world of white and blue, the dazzling
chalk-cliffs standing against the unclouded sky like a
rampart. A fire was burning at the further end, and
the column of blue smoke rising from it gave a witch-
like look to the black-haired, mahogany-skinned
woman bending over the kettle. Two or three children,
brown and dishevelled as savages, were collecting
brambles at the pit-mouth. Some bits of ragged
drapery hung on the furze bushes, red, blue, and orange.
When Carew had retouched his sketch at Ingaretha's
suggestion, they returned to the horses. She spoke
again of her new guests, and entreated him to be kind
and helpful to them, which he promised cheerfully.
Pleasant talk seemed possible once more, and he grew
light-hearted at finding her so trustful and comrade-
like.
" You know their worth as well as I do," she began.
"And their eccentricities," he answered, smiling.
" They will persuade you to turn the Abbey into a
Poet and Philanthropist.
27
phalanstery, after the model of the one they left in
ruins, or to start a second New Harmony founded on
the plans of Eobert Owen."
" I cannot and will not send them away," she said
eagerly. " They have suffered too much, and I love
them too dearly. What is the use of living, unless we
make some one happy ? And I can make them happy.
Will you help me to do that ?"
" With all my heart—short of becoming a socialist,"
he answered, "or of furthering socialist conspiracies.
Do they want a house to live in ? or money ? or any-
thing else in my power to bestow ? Only tell me what
to do."
She thanked him, laughing at his impetuosity; then,
telling him that she was going to consult her farm-
steward, Mr. Minifie, on their behalf, crossed the road
in the direction of the farmhouse, the groom and horse
following. Carew lingered a little; but at the end of
a quarter of an hour, no Ingaretha appearing, he went
away. Let each misunderstand the other as they
might, there was this feature in their intercourse, that,
even when they parted in sorrow or in anger, it was
with the hope of meeting again. But for Carew's un-
happy inclination, indeed, they would have been ex-
cellent comrades. Again, and again, he had said to
himself that this passion should be destroyed, and a
friendship recreated, phoenix-like, from its ashes; again
and again love had vindicated itself—strong, young,
hopeful, happy. He knew well enough that there were
other women in the world, if not so sweet and lovely
as she, still sweet and lovely; he knew well enough
that the best part of his life was going, and that, when
it was gone, he should perhaps grudge the wasted
28
The Sylvestres.
affection and the hoping against hope of so many
years. Like some mediaeval alchemist, who spends
strength, soul, and substance upon the uncaptured
truth that now comes near, now eludes his grasp, now
vanishes out of sight, to return and hover before him, a
golden vision, he passed his days in alternate hope, fear,
and ecstasy.
A very unpopular person among his neighbours was
Mr. Carew. He was no sportsman, took no part in
politics or county business, and entered very little into
society. It was whispered that he wrote poetry, and if
the writing of poetry does not stamp a country gentle-
man as a very poor creature indeed, what does ? The
world was angry with him for being an amateur, more-
over. How often do we repeat the cant abuse about
amateurs, as if higher praise could be given a man than
that he was an artist by reason of his passion for art!
Mr. Carew's guests, whenever he happened to spend
a few months at home, were very promiscuous—
Italian fiddlers; artists of various nations, often in
threadbare coats; occasionally a poet, than whom no
untamed tiger could have created a greater feeling of
incongruity among the matter-of-fact St. Beowulfians;
and so on. Whatever Mr. Carew did, mystified or
affronted people. That he did not marry Miss Meadow-
court affronted them most of all. In country places it
seems almost possible to believe that a few misguided
house-sparrows, red-breasts, and swallows are in the pay
of the father of lies, to propagate tittle-tattle and
scandal. Perhaps the privations of severe winters
tempt them into making the bargain. Be this as it
may, not a week, hardly a day, passed without some
new rumour concerning the two cynosures of neighbour-
Mr. and Mrs. Minijie.
29
ing eyes, Ingaretha Meadowcourt and Mr. Carew.
Swiftly as if every gossamer thread were a telegraphic
wire, the news of this accidental meeting and walk was
straightway borne throughout the length and breadth of
the place, with what commentaries and conclusions the
imaginative reader may easily determine.
CHAPTER IV.
mr. and mrs. minifie.
If there was one person in the world whom Ingaretha
cordially disliked, it was her tenant and steward, Mr.
Minifie. Ingaretha was an excellent landlady, and Mr.
Minifie was an excellent tenant. He had been in the
confidence of her father, moreover, and she felt too in-
experienced as yet to take matters into her own hands
and get rid of him. As a tenant, she could not get rid
of him, for he held an unexpired lease of several years ;
and as a steward, there was every reason, in a worldly
point of view, for keeping him. He not only farmed
after a first-rate method himself, but insisted upon the
other tenants doing the same. His management of her
affairs was generally allowed to be unexceptionable.
" Whatever you do, my dear," said her faithful old friend
and lawyer, Mr. Mede, of St. Beowulf, " keep Minifie.
He's not a pleasant fellow, but he does well by your
propertyand, much against her inclination, she did
keep him, partly because she knew of no one to put in
his place, and partly because she had no tangible excuse
for displacing him. Mr. Minifie was certainly not a
3°
The Sylvestres.
pleasant fellow. He had married a woman twenty-five
years older than himself for money, to begin with, and
having possessed himself of her fortune, cared very little
what became of herself. He was one of those men who
are made np of so many mean little qualities, in homoeo-
pathic proportions, that ordinary moral nomenclature
falls short in cataloguing them.
Mrs. Minifie was so fortunate as to have hobbies, other-
wise the monotonous money-making life to which she
was tied must have proved unendurable. She loved to
pose as a quack-doctor to the poor people, and as a moral
teacher to all the young women of her acquaintance,
whether married or single. She loved, moreover, to de-
liver harmless little tirades against her husband. It
would be hard to say which of her favourite tasks she
found most agreeable—preparing doses of nux vomica and
tarraxicum, giving lectures on moral, social, and religious
topics, or whispering explosive little domestic secrets.
Mrs. Minifie dispensing medicine was a sight to re-
member. She always sat on a low stool, having her
medicine chest on the floor before her, her large untidy
person attitudinised with an attempt at gracefulness, her
abundant flossy hair, of mixed pale straw-colour and
grey, flowing straight from the temples, her whole appear-
ance that of a person ludicrously late recalled to vanity.
Mrs. Minifie did not marry till long after she had ceased
to think marriage desirable, and it cost her many and
many a pang to give up, as completely as she believed
that she did give up, the slothful, slatternly habits of
her spinsterhood. She would occasionally so far make
a sacrifice to the shrine of fashion as to buy a yard or
two of bright ribbon or lappet of lace, which she would
wear as incongruously as a Caffir or Cherokee; but she
Mr. and Mrs. Minifie.
3i
never grew tidy enough to fasten her buttons, lace up
her shoes, clip or trim dishevelled fringes, or attain to
the geometrical exactitude requisite in a lady who wears
caps. Mr. Minifie might go in a passion, might fling
about chairs and other missiles, might wish himself 1111-
married a thousand times,—though often moved to pro-
mises and tears, she was never moved to repentance.
The poor people employed on Mr. Minifie's farm were
almost as ignorant as the Arabs who worshipped sticks
and stones before the advent of Mohammed. Their little
hamlet, called Peasemarsh, was an out-of-the-way place,
and life did not seem such a priceless boon that any great
efforts were made to prolong it. The chapel-goers, in
case of illness, begged a dose or a plaister of Mrs. Minifie ;
the church-goers went to the curate's for a saline draught
or a tract: the doctor's services seemed a luxury not to
be thought of.
CHAPTER V.
the peasemarsh wizard.
A legend hung round the little hamlet of Peasemarsh,
that, like all legends, had one foot in romance and one
in reality. Here, not more than two or three centuries
back, the celebrated witch-finder, Matthew, who bad
made a journey of bloody triumph throughout the length
and breadth of 'the land, came upon one of his most
precious findings, a wizard of the purest water—the
famed son of the Satanic Lord, his spiritual, if not
fleshly father. But mark the craft of the devils when
playing high stakes for human souls! This chosen
32
The Sylvestres.
vessel of ill was so painted and varnished with all
kinds of fictitious graces, that he figured among his
fellow-villagers as a saintly and sweet old man, a clergy-
man moreover and sage, long-suffering, full of bewitching
charms of mien and manner. "When the witch-finder
passed that way and marked his man, scales fell from
people's eyes, a wild beast's cry ran through the place,
" The wizard! the wizard!" The kindliness, the charity,
and the faith of the village priest was blotted out from
people's minds, and the old man perished, unaided and
unpitied.
Here the fact ends and fiction begins. Grandames
and grandsires had declared that grandames and grand-
sires of theirs who had been present at the Peasemarsh
martyrdom, heard the dying wizard utter a prophecy,
and thus it ran:—"If I am a wizard, other wizards
thqre will be like me, and may they do no more harm
than I have done!" And from generation to generation
the Peasemarsh wizard was looked for and talked of,
but as yet had not come. Very benighted without
doubt were the inhabitants of this out-of-the-way little
spot. The only enlightenment that penetrated so far
was that of the curate, he too often no luminary,
indeed, but much more nearly like a blind teacher of
the blind. Railways, telegraphs, and other modern aids
to thought and culture, as yet had not leavened this
lump of material dross with a leaven of intellectual
gold. The kingdom might be overturned, wars waged,
worlds discovered, and Peasemarsh heeded not.
The Peasemarsh people, in other words Mr. Minifie's
labourers, showed much more concern about their souls.
They were a primitive set of religionists, who named
their sons after the prophets, or their daughters after
The Peasemarsh Wizard\
33
Job's daughters. Yery few of tliem could read or write,
but they could all preach, and if a cow were taken ill,
or a horse fell into a ditch, it was prayed over, and left
to miraculous interposition. When the business of her dis-
pensary was closed for the day, Mrs. Minifie would wander
about the house and garden till dinner-time. Any one
seeing her amongst her apple-trees on a bright summer
day, was reminded of some grotesque female saint in
old stained-glass windows. Her hair, of the colour of
ripe barley, her large, monotonous face, her ill-shaped,
gaily-dressed figure—for Mrs. Minifie loved colour as
much as a Kentucky negress—stood out of the back-
ground of green and blue like the quaint conceptions of
mediaeval painters.
Mr. Minifie liked Peasemarsh because the land was
rich and brought him wealth, but Mrs. Minifie disliked
it for that very reason. She would fain have given
wings to her dull days by flitting from place to place, as
she had done before marriage; and it seemed very
unreasonable that her husband should not feel the
same. She was old and he was young, she said to
herself; yet he could content himself with living out of
the world all the days of his life, while she was as eager
to fly off to Brighton or Paris as any school-girl of
eighteen. It seemed very unnatural, and she called
Mr. Minifie's contentment perversity. By one o'clock
he would return from his ride, and though it was years
since she married him, his look of youthfulness struck
her as a new fact every day. In the first year or two
of marriage this contrast between herself and him had
not been painful. He was then wont to affect chival-
rous little sentimentalities and boyish ostentations of
homage that compensated for it. Now all was altered.
3
34
The Sylvestres.
He would stroke his bright-brown beard with a look
that plainly said, "Hot one grey hair yet!" he would crack
nuts with his sound white teeth; would leap a five-
barred gate whenever she happened to be walking with
him, and insist on her going round by some other way;
in fine, displayed his youth and strength upon every
occasion. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Minifie had delicate
palates, and their meals were ill-provided, ill-cooked,
and ill-served to such a pitch that, excepting to them-
selves, eating in their house was a time of dire proba-
tion. The asparagus was never brought to table till it
had run to seed; the chickens were allowed to fatten
about the granaries, whilst their lean old parents were
killed and cooked; their cream went into the churn,
whilst they complacently put sour milk into their
coffee and rancid butter upon their bread. They did
not make a merit of this, or do it by way of mortifying
the flesh, but Mr. Minifie was economical, and had his
way.
To Mrs. Minifie the days at Peasemarsh were like
common clay vessels, made to hold water, and not wine.
She envied other people's crystal cups filled with choice
Falernian, and blamed her husband for not entering
into her feelings. " You never seem to think I want
any pleasure," she would say, with a sigh, " yet in my
heart I am younger than you." Which was true, for in
some things she was very young indeed. " Do I take
any pleasure myself ?" he would retort brutally; " if I
did, you might find fault with reason." One indulgence
he allowed her, and that was an old hooded phaeton, in
which she took an airing every day. There is an elec-
tive affinity in things as well as in persons, and Mrs.
Minifie's coachman, carriage, and horse seemed made
The Peasemarsh Wizard.
35
for lier. The horse was a ponderous, sandy-coloured
beast—as clumsy about the pasterns as his mistress
about the ankles; the driver, one of those hopelessly
good-tempered Suffolkers whose mental fog no light
of education can reach; and the carriage matched all
three, being antiquated, cumbersome—a graceless legacy
of past generations. " What a horse, what a trap, what
a scarecrow inside!" Mr. Minifie would say to himself
whenever he saw his wife setting out on a drive; and
she knew well enough that he said or thought it.
Ingaretha's visit was an event at Peasemarsh. Mrs.
Minifie threw down her novel with a sense of relief,
thinking it much better to see one person who was
young, handsome, and interesting, than to read of
twenty who were superabundantly gifted with all kinds
of fascinating qualities.
She rose from her seat, cordial, inquisitive, full of
gratitude for so welcome an interruption. If only In-
garethas, with golden hair and piquant talk, would drop
from the skies every day, life would be endurable.
" I didn't believe Mr. Minifie a bit when he told me
you were settled at the Abbey," she said. " How could
you bring your mind to it ?"
" I never intended to live out of England altogether,"
Ingaretha answered, shaking Mrs. Minifie warmly by the
hand;." I love the old place a great deal too much for
that."
" But how much pleasanter to be running about the
world and seeing different things every day! Ah! I
envy you. I shall never see Paris any more, and I dare
say you were there three or four weeks back. Mr.
Minifie keeps me as much a prisoner as if I were a
lunatic."
36
The Sylvestres.
" I hope he will let you come and see me sometimes/'
Ingaretha said, not knowing whether to look gay or
serious. " I should like to go with you among the poor
people."
" What an odd notion! But I am always telling Mr.
Minifie that the world is turning topsy-turvy, and his
theories are out of date. If you wish to befriend the
labourer, manage your affairs yourself, dear Miss Meadow-
court. That is my advice."
Ingaretha opened her eyes incredulously.
" Well, get to know them as well as I do, and judge
for yourself. How is it that your land brings in more
rent than other people's? By squeezing the tenants.
How is it that the farmers make up their rent ? By
squeezing the labourers. Mr. Minifie boasts of his ac-
count-books. Well he may. He does his duty by you;
but it's a case of robbing Peter to pay Paul."
" I am very sorry to hear this," Ingaretha said. " It is
quite new to me."
" You have not been penned up in this dull spot for
ten years, as I have, with only the poor people to talk
to, or you would understand very well how Mr. Minifie
manages things. Hot that I dislike poor people. If
one is shut up in prison, rats and spiders become better
Company than none at all."
" When I was a little girl, in my dear father's life-
time," Ingaretha made answer, " I used to be very fond
of going amongst the poor people, and it is my duty to do
what I can for them now."
" Oh ! you are too young to talk so."
" I am twenty-six," she answered, with great serious-
ness.
" What a pity to take up good works at your time of
The Peasemarsh Wizard.
37
life! If you do that now, what will you take to when
you are old and hardened in sin like the rest of us ?
But here's Mr. Minifie; he'll tell you the poor people
eat roast beef and plum-pudding every day, and look
forward to the workhouse as a paradise. Don't believe
a word he says, and do exactly the opposite of what he
tells you."
Mr. Minifie came in—young, brisk, good-looking.
"Janey," he said, "how could you let Miss Meadow-
court sit in such an uncomfortable chair ? Janey, have
you offered Miss Meadowcourt some new milk ? Janey,
ask Miss Meadowcourt to go into the other room, it is
so much cooler. Janey, you must sit quite still while
Miss Meadowcourt and I talk on businessand so on.
When at last preliminaries were settled, he descanted
upon hay crops, new fences, leases, and repairs for
upwards of an hour, Ingaretha listening with forced
interest.
"There are two things I want to talk about," she
said as soon as his reports seemed drawing to an end.
" In the first place, I want a small farm to let to a
friend."
"Friends never pay rent," rejoined Mr. Minifie.
" In this case, I should not expect him to pay it,"
Ingaretha answered, with a smile and a blush. "I
know it sounds unbusiness-like, but such is the case.
An old friend of mine, one of the persons I Value most
in the world, has come to England, and a few acres of
land would make him quite happy. I would willingly
sacrifice a little money to do that"
Mr. Minifie's eyes looked the things courtesy forbade
him to utter.
"You think me unpractical, t know, Mr, Minifie?"
38
The Sylvesirei.
"Quite so, Miss Meadowcourt. Give away half-a-
crown rather than lend three shillings any day: you
run no risk, and your mind is easy. No, I could not
reconcile it to my conscience to have a hand in the
making such a pie."
" But," Ingaretha answered persistently, " if I choose
to buy a little more land myself, for the sake of letting
it to a friend on my own responsibility, I should not
then compromise your conscience ?"
"Of course not," Mr. Minifie answered. "Or you
could let the first farm that falls vacant to any one as
ignorant of farming as I am of book-learning. But I really
must decline to manage your affairs when X cannot deal
with your sixpences and shillings as fairly as if they were
my own."
Ingaretha made no answer. Much as she disliked
the matter and manner of his speech, she was obliged
to admit that there was reason on his side.
"However," he added, "as there is not a lease that
expires for three years, I hope to have the honour of
serving you till then. If you were proposing to me
the best farmer in the county, he would have to wait
till next Michaelmas three years."
" But surely there are a few acres to let or sell some*
where in the neighbourhood ?"
" Miss Meadowcourt, you might almost as well try to
find a cow versed in the Catechism. If you wanted five
hundred or a thousand, I could find something to suit
you to-morrow."
"There is Mr. Moyse's little farm," put in Mrs.
Minifie, looking up from her seat. "You told me yes-
terday that he was going to sell it and retire next
Michaelmas."
The Peasemarsh Wizard.
39
"Now, Janey, do allow my business with Miss
Meadowcourt to be transacted without interruption.
Mr. Moyse's place will sell as dear as fire is hot, and is
a seventy-acred farm. Miss Meadowcourt speaks of a
few acres."
" How much money would be required to hire or buy
it ?" asked Ingaretha.
" Seven or eight hundred pounds might cover stock,
crop, and valuation; and for the purchase, I should say
they would ask not less than three thousand pounds.
But I'll look about for. what you want, Miss Meadow-
court—shall we say three or four acres V
" Let me have the first chance then, for there is no
time to lose."
" Excuse me, but I hope you won't go in for fancy
farming on a larger scale. For you'd make ducks and
drakes of a thousand pounds in no time."
"And isn't that Miss Meadowcourt's own affair?"
asked Mrs. Minifie, lifting up her large flossy head from
the ottoman. " Dear me, what liberties you take, to be
sure!"
"I have something else to say to you," pursued
Ingaretha, before Mr. Minifie could retort. "When
will the workmen begin the new cottages ? I particu-
larly wish them to be put in hand as soon as possible."
" They shall set to work at once; but I don't think a
chicken will come out of that egg, Miss Meadowcourt.
To help the poor here and there is like feeding two or
three pigs on cauliflowers, and turning them into a
cabbage-garden without rings in their noses. Let all
be coddled, or all be treated like grunters, I say. You
build a dozen cottages fit for gentlefolks to live in.
Nobody else follows your example, and the consequence
40
The SytvestreS.
is that you make twelve labouring families stuck-up,
and two or three hundred envious and discontented."
"The more discontented the better/' Mrs. Minifie
put in.
"I quite agree with you, Mrs. Minifie," Ingaretha
answered. "The poor have no right to be contented
till the rich behave differently to them. I, at any rate,
don't mean to let them be herded together like cattle
because my neighbours are indifferent to it. And there
is another matter on my mind, Mr. Minifie. Why are
all the footpaths being gradually done away with? For
you and me who can ride or drive wherever we want to
go, short cuts are of little consequence; but for those
who have to walk miles after their work, they are real
boons. We ought to attend to this."
"Just as you please, Miss Meadowcourt; but I don't
think you see what all these things will lead to. The
poor won't bear spoiling, and if you once begin to tell
them that everybody ought to feed well and lie warm,
they'll claim your own dinner and feather-bed in a
twinkling. Tell them everybody ought to be educated,
and they'll soon find out they're too good for their
places. I don't say the poor have a good time of it,
they couldn't have a much worse; but how are we to
better them without hurting ourselves ? The parsons,
I take it, know what they are about when they preach
contentment Sunday after Sunday. Change their tune,
and they would soon find things taking a different
turn."
"I think things are taking a different turn," Inga-
retha said; "and I am sorry you don't welcome the
signs of change. But I must go now."
She made her adieux abruptly and rode home; trying
The Peasemarsh Wizard.
to escape from the sordid atmosphere of the farm. This
was the man who had hitherto represented her pro-
perty! This was the man whom friends, trustees, and
advisers called " worth his weight in gold!" This was
the man in whose hands lay the cause of the poor!
Summer seemed banished from the world on a sudden,
and dread after dread, chimera after chimera, filled her
mind. She almost wished that the fates had ordered
otherwise for her, and that/instead of being lady of the
Manor of Culpho and mistress of the Abbey with its
rich acres, she was a penniless maiden, dowered only
with the love of a man as loyal as Carew.
CHAPTER VI.
happy houks.
But at the Abbey summer still reigned supreme. Mon-
sieur and Madame Sylvestre found themselves, like
good children in a story-book, visiting a fairy god-
mother. It seemed at first difficult to select one enjoy-
ment among so many. There was the library, to begin
with, and what lover ever wooed a long-absent mistress
so rapturously as the scholar his beloved treasure-house
after painful years of separation? These weather-
beaten travellers had not looked for decades on stately
rows of vellum and calf, nor turned with reverent
fingers the thick, cream-coloured page, nor feasted with
unwearying eyes upon the generous type, nor enjoyed
the hundred nameless pleasures of literary epicureanism.
Monsieur Sylvestre flitted for awhile from book to book
like a butterfly in a flower-garden, then settled himself
42
The Sylvestres.
luxuriously in an easy-chair before the open window.
But he could not rest long anywhere. The rose-leaves
wafted across his pages, the sweet smells and happy
sounds that came in with every puff of wind, the unac-
customed atmosphere of ease, elegance, and repose,
intoxicated, disturbed him. He put down his book,
and stepped out on to the terrace.
"Come, Euphrosyne," he said, "thou must be idle
too. Such a day as this is to be drunk to the last drop,
like a draught of wine."
They descended to the garden, wandered along the
flower-bordered banks of the tiny river for awhile, then
meeting a gardener, begged to see the orchard and
aviary. He led them across a spacious stone court, in
which a superb peacock was sunning himself, into a
greenhouse glowing like Aladdin's garden. There under
long glass-roofs were strawberries large as plums, cucum-
bers blue with bloom, sea-green marrows embedded in
yellowish leaves, purple-veined figs, clusters of vine-
leaves and tendril, oranges just catching a gleam of
gold, and innumerable luscious and lovely things. The
salad-beds struck Madame Sylvestre as most worthy of
admiration, and whilst her husband went into raptures
at the familiar sight of almond-trees in blossom, she
stooped down and gathered a waxy lettuce-leaf ten-
deriy.
"Ah!" she ejaculated aloud, " how often has hunger
been stayed by thee, thou friendly little leaf! Nature
is kind, and sends her fruits, like sisters of charity,
among the needy and suffering."
And she munched it for old acquaintance' sake. They
were next led to the poultry-yard, which was noisy,
fluffy, democratic with the teeming life of June. Not
tiappy Hours.
43
that the democracy of an amateur's plump, pampered
Cochin China and bantams at all resembles the de-
mocracy of the barn-door Dorking and the dung-hill
cock; where every one gets plenty, no one need pick
out his neighbour's eyes for a grain of barley. But the
monotony of feathered existence would be unbearable
without a good round fight now and then. The best of
hen-mothers are savagely jealous of their neighbours'
offspring, and peck at any stray chick or duckling out
of sheer malice: the bantam-cock who has been bred
and born in an atmosphere of peace, will stand on tip-
toe, puff out his feathers, and make an assault on his
brother bantam when the humour seizes him; and
the beautiful glossy grey guinea-fowls—apparently the
Quakers of the animal world—glory in onslaught, blood,
and battle.
Then they were taken to the neathouse to see the
cows—happy cows—-that were cropping the thick grass
of Ingaretha's pastures all day long, except at milking-
time. How fat, how clean, how intelligent they looked!
Madame Sylvestre, who remembered with pangs the
poor, lean, dejected beasts they had been compelled to
kill and eat in Africa, apostrophised these privileged
sisters almost reproachfully.
'Dost thou remember our poor Marie, our Pepita,
our Cosette V she said to her husband. " "When we
went to them for the milk they could not bestow, they
looked pitiful as starving mothers on their sucking
babes—the dear, patient, unhappy creatures!"
After the neathouse much remained to be seen: the
dairy with its marble slabs, its bright crimson jars full
of golden cream awaiting to be churned; its milk-
troughs, lakelets of fresh milk on whose surface the
44
The Syivesircs.
cream was gathering; its red-brick floors smooth and
shiny as the pavement of an imperial bath; its churns
of newest fashion; its fanciful array of butter and
cheese moulds in clean white wood. And after that
there were the stables, the dog-kennels, and the laundry
to see, and many other appurtenances of a well-
kept country-house, equally new and delightful to
them.
Monsieur Sylvestre was in raptures. Though an
Englishman by birth, and only adhering to a French
appellative out of respect to his French wife, it was so
long since he had been in his native country that he
had almost forgotten its domestic luxuries. What was
new to her was equally new to him. What moved her
to tears and retrospection, moved him to joy and castle-
building. He enjoyed and dreamed, she enjoyed and
remembered.
By-and-by, what with the bright sunshine, the abun-
dant ease, and the number of new impressions, he grew
drowsy, and finally fell asleep in a seductive summer-
house. Madame Sylvestre trotted indoors, brought
out a well-worn plaid, which she carefully bestowed
upon his shoulders, fearing that he might take a chill
in the terrible English climate, of which she had heard
so much, and then set out for a walk.
She did not stroll hither and thither like an ordinary
loiterer, but kept to the straight road leading to St.
Beowulf's Bury. It was a hot, dusty, drowsy afternoon,
and she rested every now and then, sheltering herself
under her queer old yellowish-green umbrella, and
making a fan of a large dock-leaf. St. Beowulf's was
four miles from Culpho, which she knew well enough,
as she had made the journey the night before. Four
Happy Honrs.
45
miles were not appalling, however, to so tried a pedes-
trian. Though long past middle age, she walked
steadily, and at times quickly, reaching St. Beowulf's
as the farmers were beginning to come home from
market; some in trim dog-carts, some in low pony-
phaetons, a few only in old-fashioned gigs. The
prosperity of every one bewildered her. Even the
labourers' wives, returning with heavily-laden baskets,
wore smart bonnets and gowns. "Was there no poverty
in this happy England ?
She trudged on, looking to the good country people
a scarecrow indeed, what with her broad-brimmed
strong straw hat tied under her chin, her foreign um-
brella, her oddly-fashioned garments, her home-made
shoes. Then two rude little rustics, keeping off rooks,
cried through the hedge, "There goes Madame Guy
Eaux!" and some of the women stared and made faces
at each other; but she only said "Bon jour," taking the
ill-mannered criticism in good part. The quiet beauty
of the old town, of which one might say now as was
said by Leland three centuries ago—"The sun hath not
shone on a town more delightfully situated"—delighted
her. The little river Larke winds amid the flower-gardens
that encircle what was once the villa of Beodoric, who
bequeathed it to Edmund the Martyr. Around are
softly undulating fields and pastures, amid which rise in
sombre majesty the ancient gateway and tower, remains
of what was once so large a monastery as to be called
a town.
The stately old gateway, the vast ruins of the Bene-
dictine Abbey, enclosing a fairy-like little lake and
garden, the noble church, with its graveyard running
alongside the river, all these made up, if not an
46
The Sylvestres.
imposing, a picture pleasant to dwell on. The graveyard
was the favourite promenade of the St. Beowulfians,
and no wonder. Shadowed by lime-trees, bordered with
flowers and evergreens, fresh, cool, and quiet always,
people came hither to read books beside the ruin, to
make love in the alleys, and to discuss serious questions
under the church porch. Seats were abundant, and
Madame Sylvestre, feeling at last weary, sat down and
fell fast asleep. When she awoke the afternoon was
drawing to a close, and she had to bestir herself to
accomplish her errand. After many rebuffs, she ob-
tained permission to give French lessons in the family
of a small confectioner, at the rate of a shilling an hour
and as much refreshment in the shape of halfpenny
buns as she desired. This at least was a step.
CHAPTER VII.
clerical love-making.
What with his concern for her spiritual and temporal
welfare, the rector got little sleep on the night following
Ingaretha's garden-party. First, the apparition of the
shabby foreigners disturbed him, and he saw following
in their train a nimble host of bright sovereigns and
bank-notes that had been bewitched out of Ingaretha's
pocket. He turned his head on the pillow, and lo!
matters were not mended in the least, for now he saw
Ingaretlia plucking her roses for Carew when no one
else was by, and Carew caught a stray lock of her
beautiful hair and kissed it, she smiling gravely, but
without affront. The rector, dreaming all this, and
Clerical Love-making.
47
waxing more impatient than behoved a man of his
calling, seized a pillow, gave it a violent shake, as
much as if he thought the evil spirits would tumble
out, and once more laid down his head. But the evil
spirits seemed more lively than ever, and leagued hand
and glove against him. He fancied himself a veritable
hailstorm of roses, overwhelmed by pieces of money,
bank-notes, blue ribbons; wry faces were made at him
by no heads in particular; Ingaretha and Carew paid
not the least attention to his troubles, but swam lazily
among the water-lilies; at last the foreigners, in their
waltz, pushed him clean into the water, with which
crowning agony he awoke.
To go to sleep again under such circumstances would
have been folly, and the rector, having dosed himself
with the first.thing in the shape of medicine that came
handy, put on his dressing-gown and began to write.
He always wrote out any important speech he should
have to make in the course of the day beforehand,
reconnoitring his forces much after the fashion of an
anxious general, placing a phalanx of arguments in the
van, lighter metaphors and airy hopes to arm weak
places, and the invincible artillery of theological dicta
in the rear. How, it must be admitted that making
love to a beautiful woman, and waging war against an
aggressive Dissenter, are not quite the same thing; and
the rector had not come out of the latter kind of
warfare with such flying colours as to warrant any very
rapturous results from the former. But his cause was
good, and his adversary was a woman, one of the
" weaker vessels," in the language of the Church. He
plumed himself vastly on belonging to the nobler order
of created beings, namely, man, and the noblest order of
48
The Sylvesters.
social beings, namely, parsons. Carew certainly pos-
sessed the first privilege, but he was a poor creature,
even according to Ingaretha's own showing: a dawdler,
a dreamer, a writer of verses!
So the rector's pen flew over the paper, and the light
veil of the summer night was drawn from the earth,
and the thrushes began their rehearsal in his little
garden ere he had done. He felt drowsy after such
severe intellectual exertion, and putting the manuscript
under his pillow, slept the sweet sleep of that incom-
parable anodyne, self-convicted sageness, for upwards of
three hours. Eefreshed and hopeful, he awoke. When
breakfast was over, and the sermon for the following
Sunday partly written, he walked about his fruit-garden,
notes in hand, culling sweets of his own wisdom and
the sweets of his own cherry-trees alternately. First a
cherry, big, blood-coloured, dewy, was popped into the
rector's mouth; next an argument, rounded, unctuous,
delectable, was lodged, as he fondly hoped, in the re-
cesses of Ingaretha's understanding.
The lesson fairly learned and the midday meal of
corned beef and cabbage despatched, he set out on a
round of parish visits, intending to take Ingaretha by
storm on his way home. Having administered a severe
reprimand to the mother of some Sunday-school children
who had sent them to church with long curls and blue
hat-ribbons, reminded a recalcitrant tithe-payer that the
half-yearly sum of five shillings and fourpence farthing
was somewhat overdue, and lectured a parishioner upon
his non-appearance at church, he betook himself to the
Abbey.
As luck would have it, the lady chanced to be alone.
On his way through the hall he heard little snatches of
Clerical Love-Making.
40
song, and found her at the piano turning over the leaves
of a music book.
" If you are a magician," she said, " charm Monsieur
Sylvestre into singing at church. What a congregation
you would soon have 1"
" Has he a very good voice V asked the rector, half
piqued, half inquisitive.
" Of an angel. Just that and no more," and Ingaretha
made the most bewitching little gesture of admiration,
adding, "and if he is almost an angel, Madame Sylvestre
is one quite."
The conversation was turning upon the very subject
the rector had promised to treat so eloquently. To warn
her of these people, to exhort her to prudence in dealing
with them, to point out to her the consequences of har-
bouring atheists, freethinkers, social vagabonds—who
could tell what else ?—in the parish ; then to open his
arms and beg her there to seek safety and refuge for
evermore. This was his programme. He began part
the first.
"Are you quite sure, my dear Miss Meadowcourt—
and being the parish priest, I speak as one having
authority—are you quite sure that in such evil days of
heterodox teaching and lax theology, you are acting dis-
creetly when you invite foreigners, perhaps unbelievers,
to take up their abode here V
The misguided little sparrows, you see, had been
telling tales to the rector.
Ingaretha resigned herself to a quarrel, sighing good-
naturedly.
" You said a long time ago that you would not talk to
ine about heterodoxy any more. I never quite under-
Stand what you mean by it. As to these friends of mine;
4
The Sylvestres.
tlie Sylvestres, they have had little else hut hard*
ship and misfortune all their lives, and I certainly can
but offer them a refuge now. Not to do so would be
to outrage the very doctrine of charity you preach
about."
"But I preach about faith, too," cried the rector
briskly. "Where you cannot understand, have faith.
I am your sincere friend, and if you were in the habit
of submitting your judgment to mine when perplexed
and divided between two minds, I feel sure the result
would be satisfactory."
" But," said Ingaretha wickedly, " the Sunday before
last you said c The wise woman buildeth her house,' and
does not that text apply to me, too ? I try heartily to
build my house—in other words, to make the best of my
life."
"Ah, you are ensnared by the self-confidence of youth!
Dear young lady, be warned by me. It is not so easy
for a young person to manage spiritual and temporal
affairs single-handed, and especially amid the tempta-
tions that beset your sex. People will fawn upon you
and flatter you, and get as much out of you as they can.
They will do what is a hundredfold worse—beguile you
into all kinds of dangerous doctrines and seductive
theories. I see but too well that the tendency of your
mind is to venture ahead of riper experience, and to act
independently of older counsel. Take refuge in an affec-
tion that is not so extravagant as to mislead, and not so
pretentious as to inspire mistrust."
He was about to add " Marry me," when she, divining
the climax, interrupted him.
" I do try to do my duty, but I cannot do it after the
apologetic fashion you hold so commendable in women.
Clerical Love-Making.
51
I own my shortcomings," she added quickly; " though I
do not recognise your authority to correct them."
" I am willing to make you my wife with all your
faults," said the rector timidly.
" But I am unwilling to take you with all your vir-
tues. I could not marry you, Mr. Whitelock."
She rose in her impatience and walked from window
to window, fain to escape, but loth to offend. The rector
then dwelt at length, and in a monotonous voice, on the
temptations and dangers to which she was sure to expose
herself if she selected no clerical staff to lean upon in early
life. Impostors would single her out and make a tool of her.
Unbelievers would ensnare and bewitch her for their own
wicked purposes. Prom both a worldly and a spiritual
point of view she would be as a sheep having no shepherd,
and what a shepherd lay at her feet! Ingaretha listened
in silence. He was too good-natured to make her angry,
and too much of a friend to be sent away cavalierly.
Tea occurred as a happy thought, and of this the rector
partook with eagerness. So much talking had made him
thirsty. It was very pleasant to ha>e her so kind to him,
but what a heavenly pleasure it would be to take tea
with her every day, and to have the right to bring down
that proud spirit! A little masculine rule was all she
needed to make her perfect in the eyes of man; a little
theological rule to make her perfect in the eyes of angels.
She refused both chances and his own homage into the
bargain. Inconsequence of women !
"How good these strawberries are!" she cried, smack-
ing her lips with childish enjoyment.
" Excellent, indeed!"
" Let us enter into a compact not to quarrel any more
from this time henceforth and for ever."
4-2
52
The Sylvestres.
" It is my desire to live at peace with all men," re-
plied the rector, "though the plain-speaking required of'
a priest ofttimes gives offence when none is meant.
"When I speak of your faults, for instance "
" Miss Ingaretha's faults!" said the sweet voice of
Monsieur Sylvestre at an open window. " Oh! physi-
cian, first make thyself whole, and then prescribe for
others."
The rector turned very red, and rose from his seat,
not knowing what to do. Ingaretha put her hand in
Monsieur Sylvestre's arm with an affectionate smile and
drew him to the tea-table.
With that suave dignity which accepts homage more
as a right than as a privilege, the old man let her minister
to him and adore him. The rector saw at once how
matters stood. He made his adieux, awkwardly and in
haste, feeling that he had no place among these enthusi-
asts. They used a language with which he was not
familiar. They lived in a world as far removed from
him as Capricorn from Cancer. He walked slowly
homeward, looking hack on the fine old Abbey, and the
beautiful old trees, and the little river, with wistful
though unlover-like sighs. He admired Ingaretha. It
was very hard that women should have wills of their
own, and he looked forward to feminine submission as
one of the most desirable attributes of a millennium,
should a millennium be decreed upon earth.
Freed from his company, Ingaretha and her guest
were like singing-bir^s escaped out of a cage. They
laughed, they talked, they sang. How eloquent he was,
how witty, how inspiring! How lovely was she, how
sweet and good 1
All the mellow wisdom was brought out of him, all
Clerical Love-Making.
53
the sparkling vivacity out of her. They were as much
in love with each other as the earth is in love with the
spring. His beautiful old age moved, transported, ex-
alted her, whilst the freshness and gaiety of her youth
filled his soul with delight. Their intercourse, compared
with the frigid intercourse of every-day society, was as
tropical verdure to wastes of sand, every step revealing
new colours and new enchantments. When Madame
Sylvestre came in, dusty and footsore, she found them
discussing the Arcadia that was to be, namely, her
husband's little farm, which was ploughed, sowed, and
reaped ere any practical difficulties recurred to his mind.
" My banks shall be planted with strawberries, and
my pillows shall be stuffed with thistledown," he said.
"Nothing shall run to waste, and nothing shall bring
forth less abundantly than generous nature bids. Eu-
phrosyne shall have a cow to tend (may the spirit of
one of her lost benefactors animate it!) a pig, and some
poultry, whilst I sow my corn and till my ground,
happy as a king."
" But we must get the money first. I have already
found pupils, and by dint of economy we may achieve
a little capital."
" Oh! Madame Sylvestre," said Ingaretha reproach-
fully, " have I not money enough and to spare ? At
least, let an old friend do you that small service."
"We will put off talking of loans till to-morrow,"
Monsieur Sylvestre said, blithe as ever. "I readily
admit to Miss Ingaretha that we arrived here destitute
of worldly possessions, though rich in memories and
hope." He turned out his empty pockets with the
naivete of a schoolboy, and added, "What is wealth
materia] to wealth intellectual ? Our dear hostess
54
The Sylvestres.
knows well enough that we are millionaires in a spiritual,
if paupers in a worldly, point of view. Let us not be
ungrateful, but accept the welcome things she gives us,
pressing upon her our very best in return."
"You can give me so much," Ingaretha answered,
holding out a hand to each. "How lonely I was till
you came! How unloved and uncared for! If you will
stay with me, and love me, and help me, you will repay
a hundredfold any poor kindnesses of mine."
There was such unspeakable appeal and trust in her
eyes, that they stooped to kiss her, answering her that
way. The compact sealed, all talk of business was put
aside for the rest of the day, and they gave themselves
up to enjoyment. Monsieur Sylvestre had a voice of
rare power and sweetness, and with Ingaretha for ac-
companyist was content to sing for hours. They were
equally content to listen. Melody after melody of the
divine Schubert gave wings to the balmy hours. When
the dinner came, which, with its flowers and shining
silver services and choice meats, seemed a daily banquet
to the wanderers, a calm had fallen on the spirits of all
three. Ingaretha forgot the love that troubled, and the
friendship that intermeddled. The life she had chosen
for herself, half in fear and trembling, half in aspiration
and faith, seemed no longer arid, isolated, narrow. Here,
at least, she had two friends on whose affection she could
rely—not friends, it is true, of a decade's standing, much
less was their friendship an inherited treasure, like pearls,
family portraits, gold epergnes. But it is with friend-
ship as with love. For a long time life has droned and
drowsed like the sleeping princess in the fairy tale, and
lo! on a sudden the voice of the enchanter breaks the
spell. Monotony vanishes, stagnation breaks up into
A Romantic Adventure.
55
rainbow colours and golden light; the sound of the wel-
come voice is followed by a thousand echoes sweet as
itself.
CHAPTER VIII.
a romantic adventure.
Mrs. Minieie took her carriage airing as regularly as an
empress or state duenna. At two o'clock her cumber-
some old hooded phaeton and sandy-coloured horse
would be led to the front door by Jabez the coachman.
Whilst Smiler amused himself with a mouthful of clover
stolen on the way, Jabez proceeded to put on his best
hat and [coat. First he fumbled laboriously for one
armhole till he grew purple in the face, then he went on
a voyage of discovery for the other. The second being
found, he set his teeth and began to shake himself, as if
in a cataleptic fit. Having fairly wriggled into the coat,
there remained the hat to be brushed, put on, taken off,
brushed again, and readjusted, till the right medium was
obtained. Then he dozed quietly till his mistress's ap-
pearance would be heralded by a succession of bundles
which were thrown into the carriage one by one; after a
while Mrs. Minifie descended slowly.
Mr. Minifie chuckled behind his apple trees as he saw
his wife get in, stockings down, bonnet awry, finger-
ends of her gloves hanging down like claws of the plesio-
saurus, one scarf tied round her throat as if it were the
ribbon of the Legion of Honour, another worn loosely
like a nun's rosary, a black lace sleeve on one arm, and
a white lace sleeve on the other, and unaccountable
56
The Syhestres.
tags, bobs, and tassels flying in all directions. As Jabe?
drove off, Mr, Minifie would whistle to himself, as much
as to say: "What a trap I What a scarecrow inside!
What a turn-out J"
But Mrs. Minifie, though not insensible to her hus-
band's sneers, felt happier upon these occasions than
upon any other. Nature has no poor relations, and
welcomes alike the noble and the insignificant; the
birds sang and the wild-flowers blossomed for Mrs,
Minifie as much as for the most beautiful soul going,
and she had soul enough to rejoice in them. As she
drove through the shady Suffolk lanes, a thousand things
pleased, soothed, and exhilarated her. The common
sunshine was something; friendly faces of cottagers'
wives nodded from their gardens, and little flaxen-haired
children ran out to open gates for her, knowing well
enough that they would receive a halfpenny and a smile.
The prettiest received a penny and two smiles, but as
the reason of this partiality was unknown, no angry
feelings came into play.
Smiler had an awkward habit of going down on his
knees when he happened to feel lazy, and Jabez hap-
pened to doze, which was pretty often. There were no
hills to speak of for miles round, but just as a thief will
steal without really fine opportunities, so Smiler would
stumble upon the smallest provocation. The accident
had occurred a hundred times, and yet it always created
a certain amount of excitement; for if a thing of beauty
is a joy for ever, much more is a thing of comedy! And
to see Smiler go down, and the large, wild figure of Mrs.
Minifie go up, never grew a stale pleasure to the people
of Peasemarsh. Mrs. Minifie's person, like the Cumean
Sib) 1, seemed to grow larger and larger under the influ-
A Romantic Adventure,
57
ence of her agitation. Her unwieldy figure swelled and
swelled till the capacious carriage was more than full.
Her flossy barley-coloured hair fell about her shoulders
in trebled, quadrupled bulk, like that of the shock-
headed Aissouia Arab, when invoking the Djinns in his
horrible dance. She stretched out her hands, she shouted,
gesticulated, apostrophised; but from those empyrean
heights no chivalrous St. Beowulfian had as yet delivered
her. Appeal as she might, she knew well enough there
was nothing to do but wait till Smiler was on his legs
again, and Jabez restored to self-possession.
This day, however, as the stereotyped accident oc-
curred, and half-a-dozen ploughmen and boys were
looking on, open-mouthed—in this Boeotia one might
fancy the brain was situated in the stomach, so invari-
ably do people open their mouths when trying to receive
a new idea—Monsieur Sylvestre happened to pass that
way. Never was mediaeval damsel more gallantly res-
cued by noble knight than Mrs. Minifie by him. To
scale the precipitous sides of the fortress-like carriage,
to bear Mrs. Minifie safely to the ground, to soothe and
inspirit her with a few tender phrases, to chide the apathy
of the lookers-on, were the work of moments only. In
the twinkling of an eye the aspect of the whole affair
was changed. The bacon-eating bystanders crept away
crest-fallen, one even approached to offer a helping hand,
Jabez bestirred himself with unwonted activity, even
Smiler looked repentant. Mrs. Minifie was transformed,
not only into a victim, but a heroine.
" Madame must rest awhile before proceeding on her
journey," said Monsieur Sylvestre with solicitude.
" Madame will allow me to accompany her to the first
neighbouring place that offers ? Adjust the harness
58
The Sylvestres.
and follow us," lie added to Jabez, waving his hand;
then arm-in-arm, the rescuer and the rescued betook
themselves to the curate's house, which was close by.
" What insensibility!—what gross selfishness !" he
said, his sweet silvery voice and pathetic enunciation
charming Mrs. Minifie as she had not been charmed for
many a long year. " It is painful to see how seldom
people care to exercise their best qualities. Every one
of those peasants possesses a divine spark, yet because
it has never been fanned into a flame, they remain
dullards and egotists all the days of their lives."
" Oh, poor things! they are so ignorant, you know,"
Mrs. Minifie made answer. "They are too stupid to
help a cow if it falls into the ditch."
"Why not teach them, dear lady? Is it not ac-
knowledged to be the mission of women to enlighten by
their instincts, inspire by their beauty, soften by their
grace ? You are a woman, and you despair of the
progress of the world! Eather put your hand to the
plough, and do your part to further it."
" I do what I can," answered Mrs. Minifie, flushing
and stammering like a girl of sixteen. " I spend three
pounds a year in homoeopathic medicines, and as much
again in tracts and hymn-books."
Monsieur Sylvestre shook his head.
" Theology should be given in homoeopathic doses,
and physic not at all. Touch their intellects through
their affections. A dozen preux chevaliers would have
rushed to the rescue just now, had the imagination of
these poor creatures been a little cultivated."
The curate's house was now reached, a poetic-looking
thatched house, covered with lovely roses, and having
a delightfully old-fashioned and productive garden.
A Romantic AdvenUire.
59
Fruitful it could not be called, since, what with the
children and the blackbirds, cherries vanished when red
on one side only, potatoes were pulled up when no
bigger than walnuts, apple-trees were stripped long
before neighbouring orchards reached their fulness of
red and crimson glory, a locust-like devastation going
on all the year round.
At the click of the gate, a wild untidy little crew
rushed out to greet Mrs. Minifie and her companions;
Sammie, a sharp practical little man of seven; Sabina,
commonly called Bina, a large-eyed, anxious-looking
girl of six; Pennie, a rollicking monkey of five; and
two other toddlers possessed of no strongly-developed
characteristics, except a capacity for demolishing pepper-
mints. The curate's children had the curious look of
mixed babyishness and precocity about them seen in
young owls at that stage of their existence when they
are all fluff, eyes, and beak. Sammie, Bina, and
Pennie were mere babies as yet, but premature ex-
perience of the troubles of life had sharpened their little
faces and given unnatural acuteness to their eyes.
"My!" cried Sammie, "Miss Meadowcourt is here,
and has brought us cake, and you have brought us
gingerbread; won't it be funny ? Cake and ginger-
bread both in one day!"
And he put his hands into his pockets and danced
before Mrs. Minifie ecstatically. Bina tried to draw
him away, whispering that such conduct was ungentle-
manly. Pennie got her rosy mouth ready for a kiss,
and seemed delighted at the prospect of so much
company.
In the little breakfast-parlour opening on to the
garden, sat Amy Greenfield, the curate's wife, with hey
6o
The Sylvestres.
baby in her lap, and Ingaretha at her side, drinking
tea.
"Naughty children," said Mrs. Greenfield, rising to
greet her visitors, " to leave the tea-table when we have
company! Bina and Sammie, take your bread and
treacle to the window, and let Mrs. Minifie and the
gentleman have your seats."
Bina obeyed, and having fetched clean cups, and
wiped away crumbs and treacle drops with her little
holland apron, motioned the new-comers to sit down.
Ingaretha introduced her guest. Mrs. Greenfield, a
pretty, careworn, young woman, who loved company,
and often accused herself of wickedness because she
could not feel reconciled to her pinched, noisy, hand-to-
mouth life, felt at home with Monsieur Sylvestre in a
moment. The baby—a most sociable baby—crowed
and kicked and entertained the company with all her
might; Mrs. Minifie did her part; Monsieur Sylvestre
narrated all kinds of interesting things. Never had
there been such a merry tea in the curate's squalid
house. All on a sudden Mrs. Greenfield called out to
Bina—
" Bina, I am sure papa must have come back from
the village. Go and tell him we have visitors."
After a long time Bina came back, and creeping up
to her mother, whispered loudly in her ear—
" Papa is come back, and papa is in the study ; but
he won't come in till they're gone, he says."
" Hush !" Amy said, blushing painfully, for she knew
well enough why her husband would not come in. His
clothes were threadbare and patched, and Sunday suits
had been foregone luxuries for years past. As the talk
grew more and more sparkling—for Monsieur Sylvestre
A Romantic Adventure.
6t
never talked down to his audience, but rather lifted
them into the airy heights and golden spheres in which
his fancy dwelt both on working days and festivals—
she blamed him for letting pride stand in the way of so
much enjoyment. First, her visitor related a tragic,
then a comic adventure, and at last stood up and recited
moving passages from Alfred de Musset, Beranger, and
other singers of modern France. Mrs. Minifie, whose
French did not extend beyond the first dozen of the
phrases in Murray's Traveller's Talk, wept copiously
nevertheless. Ingaretha listened with a smile, having
been let into the secret of her old friend's vanity long
ago. Amy's eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed at
the unwonted excitement. The children did not make
much noise till all the cake was done. At last the
party broke up, and then the curate emerged from his
hiding-place, tired, impatient, parched with thirst.
Pennie and one of the younger children ran up to him
and caught hold of his hands.
" Oh! papa, we have had such a cake I But it's all
gone; poor papa, to have no cake !"
He let go the sticky little fingers and sat down, look-
ing ruefully at the besmeared deal table, the blackened
crust of the home-made loaf, sole remainder of the feast,
the rows of little tin mugs, the teapot handle mended
with string, the poverty-stricken aspect of every-
thing.
" Bina, go and see if there is any milk left in the
pail, and if not, ask Keziah to try and get a little more
from the cow. There is some tea, though rather weak,"
Amy added, pouring out a cup of pale brown fluid, into
which baby straightway mischievously thrust her little
red foot, turning it over.
62
The Sylvestre$k
"Oh! iiever mind," groaned the curate. "Give me
some water."
But Amy put the baby into his arms, poked up the
kitchen fire, laid a few sticks between the bars, and by*-
and-by the kettle began to sing. She searched in the
cupboards and found a loaf of bread and a fragment of
butter. Bearing these and the kettle triumphantly to
the dining-room, she sat down again.
" Miss Meadowcourt has invited us all to go and see
her to-morrow," she said.
" Well, what of that V asked the curate.
"Why should we not go ? We are to have music—
which you are very fond of," Amy answered, soothingly.
" As well give tarts to starving beggars as music to
us," the curate rejoined, in the same bitter tone. " Who
wants a finer voice than your own ? But from want of
a piano, you have forgotten how to sing. No, Amy, go
to the rich people as much as you like, but don't ask.
me to go with you. I "wasn't born to be a beggar, and
I can't take up the rdle with a good grace now."
But Amy's heart was set upon going, and, of course,
Amy had her way. The children shrieked at the bare
notion of giving up the promised treat; the baby, as if
leaguing with them, had a pathetic attack of spasms;
the whole house echoed with juvenile weeping and
wailing. No wonder that the curate, tired as he was,
rushed out of doors. He had come home sick to death
of the parish and parish work. It was only a shade
less wearing than the kind of recreation to be had at
home. He read to a couple of bed-ridden old women
whose cottages happened to lie handy, then sat in a
shady corner of the churchyard reading a stale Times
the rector had lent him, till it grew dusk.
7 he Rich Sent Empty Away, 63
CHAPTER IX
the rich sent empty away.
Ingaretha was certainly playing the democrat with a
vengeance. She had said to herself in settling down
at the Abbey that she would dispense hospitality rather
according.to people's deserts than according to their ex-
pectations. The result of such a practice was to scanda-
lise the few and to delight the many. That the mighty
should be put down from their seat, and the humble
and meek exalted, though a simple interpretation enough
of scriptural phrase, was quite out of keeping with the
existing order of things, and not to the taste of the
mighty. So, when carriage after carriage deposited its
burden of silk, feathers, and lace on Ingaretha's lawn,
and she emerged from a shabby little group to do the
honours, great was the discomfiture of the new-
comers. Eor there was Madame Sylvestre in the broad-
brimmed brown straw hat tied under the chin, and
Monsieur Sylvestre in his almost Harlequin habiliments,
and Mrs. Greenfield in a muslin gown not fit for a
housemaid, and Bina and Sammie, of whose toilettes it
could only be said that they were clean. What cared
they, happy little souls, whether they were dressed like
others or no ? Childhood is essentially communistic.
'Voir, c'est avoir,' sings Beranger. This smooth lawn,
the sumptuously spread tea-table, the glades, the tame
swans, the aviaries, seemed as much their property as
Ingaretha's. Hand in hand they explored, prattled,
moralised, and, like sly little birds, plucked a flower
or strawberry when they found themselves unheeded.
The kind lady who possessed such beautiful things, and
64
The Sytvestres.
lavished her beautiful things on others, was like a fairy
godmother to the poor curate's little ones.
" I say, Bina," said Sammie confidentially, " when I
am big, and wear a coat, would Miss Meadowcourt
marry me, do you think? Wouldn't it be nice to be
here every day ?"
Bina thought and thought.
" No, Sammie, dear," she said authoritatively, " Miss
Meadowcourt wouldn't marry you, because you make
too much noise, and delight in teazing the poor frogs.
And then, how you run up and down stairs with your
dirty boots on! I am sure Miss Meadowcourt would
never put up with that."
" But how nice it would be! Just look at that
cherry tree, and Miss Meadowcourt has dozens. Don't
I wish I were a blackbird!"
" And never learn any catechism ? Die," retorted
Bina. " You may well repeat the text about the heathen
imagining a vain thing. If we were blackbirds we
should not have such dear babies to play with."
" And no screamings, though," cried Sammie, putting
his hands in his pockets, and rattling his marbles.
" That would be jolly!"
The little people thought a summer day had never
before been so long, so beautiful, and so happy. There
were places to play in without number; there was a kind
and ingenious young gardener—as good as a page in a
fairy tale—who contrived swings, see-saws, and other
delights for them. There was a pretty little colt, and a
pair of sweet-tempered, silky-coated grey donkeys, and
wonderful peacocks. And when they had seen all this,
there yet remained a long time before going home !
A child's blissful day—who can describe its romance,
The Rich Sent Empty A ivay. 65
its abounding never-to-be-forgotten exhilarations ? Well
would it be for us if we could retain your magnifying
powers, 0 wise, childish hearts ! Your joys, like little
stars viewed through a telescope, turn suddenly into
big round moons; filmy tracks of light become, as if by
magic, stately phalanxes of silvery orbs; and the big
moons and phalanxes are remembered only, and not the
little stars and filmy tracks. Bina and Sammie felt
themselves transformed into the hero and heroine of a
story-book. Young as they were, they had experienced
hardships enough, and to be feted was as novel to them
as it was delightful. Here, at least, Ingaretha's policy
of feasting Lazarus and letting Dives starve, answered
admirably.
Meantime, mixed tragedy and comedy were being
acted on the lawn. Carew, after trying vainly to get
ten minutes tete-a-tSte with his hostess—was ever
hostess so bewitching as the lady of the Abbey to-day,
with her golden hair, and dress of the colour of a
wild hyacinth ?—took Madame Sylvestre into his con-
fidence.
" I am going abroad in a week or two," he said, speak-
ing French. " I give up happiness as a bad job," and
then he laughed bitterly at his brutal way of putting it.
" She values my love about as much as she values the
friendship of these people." He inclined his head scorn-
fully towards the crowd and went on—" Oh, madame,
you are my best friend, and hers too. Don't let her get
into trouble. I would stay near her, but I cannot. I
am eating my heart out."
Madame Sylvestre looked at him wistfully with her
large, unspeakably pathetic brown eyes. There was no
need for her to say how much she suffered with and for
5
66
The SyIvestres.
him, and how gladly she would have taken his sorrow
upon her own shoulders, had that been possible. This
is the secret of real sympathy. He who would suffer
for us, loves us indeed. "Wait for a happy chance,
dear friend," she said tenderly. " I think it will come
in time."
He shook his head.
"Hay, we have had happy chances enough. Have
we not travelled together, undergone hardships—even
dangers—together; seen, as it were, new worlds in each
other's company ? Are you quite sure she does not care
a little for our good comrade Ren4 ? She was always
twice as kind to him as to me."
" Oh, impossible, monsieur. Ren£ is an angel, but as
poor as a church-mouse, and Mademoiselle Ingaretha is
a rich lady. It would be like a princess marrying a
beggar."
" Before the summer is out he will be here."
" All the more reason why you should stay," Madame
Sylvestre answered, with womanly insinuation. " I love
Rene as if he were my own son, but he must not marry
Ingaretha. I wish my husband would advise him to
stay away from England on that account."
Then, after some further talk about Carew's love-
affair, they discussed Monsieur Sylvestre's plans.
"Tell me," asked Madame Sylvestre eagerly, "may
we expect two harvests a year here as in our beautiful
Alg^rie V
• " Dear madame," Carew answered, " I fear not; but
why disquiet yourself about the future ? You know
that anything I have is entirely at your service ?"
" How can we so abuse the goodness of our friends ?
But to go back to the farming. If our kind Ingaretha
The Rich Sent Empty Away. 67
lends us the money to take it with, could we repay the
loan in a year's time V
" Of farming I know less than you do, madame. Of
one thing, however, I can assure you. There is another
person who will joyfully replace or repay your loan,
whatever the crops may be."
He had been turning the matter of his promise to
Ingaretha over in his mind, and could hit upon no better
way of fulfilling it than this. Yet no sooner were the
words spoken, calling up a look of pain into Madame
Sylvestre's face, than he wished them unsaid, and
blamed himself for such an off-hand, indolent way of
doing kindnesses. How differently would Ingaretha
have put it!
" And there is another thing that makes me anxious,"
pursued the Frenchwoman, after thanking him painfully.
" My husband will never rest till he is again concerting
some socialist scheme or other, and how can he do that
without compromising our kind protectors ? Alas! my
heart sinks within me when I contemplate the trouble we
may bring upon you and upon her."
" For myself," Carew said soothingly, " I am utterly
indifferent to the terror of being compromised, and I
know Ingaretha—Miss Meadowcourt—would feel that
she suffered in a good cause. If she cared for me half
as much as she cares for Monsieur Sylvestre and Social'
ism, I should esteem myself happy indeed."
" It is true that she loves him dearly, and has the most
enlightened ideas; but I look backwards and forwards
in doubt and dismay. Can you wonder at it, knowing
what yon do V
Just then an acquaintance of Mr. Oarew's came up, and
the tete-a-tete was at an end.
5—2
68
T]ie Sylvestres.
She retired into a quiet corner, looking very sad. Of
a proud spirit was Madame Sylvestre, and to live upon
the perpetual providence of affection seemed unen-
durable to her. Was the beautiful level friendship of
equals she so coveted, a Utopian dream, never to be
fulfilled ?
How she envied her husband's happy unconcern!
Whether his cruse of oil and his measure of meal were
replenished by a miracle or by friendly hands, troubled
him as little as the scantiness of both. There he stood
in the midst of a group of new admirers, eyes sparkling,
cheeks flushed, head erect, charming the dull people of
St. Beowulf's as easily and naturally as he had charmed
his enthusiastic followers in the land of exile. What a
noble figure was his, in spite of the threadbare habili-
ments. Among all present none had so fine a bearing
as he; and the poor woman accused herself for having
reproached him, however meekly, the minute before.
Did not that very inconsequence of character go far to
make it the sweet and guileless and bewitching thing it
was ? She wiped away tears of thankfulness at seeing
him so happy. After all what mattered her own poor
pride—pride forsooth!—and she a woman whose best
years of life had been spent in idolising this man! For
his sake she might surely eat uncomplainingly of the
crumbs that fell from the rich man's table.
During long years of out-door toil she had acquired a
habit of dropping asleep whenever she found herself in
a quiet place, and the summer-house to which she had
retired being screened from the gay lawn by a laurel
hedge, she was soon dreaming like a child. The life of
the last few weeks faded from her vision as coastland
from hastening sail. Once more she was in beautiful,
The Rich Sent Empty Away. 69
treacherous Algdrie. Once more she breathed the thyme-
scented air of the Metidja, and gazed on the golden and
purple hills. Under the burning sun of the south, she
toiled and rested with friendly fellow-workers. There
was Ben£, the beautiful, the beloved, the eloquent,
whose words, sweeter than honey and stronger than fire,
intoxicated and inflamed the hearts of all listeners;
there was his boon friend and adopted brother, Maddio,
the ugly, the gay, the child at heart, and the lover and
teacher of little children. There was Blaise, whom
they thought dead—the melancholy, tender-hearted,
spiritual Blaise; and all were happy, for famine and
pestilence and earthquake had not come. She mur-
mured in her sleep as these visions flitted by, and half-
woke herself once or twice. At last she was aroused in
earnest. A familiar voice sounded in her ear, a well-
known hand was laid on her arm. Looking up, she
found herself between the two she had just seen in her
dreams, Bend and Maddio, and Ingaretha, smiling, held
a hand of each.
Madame Sylvestre rose with outstretched hands and
swimming eyes. The younger man kissed her hand.
The elder saluted her, brother-like, on the cheek ; then
a volley of questions and answers ensued. Whence
had they come ? Where were they housed? How was
this friend and that? Was Bene quite cured of his
fever, and Maddio of his rheumatism? For a little
Ingaretha left them. How Ingaretha's guests stared
and tittered at the odd appearance of the new-comers
may be easily imagined. The advent of Monsieur and
Madame Sylvestre had seemed queer enough, but the
new apparitions were infinitely queerer. He whom
they called Maddio, for instance, "with his white cotton
70
The Sylvestres.
blouse, broad-brimmed straw hat, loose pantaloons, and
round close-shorn head, was ever such a figure of fun ?
Surely a runaway from some madhouse, said one or two,
and punned mercilessly upon the poor man's name.
The younger and less peculiar-looking of the two might
possibly be in his senses, since his clothes were more
after the fashion of other people; but he was evidently
as veritable a gipsy as the rest. He was, without doubt,
extremely handsome, the ladies said, though not tall
enough. What a beautiful brown skin ! What be-
witching dark eyes ! What glossy curls! What a fine
expression! Was he a lover of Miss Meadowcourt's ?
When the newly-arrived pair emerged from the sum-
mcr-house, Ingaretha begged leave to introduce them to
one or two of her friends. Signor Maddio, she said, was
a distinguished naturalist, and a traveller over all parts
of the world. Monsieur Bene was an author, and also
a great lover and student of nature. Both, like Monsieur
Sylvestre, were political exiles. Certainly Maddio and
Eene proved themselves adepts in the art of making
themselves agreeable. St. Beowulf taste and St. Beowulf
propriety were shocked, though St. Beowulf inquisitive-
ness was fairly aroused. People stayed and stayed till
they could learn nothing more of the bewitching vaga-
bonds the lady of the Abbey delighted to honour, then
returned home wondering what would happen in the
way of scandal next. One thing seemed pretty certain
that if Ingaretha pursued this reckless system of hospi-
tality they should have to stay away from her house
altogether. There were some eccentricities flesh and
blood could not stand, and to be invited to meet not
only the curate's tatterdemalion wife and children, but
a host of tag-rag-and-bob-tail political exiles, was one
The Rich Sent Empty Aivay. 71
of these. The very name of exile had something disre-
putahle and portentous in the sound of it, suggesting
Lord George Gordon, No Popery Eiots, Smith O'Brien
cabhage-beds, and Fenianism.
" The truth is, my dear," said Mr. Stapleton, an old
country magistrate, to his wife as they drove home, " it
all comes of poor Meadowcourt taking his wife to hear
the corn-law debates before Ingaretha was born. I told
him what would happen."
" I suppose Mr. Meadowcourt was what you gentle-
men call a Kadical," asked meek Mrs. Stapleton.
"A red republican. That's what he was; and but for
that, as good a fellow as ever sat in the House," growled
Mr. Stapleton, and the growl was followed by a snore.
"Mamma," demanded the youngest Miss Stapleton,
who thought it would be as well to get up a little know-
ledge of politics before having another conversation
with that delightful Monsieur Bend, " what are Eadi-
cals V
" The people who read penny papers, don't believe in
eternal punishment, and wear wideawake hats, I believe;
but ask your papa. I was never brought up to have
opinions," answered Mrs. Stapleton. But Miss Stapleton
made no further inquiry about Eadicals.
Perhaps the rector was more disconcerted than any-
body. That very night he selected four tracts; one for
Madame Sylvestre, one for her husband, and one for
each of the new comers. Things had transpired in the
course of the afternoon that convinced him it was high
time to bestir himself. "Was not this democratic spirit
like the leaven that leaveneth the whole lump ? Good
heavens, what words he had that afternoon heard! So-
cialism, fraternity, equality ! His hair stood on end.
72
The Sylvestres.
CHAPTER X.
a socialist's confession.
Rene and Maddio, lodged humbly at the village rat-
catcher's, esteemed themselves happy as kings. They
were accustomed to privation, had lain hard and fared
scantily all the days of their lives, had endured heat
and cold, hunger and thirst, ungrateful toil and ill-
repaid longsuffering. To find themselves free from
care in this rich lordly England, within reach of then
beloved master and teacher, Monsieur Sylvestre, and
their adored mistress, Ingaretha, for the present seemed
enough. Both were ardent disciples of the one and
faithful worshippers of the other. Monsieur Sylvestre's
eloquence and Ingaretha's beauty made life a happy
thing and the world a desirable place, under any cir-
cumstances. They looked neither backwards liorfor-
wards, but accepted the pleasant Capua, dreaming,
adoring, enjoying.
At early dawn Maddio would be up and stirring, and
after a hearty breakfast of dry bread and coffee, each
went his own way: Maddio, satchel on shoulder, would
start on a botanising expedition; Rend, after dawdling
among his books and papers till the sun was high,
would also set out on a voyage of discovery, his pockets
full of pamphlets and memorandum books. There was
plenty to enchant both; rustic scenes with which Con-
stable and Gainsborough have familiarised us, pastoral
life set to music by Bloomfield and Crabbe. How Rene
eDjoyed the low fragrant meadows; the little rivers
running amid silvery-leafed sallows and tangles of
forget-me-not; the large brown ponds, haunt of water-
A Socialist's Confession.
hen and king-fisher; the corn-fields ripening into reddish
gold; above all, in the stately parks! He would sit for
hours under the shade, watching the fawns at play, or
making acquaintance with the large-eyed lustrous cattle
cropping the luxurious grass; or he would lie on his
back and, shutting his eyes, dream some reformer's
dream, half hearing the notes of throstle and stock-dove.
Sometimes Ingaretha chanced to come that way, and
her golden hair and white dress were sure to be
heralded by a prophetic joy in his heart. He always
felt her presence before she was near, and she saw it
and knew it, in spite of his well-acted comradeship and
frank homage. Before the eyes of the world she was
his patroness, his " sovereign lady the queen," his bene-
factor and friend; nothing more. "When they found
themselves alone, there was an end of etiquette and
forced reticence. Bene, ever inclined to moods of
sudden gaiety and sudden gloom, became inspired with
all kinds of fancies, would sing, recite pOems, dance,
commit a hundred playful and unexpected vagaries; or
he would pour out the sad experience of his chequered,
unfortunate life, kindling into poetic fervour under the
influence of her sympathy.
One day, when she had come upon him so suddenly
that there was no time to prepare himself for that
exquisite presence, she found big tears streaming down
his pale cheeks. He smiled whilst wiping them away,
said something about the caprices of an enthusiast, and
began to talk of other matters. But after a few forced
phrases he burst out on a sudden :
" Don't accuse me of brutal ingratitude if when I am
happiest I wish I were dead. But I see nothing at the
end of my happiness—except misery. There you have it.
74
The Sytvestres.
I have no more to say. To-day I possess all and more
than I want; yesterday I had nothing; to-morrow I
should like to go to sleep—and you know the rest."
She reminded him of her friendship, past, present, and
to come. She knew what it was to lose friends that
way, and begged him not to " take the name of Death
in vain." This she said solemnly and appealingly.
" "Well, have it as you like. I would live a hundred
years to please you, as you know well enough—ay, a
hundred years like the thirty I am familiar with, and
they have not been all delicious. To wrant bread is not
much; to be a social pariah from childhood very little;
blows, kicks, and bruises also can be forgotten; but
there are things that happened as early as that not easy
to forget—the miserable consciousness of being born
into a world without being wanted, and without being
able to get out of it; the heathenish—I might say
fiendish—jealousy of the children who wear satin shoes
and eat tarts; the insupportable necessity of having to
do battle with society, begging, pillaging—don't blush,
sweetest lady, I never quite descended to that; the
devilish rage induced even in a young heart by hunger
and thirst and cold. Oh, I pray to Heaven to forget all
this, and Heaven does not grant my prayer. Intercede
for me with those powers which are said to be merciful."
He covered his face with his hands and wept again.
She wept with him, and that was all.
" Don't you see the consequence of this early suffer-
ing T* he asked after a time. " It turns men into
Christians without Godhead; into martyrs without
sanctity. I can't help or save my fellow-men, but I
don't forget for an hour how they suffer. Amid all this
happiness it is present with me. Hundreds and
A Socialist's Confession.
7 5
hundreds of thousands of unfortunates find no Ingaretha
to pick them out of dirt."
"We were both mere children," he continued, break-
ing ever and anon into rapturous smiles, "when you
found me out in Eome. If ever subject offered itself to
a painter, it was that of the golden-haired, rosy-cheeked,
white-robed English girl and the barefooted, squalid
orphan-boy who made a childish compact of friendship
on the steps of St. Peter. Then were the much-abused
names of equality and fraternity hallowed indeed! I
have believed in a God and good angels since that
hour."
She caught up his narrative, eagerly, proudly:
" How pleased was my dear father to recognise your
great gifts ! How good and tractable you were! And,
ah! what days we had together the next spring, at
Erascati—on the Pincian—in the Borghese Gardens !
How the flowers smell in Italy! How the air caresses!
Again and again I have dreamed that I was poor and a
wanderer, and that we were roaming about the streets of
Eome together."
" Would that the dream were true !" he said, adding
immediately after: "Forgive me; I often know not
what I say!"
"Would that it were!" she said, bending her head
low; and he saw, in spite of the shadow of her broad-
brimmed straw hat, how pale she was, how sad, how
moved!
" Is that so V he asked.
" You feel it, you read it in my face, or you would
think so badly of me that you would never cross my
threshold again. I love the same things you love. I
cannot have them here, and I dare not go away. I
76
The Sylvestres.
must fulfil the duties my father bequeathed me. To
live out of England "—with you was on her lips ; but
she blushed scarlet, and checked the unbidden words—
" would be to let this beautiful place go to ruins, and its
owners be represented by such men as Mr. Minifie. You
don't know yet how much I have to do here, nor what
faith my father had in me—my dear, dear father "
Tears stopped her from saying more; and he, forget-
ting everything but concern for her distress, brought out
his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped away her tears ere
they fell.
" What is the use of crying ?" she said at last, holding
out her hands to him with a sad smile. "We cannot
make things right. I must go my ways, and you yours,
content to see each other and help each other some-
times."
" That is not making things right!" he answered very
bitterly.
" Then tell me what to do. I want all the world to
be happy, and you and your poor Ingaretha too."
" Do you love me a little, then ?" he asked.
" Have I not loved you a good deal for ten years V she
said, smiling through her tears.
" Oh! I know but too well that I was in purgatory,
and that you were the angel who came to me from
heaven. For the first time when I asked for bread, I got
no stones, and this went on for years. Hungry you fed
me ; forsaken, you cared for me ; homeless, you housed
me. And the end is, the bitterest ingratitude that ever
turned the heart of a man into hell!"
She looked up in wonder and dismay, and touched his
arm with her hand—that exquisite hand he rejoiced
to have in sight at all times. But he took no heed.
A Socialist's Confession.
77
Head bowed down, eyes fixed on the ground, he went
on:—
" How can it be otherwise ? Your angelic goodness
stands up as a barrier between us two. I can't forget
that I am a man, and your lover in the sight of Heaven,
and an outcast, and your 'protege, hanger-on—call it
what you will—in the sight of man. Have you not
loved me a good deal for ten years, you say ?—Ay, and
you could go on loving me for ten years longer in the
same fashion ; but what kind of love is that ? You are
willing to give all and receive nothing. Oh, Equality!
what sins are committed in thy name! Here is a man
who loves a woman, and a woman who, according to her
own showing, loves a man, and calls him her equal. Yet
she is content to play the part of Providence to him all
his life, as if love lived by bread alone !"
He laughed bitterly.
" Am I content ?" she asked, humbly and sorrowfully.
" You forget what I said just now. I shrink sometimes
from the sacrifice I have imposed upon myself. I know
that a happier lot might have been mine "—tears rose to
her eyes, a flush to her cheeks, and her voice faltered, as
she added—" with you."
Seeing that he had no word to say, she went on in a
still more appealing voice :
" Life is difficult to women : you don't know how
difficult it is. It seems to me that when we try hardest
to do right we get most blamed. I care more for you,
dear Kend, than for anybody else in the wide world. All
that I have done for you has been done for dear love's
sake. How can I make you believe it ?"
He made no answer, and did not change his rigid
attitude. He seemed to see nothing but a small blue
78
The Sylvestres,
butterfly that had alighted on a blade of grass at his
feet.
<e Won't you believe me ?" she said coaxingly, as if he
were a child and she the tenderest mother God and the
angels ever compassionated. " Oh! you must believe
me ! And then, childishly compassionate, hardly know-
ing what she did, so overwhelmed was she with the
sense of his long-suffering, she stooped low and kissed
him on the forehead. What a sight was that for the
wood-sprites and oreads ! She, rosy-red, golden-haired,
blue-eyed, sweet and serious, as fair a woman as the sun
shone on that summer day; he, with his bronzed skin,
dark curls, delicate throat, and large sad eyes, beautiful
enough to be a god, but a god of sorrow, and not of love!
The impassioned nightingales might well accompany
such a love-poem; and the cloud that hid the sun on a
sudden, and made the beech-grove a solemn place, was
surely in league with the tragedy of those two hearts.
" And even a kiss cannot make things right," he said,
holding both her hands, and looking into her eyes with
inexpressible emotion. " The world is too unhappy to
be so healed, Ingaretha. You and I might rejoice in
each other, and leave the rest—if we could get rid of
our souls. We can't do that. We can't forget the work
we have to do, which leads us as far apart as the east is
from the west."
" If we could only work together!" she said, crying
bitterly.
" How might that be ? Am I not a son of the people,
a Socialist, moreover, which means an enemy of your
class, an iconoclast of your household gods ? You have
noble ideals. Cherish them, embody them, glorify them,
with what strength you may; you cannot join hands
A Socialist's Confession.
79
with me and mine. The time is coming when such
things shall he. The signs are at hand for those to
read who run; but I cannot sacrifice you. I cannot
stand by and see you sacrificed. Let me go, then, and
keep for ever the fond dreams I have dreamed of late.
Oh, the happy, happy days! I did not know what a
queen you were till I came to England, and saw you in
your father's house. Hold me in your heart for a day,
and then forget that such a person as Bene ever lived
and suffered!"
What could she say ? What could she do ? All the
abounding tenderness of her nature and all the experi-
ences of her young life pleaded for him. Sitting by his
side that summer day, she almost wished that this
favoured lot, this princessdom and inherited prosperity
were but a dream, or would melt like a dream, and that
she, with Bend, had no portion beyond love and youth.
Eor a long time they were silent, he growing sadder and
sadder, she more and more pitiful. At length some
stray word or look of hers—one never knows how these
things happen—turned the tide of his dreary thoughts.
Hope and joy, like sunshine rippling on waves, coloured
his inner vision. He laughed, sang, dreamed. The
park became again an enchanted place, and life wore a
friendly face.
CHAPTEB XI.
what shall she do with it ?
Poor Ingaretha grew sadly puzzled to know what she
should do with it. These beloved and bewitching
8o
The Sylvcsircs.
friends of hers had one fault which they showed pretty
equally. They were as unpractical people as you would
find if you searched the four quarters of the globe in
that especial quest. Certainly they had experienced
more ups and downs than fall to the lot of most of us:
had tasted ingratitude, treachery, persecution, triumph;
also, short-lived prosperity, and the fame of the world.
But the only effect of all this teaching was to make
them more childishly confident in unexpected provi-
dences, and more unfit to deal with rugged realities. They
could never believe ill of their fellow-creatures, and
accused a malevolent chance or pernicious law whenever
harm had come to them through the medium of personal
enemies. But their trustfulness went even further than
this. To think well of one's fellow-creatures, is an ex-
cellent specific against premature age, crabbed temper,
and bodily disorders; but to think so well of the exist-
ing order of things as to take no thought for the morrow,
is to rub the Lamp of' Evil, and summon not one, but a
thousand ministering slaves thereof. Ingaretha knew
well enough that her friends were all capable of gaining
their bread, and one of them, Madame Sylvestre, capable
of gaining her butter also. She knew well enough that
they never had gained it, and never would gain it, and
were too proud to partake of her abundance. Could she
stand by and see them starve in the midst of it ?
She thought the matter over night and day, bringing
her small experience and large generosity to bear upon
it. Innumerable difficulties stood in the way of any
plan. There was Madame Sylvestre's pride to con-
tend with, and Mr. Minifie's niggardly officiousness;
Monsieur Sylvestre's idealism, and Maddio's hopeless
contentment; lastly, there was Rene's sorrowful passion,
What shall She do with lit 81
and Carew's chivalric love. Never, surely, was a lady
more overburdened with cares and perplexities! Of
course, the simplest solution of the difficulty was to
hire a farm for Monsieur Sylvestre, and to marry Mr.
Carew. But then there was no farm to be had for love
or money, and she had not the slightest inclination to
marry Mr. Carew. With regard to the first, it was a
case of " water, water everywhere, and not a drop to
drink." She had land in plenty, and Mr. Carew had
land in plenty, but the one being a woman and the
other a poet, both were at the mercy of their steward,
who could not be called unjust, but was certainly
narrow. Mr. Carew was ten times more in awe of
Mr. Minifie than Ingaretha, and was utterly wanting
in her keen interest in practical matters. To him
she knew she must not look for help; and if not to
Carew, to whom ?
Good angels go about the world in strange disguises,
and, as luck would have it, Mrs. Minifie, from the date
of that romantic adventure before described, had pledged
herself to befriend Monsieur Sylvestre and to circum-
vent Mr. Minifie. The opportunity lay at hand, tempt-
ing as ripe strawberry to five-year old truants in forbidden
Edens. The choice little farm of seventy acres before
mentioned was to be sold, and Mr. Minifie, in spite of
his promises to Ingaretha, was secretly negotiating for
the purchase of it for himself. Was ever such an
adopted son of the father of wiles % Mrs. Minifie did
not stop to think over the subject, and weigh her duties
to her husband in one scale, and her duties to pleasant
people in the other, but determined to pay him in his
own coin.
Accordingly, she appeared at the Abbey one morning,
6
The Sylvestres.
and begged to see Miss Meadowcourt for a few minutes
on business. The two betook themselves to the library,
Ingaretha's blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Tor
the large flexible person of Mrs. Minifie floundered hither
and thither like a seal in mud, or a balloon without
ballast. It seemed hard to believe that she had any
centre of gravity, and that the levers, pulleys, and pivot*
joints of her anatomical system had ever been in working
order. That nature indeed had made an exception in
her case seemed the likeliest conclusion, giving her, as
to the jelly-fish and oysters, merely a rudimentary or-
ganization. When at last she was fairly settled—for
the act of falling upon the first surface of support that
offers, and there sticking, can hardly be called sitting
down—the mystery exploded.
" Oh! my dear Miss Meadowcourt, pray thank heaven
you have not a husband. I assure you, the baseness of
the male sex makes my hair stand on end without a
moment's notice. There's Mr. Minifie trying to buy the
very farm you want for your friends. Pilgrim's Hatch,
in the parish of Hoo-cum-Hessett—you know it, I dare-
say—seventy acres of capital land, and a snug little
house."
" Oh, I remember Pilgrim's Hatch quite well,"
answered Ingaretha, brightening. " I have ridden there
many a time. Is it really to be had ?"
" You may well ask that, for it seems just the sort of
thing that is too good to be true. But for the first time
in my life I am in luck, and Mr. Minifie will be caught
like a fox in his own trap. Ah, what a eonsolation it
will be on my dying bed to think that I have for once
cheated Mr. Minifie of a few hundred pounds—*a hun-
dred shillings would be something ! Well, will you put
What shall She do with It?
83
on your hat at once, and drive with rne to Pilgrim's
Hatch V
Ingaretha hesitated.
" Dear me," Mrs. Minifie cried, " you don't mean to
say that you can hesitate—and with such a decided
kind of a name too ! I'm sure Shakespeare was wrong
about names, and that a rose wouldn't be a rose if it
were called a thistle! I think my own name will
drive me mad sometimes. Janey this, Janey that, Mr.
Minifie calls all day long, till I feel ready to run away.
It is cruel of parents to christen their children without
conscience, and if mine had called me Helen or
Ethelinda I might have been a happy woman. But you
will go to Pilgrim's Hatch, won't you ?"
Ingaretha ventured to suggest the desirability of a
straightforward course. She would prefer, for many
reasons, to speak openly to Mr. Minifie, even at the risk
of a misunderstanding, as she doubted her business
capacities too much to enter into negotiations of her
own accord.
" Don't think I like double-dealing, my dear. I beg
pardon—my dear young lady, I meant to say. I detest
it as much as you do, but what good ever came of plain
dealing with a fox ? You lose twice as many chickens,
and don't make him a bit more respectable. How if
ever a man was an adept in the art of trickery, it is
Mr. Minifie. By little and little, he has got every bit
of property out of my hands, till I am often without a
shilling in my pocket for weeks at a time; and before I
was married, my two sisters and myself had just upon a
thousand a year among us to spend as we liked. That
comes of having to do with men, or anything else you
don't understand. But pray make your mind easy about
6—2
84
The Sylvestres.
getting the farm away from him. I assure you Mr.
Minifie is worried to death by being over rich already.
His low spirits are frightful sometimes. I believe the
end of it will be suicide !"
"I always look upon Mr. Minifie as a particularly
cheerful person," Ingaretha said.
" Oh yes, he knows how to deceive good people. Bad
spirits mean something sinister, and in a money-getting
man look suspicious. So he whistles wherever he goes
as gay as a lark, and keeps his gloomy fits for my
benefit. But do go to Pilgrim's Hatch with me, and
get it for Monsieur Sylvestre. It is a case of Now or
Never when Mr. Minifie has a finger in the pie."
And Ingaretha, who cordially detested her land-
steward, and whose healthy young appetite was whetted
for a little downright fun, at last consented to go.
The two ladies set off in Mrs. Minifie's lumbering old
vehicle, and drove at a snail's pace, sometimes through
winding lanes, now one vast tangle of wild clematis and
honey-suckle, and sometimes alongside broad golden
pastures, amid which wound Ingaretha's little river, the
Thet, purling musically and turning mill-wheels here
and there. Under the shadow of beech and elm were
gathered the shining red, meek-eyed cows; and little
lambs, all as like each other as twins, frisked at the
heels of proud and happy dams.
By-and-by, they crossed a common, glowing with
gorse, sweetly-scented, and alive with shrill-voiced rooks
and happy larks. A few hundred yards of lane brought
them to as pretty a farm as the neighbourhood of St.
Beowulf could show. It was neither exactly romantic
nor picturesque, but lacking that quality, had every
other dear to the heart of a farmer or lover of rural life.
What shall She do with It?
85
The house was small and compact, and stood in the
midst of gardens, orchards, stack-yards, and stables. At
the back, was a large meadow and a pond overgrown
with bulrushes; on either side, rose gentle sweeps of
corn-land and root crops. That good farming had been
the order of the day, you saw at a glance. Pigs of the
best breed, long in the barrel, shiny-black, small in the
extremities, short-snouted, short-eared, scuttled away
from the carriage-wheels. Dark-red cows, of the stock
dear to Suffolk farmers, polled, neat and glossy, grazed
under the apple-trees, almost knee-deep in the grass.
The corn was thick and clean, and showing the ear.
The clover in bloom was heavy; hoers were busy
among the beetroot and swede turnips; the hedges were
well kept, and not a square yard of foul land was to be
seen anywhere. A couple of stacks of bright copperish
Talavera wheat stood in the shed, and it was the last
week in June—always a sign of prosperity. Hens with
broods of plump chicks clucked about the farm-yard.
A pretty little carrot-coloured colt sported with its
mother in a small inclosure. All betokened peace and
plenty. Ingaretha's heart bounded at the thought of
her dear old friends being fairly settled here for the rest
of their days. Surely this was an Eden indeed—not an
Eden of ideas, but of reality.
They were shown into a neat little keeping-room, as
the best parlour is called in Suffolk; and after waiting
some time, Mr. Moyse, the owner and occupier, came
in, blushing crimson at having to encounter two ladies,
and especially one young and handsome. Mrs. Minifie,
who never kept her own counsel, blurting out domestic
details in and out of season, rushed at once in medias
res; Ingaretha trying as vainly to hold her back as a
86
The Sylvestres.
steady little lad who does his best to feel the mouth of
some strong and frisky colt.
" Of course you must please yourself, Mr. Moyse,"
she went on; "but if I had to choose between Mr.
Minifie and Miss Meadowcourt to do business with, I
should no more deliberate than a child between a big
cake and a little cake. Here she is offering to pay you
a good price, and you know that her money is quite as
good if not better than Mr. Minifie's. What on earth
are you waiting for ? Do you think the angel Gabriel
will come down and bid for it next ?—or who ? For
my part, when anybody says Snip, I say Snap, and
strike a good bargain with the first willing "
"But we must go into particulars," Ingaretha said.
" Mr. Moyse knows well enough that I wish to pay a
fair price for the farm, and that, as I especially want it,
I should esteem it a favour to have the first bid."
Mr. Moyse scratched his head, blushed, and at last
got out a sentence.
" What if I go to your lawyer, Mr. Mede, about it ?"
he said, feeling utterly incompetent to treat with a tall,
elegant young lady, who spoke beautifully and wore a
white muslin dress on working days.
"To speak the honest truth," Ingaretha answered,
" Mr. Mede strongly disapproves of purchasing land."
" That's awkward," the farmer said.
" One man is just as like another as two peas in a pod,"
Mrs. Minifie broke in warmly. " Mammon, Mammon,
Mammon! they sell their souls to filthy lucre, and set
women a-praying for them! You are afraid we shall
be too sharp for you, Mr. Moyse, is that it ?"
" It isn't that. I don't want more than two shillings
and sixpence-halfpenny for my halfcrown, but it's a
What shall She do ivith It f
^7
queer concern to do business with ladies. Leastways,
I'm not used to it."
" If Miss Meadowcourt doesn't understand farming, I
do," Mrs. Minifie said. " Come, what do you want for
stock, crop, and valuation ?"
"No, no, Mrs. Minifie. I can't play pitch halfpenny
with those who don't know heads and tails when they
see 'em. Miss Meadowcourt is welcome to the farm,
but I must talk to Mr. Mede or some one in breeches
about it. That's my meaning, shell, husk, and
kernel."
Ingaretha smiled and reflected a moment.
" Perhaps you are right. I will ride to St. Beowulf's
to-morrow morning, and will get Mr. Mede to make an
appointment with you. But may I count upon the
farm ?" she added insinuatingly.
"I never reckon on a calf myself till I've seen it with
my own eyes; but others do, and the calves come all
right. That's as you please, Miss Meadowcourt."
" In any case, you will keep your own counsel till
the matter is settled for once and for all ?"
" My own what ?"
" You will not mention the matter to any one mean-
time. Mr. Mede must, in fact—shall," she added,
smiling, " be persuaded to do as I wish."
" Mum's the word with me, whether I'm buying or
selling; and a safe one, I take it," Mr. Moyse said,
growing more at ease as he saw the ladies rise to go.
"Will you like to take a look round?" he went so far as
to say.
Mrs. Minifie would fain have peered into every nook
and cranny, but Ingaretha preferred to wait. They
took their leave, and proceeded homeward in high
88
The Sylvestres.
spirits, the elder lady descanting on the ignoble hearing
of the stronger towards the weaker sex.
"Just take such a man as Mr. Moyse or my husband
—or, to go a step lower, Jabez, my coachman. Now,
there isn't one of the three who doesn't look down upon
a woman as a fool, and treat her worse than a man,
simply because she is a woman. It's like boys and
cockchafers, they tease 'em, and stick 'em through with
pins, and tear off their wings, for no better reason than
that God made 'em cockchafers."
" Oh ! Mrs. Minifie, I hope we are not going to have
our wings torn off!"
" I'm so old that I forget the time when I had any.
But you are young, and, oh, how pretty! I wish you
had a mother to take care of you, my dear. And Mrs.
Minifie took hold of Ingaretha's hand with a rough ten-
derness that touched her.
"I never knew my mother; but my father was an
angel to me," she said; " life was very easy then."
" You must marry and shift your responsibilities on
a man's shoulders. Husbands are bad enough, but the
cares of single life are worse. The world marries you
to Mr. Carew."
" That is a very old story," Ingaretha said, a little
affronted.
" Well—I marry you to a very different person!"
Mrs. Minifie added slily.
Ingaretha blushed crimson, and changed the subject.
Red-Letter Days.
89
CHAPTEE XII.
eed-letter days.
The drama of life, Eke tEe drama of history, has inter-
regnums—brief, beautifying intervals of peace—during
which the blood-stained hoof-marks of the despoiler are
effaced by merciful showers, and the trampled flowers of
hope and faith blossom afresh.
Then are laid to rest the passions that consume and
the griefs that turn bread into bitterness and wine into
gall; then the convictions that made war one upon the
other seem unveiled; and endeavour and purpose, and
the high aspirations that were dimmed for a while, shine
out bright and clear like stars swept by a rain-gust.
Wounds are healed, gaps are filled up, plenteous harvests
are reaped and garnered in the sunshine.
Wonderful indeed is the craving for happiness in the
great, sad, wistful heart of humanity! Wonderful is its
capacity for appropriating it! A day ago—it hardly
seems so long—we were weeping tears of agony in some
dread Gethsemane, apparently forgotten by God and all
good angels. To-day the sky is clear, we move in golden
air, happy voices sing to us, happy sights enchant us;
we are like the shepherd-boy in Arcadia, " piping as if
he should never grow old." Heaven is kind to give us
such short memories in our good days. We forget our-
selves—oh! coveted Lethean gift—that is, our sorrowing,
regretting, sinning selves, conscious only of souls that
aspire and hearts that are satisfied.
Eew people could be found who had suffered more
than Monsieur Sylvestre, Euphrosyne, Bene, and Maddio.
To tell their lives properly one should be able to write
90
The Sylvestres.
tragedy. Of course the woman had suffered most, being
a woman; but the others had not lain on beds of roses.
Having let Eend speak for himself, the others may keep
silence for a time. They had known what it was to be,
like St. Paul, " in perils of robbers, in perils among false
brethren, in weariness and painfulness, in hunger and
thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness." But
here, in this lovely, fruitful England, the misery had
vanished at the touch of their golden-haired fairy Inga-
retha, and they suffered themselves to follow whither-
soever her wand guided.
What a summer they spent together! Eirst came
July with its short bright nights and long glowing days,
its overpowering sweetness of rose and jasmine and
honeysuckle, its warm shadows, its burning noontides.
They often made holiday from morning till night, and
never grew tired of each other's company. When a cool
breeze was blowing, Maddio and Ingaretha would go on
a botanising excursion, sometimes lasting an hour, some-
times a day. He was the pleasantest companion in the
world, overflowing with childlike spirits and hopefulness,
and capable of enjoying abundantly. Side by side they
walked or rode—Maddio only venturing to mount one
of the gardener's donkeys, being no equestrian—through
the sweet-scented lanes; he telling her of former adven-
tures in beautiful, far-off Algerie, playful and serious by
turns; she always sympathetic. They would make an
excursion to the friendly, thriving old town of Ipswich,
and from thence ascend the Orwell to Harwich, a plea-
sant sail for a summer day. The river is clear and bright,
the banks are green and softly undulated; Woisey's
tower rises statelily from amid the wooded bluffs of
Preston. At the river's mouth lie anchored men-of-
Red-Letter Days.
91
war, noble ships, and picturesque fishing-craft. Or, they
would go further still, and reach the ever-freshening,
ever-turbulent northern sea, to Aldborough, quiet birth-
place of a quiet poet; or to Lowestoft, lying at the foot
of glorious heaths, solitary even in these days of rail-
roads. Is the air of the desert fresher or more vivifying
than the breaths blown there ? It is hard to say.
Certainly the pleasure of existence, for existence' sake,
is fully tasted by those who, mounting purple heights,
knee-deep in gorse and heather, lose themselves on the
common, having the sea in sight always, now steely
grey, now silvery bright, now green as malachite, now
deepest violet, making a dozen pictures in an hour.
They made a pilgrimage to Constable's birthplace, and
what a revelation of grace and tranquil loveliness fell to
their share then! From the dull little town of Manning-
tree you drive for half an hour along dusty roads till
you come to a gentle undulation, nobly wooded, and
slowly reach East Bergholt Church, where some of the
painter's kinsfolk lie buried. Here you turn suddenly,
your carriage dips under overarching oak and elm,
having the lovely vale of Dedham to your right. No
wonder that Constable loved this spot. The tower of
Dedham Church rises grandly amid terrace upon terrace
of Lombardy poplar and sallow: amid the bright green
meadows winds a little river, whilst patches of red,
yellow and crimson, proclaim the flower-fields of Ded-
ham, a brilliant incongruity, doubtless unknown in
Constable's time.
But the spot they loved best was Flatford Mill, beau-
tiful Flatford Mill! Nestled amid cherry and pear trees
lies the Valley Farm, while close by is Willy Lott's house,
white-walled, red-tiled, covered with vines. Mill and
92
The Sy Ives tres.
boat house are reflected in the clear river that, with
sudden swerve, loses itself under shadow of alder and
weeping willow. A daintier scene it would be hard to
find; and well might the great painter love it, and
hunger after it in his later days.
Or if the historic fit seized them, they would follow
the flight of refractory Sir Hugh Bigod, of whom the
ballad tells:—
" At Ipswich they laughed to see how he sped,
And at Ufford they stared, I wis,
But at merry Saxmundham they heard his song,
And the song he sang was this :—
Were I in my Castle Bungaye,
Upon the river of Waveney,
I would not care for the King of Cockney."
August came—the month of orchards flushed with
ripening pear and plum, of harvest-fields strewn with
gold and amber corn. Like Cyclops the labourers
sweated and toiled, drinking beer at intervals in a
manner worthy of a Scandinavian drinkiDg bout. Ho-
thing could be lovelier than the yellow fields sloping
against the pure blue and white heavens; and the
gleaners, little white-haired, blue-eyed children and
sunburnt, serious women, made an idyllic picture.
When, a little later, the stars came out in the pale sky,
and the harvest moon rose, glowing like a shield of the
gods, reapers and gleaners followed their homeward
waggons, singing plaintively and carrying green boughs.
Those were indeed days to remember and be thankful
for. Monsieur Sylvestre, like Odysseus, and his com-
panions were made young and happy, but by earthly
and not by heavenly enchantment. It was Ingaretha
whose thoughtfulness, delicacy, and affection worked
every one of these miracles. Never were kings and
Red-Letter Days.
93
princes feted by sycophant subjects as the wanderers
were feted by her. Her horses, her carriages, the fatness
of her larder, and the first fruits of her gardens, were
appropriated to them as naturally as if she were only
the steward of so many good things. The upper ten
thousand of St. Beowulf's might be neglected. What
were the upper ten thousand to her ? But none in all
the world could be dearer than these outcasts who loved
the things she loved, and lived in the ideal world she
held true and beautiful. Carew at first chafed bitterly
at the sense of his own comparative insignificance, but
good sense and good feeling soon got the mastery.
Having, moreover, a little of the butterfly in his compo-
sition, he sunned himself whilst the flowers were open
and the day was perfect. All projects of travel were
put aside. One day he was reading poetry aloud to all,
another singing glees with Monsieur Sylvestre and
Ingaretha. There seemed always plenty to do. Why
should he go away ? Of course the fashionable world
took umbrage at seeing themselves thus set aside for a
few tatterdemalion foreigners. They had not the least
intention of recognising these visitors of Miss Meadow-
court's; and as week after week slipped by, and no
more invitations came from the Abbey, hostess and
guests were left pretty much to themselves. When Lady
Virginia Pennington gave her annual croquet party,
Ingaretha and Carew naturally received cards. Mr.
Stapleton would not hear of omitting Ingaretha from the
list of people invited to the Miss Stapletons' archery
meeting. The great church dignitary of the place, Mr.
Anstruther, rector of St. Beowulf's the Martyr, and rural
dean, paid due court to the rich young mistress of the
Abbey, pressing her attendance at this and that choral
94
The Sy Ives ires»
fete, sending Mrs. Anstruther and a number of little
Anstruthers, to see her very often. And all the great
little people of the place behaved civilly both to Inga-
retha and Carew, not because they liked them, or felt
they ever should like them, but because it seemed a
right and proper thing to cultivate the acquaintance of
three or four thousand a year.
By one or two, however, the strangers were received
with open arms. Amy Greenfield, the curate's wife, got
up half-a-dozen tea-parties for them, delighted at the
opportunity of showing her adored Ingaretha a little
kindness.
You wonder at the possibility of giving tea-parties in
the curate's household, where the ordinary condition of
things was that of verging on starvation. But what has
real hospitality to do with cakes and ale ? The Bedouin's
dish of cous-cous-sou and the Berber's offering of a few
dried figs to the passer-by, may often mean more than
groaning tables and wines of choicest vintage. Amy
gave the best she had, and it was accepted with a good
grace. The children would pull radishes out of their
little garden; Bina would fetch a pennyworth of ginger-
bread from the village; Mrs. Minifie often brought
cakes; was not this enough and to spare ? And if
there was no butter forthcoming for the next morning's
breakfast and Daisy the cow gave less milk than usual
after last night's draining, who grumbled ?
Happy indeed were those summer evenings! Even
the curate got over his moody fits and joined the party,
feeling 110 shame since the other men wore clothes as
shabby as he. What a change it was for Amy, for her
children, and for all! Instead of being looked down
upon by rich rectors and rectoresses, they were made
Red-Letter Days.
95
much of, feted, loved, for their own sakes. Bina and
Sammie were old enough to feel the difference between
the gingerly kiss of an Earl's daughter and of a friendly
vagrant like Bene or Maddio. Eor Bend would make
desperate love to little blue-eyed Bina, ever, like
Martha, troubled about many things ; and Maddio would
treat Sammie, not patronisingly, having in mind his
unwashed face, want of new shoes, and general unfitness
for appearance at church next Sunday, but as a comrade
and social equal. When Maddio amused the baby for
an hour, Bene quitted the society of his equals to give
Pennie a swing, or improvise a puppet-show in the
nursery, they preached a lesson on being good one to
another, which was easier to understand than the most
eloquent of Mr. Anstruther's discourses. The children
thought there never were such enchanting people in
the world as these friends of Ingaretha's, and wondered
what would happen by way of miracle next.
" We are always having company or going out now,"
one day said Bina to Mrs. Anstruther, who had called
at the curate's. " I like that sort of life, don't you ?"
Amy blushed, for she knew that to see the poverty of
the land was Mrs. Anstruther come.
"You children think so much of a little," she said;
adding, apologetically, " Bina means that Miss Meadow-
court brings her friends here to tea sometimes. Of course
I cannot be so stingy as to refuse them that little hospi-
tality."
" Stinginess, my dear Mrs. Greenfield, is purely
relative. No economy is stinginess in the wife of a
poor man, and the mother of a large young family.
Why don't you turn the tables, and go to Miss Meadowr-
court's instead ?"
96
The Sylvestres.
" So we do very, very often," poor Amy said, feeling
more and more humiliated at the turn the conversation
was taking.
" And we get such feasts!" put in Bina; " and the
children eat as much cake as they like, and what they
don't eat is packed up for us to bring home. I love
Ingaretlia."
" Miss Meadowcourt shows strange extremes of
opinion for so young a woman," Mrs. Anstruther went
on, turning to Amy, " and, I must say, indiscretion too.
What do we know of those queer foreign friends of hers ?"
" Mr. Bene wanted bread often when he was little,"
Bina said.
"Bina I"
" He did, mamma. He told me so."
The little girl felt a wicked delight in horrifying Mrs.
Anstruther just then, and being as enamoured of Bend
as ever was seven-year old maiden of fairy-tale lover,
here added, by way of climax—
" And I am sure he is as good as can be, though he
doesn't go to church."
"Bina I" again remonstrated Amy, quite frightened at
the way Mrs. Anstruther's eyebrows were going up.
" Don't talk about things you don't understand." Then,
changing the subject, she said, "Thank you so much for
kindly sending me the new number of ' Sermons for
the Nursery,' Mrs. Anstruther, and ' Solemn Exhorta-
tions to Infant Minds.'"
" My children delight in them, and only think, little
Edmund, who is barely three years old, cried because
the nursemaid would read a newspaper on Sunday!
When children's minds are thus early turned to religion,
one's house is indeed a fortress of faith."
Red-Letter Day.
97
" Yes, indeed," Amy said, having got into a habit of
involuntarily sitting at Mrs. Anstruther's feet.
"Evil communications corrupt good manners," Mrs.
Anstruther answered. "Your children should not be
allowed to associate with non-churchgoers."
Amy felt ready to cry. She was a very simple crea-
ture, unable to appraise the different ethical standards
held up to her, equally unable to solve the various
social and religious problems often propounded in her
hearing. On the one hand, were Ingaretha and her
friends, representatives of all that was refined, original,
delightful; on the other, the rector of St. Beowulf, the
church, and the world, representative of all that was
old as the hills, tradition, powerful, ascetic, imperious.
She felt a child, a nonentity, a miserable sinner in the
presence of the tiniest little Anstruther that could read
a sermon. She felt a rational being, a creature of in-
stincts, poetry, and passion, in the presence of Monsieur
Sylvestre and his followers. There was just this diffe-
rence between the one set of people and the other—the
first looked down upon her as an atom of the great
lump of human depravity, the last prized her as a link
in the great chain of intellectual being; and to the last
she could not naturally be an object either of indiffe-
rence or contempt. This poor, trodden-down, ill-used
humanity was to them, above all things, lovely, sacred,
and dear; and she, being a woman, and like all women,
having had a touch of sweetness and a large measure of
sadness in her life, was lovely, sacred, and dear also.
How could she contentedly come down from such
heights as these to the dead level of content and indiffe-
rence in which they would fain have her live, possessing
her soul in patience ?
7
98
The Sylvestres.
Poor Amy! Whether there was harm in it or not
she felt unable to determine; but thus much she knew,
the life of the last few years seemed a waste, and that
of the last few weeks an oasis, green, smiling, favoured
of heaven. She might forego the happiness, but the
memory of it and the longing for it would last through-
out life.
CIIAPTEE XIII,
STORMS.
The only person who led a double existence—smiling
cheerfully in the company of others, brooding or rather
remembering over much when alone—was Madame
Sylvestre. She could never forget, and what a fearful
chastisement of the gods is such a memory! Ingaretha
might soothe and distract; Monsieur Sylvestre might
say a tender word, and then go his way, bent on the
business of the hour; Maddio, brother-like, might
babble his simple confidences and revelations; Eend
might offer his passionate confidences fondly as a son—
the combined affection of all could not drive away the
mysterious shadow which followed her everywhere.
Sometimes her face was a tragedy. At others, she wore
that look of supreme resignation which mediaeval artists
have given their martyrs of the primitive Christian
period. At all, there was a pathos, an inexpressible
majesty of suffering about her, that made her presence
imposing even to the vulgar.
Nor did the subtle charms of her physiognomy escape
the notice of those dull-headed St. Beowulfians with
whom she came into contact. Weather-beaten, care-
Storms.
99
worn, elderly, dressed with no more regard to fashion
than a beggar-woman, the rough villagers yet touched
their hats to her as respectfully as to dashing Mrs.
Anstruther. And why? Because there is a divine
instinct in human nature, however degraded, and by this
divine instinct Madame Sylvestre was recognised for
what she was, and not for what misfortune had made her.
Those large brown eyes of liers, brimming over with
tenderness and sympathy; those delicately cut, sensitive
lips, smiling seldom and sadly; that broad earnest
brow, each wrinkle telling of some troubled day; whose
sunburnt, hard-worked hands, so beautifully-shaped
still—all impressed the people as even fine clothes and
superficial advantages would not have done. Silk
dresses and shining carriages might be seen every day
within a dozen miles of St. Beowulf's, but a face like
hers, telling such a story, so good, so refined, was as rare
as primroses in November.
She had a habit, too, of speaking to everyone she met,
ploughman, cow-boy, gleaner; and after the first difficulty
of understanding her foreign English wore off, these
short greetings grew into long confidences. She ad-
dressed everybody as Monsieur and Madame, behaving
with a courtesy that struck her interlocutors as whimsi-
cal at first, but pleased them mightily afterwards.
These rough villagers recognised not only the beautiful
nature of the long-suffering, many-experienced, patient
woman, but the tact, breeding, and sensitiveness of the
well-bred lady.
When they saw Miss Meadowcourt's friend and
honoured guest trudging to St. Beowulf's in the heat of
the day, thankful to teach small shopkeepers' children
for a shilling an hour, their stock notions of propriety
7-2
100
The Sylvestrcs.
were shocked, but their intellectual horizon was en-
larged. The world could not be going on quite as they
thought. Not from Christ's words only, but from the
practical teaching of the first lady in the parish they
were reminded of that desirable millennium when the
mighty shall be put down and the lowly and meek
shall be exalted. There could be no doubt that Miss
Meadowcourt thought very highly of Madame Sylvestre.
Did she not sit beside her, shabby as she was, in the
Abbey pew, opposite to the Miss Stapletons, arrayed,
like Solomon in all their glory ? Did she not drive her
in her grand open carriage to St. Beowulf's floral fete ?
Was she not daily and hourly doing honour to her ?
A sermon was being preached to them on social obliga-
tion, which touched their self-love and tickled their
curiosity. What time-honoured custom would be turned
upside down next ? There was, moreover, the sense of
mystery about her—always an attraction to unculti-
vated minds. , They could as little understand Madame
Sylvestre's objective as they could understand her sub-
jective history. She was religious, and apparently
belonged to no religious body; she was a lady, and had
suffered more hardships than any tramp's wife going;
she was delicate and refined, and had been mixed up
with what seemed to them the scum of the earth.
Added to all, this wonderful faith, and love, and
humanitarian spirit confounded them more than a little.
Sunday after Sunday, they had heard of God's love for
man, till the exposition of the familiar text had become
trite and barren. But for the first time they heard of
man's love for man! The words worked miracles like
those wrought by musical Orpheus upon the listening
woods of Thrace.
Storms.
IOI
After some weeks, Mr. Whitelock began to prick up
his ears. Wherever he went among his parishioners, he
found that Madame Sylvestre had been before him,
first to the mother of some erring girl, next to the
parents of some dying child, and so on. Her words
were twice as potent as his, and no wonder, seeing that
he talked of things they could not possibly understand,
consoling them with the unction and cold superiority of
God's anointed, whilst she wept, aided, and sympathised,
and that was all. Matters were brought to a climax by
the death of an unbaptised child. Mr. Whitelock
doomed it to everlasting perdition. Madame Sylvestre
appointed it to blissful immortality. The mother, whose
ewe-lamb it had been, was heard to say in somebody's
hearing that she wished the rector would never cross her
threshold again ; and this speech spoken in the agonies of
her grief, came to his ears. If such were the teachings of
Miss Meadowcourt's visitors, it was high time to inter-
fere. Let people once believe that an unbaptised infant
could go to heaven, and the next step would be to
doubt the efficacy of baptism altogether. And if bap-
tism went, why should not confirmation and other
corner-stones of the Church follow in its wake.
He lost no time in laying his case before Ingaretha.
Hot, wordy, and very cross, anybody else would have
been a better advocate for the rector than the rector
proved for himself. He found that, after half an hour's
harangue, no ground had been gained, not an inch.
There sat Ingaretha without a vestige of conviction in
those large blue eyes of hers; looking so provokingly
pretty too in her sea-green cambric dress, that it was in
his heart to wish beauty a dispensation of priests, as
of the Olympian gods, to be given and taken away at
102
The Sylvestres.
will. Ugliness, after all, had its captivating side. Ugli-
ness submitted, ugliness embroidered clerical slippers,
made black-currant jelly for the alleviation of clerical
sore throats—in fine, did everything it behoved woman-
kind to do in honour to the wiser, better, and stronger
sex.
If Madame Sylvestre tries to comfort the poor people
a little, are their lives so happy that they do not need
it ?" Ingaretha said, after listening somewhat impatiently
to a long and angry tirade.
" To allay sorrow with false doctrine is to try to cure
disease with poison," answered the rector. " I cannot
and will not permit lay interference with spiritual
matters in my parish."
" My poor friend only did a kind and neighbourly
thing."
"Excuse me, Miss Meadowcourt, but I think your
partiality for these people is leading your judgment
astray, and, what is more still, endangering your ortho-
doxy. "With the perversity of your youth, and, I may
say, of your sex, you refuse to take counsel of your
natural advisers, and are running into dangers of which
you know not."
Ingaretha was silent.
"I must ask you to remonstrate with Madame
Sylvestre," added the rector.
But Ingaretha did not answer.
" She is bound to desist from pernicious offices in my
parish," he went on, looking at her severely.
Still no answer.
" You are bound in the spirit, if not in the letter, to
send her out of my parish."
" If Madame Sylvestre yields an inch, an ell will be
Storms.
103
demanded of me/' Ingaretha answered at last, with
heightened colour. "If Madame Sylvestre is not al-
lowed to speak to the poor people to-day, I shall be
prohibited to-morrow. We are not bond-servants, Mr
Whitelock."
" Do you mean to say that you set yourself in oppo-
sition to your minister ?"
" Not willingly."
" But you abide by your own judgment, rather than
by his."
" When I think my friends in the right, I stand by
them," she said.
"Then I can only pray for you. Good morning;"
and with this the rector went.
Ingaretha smiled at first, but felt in her secret heart
that a quarrel with Mr. Whitelock was an unpleasant
alternative. She had no wish to quarrel with him, and
had, with difficulty avoided all quarrels hitherto; just
now, when so much depended on his good graces, a dis-
agreement was especially unfortunate. English country
life is far from a bed of roses when you are on bad
terms with your rector: and this she knew well enough.
But she could not ask Madame Sylvestre to unsay her
merciful words about the unbaptised child. If Mr.
Whitelock could make no better terms than these, they
must remain at enmity. As to her friends being sent
away, the idea was so preposterous that she laughed
scornfully whenever it came into her head. What was
property, what was existence, what was anything to
her, without the privilege of serving those she loved ?
Although she kept her own counsel studiously, reports
of this interview got wind. Madame Sylvestre, after
weeping in secret at the mischief she had done, talked to
104
The Sylvestres.
her husband seriously about going away from this blissful,
beneficent England—from this gracious and grace-giving
friend—from peace and plenty—to return no more.
"We shall bring her into trouble," she said. " I fore-
see it but too well. Her thoughts are not as the
thoughts of the people here, and it is with them she
must live."
" She had much better live with us," answered Mon-
sieur Sylvestre complacently. " If we estrange her from
her friends, let us console ourselves by the thought of
what those friends are worth. If we cause her vexation,
do we not also afford her the greatest enjoyment of
which an intellectual being is capable, namely, that of
sympathy with large interests ? Oh, when will you learn
to subordinate the trivial affairs of life to the Supreme
and Unlimited ?"
" Dear husband, it is my great affection for Ingaretha
that speaks. She is young, and we are old. At our age
it is so much easier to take away than to give."
" Pshaw, my child! The value of a gift is measured
by the quality of the giver. Our Ingaretha will not be
discontented."
" But," urged the poor woman, struggling as she had
struggled a hundred, nay, a thousand times before, with
her adoration of this man and her sense of duty towards
others," it is her very generosity and goodness that abash
me. Is it not enough to eat of her bread and drink of
her wine without spoiling the taste of both to her ?"
" Heavens, Euphrosyne! how you women turn things
upside down ! As if a half-blind person could not see
how entirely this dear child loves us, and delights in
making us happy!"
" I know all that," answered Euphrosyne, with a pain-
Storms.
105
ful sigh; " but we must look beyond the passing hour.
What if she grows fond of our poor Bene ?"
" The best thing in the world that could happen to
him!"
" But surely a misfortune for her ?"
" A misfortune—and why ? You seem to think that
the real philosophy of life consists in measuring out
purple and fine linen for Dives. I prefer to wash the
disciples' feet—or, rather, to have my own feet washed
by some one adorable. And this, I take it, is the corner-
stone of social morality. Bend has nothing; Ingaretha
has enough, and to spare. Both are young, beautiful,
and enthusiastic. The union might not be sanctioned
on earth; but what would the angels and hierarchs of
heaven say to it, think you V
" It would not turn out well," Euphrosyne said,
shaking her head.
" Did you not sacrifice as much, and more, for me ?
And has not that union turned out well ?"
"Yes—oh, yes!" she answered, half crying at the
sound of her own memory-freighted voice. " But, I
think, if Ingaretha cared as much for Bene as in my
youth I cared for you, the matter would have been
settled long ere this. Oh, husband, you do not know
how it is with us women—how, most of all, we suffer
for having been once happy ! Even if our sweet child
loved this man, I would say, nay; because I should
doubt whether she loved him enough to endure what
must come after."
" Nothing could come so hard to bear as unsatisfied
love. Of that you have had no experience," he said, in
a tone of voice that was half-commendatory and half-
reproachful.
The Sylvestres.
" You forget my children," she answered, averting her
face because she knew of the misery that was in it.
He left her, humming as he went a verse of Beranger's
well-known song, " Les Fous "—
" Honneur au fou qui ferait faire
Un rive heureux au genre humain," &c.
CHAPTER XIV.
A SYLVAN CONCLAVE.
Ingaretha saw clearly enough that she should lead an
uneasy life of it. She was not the woman to humble
herself before her opponents without rhyme or reason,
much less to turn her back upon her friends, even when
the world told her that there were the best possible
reasons for doing so. She understood quite well what
Mr. Whitelock meant by praying for her. He would
pray, not that she should be made better or happier
or more useful in her generation, but that she should
become more docile to the dictation of her superiors;
in other words, that she should obey him in all things.
She felt inclined to defy his undue assumption of
authority; to do battle with him, and find out, for once
and for all, who was strongest. But good feeling and a
sense of maidenly decorum prevailed.
Ingaretha pursued quite another course. She straight-
way wrote a meek little note to the rector, begging him
to overlook her impetuosity, and to call upon her about
a little matter of business. She wanted his advice as
well as his forgiveness, and of course the happy rector
was willing to bestow both. Ingaretha wished to con-
A Sylvan Conclave.
toy
suit him about establishing mothers'-meetings. Was
there any objection to Madame Sylvestre taking part in
them if she withheld from theological subjects ? Cer-
tainly not, said the rector, good-naturedly; and when
next day, Madame Sylvestre made an apology in person
at the rectory, beseeching the reverend gentleman, with
tears in her eyes, to pardon her unintentional offence, he
was fairly overcome and mollified. The storm passed over.
Meantime, like children sporting in some sunny
place, with bright clouds overhead, and a low rumble
of gathering thunder in the distance, Monsieur Sylvestre,
Rene, and Maddio were taking their fill of enjoyment,
thinking little of the morrow. When, at last, Euphro-
syne one day compelled them to assemble in conclave
under Ingaretha's chestnut-trees, and discuss future
plans, they scuttled to the place of meeting much more
after the manner of rabbits at play than of philosophic
followers of a reformer.
The speeches, which were delivered in French, might
be translated thus:
Madame Sylvestre began by saying that one obstacle
stood equally in the way of going or staying—namely,
their exchequer was almost empty. They could not
make a move without money. Without money they
could not remain where they were.
" If Ingaretha does not object to help us, why should
we object to be helped V* asked Monsieur Sylvestre.
" Granted that she spares us a few of her fat acres, and
a handful of her loose guineas, which of the two ought
to be most thankful, he to whom the gods give super-
abundant opportunities of helping others, or he whom
that superabundance helps ? The more we accept of
her, the more enviable is she."
io8
The Sylvestres.
Euphrosyne was silent but unconvinced. She looked
first at Maddio, then at Rene, half hoping they would
stand by her. Maddio met the look, and answered, with
the unconscious smile of a baby :
" And then Rend is so fond of her!—could we rob her
of him ?"
" Don't talk in that way," Rene said, vehement and
disdainful. " I know well enough where I ought to be,
hundreds of miles, thousands of miles away from this
lady. My mother, you know how I fight daily and
hourly with a devil that is stronger than I, and how I
am beaten again and again. I wish I could kill myself
outright, and have done with it, much as I love our
cause and you all."
"That would not go far towards mending matters,"
Monsieur Sylvestre answered, smiling grimly. "She
would break her heart; you would find no one here
willing to bury such an infidel as yourself. Live as long
as you can, my dear Rend, for the sake of your friends,
and the good cause of fraternity and freedom."
" And worship our lady Ingaretha as we do, at a dis-
tance," said Maddio.
"Listen, my children," began Monsieur Sylvestre,
placing himself in the midst, every tone of his sweet
voice ringing through the air like the note of a silver-
tongued bell. "It is now high time that we come to an
understanding as to our future course of action. Do not
think for a moment that I have allowed myself luxu-
riously to settle down in this bewitching Capua without
paying any heed to our common cause. Night and day
it is in my thoughts, Sleeping or waking, I dream of
the noble work that awaits the reconstructors of society.
If I have kept silence for awhile, it was only because I
A Sylvan Conclave.
109
feared to speak too confidently. From the first moment
of setting foot on this hospitable soil, it seemed to me that
here, if anywhere on the face of the earth, we might
realise our fondest hopes, planting another Eden, not for
ourselves only, but for the outcast, the unhappy, and the
spoliated. And now I feel emboldened to say that it
shall be so. Ingaretha has received us with open arms.
Her purse, like her heart, is open to us. Her intellect—
surely, a nobler one has been seldom granted to mortal
creature—goes with us. We are her brothers and sisters,
her friends and counsellors, her prophets and priests.
We will stay."
Bend made an impetuous movement, as if about to
speak, then coloured to the brow, and drew back.
Maddio smiled in his usual benignant, half-dazed way,
looked round at the others, smiled again, then made
answer:
" Of course we stay if you say so, my father. But if
we stay, we must set to work. Give me children to
teach, or a house to build, or a printing-press—or I will
turn tailor if you like, and repair our failing garments."
"Wait a little," Monsieur Sylvestre went on. "You
will soon find enough to do, brother Maddio, never fear.
I have not come to so important a resolve without
thinking of preliminaries. To stay in England is to
carry out our ideal, and to carry out our ideal is again
to turn tillers of the soil. Agriculture, says Proudhon,
is of all occupations the noblest, the most healthful, both
morally and physically, and with regard to the exercise
of intellectual faculties, the most encyclopaedic. How,
you all know as well as I do, that we do not look upon
Proudhon's words as golden always, nor even silver, but
these are oracular. The experience of my life goes to
iio
The Sylvestres.
prove them so. We remain, therefore, what we liavo
always been, agriculturists."
" But this is not a new country, remember that," put
in Madame Sylvestre timidly. " Land here is more pre-
cious than pearls and diamonds. Ought we to borrow
more than we can ever repay V
" How women lose themselves when once launched
on the ocean of the practical! My dear wife, sympathetic
affection is a merciful creditor. Our Ingaretha knows
well enough that we have had misfortunes, and may have
them again. What of that ? Fortune may forsake us;
vitality may desert us unawares, and little enough may-
we leave behind to admonish or ameliorate the world;
we have done our best, and may have furthered the
glorious ideas of our great teachers. The rest we must
leave."
" Oh!" Madame Sylvestre continued, with a gathering
passion of entreaty in her voice, " let us consider well
ere we do that which will surely bring trouble upon her.
Lead us elsewhere, dear husband, and leave Ingaretha
unharmed."
" She is right," cried Bend, with a sudden glow upon
his cheek, and fire in his eye. " Because Ingaretha is
dear to us, and we are dear to her, all the more we
should go in a month, in a week, in a day if you like,
only let us go."
Madame Sylvestre caught the young man's hand and
pressed it to her own, whispering words of approval.
Monsieur Sylvestre smiled, and went on—
" Were ever disciples so docile, and, at the same time,
so captious as you two ? But I look upon you as chil-
dren in experience, and forgive. You bid me lead you
elsewhere, and as a reason for making this request, you
A Sylvan Conclave.
Ill
hold up Ingaretha's love before us. Good heavens!
would not Ingaretha's indifference be a much better
reason for going ? She can as little afford to lose us as
we can afford to lose her. To suffer for the truth is
divine, but to suffer for the friends we adore, is a much
more enviable privilege, since it brings humanity near
to the gods, and leaves it humanity still. Granted that,
if we went away, Ingaretha would be spared some tears
—and, since gold and dross must be mixed in life, some
money too—that she would, in fact, lie softly on her bed
of roses, undisturbed by the sufferings of the world, is
that a fitting life for a high-souled woman? Feted,
flattered, absorbed into a frivolous and parasitic society,
the godlike spark within her would go out, and on her
dying-bed she would reproach us for so inhuman a piece
of kindness. Leave ;her if you will, but not in such
hands as these. She is too good to become the woman
of fashion or of the world."
" There is no fear of that," Bene said, impatiently.
" What do you know about it, dear little brother ?
You have never lived in the world, luckily for you.
You have no idea how easy it is to wear the harness of
conventionalism after a few trials; and if we leave
Ingaretha to her fate, she is quite likely to get presented
at Court and marry the most determined enemy of pro-
gress going."
" And if she were happy, why not ?" pursued Bene,
turning red and pale by turns. " Let the truth suffer,
but let her be happy,"
" Never!" cried Monsieur Sylvestre, with fire. " We
are not monkeys, who think it a good day's work to
steal and crack one extra nut for their own gratification.
Ingaretha is made of good stuff like ourselves. She
112
The Sylvestrcs.
shall share our triumphs or defeats. She loves the
truth—a rare quality in a woman—and come what may,
she shall be one of us."
" But," began Bend, much agitated, " you don't under-
stand. My father, I love this sweet thing. She cares
for me—perhaps—a little—yet we cannot marry each
other, you know why. Oh! my mother, Euphrosyne,
speak in my place. I cannot say what is in my heart."
He turned his back on the little group, and, seating
himself in the shade, plucked at the grass, half crying.
Euphrosyne put her hand on her husband's arm, and
began to plead in his behalf; but Monsieur Sylvestre
was in no mood to listen. Smiling, in his lofty, intract-
able way, he brought his discourse to a climax thus :
" After all, what is the happiness of the individual,
though I see no reason why Ingaretha should not be
happy, and, for the matter of that, Bene too. But we
must forget ourselves, remembering only the ties of a
common cause and a common brotherhood. Our under-
taking is not entered upon from desire of gain or motives
of self-interest, but for the sake of that cause and in the
spirit of that brotherhood. Long live the noble frater-
nity of Eourierists! Embrace me, my wife; embrace
me, my brothers. Happy am I who lead, thrice happy
are ye who follow, in the quest of a perfect state and a
Golden Age!"
Thereupon the meeting broke up. Anything like
business had certainly not been transacted, but the all-
important question of going or staying was settled beyond
dispute.
Lover and Hero.
Ii3
CHAPTEE XV.
lover and hero.
Euphrosyne and Bene found themselves alone under the
trees. Bend held out his hand to her, with a look of
childlike entreaty for sympathy and help. She put it
to her lips and cheek, caressingly, as if he had been her
son, and for a little time neither spoke. At length he
said:
" Oh, my mother, it has come to this, then! I must
go alone."
" Do you love her so ?" she asked tenderly.
" It is not that. I would rather stay—even if I saw
her married to the rich Monsieur Carew; at least, I
think so. But I cannot find it in my heart to stand by
and see her sacrificed. You know what I mean. If we
stay she will suffer, as sure as our creed is a true one."
" Ah!" cried Madame Sylvestre, with a look of pain
impossible to describe. " This is the saddest thing in
life. We who love the cause of the people make mar-
tyrs of our friends."
"Mind, I do not reproach him. Heaven forbid! But
I feel, I see, how all this will end. Suffering makes
seers of us all. The most dazzling visions do not
mislead me for a moment. I descry what lies on the
further side of our father's golden dreams—persecution,
disappointment, defeat. One by one, these woes will
overtake us—not because our ideas are false, but because
the world is not yet ready for them."
" It is all true; yet he will never believe it."
"Never! If he lived a hundred years, and planned
a hundred Utopias, he would never believe it. Don't
8
H4
The Sylvestres.
think I reproach him for this blindness, self-devotion—'
call it what yon like. I envy him: I would be blind,
too, if I could—except for Ingaretha's sake."
He turned to her eagerly, and added, in a different
key:
"I am no renegade. If there was a revolution in
Paris to-morrow, I would be the first to mount the
breach in the cause of the people and liberty. Never
by act of mine shall hair of her dear head be harmed.
I did not know how it was till I came to England and
saw her in her home—almost a princess! She is the
same as ever, but things seem changed to me for all
that. What our father says may be all true: her life
might become unworthy of so noble a nature if we left
her to herself—flatterers might spoil her, parasites might
prey upon her; she might in time grow into a wholly
different being. But we do not know it, and we have
no right to surmise it. I am not sure that the lot we
have to give her is better than that to which she was
born. Such a woman must do good anywhere. Oh, my
friend, my more than mother, for her sake would we
had starved in the desert!"
"Would that we had !" she said, fervently.
"You see," he went on, in the same eager tone, "for
that one friend—our only one in the world—we have a
thousand enemies, and we can never tell when any one
of them may turn upon us."
"Ah, you may well say so. And what enemies have
I, of my own flesh and blood ?—those who were once
babes at my breast, fondling me with little helpless
hands! Bene, you don't dream of these when you speak
of our enemies."
"No, no. When I speak of enemies, I mean ideas
Lover and Hero.
115
rather than persons. In this free England, men cannot
be imprisoned for their opinions, but they can be scoffed
at, persecuted, hunted down; and how will Ingaretha
suffer when evil days overtake her friends! Offence
must come, as the Scripture says, but woe be to him by
whom it cometh; and we are of those by whom it
cometh. Think you this deceitful peace brooding over
the luxurious English nation is to last for ever ? The
freedom of the workman, like the freedom of the slave,
must be brought about here as elsewhere by the reform
that begins in revolution; and upon us Socialists will all
the blame fall. The pastor, Mr. Whitelock, is already on
the alert, making mischief out of our most harmless
words and deeds. Ingaretha cannot shield us. And
then—and then there is her rich neighbour the poet,
Monsieur Carew, who is in love with her! T had better
get clean out of her sight."
" My poor Rene!"
"Don't pity me, but help me to do the right and
manly thing I ought. It is all very well for you, for
our father, and for Maddio to stay. With me it is
different. She is so generous that she would'feel any
happiness she allowed herself a reproach to me, and it
breaks her heart to see me unfortunate. I have a
genius for writing of a certain kind, but what good is it,
seeing I was born a beggar and Ingaretha a princess!
Some men would do wonderful things if they could
handle a pen as well as I. I never shall, and I cannot
sit like a dog at Ingaretha's feet, taking bread from her
hands. Could any man %" I will go back to my own
people, and help them as best I can, marry a work-
woman, perhaps, and rear children to hate the class to
which Ingaretha belongs. What else is left for me ?"
8—2
u6
The Sylvestres.
Both were silent. What comfort had she to give ?
What solace had he to take ? These things not seldom
happen in life. Two friends are bound to each other by
innumerable sympathies, sorrows, tendernesses, and yet,
when a dread calamity comes upon one of them, the
other has no word of consolation to offer! The familiar
name is uttered, the friendly hand is held out, the fond
eyes are full of tears. And that is all. Is it well or ill ?
We know not, and can only guess.
Madame Sylvestre and Bend sat holding each other's
hands, and thinking these thoughts in silence till the
sun was blazing in crimson splendour behind the chest-
nut trees, and the bosquets and glades around them had
grown dusky and solemn. The setting of the sun is
ever a wonder to reverent minds. The two watched the
transformations of the fiery orb in as rapt a mood as fire-
worshippers or early believers in the Sun-god of the
glowing chariot. When the glorious coruscations of
purple and orange had melted into a sea of pearl and
opal, and one silvery star twinkled in the west, they
felt as if they too had battled enough with passion
for one day, and both sank into a calm, religious
mood.
" After all," Ben£ said, " Nature has given what Life
has withheld. If I lose Ingaretha, I have lived never-
to-be-forgotten days, and still see beautiful things wher-
ever I go."
He was to see something even more beautiful than
the lovely sky and the trembling stars and the dusky
pomp of the chestnut alley; for no sooner had they
emerged into the luminous twilight of the open lawn
than Ingaretha advanced towards them, golden-haired,
white-robed, radiant.
Lover and Hero.
ii 7
She gave a hand to each, and chided them for being so
late.
" I hold court to-night. Did you forget it V she asked.
" Mr. Carew is here, one or two others are coming, and
we are going to sing old English ditties. Run to the
village, good Monsieur Rene, and come back transformed
into a dandy. But stay; the dinner is just ready, and I
will not impose such hard conditions upon you. Mon-
sieur Sylvestre must take you in hand."
Monsieur Sylvestre met them in the porch, wearing a
dress-coat of the latest fashion, the origin of which only
Euphrosyne could have explained, irreproachable boots,
pantaloons, and waistcoat, pale lavender gloves, and a
white necktie. His long, soft hair, bright as silver,
reached to his shoulders, his eyes sparkled, his cheeks
glowed. To Euphrosyne his appearance had never
seemed more imposing.
" What have you two been doing V' he said. " I have
settled everything. Why, Rene, at your age I should
have spent an hour curling those black locks of yours
before entering the society of ladies."
Ren6 hung back to whisper to Euphrosyne—" You will
try to make her believe afterwards that I have done what
is right ? And you promise not to betray me before the
time ?"
u Yes, indeed, yes," whispered the other, and then the
two went their ways to prepare for dinner.
Monsieur Sylvestre took Ren£ upstairs, persuaded
him to curl and perfume his locks, and don some black
clothes he brought out for him—your true Bohemians
have a marvellous knack of adapting themselves to each
other's clothes—finally paraded him up and down the
room, to see whether the result was satisfactory. Then
118
The Sylvestres.
tliey descended, to find Carew, Amy Greenfield and her
husband, Mr. Whitelock, and one or two others, assem-
bled in the drawing-room.
Ingaretha, taking Monsieur Sylvestre's arm, mar-
shalled her guests to the dinner-table. A choicer little
banquet was never set before love, genius, and Socialism.
There were flowers of great beauty in silver epergnes,
wines of various perfume and flavour in chased decan-
ters, a pyramid of peaches, grapes, and nectarines in the
midst, and dainty dishes in profusion, but not super-
abundance, followed one after the other.
Ingaretha's cheeks glowed with pleasure. These
guests and good friends of hers were not wearers of
purple and fine linen, who fared sumptuously every day.
With the exception of Carew and the rector, she felt sure
that none had dined so sumptuously for months, perhaps
years past. How genially they accepted her hospitality !
how each vied with the other in furnishing the piquant
story, the neat epigram, the apt quotation !
When Monsieur Sylvestre began to speak, every one
else was silent. He talked mostly of himself and his
ideas, but with so much liveliness and enthusiasm, and
such a charming manner, that his listeners could have
sat for hours. It is true, much that he said was wholly
incomprehensible to most of them. What of that ? Do
we understand the canticles of the birds in which we
delight ? or the delicious humming of happy insects on
a summer morning ? or the solemn symphonies of the
woods when the orchestra of the winds is doing its
mightiest ? We listen in simple wonder just as these
good folks listened to the silvery-tongued old man dis-
coursing of Plato's ideal state, of Utopias, mediaeval and
modern, of Fourier and his Phalanstery.
Lover and Hero.
119
But when the dinner ended, the best part of the en-
tertainment began. A discreet host knows that the
secret of society consists in a nicely adjusted system
of exactions. People do not care to go to a house
where nothing is expected of them. Turn your drawing-
room into a stage on which everybody has his part
to play, and all find amusement. Ingaretha sum-
moned all-potent music to her aid. The glees,
madrigals, and choruses in which each took such
genial part had been mastered in a series of rehearsals,
so that everything went smoothly, and everybody
could praise everybody without being accused of
partiality.
Even Mr. Whitelock was pressed into the service, and
thought his voice had never sounded better than in
Mendelssohn's " Spring Song," or <f By Celia's Arbour."
Amy, who sang like a lark, was in her element. She
forgot all about the well-darned white muslin dress that
she had ironed that morning with so many feminine
pangs, and the children who had tumbled into the pond,
and the bread that had been burnt to a cinder in the
oven, and the hundred daily troubles at home. Life was
perfect for one long evening.
Poor Bend had one foot in heaven and one in hell.
There was Ingaretha doing her best to please both her
admirers, and offend neither. Ingaretha, whom his
whole being worshipped madly—Ingaretha, the sweetest
of all sweet women, smiling upon him—and he had no
choice but to leave her.
Like the poor fools that all lovers are, he did an ill-
advised thing. He had said to himself, before joining
his dear hostess and her guests, that now, if ever, was
the time to be forbearing and good and self-devoted, and
120
The Sylvestres.
his forbearance and goodness and self-devotion went no
further than this:
Carew sat at the piano, bringing out stray melodies
with careless hand, as your true musician can, Ingaretha
standing by his side, gay and eager. He had been sing-
ing a love-song to her of his own composition, music and
words—and what woman can withstand such flattery as
that ?
"I wish you would write a play for us to act at
Christmas," she said ; " or if you like it better, a masque
after the olden style, or an operetta. How delightful it
would be!"
" I will do anything to please you, of course," he an-
swered.
" Do that, then. May I choose the subject ?"
" Yes—no—that is, I cannot write a piece to order,
but I receive suggestions."
Ingaretha, full of the play, turned to Bene and said—
"I have a splendid idea. Monsieur Bend guesses
without a word, I know."
" I can't guess anything to-night. I am stupid," poor
Bend answered; adding, " and sad besides."
She did not heed the latter part of the speech, saying
playfully—
" But you have no right to be stupid to-night. It is
unreasonable."
She went on talking about the play to Mr. Carew.
Bend grew more and more miserable. He was about
to sacrifice himself for this woman, as none other of her
lovers or friends would sacrifice themselves, and was
chidden for a sorrowful look and word. It was true,
she did not know of his intention, but she knew his love
for her, the length and breadth and depth of it, only too
Going into Exile.
121
well. How could she treat him thus ? He took an
opportunity of stealing away, and left the house without
having said good-night.
CHAPTER XVI,
going into exile.
Ren£ rose whilst the mists of early autumn lay thick
upon the turnip-fields, and the labourers might be heard
whistling as they trudged off to their work; the dreary
tramp, tramp, tramp of children's footsteps might be
heard also, going in gangs to the far-off task of stone-
picking. He did not wake Maddio, who slept like a
year-old baby, but crept downstairs, knapsack in hand,
and having breakfasted with his host, the rat-catcher,
started off for St. Beowulf's Bury. He had gone about
a hundred yards when the sound of hurried steps and a
young voice made him look back.
It was little Mattie, the rat-catcher's daughter, as
pretty a rosebud of a woman as you would find in all
the rustic homes of Culpho, just sixteen, all dimples and
blushes and shyness, who held the two foreign gentle-
men in as much awe, despite their simple ways, as if
they had been John Wesley and the great Suwarrow;
the two heroes whose biographies formed the bulk of the
home library.
" What's the matter, little Mattie V he said. " I left
nothing behind me. Ah! I forgot to pay as much as I
owed, perhaps V
He brought out a handful of money, the sum-total of
his worldly goods.
122
The Sy Ives ires.
She came to a standstill at his feet, like a pink and
white blossom that drifts to the ground.
" Oh! no," she said, kneeling down upon one knee,
with inexpressible childlike grace. " But you forgot to
take any food with you, and father said you are going
all the way to Ipswich."
It had been Mattie's office to pack the bread and cold
meat with which Bene and Maddio usually provided
themselves before setting out on an excursion. She
now unfolded her apron, and brought forward a little
bundle of provisions, and a couple of large gold and
amber coloured-pears, looking so shy, so pretty, and so
persuasive, that he not only accepted the gifts, but,
taking her rosy chin in his hands, gave her a kiss.
What was it ? A careless kiss given to a pretty child
011 a sunshiny morning. Ben4 smiled down upon her,
thinking he had done, if not a common, a knightly thing;
but the girl turned scarlet, dropped her long eyelashes
over tear-wet, affronted eyes, emptied her apron on the-
ground, and scuttled away like a scared rabbit. He
called her name, whistled, went back a few paces,
paused, watched in vain. Mattie had not been to the
Sunday-school all these years, under the eye of Beverend
Madams, without having learned how to behave herself.
She would tell father, she said to herself at first, shutting
herself up in her bedroom, pouting and crying. To be
kissed like a flaunting creature at a fair, forsooth! and she
a motherless girl! the best-conducted of Mr. Whitelock's
confirmation class! But, on second and calmer thoughts,
she decided to keep her secret, and all that golden
autumn day was longing to see the culprit again whose
sin against her had been so unpardonable and so sweet.
Meantime Bene, having dismissed pretty Mattie from
Going into Exile.
123
liis thoughts—the man steals forbidden fruit a hundred
times, and forgets; the woman but once, and remem-
bers for ever!—was making the best of his way to St.
Beowulf's.
His heart sank within him when he thought of the
Paradise he had left behind, and the desert towards
which he was turning his face. Tossed hither and
thither on the sea of political and social trouble, In-
garetha's presence was ever the Bower of Bliss in which
he rested, drinking from clear streams of joy and con-
tentment. If sometimes the fearful sufferings of his
youth came upon him with such force as to dull the
sense of hope and enjoyment, an unlooked-for kind-
ness on her part—a written word, a message, a
flower—brought back a better mood. He had come to
England, on Monsieur Sylvestre's invitation, to find
life enchanting. But the dream was over, the vision
had faded, the story was brought to a sudden end.
How could he stay, seeing that he loved Ingaretha,
and that she cared for him? All that was best and
manliest in his nature pleaded on her behalf. He
knew well enough that she was too generous to bid
him go. She would never bid his fellow-wanderers
do this, however much trouble they might bring
upon her. Was not that a sufficient reason for the
resolve to which he had bound himself ? These revolu-
tionary ideas of his leader's—these uncompromising
theories of liberty, equality, and fraternity—these
golden Utopias of honoured toil and universal well-
being—could only be carried out at her risk and at
her cost. Socialism was not a Midas turning every-
thing into gold. Socialism had knocked at her door, a
beggar in rags, and she had fed, clothed, caressed it.
124
The Sylvestres.
Let all the world be made tools of in the good cause,
he said, only let Ingaretha be spared!
Here, in this rich, happy England, there was room
enough for revolutionists. Ingaretha lived like some
fairy-tale princess, surrounded by bowers, lawns, and
gardens, only having to hold out her hand for the thing
she longed for; but outside her park-gates existed ill-
fed, ignorant, superstitious peasants, whom no mere
Lady Bountiful could have formed into happy, rational,
dignified beings. She might build cottages for them,
distribute doles, charge herself with the care of the sick
and the aged, make feasts and festivals, open schools for
the children, talk to both men and women in friendly
fashion, offer a cordial hand to the first she met coming
out of church on Sunday. In doing all this, she did
well and nobly, but the wrongs of labour and poverty
were not so to be put right. Here and there, under such
good influences, individual debasement and individual
wretchedness might vanish; the fundamental injustice
of the social system, which, like the worm in the heart
of a rose, gnawed at the prosperity of a free and beau-
tiful country, would still remain untouched.
As he thought of these things, wondering what In-
garetha would do with her life—that inner life from
which Sunday-schools and cottagers' homes and parish
reformation stood far apart—the question arose, what
should he do with his own ?
He thought of one or two friends of his, members of
the fraternity of Fourierists; this settled in the Far
West, that on the borders of the Sahara, a third earning
his bread and sowing the good seed in Alsatia, a fourth
—further away than all—in the furthermost settle-
ments of Bussia. To which should he turn? They
Going into Exile.
125
were all his brothers; their loaf would be his loaf, their
bed his bed, their purse his purse till the last. His
coming would be received with joy, his departure would
call forth tears.
But he hesitated. An ardent Socialist, a believer in
the reconstruction of society by means of association,
he still held back from making a fresh experiment.
The heart-breaking experiences of the Algerian colony
were fresh in his mind. He had neither forgotten the
plague of locusts, nor the famine, nor the fever. He
said to himself that it were better to let the rich fields
of speculation and theory lie fallow for awhile, and till,
sow, and garner in a crop of the practical and tangible,
no matter how scanty.
He had not spent two months and a half in England
for nothing. He saw that this so-called Socialism, at
which the respectable masses take such affront, was no
foreign plant, striking unwilling root into uncongenial
soil, but a force, vigorous and healthy as the growth of
a forest oak, whose adamantine roots were spreading
wider and wider, whose branches towered over lesser
trees with majesty, whose crown and flower of prime
maturity the world had not yet seen. This leaguing to-
gether of the upholders of free labour, of co-operation,
of peace, and of liberty, this outcry for education, for
political rights of both sexes and all grades, for tolera-
tion in thought, for emancipation from theological thral-
dom, but expressed, to his thinking, all more or less
definitely the dreams of Owen, of St. Simon, of Fourier,
of Proudhon, and the noble brotherhood of Eeformers.
Could a disciple of any one of these do better than
throw in his lot with that of the working man?—whether
of France, Germany, or England, matt^ed little so long
126
The Sylvestres.
as Liberty was tbeir creed, and Peace their watchword.
A life devoted to such a cause might be dreary com-
pared with that he had lived for the last few months,
the dweller "in sunny lands, the friend and companion
of such a woman as Ingaretha; but life fortunately was
a thing of decades, not of centuries, and life would draw
to an end.
After all, he said to himself, he was a working man,
ay, lower in the social scale than that—a gipsy, a vaga-
bond, an outcast! He had tasted the bitterness of
hunger and thirst, of cold and nakedness, of homeless-
ness and exile. He had earned his bread with the sweat
of his brow, his hands had never been white or soft.
Wherever he went, he found working men whose exist-
ence had been luxurious compared with his own. Surely
he would be received with open arms into the guild of
the struggling and the oppressed of any nation ? He
would serve the good cause all the more effectually
since he had no other ties. He had neither parent nor
wife, neither sister nor brother. In all the cemeteries
of the world, there was no grave to which he was in
duty bound to carry immortelles and flowers. When he
died, Ingaretha would weep, and his good comrades,
Euphrosyne, Maddio, and Monsieur Sylvestre, would be
sure to grieve; but how little difference it would make
to them!
All these thoughts came and went as he hastened that
autumn morning to St. Beowulf's. The field of purple
beetroot, and bright green turnip glowed in the early sun-
shine, the cleared harvest fields looked golden against the
intense blue sky, the hedges were shining with ripe
berries, black and red \ nature seemed as gay as if it
were spring.
The Gates of Eden are Open. i'l j
From St. Beowulf's to Harwich was an easy ride by
rail, and there he found a steamer on the point of start-
ing for Blackwall.
Rene's self-given title of a working man must be taken
with certain reservations. He knew well enough that
his membership of such a guild hung upon a thread, and
that the plebeian origin of which he boasted could be
easily disproved. In the first place, as Ingaretha had
gathered from his lips, he was> born no beggar-boy, no
progeny of those who earn their bread by the sweat of
their brow, but the son of a proud and unfortunate
French exile—sole democrat of an aristocratic family—
whose wanderings had ended in Rome. Did he accept
Ingaretha's pity and gold pieces ? Yes, but he could
have had gold pieces in plenty—the less said about pity
the better—if he had chosen to return to his own people
and say to them, " I am a renegade, like him who begot
me. Forgive my sins and his. Give me food, shelter,
name, and I will never discredit you by loving liberty
and the people too well"
Occasionally he had let fall, chancewise, some inkling
of this discarded birthright; once or twice he had named
names ; to Madame Sylvestre he had even gone further
than this ; but on the surface, and before all, he was a
working man, owning no other kinship.
CHAPTER XVII.
the gates of eden are opened.
Of cotlrse Ingaretha knew well enough why Rene went
away, and was a little glad, and very sorry> both for his
128
The Sylvestres.
sake and her own. He went to spare her. It was gene-
rous, self-devoted, nay, noble. He had left behind him
a happy life, friends, the woman he held dear, and set
out as an emigrant seeking a new home and a new
country. True friend, Rene ! If she could only have
recalled him, to say, " Be happy!"
But though his absence weighed upon her spirits, and
for days and weeks her laugh seemed to belong to some
one else, and silence often took possession of her un-
awares, she resolutely set to work on behalf of those left
behind. The negotiations for Pilgrim's Hatch occupied
much of her time and thoughts during the few weeks
preceding Michaelmas-day—to ingoing and outgoing
farmers the most important day of the year. What
with the lawyer, the farmer, and the farm steward—for
Mrs. Minifie's secret naturally exploded in a moment of
wrath, and Mr. Minifie now sat on the council board—she
had a hard battle to fight. Grindstone wouldn't sharpen
knife, knife wouldn't cut stick, stick wouldn't beat pig,
pig wouldn't go to market, and dame couldn't get home
to-night. The farmer, egged on by Mr. Minifie, set a
high price on his farm, and stuck to it. The lawyer,
determined to keep Ingaretha's money in her pocket, set
a lower figure, and stuck to it also; and Michaelmas-
day drew nearer and nearer. At last matters were
brought to a climax by a concession on the part* of the
lady.
" Dear Mr. Mede," she said to her old friend coax-
ingly, " let us hire the farm. It is only seventy acres,
a kind of bigger garden, after all. I don't want to throw
money into the fire; but I do want to make my friends
happy. Let me stock it; six or seven hundred pounds,
I think Mr. Minifie said, would do that, and a little
The Gates of Eden are Opened. 129
more; and surely I can afford to lend a friend seven
hundred pounds."
" Give it, you mean," growled Mr. Mede.
She laid her hand on the old man's arm insinuatingly.
" Oh! Mr. Mede, would it he a crime to do that ?
And my uncle lately left me a thousand pounds to buy
trinkets with, which I have not touched."
" "Well, my dear, I suppose you must have your way.
But, mind, Minifie sees to the stock, crop, and valua-
tion. Minifie supervises—ahem—these friends of yours.
Everything will go to rack and ruin else."
Ingaretha coloured, and started back with an affronted
look.
" I couldn't accept an Eden on those terms," she said.
" T can offer no better, and now or never is your time
for accepting them."
At first Ingaretha was disposed to gather up her
riding skirts and go her ways, never to speak of the
matter to Mr. Mede any more. But friendship for her
old adviser prevailed; and seeing her so amenable to
reason, and so sweet and respectful to himself, the
lawyer temporised. First the one ceded an inch, then
the other an inch, and so on, till each had got, if not as
much ground as was asked for, at least as much as could
be reasonably expected.
Then there was Mr. Minifie to confront. Ingaretha
met him with a childishly crestfallen air.
" Mr. Mede will have you mixed up in the matter,"
she said, with an attempt at a smile; and that was all.'
The two forthwith rushed in medias res, Ingaretha
ignoring the triumphant little twinkle that, for the life
of him, Mr. Minifie could not suppress. It is true that,
but for his wife's by-play in the first instance, the farm
9
no
The Sylvestres.
would have been his own; he hardly grudged it now,
seeing the conditions imposed upon those who had fore-
stalled him.
" I always warned you not to interfere with my affairs,
Janey," he said, as soon as Ingaretha was gone. "You
see what has come of it."
"Things might have been worse," Mrs. Minifie re-
torted. " You hoard up so much money, that I am afraid
the ground will open, and swallow you up as you walk
along. Remember Korah, Dathan, and Abiram. The
loss of this farm is perhaps a last chance of salvation
to you."
"Janey, do leave off preaching," began Mr. Minifie,
too elated just then to quarrel.
" Give me some of my money, then, and I will be
quiet for a year. Only twenty pounds of my own
money!" begged the poor woman, with a pitiful mixture
of entreaty and reproach.
" Twenty pounds!" echoed Mr. Minifie, opening his
eyes. " What on earth would you do with it V
" It is a very little to ask for, and I am getting old. I
shall soon be too old to care about anything. We can't
carry our money to the grave with us. Why not enjoy
it now V
"Well, what do you call enjoying itV
He looked so good-natured that Mrs. Minifie took
heart and pleaded her cause more earnestly.
"You can't say that I have ever been an extravagant
wife, Charlie. I dress no better than a curate's wife.
I am content to eat beans and bacon day after day. I
keep no company. But twenty pounds now and then
would enable me to give such useful little presents to
my friends 1"
The Gates of Eden are Opened 131
"Oh!" was Mr. Minifie's answer; and straightway
turned upon his heel, she calling after him, in her rage
and disappointment:
"I will steal it! I will pick your pockets like a
thief! I will have a little of my own money by fair
means or foul!"
She stamped with rage and cried, poor creature, at
thinking of the gifts she had intended to make—a
silk dress for pretty Amy, a doll's house for little Bina,
a Sunday frock for all the children, and something use-
ful and pretty for the dear foreigners, Monsieur and
Madame Sylvestre. Her life was so dull and emotion-
less that the idea of affording these kindly souls a
momentary elation had been like food, psalm-reading,
and poetry to her for days past. Ah! how happy she
had been in the bygone days of freedom and old-
maidhood ! Then the golden sovereigns came and went
like good angels, doing their daily work of duty and
beneficence. What proteges she had in that unfettered,
careless time! What friends amongst the children,
what adorers among the needy, what allies among the
helpless ! And now she stood friendless and alone as
a withered tree, to whom nature had denied both flower
and fruit. This blessed state of marriage that poets and
romancists extolled to heaven—this union of two lives,
two souls, and two hearts in one—might be to some a
beautiful reality or a dream; to herself it had been a
farce, a tragedy, the contemplation of which shamed
her before God and man.
There was nothing to do now but bear it. Tor-
tunately, when the bitterness of her last mortification
was fresh in her mind, came a kind little note from
Ingaretha. Mr. Minifie had promised to see that the
9—2
132
The SyIves tres.
stock should be good and abundant; but there was the
house to furnish and make ready. Would Mrs. Miniiio
help her in making these preparations %
The two ladies worked hard, and achieved wonders.
An old-fashioned farm-house, with due reservation be it
said, is often as comfortless a domicile as a caravansary
in the wilds of the desert. Good drinking water is not
to be had within a mile; bed-rooms are without fire-
places; floors are so uneven as to give one the idea of
an earthquake; the apple-chamber, being situated in
the middle of the house, and filled with apples from
Michaelmas till May-day, emits an overpowering and
monotonous savour. The cheese-room may not happen
to be at a respectful distance from the sleeping apart-
ments. The parlour has generally a brick floor, pleasant
enough in July, but far from grateful at Christmas,
Money works small miracles; good sense works great
ones. It was quite marvellous how soon the little
homestead of Pilgrim's Hatch became transformed under
Ingaretha's supervision.
As yet not a syllable had been breathed to Monsieur
and Madame Sylvestre about their good luck; but on
the eve of Michaelmas-day, Ingaretha ordered her little
pony-carriage to be brought to the door, and, looking
radiant, invited them to drive with her to a farm that
might suit them.
" A very modest little place," she said; " but I think
you would not be dissatisfied with such a beginning."
Monsieur Sylvestre delighted in handling the reins as
much as a schoolboy, and by this time, had occasioned
many a mischief to Ingaretha's horses, carriages, and
harness. Without waiting for an invitation, he jumped
The Gates of Eden are Opened,\ 133
into the driver's seat, flourished the whip, and drove off
after his own showy but unsafe fashion.
"Any beginning will satisfy me, my dear young
lady," he said, " a field, an acre, nay, a garden. Eome
was not built in a day; and the glorious harvest of
Socialism may be sowed chancewise by vagrants like
myself, as flower-seed by humble insects."
" Mind the gate !" said Ingaretha.
" Think," he continued, waiting impatiently till the
park gate was opened, "how the face of all things
might be changed in this favoured spot if the ideas of
the divine Fourier were disseminated. The earth brings
forth abundantly, and her fruits are duly gathered in;
but by whom ? By those who believe in the nobility
of toil ? By those who share in its rewards ? By
those who feel themselves members of one great brother-
hood ? No ; rather by those whom poverty and igno-
ranee have so degraded that, in their persons, toil be-
comes degradation; by those who, far from sharing the
first fruits of the earth, are content with the shells and
husks thereof; by those who have no common fellow-
ship except with deprivation, and wrong, and misery "
"We are driving into the ditch!" interrupted In-
garetha.
The ditch was avoided, and the speaker continued :
" I thought you English loved freedom, till I came to
live among you. What does your much-vaunted liberty
amount to ? The poor are free, I grant. Your lords of
the manor and grand seigneurs no longer possess the
right of pit and cross-way. You cannot bury your
peasants alive, or gibbet them if they happen to dis-
please you. But is not ignorance the worst of slavery ?
Better not to be born, saith Plato, than to be untaught.
134
The SylvestreS.
And in that slavery you have kept them for centuries
hound hand and foot."
"We are overturned!" cried Madame Sylvestre, in
great terror; and, true enough, the little carriage was
on the point of running into a heap of timber lying by
the roadside, when Ingaretha's timely seizure of the
reins averted the catastrophe.
" I lose all patience," continued Monsieur Sylvestre,
" when I read what your orators and your journalists,
not to speak of your historians, say about this same
liberty of the people. Eyes have they, but they see not;
ears have they, but they hear not. With such spectacles
as the pauperism of London and the misery of Man-
Chester ever before them, they still hug this delusion to
their souls—liberty of the people."
" Oh! we are in the miller's cart!" cried Ingaretha.
This time the collapse was inevitable. Bon Quixote's
onslaught upon the windmills was hardly fiercer than
this charge of Ingaretha's pony upon the miller's lazy
cob.
There was a scrimmage and a great dispersion of dust,
from which emerged, first the ladies, then the drivers,
then the animals, all looking more or less rueful. The
harness having been temporarily adjusted, and the
miller's ruffled temper smoothed down by Ingaretha's
apologies, the little party made the rest of their journey
on foot.
The short, bright autumn afternoon was drawing to a
close when they reached the farm. The front-windows
glowed fiery red in the rays of the declining sun; the
orchard was lustrous with ripened pear, apple, and
plum: Michaelmas daisies, cabbage roses, and other
homely flowers brightened the little garden; the meadows
The Gates of Eden are Opened. 135
lay bathed in yellow light; beautiful white ducks were
swimming in the pond; broods of plump late chickens
strayed here and there.
Ah! how happy was Ingaretha as she led her en-
chanted friends over the peaceful place, pointing out
this thing and that; first the dairy, with its cool marble
slabs and wooden milk-troughs, shining and white, its
bright red jars half a yard high, full of salted cream for
the next day's churning; then the pantries, airy, dusky,
capacious; then the kitchen and the back-kitchen, its
red brick floors just washed down; then the apple-
chamber, and the little bedrooms, old-fashioned, small-
windowed, built anyhow, with big cupboards and unac-
countable ascents and descents, and perfumes of honey-
suckle coming in at every opening; last of all, she led
them into what she called, after country fashion, the
best parlour of the house.
Exclamations of surprise fell from her companions,
and no wonder. Here were soft carpets, book-shelves,
books, pictures, a cottage piano, one or two statuettes, a
writing-table, a velvet arm-chair, a blue-grey paper
with a dash of gold in it, gold-fringed curtains to the
little bay-window that looked pleasantly on to the shady
orchard.
"What taste!—what luxury!" cried Euphrosyne.
" Surely this farmer can have been no common man!"
Her husband was turning over the books that lay
upon the table with extreme inquisitiveness.
"Can I believe my eyes?" he cried delightedly. "Here
is Eobert Owen's ' Book of the Moral World,' and that
book of books, 'La Philosophic Positive;' and the entire
works of Charles Fourier."
He uttered an involuntary ejaculation, held a volume
136
The Sytvestres.
to the window, looked again and again, then called to
Euphrosyne to look also. His own name was written
on the title-page! '
Ho one knew how it happened, but the secret was out
without a word. Ingaretha gave a hand to each, half
laughing, half crying. They kissed lier, they kissed
each other in an ecstacy of hope, joy, and gratitude; and
when the first surprise had passed away, talked trem-
blingly of their good fortune, dreading, like happy
dreamers, lest the spell should soon be broken!
CHAPTER XVIII.
first days in paradise.
The prodigal son doubtless felt himself a wholly different
creature when arrayed in the purple robe, the shoes, and
the gold ring, and was, of course, differently appraised
by his neighbours. Good repute is of more account than
hidden nobility. "We are valued less for what we are
than for what others think us. Ingaretha's beneficent
care of her friends worked so well that they soon found
themselves on the road to popularity. It did not trouble
people much how they got to Pilgrim's Hatch; there
they were, vagabonds and hangers-on no longer, but
respectable tithe-payers, having a pew at church, cows,
horses, and pigs, good furniture, a little pony and gig
and all kinds of title-deeds to respectability.
Maddio, who had left his narrow quarters at the rat-
catcher's and joined his friends, was in a state of joy
impossible to describe. This little farm was surely a
First Days in Paradise.
137
corner of the Promised Land flowing with milk and
honey. He might weep for Bene now and then, but he
felt sure that Bene would come back; and meantime he
could not resist enjoying to the full the good things the
gods had provided.
Not the least of these seemed the flattering homage of
the neighbourhood. For now was seen the phenomenon
of a conservative and church-going population hugging
to its bosom the last-born child of revolutions and
heresies, namely, Socialism; if not the Socialism gene-
rally understood by the name, Socialism still, ardent,
aggressive, undaunted, armed to the teeth with pen in-
stead of sword, sworn to break down the unjust barriers
society had set up, to free labour from the curse of igno-
ranee, weakness from the toils of power, poverty from
the oppression of wealth; to reconstruct society, in fact,
by elevating the humble and pulling down the mighty.
The first to pay its respects to reinstated worth was
the church, represented in the person of Mr. Whitelock.
In the good rector's eyes, Monsieur Sylvestre, the tatter-
demalion democrat, had been hitherto merely a soul to
be saved; but Monsieur Sylvestre transformed into a
tithe-payer, possibly churchwarden, voter for the borough
also, was a power to be conciliated. Accordingly he pre-
sented himself at Pilgrim's Hatch with propitiatory gifts
in the shape of a couple of sixpenny hymn-books and
half-a-dozen tracts, which he offered in so unconscious,
nay, superior a manner as to disarm the criticism of his
well-bred proteges. Monsieur Sylvestre made his grand
bow, Euphrosyne her best curtsey, Maddio smiled and
nodded.
Then there seemed nothing to be done or said.
"I hope we shall be good friends," Mr. Whitelock
t3$ The Sytvestret
began after a pause. " It is my earnest wish to live at
peace with all mankind, especially my parishioners."
"We are the most harmless people in the world,"
answered Monsieur Sylvestre. " The revolution we want
to bring about is entirely a peaceable one."
" You want to bring about a revolution ?" asked the
rector.
" Don't be alarmed, my dear sir. Far be it from us
to pursue the blood and iron policy of bygone con-
querors. We wage no murderous battles, we make no
allies of tyrants and slave-drivers. The inkpot is our
only weapon, the printing press our only arsenal—these
in a free country like your England are omnipotent."
This speech a little eased the rector's mind.
" I was thinking revolutionists could find little to do
here," he said. " It seems to me that the people have
too much of everything already—liberty, education,
charity. The rich demoralise the poor by being too
good to them."
"We reformers think, on the contrary, that the poor
demoralise the rich by being too good to them. There
is the difference," Monsieur Sylvestre answered suavely.
" But all these things will be set right in time. You,
Monsieur le Eector, will wake one day to find the divine
law of equality established, the dignity of labour recog-
nised, and men and women working together harmoni-
ously in the cause of progress and humanity."
" I will put that in my next sermon if you will allow
me," said the rector, bringing out his note-book. " I
differ slightly from your sentiments, but the words will
impress my congregation."
" Ah! Monsieur le Eector, only let me have your
school-room for an evening, and I will enunciate my
First Fays in Paradise.
139
Views in a manner that shall enthrall even these dull-
headed villagers."
" I cannot do that, at least at present. But you will
oblige me very greatly by reading the lessons on Sundays
sometimes."
" I shall, be enchanted to obey the summons of Mon-
sieur le Rector."
" And perhaps Madame will help with the singing."
" My wife will, I am sure, do all in her power; and
my friend here, Signor Maddio, though he has not much
voice, delights in making himself useful."
" Really, it is most kind of you to propose this," said
the rector, shaking hands all round. "We expect the
bishop here in the autumn, and I am very anxious that
my choir should not be found inferior to others in the
place. I shall expect you at the school-room to-morrow
night at eight o'clock for practice there, and I hope in
any case we may meet at church next Sunday."
Thus ended the rector's visit of ceremony. In the
wake of the church followed the world, represented by
a widow lady and her two daughters, the first pensive
and a poetess, the last spiritual and enthusiastic, as be-
hoved the daughters of a poetess to be. These ladies —
especially the elder one—knew a great deal of the world.
They had travelled in Italy, could speak French and
play classic music; which qualifications, added to a
dilution of blue blood in their veins, raised them above
the only society within their reach. Here stood oppor-
tunity with a long forelock, and they clutched it eagerly.
A colony of polished foreigners, able to play and sing, to
quote poetry and sketch in water-colours, was a godsend
indeed to three rather lone ladies doing gentility on a
hundred and fifty pounds a year. It was quite new to
140 The Sylvestres.
them to he invited to tea by strangers, to be indulged
with stories of adventure, with dissertations upon things
lying beyond the horizon of their daily life, to be made
much of in spite of their shabby silks, to be smiled at
from and to the heart.
"Do you think," said Monsieur Sylvestre, as he proudly
led the way through the poultry-yard, orchard, and dairy,
" that we intend to keep all these good things to our-
selves ? Fortune having bestowed bountifully, shall we
distribute with niggardliness ? Eather let us give with
the left hand what the right receives. Thus, and thus
only, can we propagate our ideas."
" In a few weeks," put in Maddio, rubbing his hands
joyfully, "you will see our school built and my work
begun. We open it to young and old, church-goers and
dissenters. If there are ladies wanting careers here, we
can offer them such as are not wanting in temptation."
Now it happened that careers were just what the
ladies in question anticipated, feeling as if they were
being slowly upheaved from a glacial period of death-
like monotony to living, varied life. They went home
and spent the rest of the evening in searching for such
words as Solidarite, Phalanstere, and so on, in their
French dictionary.
After the church and the world came, of course, the
flesh and the devil, represented by Mr. Minifie, who was
far too wary to let spite and disappointment stand in the
way of self-interest. It was Miss Meadowcourt's hobby
to squander her money upon adventurers; it was his
business to humour her hobbies. So he rode to Pilgrim's
Hatch with the express purpose of paying court to
Madame Sylvestre, and said a dozen officious and good-
natiued things, which the poor lady received gratefully.
First Days in Paradise.
i4r
She thought affairs must go well so long as they re-
mained under such scrutiny as Mr. Minifie's.
Mrs. Minifie, of course, came,- bringing the curate's
wife, Bina, Sammie, and Pennie in her mausoleum upon
wheels. The children found it as good as going to see
Ingaretha, what with the plums, the poultry-yard, and
the plentiful supplies of cake.
" Will you come to my school?" asked Maddio of the
two younger children, as he sat with one upon each knee.
"Sammie, you speak first," said Pennie, her mouth
being full of cake.
" Well, you will have done before me, you know,"
Sammie answered, with an epicurean look at the delicious
morsel in his hand. " Yes, I will come to your school, if
you promise me two things."
"And what are they ?"
" You pay me a penny a week for setting a pattern to
the other boys, and let me do as I like with it. Mrs.
Pollard gives me shillings, but makes me promise to
put them into the missionary plate, and I like nuts
and oranges better than the heathens," Sammie said
pathetically.
" And I will come to your school if you always let me
sit near Sammie," Pennie said.
"Nuts and oranges!" cried Sammie, in a reproachful
voice.
" And what must I do for Miss Bina ?" asked Maddio.
" Bina doesn't care about anything so long as we little
ones behave well," Pennie said. " She's not nearly so
greedy as we are."
"She ought to be," was on Maddio's tongue; for
poor little Bina's precocious conscientiousness and self-
devotion troubled him greatly. He merely said:
142
The Sylvestres.
" Bina shall help me and sit at the teachers' table.
They get nuts and oranges sometimes."
" Without learning lessons!" cried Pennie, opening
her large eyes. " Oh, Sammie!"
Soon Amy came to call her chicks together, and then
began the business of packing up for the return home.
The little ones were stowed away in cosy corners, when
Monsieur Sylvestre appeared, carrying a well-filled
basket.
" I cannot let you go, dear Madame Greenfield," he
said, with a smile of exhilaration, " empty-handed guest
from miserly-hearted host. Accept these simple pledges
of future friendship and mutual good offices."
Amy blushed and smiled ruefully, stammering out a
few words of thanks as best she could. His liberality
touched while it mortified her. How could she repay
it ? How could she refuse it ?
" I see a pair of chickens' legs!" cried Sammie, peer-
ing into the basket.
"And I see a round parcel that smells like cake,"
said Pennie quite delightedly.
" And ducks' eggs lie in the corner. Oh, mamma!
is it too late to set the hen ?" Bina asked, with visions
of ducklings swimming before her eyes.
As soon as the visitors were gone, Monsieur Sylvestre
dropped on the sofa with a sigh of fatigue.
" Suppose, my child," he said to Euphrosyne, " we
have some supper. What with rising at three o'clock
in the morning, working in the sun, and entertaining
so many kind friends, I feel inclined now for food and
repose."
Euphrosyne laid the cloth with alacrity; the little
damsel-of-all-work was sent into the garden to fetch
First Days in Paradise,
143
fruit and salad, and Maddio proceeded to the cellar to
draw some ale. Presently Euphrosyne returned with a
rueful face:
" Surely," she said, " thieves have burst into the
house. There is not a vestige of the stores that de-
lighted my heart this morning. The eggs, the cold fowl,
the ham, have all clean vanished!"
" Make your mind easy, dear little wife," said the
philosopher. " The thief is myself; and I but trans-
ferred the good things to others more needy."
" But surely, dear husband, the cheese was not put
into Amy's basket, nor the loaves I baked this very
morning, nor the pastry of which you are so fond ?"
" Have no fear, they are all well bestowed," Monsieur
Sylvestre answered, yawning. " Our good ploughman's
first-born son was christened on Sunday, and shall the
happy parents not feast at my expense ? Of what good
is it for us to live in the midst of plenty, if we with-
hold the share that is due to our brothers V
Here Maddio appeared, bearing an empty jug in his
hand, with an expression of the blankest dismay.
" It is but the third day after broaching our cask,
and lo ! already it is empty!" he said, looking from one
to the other for an explanation.
Monsieur Sylvestre's tranquil mood was not to be
ruffled.
"Well, my children," he said, "let us eat of the
fruit from our garden and drink from the water of our
spring. If the supply is not equal for our appetites, at
least we sit down to our scanty board with a clear
conscience."
Euphrosyne returned to the pantry on an expedition
of discovery, and brought forth of the remnants that
144
The Sylvestres.
remained a few crusts of bread and some cold vegetables.
Maddio prepared a salad. They supped as if nothing
had happened, and went to bed hungry, with a good
grace.
CHAPTEE XIX.
the reconstruction of society is begun.
Monsieur Sylvestre's ambition was far from satisfied.
He valued h'is new position much more as a stepping-
stone to social power than as a guarantee of material
comfort. To eat, drink, and he soft were trifles com-
pared with the noble task of sowing the seeds of progress
and humanitarian principle. Who could tell how soon
the individual prosperity in which Euphrosyne and
Maddio delighted might vanish ? But universal truth
could never die; and to be an apostle of it, however
humble, was what he craved above all things. How
could he here best spread the truth ? The parish
church was shut to him. If he distributed pamphlets
to the unlettered, they would not understand- them. If
he published books for the educated, they would not
buy them. He felt rich enough to print, publish, and
give away any amount of books, but he knew well
enough how feeble were written symbols in comparison
with living words. To preach to the people was his
only chance of making converts. He cogitated and
cogitated,
There was a shabby-genteel residence in the village,
too magnificent for the poor, and too incommodious for
the rich, which had been untenanted for years, and on
The Reconstructio?i of Society is Begun. I45
this he cast longing eyes. It belonged to Ingaretha,
who had alternately proposed to rise it as a sanatorium
for sick children, a village library, an almshouse for old
women; as yet none of these schemes had been carried
out. Would Ingaretha fall into his plan, and turn the
shabby-genteel residence into a hall of art, science, and
recreation ? Ingaretha consented, and straightway
wrote a cheque for fifty pounds to cover necessary
expenses. Monsieur Sylvestre, Maddio, and Euphrosyne
—the former excellent carpenters, painters, and masons,
the latter a good upholsterer—set to work, aided by
village workmen, and, as if by magic, the thing was
done! The dining-room, kitchen, and drawing-room
had been thrown into one, forming a tolerably spacious,
if not lofty, lecture-hall; by a similar process the upper
rooms had been turned into one large reading-room.
The walls of the hall were hung with portraits and
illuminated mottoes from various socialist and philo-
sophic writers, old and new. Prominently printed in
enormous red and gold letters, was Comte's famous
maxim, "The only right of man is to do his duty;"
above it were the words of Baboeuf, " In an equitable
state of society there ought to be neither rich nor poor."
Fourier's "Treatise on Association," and the "Chants
des Travailleurs," had been ransacked for telling phrases.
The ceiling was covered with a series of fresco paintings,
representing the apotheosis of labour according to the
notions of Fourier. In one corner might be seen a
stately team of oxen unyoked drawing a plough to the
sound of a child's flute; in a second, bands of ladies
and gentlemen in appropriate costumes were performing
the work of a harvest-field, and so on; the centre-piece
represented an enormous palace-like building, sui-
10
t4-S The Sylvestres.
rounded by galleries and flower-gardens, under whicli
was written Phalanstery, or Associated Home. The
library, as yet in embryo, seemed likely to educate the
village youth after a somewhat novel fashion. Among
the books were De Toe's "Political' Tracts," Owen's
" Pational System," De Tocqueville's " State of Trance
before the Eevolution," and other works calculated to
inspire democratic feeling.
"I must teach the young people to think," said
Monsieur Sylvestre, as he triumphantly led Ingaretha
from shelf to shelf.
"Teach them to read first," she answered, with a
smile.
" Ah! that difficulty did not occur to me."
She promised to send a supply of spelling-books, and
suggested that maps might take the place of some of
the portraits on the walls. He conceded one point
after another, till there seemed a fair chance of the
village library proving practically useful.
The ceremony of opening was the next question.
Ingaretha proposed a sumptuous tea for the poor people
by way of commencement, and a musical entertainment,
with dissolving views and tableaux vivants to follow.
Monsieur Sylvestre assented to the first, but thought
that the after-entertainment should be of a more in-
tellectual nature. He wanted, in fact, to deliver a
discourse. As he spoke English well, and was largely
gifted with eloquence, there seemed nothing to say
against this proposition, except that no one would
understand him,
" It is very impertinent of me to say so," Ingaretha
said; " but indeed, dear friend, you will never succeed
in reaching the understandings of these poor people.
The Reconstruction of Society is Begun. 147
They can comprehend what Mr. Whitelock says on
Sunday, because he has said it a thousand times.
What you have to say will be as mysterious as if you
read the Koran in Arabic to them."
"Then let us gather together the enlightened, and
so penetrate the lower strata of society from above. I
cannot give up my pet project of opening your Hall of
Arts with a discourse, unless worthy orators are to be
found."
He said this with a self-conscious smile. Only grant
him a hearing, and he felt sure that he could charm the
senses of the obtuse villagers as the sirens charmed the
mariners of old. Ingaretha yielded to his importunities,
and sat down to word a form of gracious invitation to
the upper ten thousand of St. Beowulf. A village
library and lecture-room was to be opened on such and
such a day, she wrote, and her friend, Monsieur Syl-
vestre, was to give a lecture.
"On the Perfectibility of the Human Pace by means
of Socialism," put in Monsieur Syl vestre, looking over
her shoulder.
"Ho; I dare not use the last word; you would be
looked upon as a Mormon."
"On the Bemodelling of Society upon the system of
Phalansteries V
" Hobody would have the faintest conception of your
meaning. You must choose something simpler."
"Well, then, I will lecture on the Millennium or
Golden Age."
" That will do."
Accordingly the upper ten were invited to hear a
discourse upon the Millennium. This title had a proper
theological look about it, and life being dull in' these
10—2
148
The Sylvestres.
parts, anything in the shape of distraction was seized
upon greedily. They accepted. The programme was
of the most original kind. First came the tea for
the workmen, their wives, and children downstairs, then
some old English ditties sung with accompaniments, an
opening address read by Mr. Greenfield, Monsieur
Sylvestre's discourse on the Millennium, and finally,
tea, ices, and conversation.
No pains were spared to make the occasion as gala-
like as possible. It was a cardinal point of Monsieur
Sylvestre's doctrine, and of Ingaretha's also, that the
poor should enjoy the sight of beautiful things as well
as the rich. Accordingly, flowers, coloured wax-lights,
bright draperies, silver-gilt epergnes, and plate were
provided in abundance. Every bench was covered with
scarlet cloth, every foot of floor with carpet. On the
staircase were placed statues, half hidden by flowers
and orange-trees, banners of gay colours were suspended
across the ceilings, festoons of laurel and ivy hung from
beam to beam. Music was provided in abundance,
piano, violin, violoncello. And in order that nothing
should be wanting to add to the gay aspect of the
evening, the ladies were entreated to come in full dress;
even the labouring men received a charge to wear
flowers in their button-holes, and bright neck-ribbons
and new caps had been distributed to the women.
The inauguration of a reign of enlightenment and
happiness, so said Monsieur Sylvestre, could not be too
gay and joyful.
At length the long«looked-for evening arrived. The
children had feasted, and gone home. Fathers and
mothers had taken their seats with a serious Sunday
look on their faces. Fearing lest the noise of carriage-
The Reconstruction of Society is Begun.
wheels should disturb the flow of his oratory, Monsieur
Sylvestre had given orders that straw should be laid
down the road for a hundred paces each way, greatly to
the amazement of the multitude. Quietly as mice,
therefore, burden after burden of silk and muslin—for
the ladies came in evening-dress—was deposited at the
door. First the Miss Stapletons, like poppies in red and
white; next Mrs. Anstruther, in green satin, round,
smooth, and creaseless, like an apple in harvest-time;
then Lady Victoria Pennington, whose dress did not
signify; and a host of ladies dressed after the manner
of fashion-books, and gentlemen after the manner of foot-
men, as the delectable taste of the day dictates. But it
was wonderful in the sight of the villagers. The old
men and women wiped away tears of emotion at the
fine sight, and when Ingaretha appeared, leaning on the
arm of Monsieur Sylvestre, dressed in white silk, tunic,
belt, and sleeves embroidered with gold, and a golden
flower in her hair, their enthusiasm knew no bounds.
Was ever young lady so good, so beautiful, and so
beloved ? If only all the rich were like her, life would
become a heaven upon earth, they thought. Prelimi-
naries over, Monsieur Sylvestre took his place and pre-
pared to speak. He saw at a glance that very little he
had to say would be understood. But what of that ?
His voice was musical, his command of language perfect,
his elocution almost unrivalled. He knew that if he
could not reach the understandings of his audience, at
least he might fire their imaginations. For some minutes
he stood drawn up to his full height, surveying his
audience; and if the effects of that gaze were not quite
so magnetic as he expected, at least it awakened curi-
osity and interest.
The Sylvestres.
Three months of prosperity had added wonderfully to
Monsieur Sylvestre's personal attractions. As he stood
thus, his head thrown hack, his silky white locks falling
on his shoulders, his large bright eyes kindling with
fervour, his brow calm and majestic, his figure easy and
noble, it would be difficult to conceive a more striking
presence. There was, moreover, in spite of the great
dignity of his carriage, a certain bewitching playfulness
and bewildering naivete of look, speech, and gesture
that carried away the gravest. No sooner had he begun
to speak than it became apparent that Mohammed him-
self never felt more assured of his own mission than he.
People might scoff and sneer and turn away. As long as
he could speak and men would listen, he should utter
the convictions which guided his life—convictions as im-
portant to the rest of the world as to himself. He spoke
as he felt, and he felt called upon to preach a new faith
and a new doctrine; in other words, he stood up as the
apostle of humanity.
CHAPTER XX.
monsieur sylvestre's sermon on the millennium.
" Eriends and fellow-believers in a Golden Age! since
there is surely no one here who does not look back to an
Eden lost for ever to the children of sin, or forward to a
Paradise promised to the children of grace. But for
such memories and hopes as these, humanity might well
have fainted and fallen under the burden imposed upon
it through all ages. Had the forefathers of historic
races left behind them no traditional reign of joy and
Monsieur Sylvestres Sermon on the Millennium. 151
innocence, no mythic land whose gardens grew unfading
flowers, whose crystal rivers ran over sands of gold—
were they hound to no bright shores, which to touch
they believed was to become immortal—the common
life of every day must indeed have been insupportable.
Groping by the light of history through the dark regions
of the past, what appalling sights meet us on every
side! We shudder, we shrink back, we shut our eyes,
and would fain forget that such things have been, were
we not too often reminded of them by what is taking
place at the present time. Life is certainly happier, more
humanised, more rational than in former times; but not
so happy, not so humanised, not so rational, that we
can afford to lose for a moment those vague dreams of a
perfect existence hereafter. As the thought of Sunday,
and the fields and the daisies, keeps alive hope in the
heart of the miserable town child, condemned to pain-
ful toil throughout the week, so does oppressed mankind
cherish visions of untasted blisses that are to last for
ever. And neither the sceptic nor the materialist can
marvel at the tenacity with which the unhappier por-
tion of their fellows cling to what they themselves con-
sider chimeras wilder than fable of primeval Greece or
Eastern legend. The human heart inclines naturally to
joy as flowers to the sun. Every one would choose
to be happy. None would willingly wear rags, go
'hungry, carry to the grave the degradation of poverty
and the desolation of hatred. Yet, owing to the
selfishness of the smaller portion of society and the
slavishness of the larger, the free and happy are
few, the degraded and the desolate are many. With
the strangest inconsistency, the more fortunate. have
peopled such imagined realms of felicity with those
The Sylvestres.
they hold aloof from here, and think to live in perpetual
friendship with those they have victimised, despoiled,
and despised. That divine equality which ought to form
the basis of every Utopia, whether pagan or Christian,
is so ignored in practice that we cannot move a step
without being reminded of the usurpation of man over
man. Even in this free and happy England, the spirit
of caste informs the very breath and life of the nation.
I look around and see man toiling for his brother, as a
slave for his master by right of purchase. Here we have
Dives clad in purple and fine linen, splendid to look on,
a king of the earth!—there we have Lazarus starving at
his gate, covered with sores, loathsome even to the pitiful.
However consoling these spiritual glimpses into future
worlds may have been, they have not fed the hungry,
clothed the naked, protected the weak; and till this
is done, the despairing multitudes may well seek refuge
from present evils in the contemplation of joys to come.
But I am not here to-night to cavil at those sweet and
salutary creeds, which, although they have not worked the
practical reformation of humanity, have soothed it under
suffering, fortified it under temptation, elevated it from
the grossness of the flesh. As well might we blame the
lily that it does not nourish us, the rainbow that it does
not clothe us, the nightingale that it does not toil for us,
as blame theology that it has not reformed as well as
consoled the world. Least of all should I, the humblest
of the humble among you, stand forth to reproach the
faith that has elevated erring men and weak women
into prophets, saints, martyrs, of every race and in every
age.
" It is not of prophets, indeed, and of saints and mar-
tyrs, that I would speak to you to-night; but of those
Monsieur Sylvestres Sermon on the Millennium. 153
who were moved to dreams and to deeds, less by a faith
in the perfection of future worlds, and in the perfecti-
bility of man become immortal, than by a faith in the
perfection of the actual world in which we move, and in
the perfectibility of man as he is, namely, a creature,
mortal and material. These dreamers said to them-
selves—Is not the nature of the universe friendly ? Is
not man by nature strong and noble ? Is not woman
by instinct good and pure ? Let us strive with all our
might to transform the present into a Paradise, the world
into a heavenly kingdom, and thus the better prepare
ourselves for that immortality in which we are taught
to believe. And they went about the world wearing
' an aspect as if they pitied men,' spending their strength
and substance in the good cause of universal well-being,
sowing words of wisdom on every side.
" And what did they find wherever they went? What
do their disciples find now ? Society divided into two
portions, a lesser and a larger; the first composed of
beings, cared for, body and mind, enabled so to care
for their children, sleeping softly, sheltered from the
heat, protected against the cold, able to enjoy all that
the abundance of nature and the cunning of man have
produced for the gratification of the intellect and the
senses—love and beauty, art and learning, the treasures
of all time and the loveliness of all lands; the larger
portion composed of men and women whose existence is
one of unremitting toil from the cradle to the grave, of
hunger and thirst, of cold and nakedness, of deprivation
and despair. What matters it to them that the summer
is come, that the fields are gay with millions of wild
flowers, that the poets go into the woods and sing, that
the pulses of the joyful earth beat throughout the long
154
The Sylvestres.
bright day ? What matters it to them that the divine
Galileo discerned the stately rhythm of the spheres, that
Shakespeare created a happy world, that Beethoven
composed such music as must rejoice the angels listen-
ing on the golden stairs of heaven ? Suffering has blinded*
deafened, brutalised those men we call brothers, those
women we call sisters. The world grows richer, wiser,
lovelier, every day; tidings are carried magically across
distant seas; science works miracles of which the ancients
never dreamed. Yet the lot of the greatest number of
human beings remains unchanged! Ignorant, enslaved,
joyless, dwarfed in body and mind, to these life passes
unregretted and death comes as a friend.
" But the teachers of whom I have spoken, the be-
lievers in a golden age to come, mind you, upon earth,
did not regard these evils as God's decrees or as nature's
laws, but as man's perversities; and their efforts to re-
dress them are among the noblest on record. Their
names may not shine emblazoned in purple and gold in
the archives of fame, but their thoughts will live in the
minds of men for ever. You have before you in my own
person the humblest disciple of one of these reformers.
Like them I have been slandered, scoffed at, hunted
down, punished with fine, with imprisonment, with
exile. And why ? Because I refused to acquiesce in
tyranny, because I held back from robbing the poor, be-
cause I stood up for liberty and the rights of the people.
That I have outlived the malice of tyrants, and borne the
wrath of my oppressors without losing heart, is the
strongest proof I can give you of my faith in my fellow-
men and in the future of the world.
" When I speak to you of the social reformers of every
£gG—of Plato, in whose ideal Bepublic the intellectual
Monsieur Sylvestre's Sermon on the Millennium. 155
teachers of the day may still drink from copious springs
of wisdom; of Sir Thomas More, whose Utopia teems
with golden maxims; of the monk Campanella, who saw
in vision a perfect state, a city of the Sun; in later
times, of Kobert Owen in England, and of Charles
Fourier in France—it is possible that my words may
sound strange, as if spoken in an unknown tongue.
These glorious names, shining out like stars, may have
been pointed out to you by no pioneer in the luminous
regions of truth ; but a day is coming, nay, the eve of it
is already here, when the world shall recognise her true
sovereigns, her unerring prophets, her veritable saviours,
and swear allegiance to them on bended knee. Then
shall be shattered into a thousand pieces the images of
false gods and heroes, the devastators of the earth, the
enemies of peace, of brotherly love, and of progress, the
upholders of tyranny, of bloodshed, of eternal warfare
between nation and nation. 0 golden crowns that have
hitherto bestowed fictitious majesty on the brows of
despots! 0 purple robes that have hidden the cloven
foot ! 0 mighty sceptres swayed by blood-stained
hands ! Well may the angels in heaven smile and the
pure-hearted on earth rejoice at the dawn of a happy
age and a regenerated humanity I When that time
comes—and vainly may the armed forces of all the
world strive to turn back the tide of progress—we shall
weep for those who have lived before us in oppression,
in slavery, and in despair!
The Sylvestres.
CHAPTER XXI.
monsieur sylvestre's sermon on the millennium—
continued.
" And now let me try to answer a question I see written
on a hundred faces, namely, what claims have the so-
cialist leaders, and especially my master, Pourier, upon
the gratitude of the world ?
" Well, I happened to light upon a curious old book
the other day which will save me a good many explana-
tions, and serve as a short cut to a high-road. This book,
purporting to be an 'Illustration of Prophecy,' after
having given many expositions of Scripture and pro-
phecies of the overthrow of the Pope, the downfall of
civil despotism, and the consequent bettering of the
world, ends by a picture of Millennium on earth, to which
various scriptural predictions are supposed to point.
The author ingeniously turns to account not only the
Apocalypse, but the books of Isaiah and Daniel, in sup-
port of this theory, which, I need hardly say, goes
against most of the commentaries familiar to us. Ac-
cording to him, the millenary period is not to follow the
destruction of the world by fire, but the reconstruction
of society according to the principles of justice and
reason, and will overtake us whilst the familiar sun
shines overhead, the sea, as of old, beats on our shores,
the seasons come and go like friends of happy childhood.
Christ will not descend from His sublime throne to reign
below for a thousand years, the old Christian martyrs
will not rise again, the Jews will not rebuild Jerusalem;
but knowledge will spread, equality will be acknow-
ledged, excessive poverty and intemperate labour will
Monsieur Sylvestres Sermon on the Millennium. 15 7
disappear from the face of the earth, bad governments
will be overthrown, and mankind will mutually labour
for each other's benefit and each other's wants. No
longer, says the author, will a decided majority, as is
now the case in almost all the civilised countries of the
globe, lead a life of indigence and of toil, whilst a few
individuals, in every district, riot in luxury and in
splendour.
" Of the industrious part of mankind, at present only
a small part receive an adequate and reasonable com-
pensation for their labours. In rewarding the exertions
of ingenuity and diligence, no laws of proportion are
observed, no rules of equity are attended to. In this
respect society will assume a new aspect.
" With bad government and false theologies, not only
will war, discord, and pestilence, in a great measure, be
banished from the world, but also those other evils which
naturally flow from the same sources, sloth and igno-
ranee, hypocrisy and persecution, superstition and in-
fidelity, excessive poverty and intemperate labour.
Here you have the Millennium of Fourierism, which
may be summed up in three words—equality, universal
well-being, fraternal love. Will any rational person
refuse to believe that it is well that men should work
together as brothers, having a common bond and a com-
mon interest, that the toilers by sea and by land should
receive some share of the fruits of their labours, that the
humblest human being should have an adequate de-
velopment of his faculties, that pauperism should no
longer deface the world like a leprosy, that the night-
mare of war should cease to affright humanity ?
"We believe then in the possibility of universal
well-being ; we look to universal well-being as the
The Sylvestres.
regenerator of the world. I know well enough what
will be urged against such a doctrine by those who
inculcate poverty as a Christian duty, and a submis-
sive spirit as a jewel among Christian virtues. ' Crucify
him, crucify him, base materialist and gross de-
moraliser that he is!' I hear many well-disposed
brothers and sisters say. ' What have we to do with
you, 0 deifier of the flesh! 0 despiser of the soul!'
Hear me a little longer. We see every day that poverty
and degradation, instead of elevating humanity, brutalise
it; whilst the man of healthy body and mind, the in-
heritor of material well-being, culture, and moral force,
has a comparatively ideal existence. Are the gulfs of
separation between civilised man and man, so called,
wider than between a savage being and a beast ? I know
not. Thus much I know, that the condition of the unfor-
tunate of his fellow-creatures drives the humane thinker
to weep agonised tears, and the world takes no heed.
" The master whose humble disciple I am, and whose
words of wisdom I would fain cull for- you to-night,
wept many such tears. He devoted his whole life to
the solution of one great problem, namely, the regenera-
tion of society by moral and material, rather than by
spiritual means, seeing that hitherto spiritual means
have failed to extinguish misery, vice, and degradation
from the face of the earth. And slowly and serenely
there dawned upon the mind of this great man a vision
of life so excellent and of a world so happy, that the
Golden Age of the poet and the Utopia of the philosopher
were for ever cast into the shade. Fourier—I bow in
spirit before thy beloved and revered name—was no
mere political economist, coldly weighing out human
units in one scale, and national wealth and interests in
Monsieur Sylvestres Sermon on the Millennium. 159
the other; no mere enthusiast, spreading sail to any
chance breeze of fancy; no theorist, handling abstrac-
tions as if things of flesh and blood. One of Nature's
best-beloved children, she took him into her counsels,
and laid to his ear the resounding shell of the universe.
Like the Egeria of Eoman story, she discoursed to him
in secret groves, of things sacred and human, informing
him with wisdom and devotion. He emerged from those
solemn communions, not the mere philanthropist he
went in, but a prophet, a teacher, a reformer, destined to
live for ever in the memories of men.
" How can I give any idea of these grand schemes
which to conceive was to read the riddle of the moral
universe, to discover the sublime analogies existing be-
tween the world of nature and the world of man, to hear
and comprehend the mighty harmonies of the social and
stellar spheres ? Do you weep, 0 priests, for the suffer-
ings of your flocks ? Do you feel ashamed, 0 my
brothers, for the shame you bring upon women ? Do
you tremble, O my sisters, at the spectacle of little child-
ren toiling like bondsmen in a country that owns no
slaves ? Do you groan, O statesman, at the plague of
pauperism that scourges our capitals ? Do you bewail,
O philanthropists, the dreary lot of the greater number
of human beings ? Then take counsel of Socialists, for
they are like the angels that come with healing on their
wings.
" In the present state of society, a few fare sumptu-
ously, and sleep softly on downy pillows, dreaming
away the noontide in fragrant gardens, surrounded by
beautiful things from cliildhood upwards, deprived of no
gratification ordained by bountiful Nature to rejoice the
heart of men, loving life because of its pleasantness.
160 The Sylvestres.
But Fourier said,' Heaven has not so willed it. Bet all
fare sumptuously and lie soft. Let all smell fragrant
flowers and he surrounded by beautiful things. Let all
have their fill of the good gifts of our mother earth.
Let all love life because of its pleasantness. Why should
some be instructed and others go ignorant ?—some pos-
sess hundreds of thousands, and others need the penny
for their daily bread ? Why should some be surfeited
with pleasure, and others live from year to year without
a day of gratification V ' Enslave people,' he reasoned;
' and they will prey upon their fellows; deprive them of
fresh air and instruction, and they will commit brutal
actions, divide society into fortunate and miserable, rich
and poor, enlightened and ignorant; and men will hate
each other with a devilish hate.'
" The creed of Fourierism, contrary to the creeds that
have gone before, consists in self-development rather
than in self-denial, in self-government rather than in
self-negation, in fulfilment rather than in repression, in
plenary acceptance rather than in desperate abstinence.
Its founder believed that the Divine Creator endowed
the universe, not for the satisfaction and enjoyment of a
few, but for the content of all. Is not an acquiescence
in the present condition of things to accuse our great
Parent of having neglected ones among His children ?—
as if God did not love all mankind alike! Fourier
had a happier faith, a sublimer confidence, and refused
to accuse the Divinity of partiality held hateful by
mortals.
" Ah! what dreams were his as he sat apart from men,
taking counsel of God, of nature, and of man ! Can I
with my imperfect speech, translate into words those
transcendent visions which to portray fitly should be
Monsieur Sylvestres Sermon on the Millennium. 161
traced by golden pencils of angels on the shining floor of
heaven ?
" He saw, as he sat thus solitary in his high commu-
nings, the face of this familiar world, which all but the
unhappiest hold dear as a nursing mother, greatly
changed—so changed that, but for his fleshly garments,
he must have believed himself in Paradise. The bloody
panoplies of war had disappeared; no glittering armies
devastated the abundant fields, no stalwart hosts in the
glory of youth fell like corn beneath the scythe of the
enemy. The mothers of the poor no longer brought forth
their man-child with bitterness because of the soldier's
death that might overtake him in his prime, or their
woman-child with despair, because of the shame that
might fall upon her beauty. He saw shapes fleeing
affrighted from a place that knew them no more. Fore-
most of these was Lust, and tramping on its heels,
bloated Luxury and hollow-cheeked Destitution, and
ghastly Suicide, and horrid Superstition. They fled
with face averted, like murderers hurrying in hot,
cowardly haste, from the scene of bloodshed, wailing
hideously for the kingdom from which they were de-
throned for ever; for those Babel-like strongholds of
filth, and crime, and poverty, which had harboured them,
were gone, and in their place stood fair and stately
capitols, each a dozen palaces in one, where men and
women lived together in the harmony engendered of
voluntary labour and plenary enjoyment. The loom
and the ploughshare were plied as busily as ever, but in
joy, and not in weariness, since those who wove the
glowing tapestries, and reaped the red, ripe corn, shared
the first fruits of their toil.
" It was wonderful to see a look of dignity and hap-
11
The Sylvestres,
piness on every face. How good to behold witli what
joy the dawn was greeted!—with what peace the sun
went down! when each man and each woman had a fair
portion of the bounties of earth and heaven—a little love,
a little freedom, a little joy. When hope and love and
joy had usurped the place of terrific, tormenting creeds j
when all were glad to live, and none afraid to die; when
the majestic temples of art, science, and philosophy were
thrown open, that all might enter in; when the clear-
throated trumpet and the triumphant clarion no longer
in the name of military glory, led hosts against hosts in
a common massacre, but grand industrial armies to un-
imagined victories!—Then, indeed, the habitations of
the universe resounded, like a many-voiced choir, with
sweet melody. Man was joyful, and in his joy called
music to minister to him; and he saw, not only in music,
but in other gratifications alike of the senses and the
intellect, the surest road to a life fashioned to beautiful
completeness. 0 Nature ! cried the denizen of the re-
generated earth, thou hast filled for me a cornucopia
running over with corn, oil, and wine. Shall I draw
back churlishly, as a poor relation from a grudging host ?
Shall I not rather accept, as thou hast offered abun-
dantly, feeling that the good, complete, and happy life
is the best offering man can lay upon the altar of his
God?"
CHAPTER XXII.
LAYING THE FOUNDATION.
How much or how little the good people of St. Beowulf's
understood of Monsieur Sylvestre's discourse, which he
Laying the Foundation.
had forthwith printed for gratuitous distribution, it
would be hard to say : what they thought of it, harder
still. That he possessed the gift of speech none could
deny, for he had made them smile, weep, go into ecstasy,
or look aghast, as he willed. The poor wished they
could hear him preach every Sunday, the clerical ladies
coveted his fine voice for their choirs. But the chief
consequence of his discourse was the curiosity it excited.
Every one wondered who he was, why he had come there,
and what he wanted to do. He talked of disseminating
ideas. What were ideas ? Had he invented a new
plough or a sewing-machine, and proposed to test its
powers before the eyes of possible buyers, the matter
would have been easy to understand. But as far as they
could make out, he had done nothing of the kind,,and
only wanted to talk and be listened to. Was he a second
Tom Paine in disguise, come to corrupt the minds of the
young with atheistical doctrines, an apostle of Mormon-
ism come to preach plurality of wives, or a Fenian plot-
ting against the Government, or a Bed Republican
contriving the ruin of the French Empire I These sur-
mises floated hazily in the minds of those who had
heard of such things as atheists, Mormons, Fenians, and
other conspirators, but at present they were content to
let their suspicions take the form of mild inquisitiveness.
He amused them, and how good and pleasant it is to be
amused ! Within living memory no such social pheno-
menon had appeared.
And his deeds were as mysterious as his words. The
first to rise in the morning, he was the last to relinquish
work at night, interspersing his hours of labour with
pianoforte playing, painting in water-colours, or writing
essays. He undertook the roughest work, and made his
11—2
164
The Sylvestres,
labourers take two hours out of the middle of the day
for what he called intellectual advancement—alas! most
often devoted to the beer-house. He turned half an
acre of corn-land into a garden of standard roses, so that
young men and maidens should have garlands during
the following summer. He planted a whole field with
saplings of the Australian blue gum-tree, which he pre-
dieted would become a superb forest in the course of
twenty years. He sent to Spain for sheep, to Algeria
for silk-worms, to the farthest quarters of the world for
seeds and roots, intending to turn his farm into a jardin
d'acclimatisation. He planted his banks with straw-
berries, and employed children to gather thistle-down
for pillows. People saw plainly enough that he was
playing fast and loose with somebody's money, and they
naturally said it was with Ingaretha's money.
The Academy—for so the newly-opened hall of arts
and sciences was called—fell under his entire adminis-
tration, and as far as amusement went, the people had
no right to complain. Besides fortnightly readings and
lectures on a variety of subjects, he organised concerts
and dances. There is a good deal of music in our
country people, if only brought out; and after the first
awkwardness wore off, the invitations were responded
to with alacrity, partly because the villagers thought it
a fine thing for their children to learn dancing, partly
because they were anxious not to affront Ingaretha's
friends.
Maddio played the violin, Euphrosyne the piano.
Monsieur Sylvestre initiated young and old into the
mysteries of the quadrille and country dance. Why
should not the poor be feted as well as the rich, he
asked, since in temperate gratification of the senses lies
Laying the Foundation.
165
the only road to an adequate development of character ?
Accordingly, the hall was decked with banners and
evergreens, guests were encouraged to come in their
Sunday clothes, and were plied with cakes and lemonade
by their three hosts. Every one knows that English
rustics are far from possessing the dignity and good-
humour of the French and Italian peasantry, partly
because their life is much more monotonous, and partly
because they are on different terms with their superiors.
Had the ladies and gentlemen of St. Beowulf's mixed
with them on the same free and easy footing as Monsieur
and Madame Sylvestre, most likely such an intercourse
would have ended in downright boorishness on the one
side, and disgust on the other. But in this case no
such inconvenience arose. In the first place, Monsieur
and Madame Sylvestre and Maddio all three possessed
that exquisite simplicity of manners which disarms
coarseness, and that ineffable tact which knows how to
deal with every quality of character, except knavery.
Their past acquaintance with poverty, moreover, never
for an instant concealed, touched the hearts of their
rough acquaintances. And then they were ever ready
to help any one in need or distress, whether Churchman
or Dissenter mattered little, which afforded a new
reading of the texts about charity. If a little boy was
to be breeched, none in the village could cut out a pair
of trousers so well as Madame Sylvestre. If a labourer
fell on to a pitchfork, she could bind up his wound like
a surgeon. As to Maddio, he knew everything, people
said, from catching a mole to stuffing a peacock, or,
what seemed more difficult still, making gripe balls for
horses. He was an excellent herbalist, and they soon
had recourse to his homely specifics with as much faith
The SylvestreL
and alacrity as if he had been a quack. Perhaps his
odd appearance reminded them of the wise men of
whom their fathers had bequeathed such strange tales;
for seventy years ago few towns were without some
mysterious person, wizard, doctor, astrologer, and
fortune-teller in one, to whom people went if a cow fell
ill, if they wanted to know when rain was expected, or
if a gipsy had stolen a silver spoon.
But the activity of the little family at Pilgrim's
Hatch did not end here. Before the dreary days of
winter fairly set in, a newspaper issued fortnightly from
the St. Beowulf's Liberal press. It was called "The
Germ of Truth," and consisted of two small sheets,
fairly printed. Pirst came a leader, which was, properly
speaking, a short sermon on the divine right of equality,
the attraction of labour, the benefits of association, or
some other socialist topic, treated with no little unction
and picturesqueness; then followed the application of
these principles in the following manifesto :
"To material bankrupts, moral millionaires, friends
of Socialism, and followers of the divine Fourier. We
call upon you to aid us in organising a Phalanstery—
that is to say, an agricultural community based upon
the principles of the divine Fourier. It is not money
we want, nor land, nor any fruits of the earth; all these
are abundantly supplied to us by the large generosity
—we might rather say exquisite justice—of those
friends who share our views and understand to the full
the meaning of that pregnant word, Solidarity. But
we want men, women, and children who will strive with
us to establish the glorification of. labour, and to bring
about the regeneration of society by means of harmonious
attraction. Come to us, labour with us, enjoy with us,
Laying the Foundation.
167
0 choice souls who have drunk from the fountains of
our great master's wisdom, and we will begin the joyful
task of reforming the world!"
A short advertisement follows to this effect:
" N.B. —The Phalanstery in course of organisation is
to be heard of through the printer of this journal,
where are to he had hack numbers of 'The Germ of
Truth,' price one halfpenny."
The remaining space was filled with scraps of
poetry, mottoes, notices of foreign societies, &c.
This little paper was distributed largely among the
good people of the village, though, as may easily be
imagined, not a word of its purport was understood.
Copies were despatched to London, Paris, Alsace, and
Algeria. Monsieur Sylvestre rubbed his hands with
glee when the printers announced that a fresh edition
was necessary.
" Ah, we shall soon recall the happy days of old," he
would say; " the seed is falling on good soil. In a week,
nay, in a day, we may find our fondest dreams brought
to pass, and our Phalanstery a thing of reality."
" Meantime the printing of so many tracts is sadly
expensive," Euphrosyne said, sighing. " If people would
only pay their subscriptions!"
" To make a traffic of the truth is a prostitution," he
answered with indignation. "I would rather starve
than earn a penny by selling my ideas."
" Alas! one must sell something in order to live."
"Well, let us sell our corn."
" But the wheat now being put into the ground will
not be ripe till August, and the barley is not to be
sown till spring. We have three quarters of a year
before us."
i68
The Sylvestres.
"We must be economical, tben, my angel—that is
the easiest solution of the problem."
Euphrosyne said no more, but straightway racked
her brains to devise some means of saving money. The
Sphinx had never a harder task. Monsieur Sylvestre's
pet extravagance represented a good round sum yearly,
and could she have persuaded him to leave off printing
pamphlets, to buy no more costly seeds or new farming
implements, to be reasonable, in fact, the prospects of
nine months without com to sell would not have
seemed appalling. She knew too well, poor woman,
that to reason with him on such points was to pour
water through a sieve.
Already the full-blossomed prosperity that had burst
upon them like the first day of roses in summer, was
tarnished. Gay as a butterfly, he disported himself
among the flowers; sad as Eve, she trembled at every
shadow lest it might portend the presence of the
expelling angel.
CHAPTER XXIII.
hen£'s letter.
And what of Rene ? As week after week slipped by,
and still he gave no sign, Ingaretha's cheeks lost some-
thing of their roundness, and her smile something of its
joy. Monsieur Sylvestre could not be induced to share
her anxiety.
"Wait a little, sweet child," he said, "and you will
see that our R^ne deports himself like a hero."
Ren£s Letter.
169
" All!" Maddio would rejoin, rubbing his hands glee-
fully; " we shall hear of him creating an Eden in the
Ear West, perhaps. Our Eene has so much courage."
At length the mysterious silence was broken by a
little letter, evidently written in great haste and per-
turbation.
" Sweetest lady and friend," Eene wrote to Ingaretha
from Paris, " I never meant to have troubled you any
more as long as I lived; but now you will be seeing
my name in the newspapers soon, and that would
disconcert you. You know what a war I have waged
with my pen, ever since I was a boy, against oppression
and prejudice. I have never been idle, God knows;
and whatever I did was done in the hope of more useful
achievements by-and-by. To project and carry on a
newspaper seems a little thing; but how much it may
mean in such days as these, when written words are
winged, omnipotent, omnipresent! Has not the right of
speaking out saved your England, and shall it not save
our France ? Alas! not yet. Do you understand what
I mean when I say that I am a member of the Inter-
national Working Men's Association ? That is to say,
that I am a volunteer in what will soon be the largest
army the world has ever seen, but an army of peaceful
men of all nations, and not of soldiers, whose watch-
word is Progress instead of Glory—that noble legend,
as some one has said, over which is scrawled in bloody
palimpsest the parody of tyrants. What our society is
I cannot stop to tell you now; ask Monsieur Sylvestre
or Maddio—I can only say that it is composed of the
staunchest friends of peace and liberty, two names that
are but words here in our beautiful France, * where
tyranny and selfishness incarnate, wrapped in purple,
170
The Sylvestrds.
sit on the necks of the people. Of course, if the worm
turns, it is crushed or quelled. I have done nothing to
make you blush for your friend. My guilt and that of
my friends lies only in daring to belong to a peaceful
progressive society at all; and we are to be tried forth-
with. You will see the result in the papers, or, if not,
have only to apply to our secretary in London. Whether
things turn out well or ill for me, does not much matter.
I commend you to your brothers and sisters, the angels,
and all good people."
Ingaretha was not a woman to sit by when her friends
were in trouble, and an hour later she was on her way
to London, accompanied by Madame Sylvestre. There
seemed only one way of helping Lend, namely, by means
of advocates' fees. Accordingly, she had supplied her-
self with a good round sum in Bank of England notes,
and a letter of introduction to the London secretary of
the Soctitt Internationale des Travailleurs. As luck
would have it, there was a sitting of the council at the
society's chambers in High Holborn that very night;
but the working men's parliament cannot open pro-
ceedings whilst the working men are at work, so they
had to get through the weary hours of waiting as best
they might. Everything was wrapped in a yellow fog;
and what a dreary phantasmagoria is a London day in
November! You walk through the lurid alleys, meeting
livid spectres at every step, for surely these blue-faced,
shivering ghosts are not men and women! Ingaretha
and Madame Sylvestre, ill-fated like all women in search
of comforts, fared badly. Thankful enough that the
time was come for going out, they left these blissful
regions exactly at half-past seven, and at eight o'clock
their cab stopped at a little shop in High Holborn,
Rene's Letter.
The shutters were closed, and the side door also. It
was opened by a young German mechanic, dishevelled
and in working clothes. His look of surprise vanished
on hearing their errand, though he held the door open
gingerly, evidently in doubt as to the possibility of
admitting them.
" The council is sitting, and I am not sure whether
ladies are allowed to be present, but I will ask the
secretary," he said, and ran upstairs, taking Ingaretha's
credential, namely, Monsieur Sylvestre's letter, with him.
A parley of some minutes followed, the two ladies
waiting in no little suspense. At length the messenger
returned, and with a nod of affirmation conducted them
up the dark and narrow staircase into the council-
chamber of the International Working Men's Asso-
ciation.
The room was small and dingy, but supplied with
abundance of light. Round the table sat ten or a dozen
men, most of them dressed like ordinary workmen when
the day's work is done—all looking more or less wearied,
a few terribly pale, some thoughtful and serious, others
animated and eager. The chief European nationalities
were here represented—German, French, Spanish, Italian,
English—and better types, intellectually speaking, could
hardly be found anywhere. Self-government, concen-
tration, purpose, were written on every brow; of energy
there was ample sign, of restlessness none. Much as one
face might differ from the rest in other respects, they
were alike in this, that all wore an expression of one-.
ness with self and the world. The general physique
was inferior. In spite of fair stature and manly beard,
they lacked that look of vigour and health indicated by
the broad chest, the ruddy skin, the bright eye,
172
The Sylvestves.
On the entrance of the strangers, all rose from their
seats and bowed. The secretary advanced, gave Inga-
retha his hand, and led her into a corner, saying in a
low voice that her business should be attended to pre-
sently. Then the work of the evening was resumed;
tbe quiet dignity and politeness with which they had
been received putting Ingaretlia and Madame Sylvestre
as much at their ease as could be expected under such
circumstances.
One by one the members stood up, and after reading
a report, laid propositions before the council. The pro-
ceedings were occasionally interrupted by the tinkling
of the street bell and the admittance of a tardy member;
but all was done in the quietest manner possible.
Citizen after citizen—thus each speaker was called—
said what he had to say, and made way for his neigh-
bour.
At last the matter of the impending trials in Paris
was brought forward, and Ingaretha's friend, Citizen
Berger, rose to address the meeting. He had received,
he said, a communication concerning Citizen Ren4
Eubelle. Then Ingaretha was requested to make known
her wishes, and way was made for her at the table.
But at this juncture courage forsook her; she turned
first red, then pale, stammered out an incoherent apology,
and looked on the point of bursting into tears, had not
Euphrosyne came to her aid.
" Citizens," she said, speaking with her usual quiet
pathos, " this lady is a good friend of my husband, Jean
Charles Sylvestre, whose name will be known to some
of you, and of our fellow in misfortune, Citizen Rene
Eubelle. She has hastened to London to see if she can
be of any use to him at this crisis—that is to say, to
A Betrothal.
173
offer money for the purpose of defraying his legal ex-
penses. I trust, citizens, that you will accept this offer,
made as it is in all sincerity and affection."
She sat down, and again a lively discussion took
place. Not unnaturally, a few shy glances were directed
towards Ingaretha, that lovely golden-haired lady who
had come hither on Bend's account. A presence so
enchanting had never before graced the gloomy council-
chamber in High Holborn, and it touched the hearts of
those toil-worn representatives of labour. They also
felt a little natural pride in having gained over such a
convert to their cause. What cause ever despised the
advocacy of a young, rich, and beautiful woman ?
Citizen Roser thanked Madame Sylvestre in the name
of the assembly, and accepted the offer made to them by
Rene's friend. Madame Sylvestre tendered the money,
and the two ladies were then permitted to retire.
CHAPTER XXIV.
a betrothal.
A dreary interval of suspense followed, Ingaretha and
her friends watching the Paris trials with alternate hope
and fear. What those trials were like may be easily
conceived by those who have been in the habit of read-
ing the various socialist newspapers during the last few
years. The working men's advocates knew how to make
the best of a good cause, but the fiat of the French
Caesar had gone forth against liberty of speech for once
and for all, and their words were vain as children's
arrows hitting a granite wall.
174
The Sylvestres.
Thus much must be accorded to the members of the
International "Working Men's Association, which Rend
had joined: that when, later, Trance saw itself gra-
dually led to its ruin, the voice of its members, and theirs
only, was raised against the crime and cunning of rulers.
" Are we mad," said they, " that this man, this enemy of
free thought and free speech, this friend and patron of
traitors, should do with us as he wills for the sake of a
hateful dynasty ? Or, if we are not mad, by what foul
and fatal sorcery are we bewitched ? In God's name,
let us bestir ourselves, and shake off the vile enchant-
ment while there is yet time." But none took heed, and
the end was—what ? All the world trembled in pity
and sorrow at the miseries that overwhelmed France
because she had confided her destiny to a Bonaparte.
Further, let us clear ourselves of some prejudices that
have crept, we hardly know how, into the conceptions
of even the just and the thoughtful concerning this vast
league of working men, which began with noble promise,
though, like all human schemes, swerved from its first
ideals. We revellers, in the best of the good things
provided by nature and man's ingenuity, are apt to im-
pute the very kind of faults to the working classes to
which we are most given ourselves, and with much less
temptation. Why encourage the selfishness of the poor,
the aping after good clothes, education, the comforts and
enjoyments possessed by their so-called betters ? Better
preach to them the good old thrice-blessed doctrine of hu-
mility, and show them that enjoyment and self-develop-
ment, whether social, intellectual, or moral, are only for
the few, not for the many, who were born to be brutish,
heathenish — but content! Is not this very kind of
selfishness the prevailing fault of the better classes ?
A Betrothal.
1/5
u The vices among the poor sometimes astound us here."
said one who knew them well; " but when the secrets
of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues will
astound us in far greater degree. Of this I am certain."
Rend had but said a few plain truths in a fervent
manner, had uttered, moreover, a few political prophecies,
soon to come true, and a good cause was made for him
by his advocates.
But nothing could shield him, and he was condemned
to nine months' imprisonment, and a fine of a hundred
francs.
Nine months! Why not ninety years ? thought
Ingaretha in her indignation of youthful sorrow. She
wept when none were by, and called upon the name of
her lover, hiding her face under a veil of golden hair;
she tore off her jewels; she put on a black dress. Why
did the sun shine ? Why did the wintry landscape
wear a cheerful look ? Why did the foolish little winter
birds chirp gladly ?
She felt as if she had grown old and wise within the
last few weeks. What had been before important and
conspicuous, was dwarfed into nothingness. As the
primitive colours lose themselves in the ray of light, so
all the passions of her soul were now merged into one
supreme feeling for him. Was it pity, was it admira-
tion, was it love ? She knew not. She only said to
herself how generous he was, how unfortunate, how
self-devoted and long-suffering! His Quixotic crusade
against tyranny might seem a small and foolish thing
to the unthinking world, but to her it approved itself
differently. A man can but have a noble ideal and live
up to it.
She wondered that she had never helped him before
176
The Sylvcstres.
with, her love as well as her friendliness and compas-
sion; and, sitting down, wrote this letter to him, which
was sent"off without the alteration of a word:
" Dearest Friend of all,—I do not mean to cry any
more if I can help it. I have looked at the almanac,
and counted the days that must come and go before you
are out of prison, and I think you can be home on the
5 th of August, my birthday. We shall save up all our
joy till then, and when you are once here, you must not
go away again. Need I speak plainer ? You will surely
know what I mean. On my birthday I will make over
to you something which is worth little unless so be-
stowed—only a life you used to say you held dearer
than anything else in the world. Do not be too sorry
for me whilst you are in prison. We shall be quite
happy when the harvest comes.—Your
" Ingaretha."
For a few days after the sending of that hastily-
written, tear-blotted letter, Ingaretha was very meek
and sad. Not even Euphrosyne knew what she had
done, and she thought she would keep her secret till the
corn was down, and Kend was free again. Would she
be able to make him quite happy, as she had said ?
Would life become dearer to both ?"
About a week after her letter had gone, Carew found
her in this tumultuous mood, red as a rose one moment,
white as a lily the next, ready to smile, weep, be glad
and sorry by turns. She scolded him for coming with a
look, and made him welcome with a word. She begged
him to sit down one instant, and declared that he had
interrupted her the next. Would he play to her ?
A Betrothal.
*77
Would he read aloud?—there was a new volume of
poems lying on the table. Would he help her with the
arrangement of some pictures ? All this was said in a
breath. Lastly, would he go ?
Then she burst into tears, and would have fled from
him, but he caught hold of her hand and gained a
hearing.
" This is sad news of our poor friend Rend," he said
tenderly. "I should have called before to say how
sorry I am, but I went to Paris on his behalf, and "—
he added this with some comic ruefulness—"finding
that I could do him no good, I stayed there a little for
my own pleasure."
" How good of you to try to help him!" she said,
smiling through her tears.
"c How unlike you to try to help anybody!' were
more to the purpose. But I have a great friendliness
for Rend, and I knew how you would suffer—" He
stopped short, coloured, looked on the ground, and
added after a pause, " You must not make yourself too
unhappy about him. The best thing we can do is to
devise some means of making his life more satisfactory
when he is free again."
In her turn, Ingaretha looked on the ground, her
cheeks aflame like a field poppy.
" I have an idea," began Carew again.
" And so have I."
" Will you let me hear yours first ? It is sure to be
much the best."
For a long time she hesitated, and at last, sadly and
shyly, blurted out the truth.
" I am going to marry him," she said.
He could not doubt that she was in earnest, and he
12
1/S
The SyIvestres.
could but believe that she was in her senses. Blushing
more crimson than the lady, he rose, sat down again,
began to speak, broke off, took up his hat as if to go,
then put it back on the floor, finally uttered the thought
that was uppermost in his mind :
" It is impossible," he said, extremely agitated; " im-
possible, impossible!"
He walked first to one window, then to another, ap-
proached her, drew back, tried to speak, and failed.
" I have promised," she said, without lifting her eyes
from the ground.
After that there seemed nothing more to be said.
" Is it so V* he asked, turning ashy-white. " Then I
suppose I had better say nothing except good-bye
Yet he lingered.
"Don't blame me, don't be sorry for me !" Ingaretha
cried, suddenly bursting into a passion of tears. "I
know what I have done, and it could not be otherwise.
"When people speak ill of me, remember that."
He waited till she had dried her tears and then held
out his hand.
" I shall go abroad to-morrow, and we may not see
each other again for a long time," he said sorrowfully.
" You will not want the little play at Christmas now,
any more than you will want the poet. Dare well, dear
friend!"
And thus they parted.
True enough, the next day Carew set off on a long
journey through Spain, Italy, and Palestine, feeling
miserable enough. Why had fortune endowed him with
wealth ? Why had nature made him a poet ? Why
had his progenitors bequeathed him the very qualities
Ingaretha despised, denying him those in which her soul
A Betrothal
179
found pleasure—such as a passionate love of his fellow-
creatures ? a hatred of certain political principles, a thirst
for social reform; also personal beauty, self-devotion,
abandonment ? For him, the only complete life seemed
the aesthetic ideal of the Greeks of old, a marble palace
of Art, holding a golden shrine dedicated to Beauty.
He hated ugliness and restlessness in every shape, and
avoided philanthropy and politics as if they had been
pestilences.
But Ingaretha's heart and soul were in the things he
abhorred. Like a sister of mercy, she would fain spend
all the days of her life in charitable missions among the
poor, the wretched, and the ignorant.
What was this great love for Ben6 but an expression
of the profoundest compassion ? He could not doubt
it. Bene was a noble fellow, high-souled, eloquent,
tender-hearted; but he had been reared in a world
quite different from her own. She was a daintily-bred
lady, he a son of the people, a working man, associate of
working men, a Kepublican and demagogue, a Socialist
and would-be leveller of society. Could she marry such
a man ? Again and again he said to himself that it was
impossible.
He forgot, in his burning impatience and mortifica-
tion, some other qualities possessed by Bene which
attract women beyond the sweet words or bewildering
eyes of poets; beyond the splendid courage and bearing
of soldiers; beyond the honeyed eloquence of religious
enthusiasts* He had in abundance the kind of am-
bition that may truly be said to possess a man, that
blazes out on a sudden, taking the passions of men and
women by storm, intoxicating the sober, making an en-
thusiast of the calculator, leading, enthralling, binding
i8o
The Sylvestrcs.
with a spell at will. Such an ambition, allied to noble
ends, turns the adventurer of yesterday into the hero of
to-day, the hero of to-day into the martyr of to-morrow.
Ingaretha might well dream sometimes that her lover
had a future. He was one of those would-be reformers
who went about the world wearing " an aspect as if he
pitied men," loving his fellow-creatures with an over-
mastering love, holding his own life as nothing com-
pared with the duty of furthering what he held to be
true and noble. Ingaretha knew Kene better than most
women know their lovers. Unhappiness had broken
down the fictitious barriers of conventional etiquette,
leaving them candid and unfettered. His loves, his
hates, his victories and overthrows, his dreams and
ideals, had been freely told her during the broken inter-
course of the last ten years. And though he was a so-
called son of the people, a social gipsy and a proletarian,
he had never uttered a word that ill-beseemed such
confidence.
Could Ingaretha choose but dream of him, weep for
him, night and day ?
CHAPTEB XXV.
euphrosyne's counsels.
Was it to be expected that Ingaretha's secret should
not come out in her daily intercourse with Euphrosyne?
The two women loved each, other dearly, and under-
lying the warmth of every-day affection—rippling sun-
shine on the surface of deep pools—were hidden depths
Euphrosyne1s Counsels. 181
of sympathy and devotion as yet unsounded. Perhaps
the most perfect of all friendships is that invested with
a shade of mystery. To live calmly within reach of a
kindred nature affords a sure and unfailing measure of
gratification; hut never to approach the friend of one's
heart without a feeling of delicious expectancy, is to
drink of the distilled essence of friendship and be filled.
Thus it was with these two. Common things made In-
garetha weep now—a snatch of wintry sunshine, the
glories of a snow-storm among her fir-trees, the last new
book of a beloved writer, an air of Weber, or a song of
Schumann; for was not Rene deprived of all these ?
And when Euphrosyne would try to console her by
picturing the happiness of release and the future that
might still be in store for him, her cheeks would crimson
with sudden joy, and again and again the words rose to
her lips that she lacked courage to utter. Euphrosyne
grew bewildered. Never had she seen her darling in
such changeful mood; and quite naturally, some inad-
vertent talk brought out the truth.
" Most men's affections are like straws tossed about
by the wind," she said one day; " but Rend is as true
as a woman. When he comes out of prison, it will be
better for him, on account of his love for you, to go to
America."
"Never! never!" Ingaretha cried fiercely. "I am
going to do with him as I will. lie shall not go away
from me."
" But he loves you, dear child."
" And do I not care for him ?" She gathered her
beautiful hair in her hands, adding, "All this I would
give, every hair of it, as a ransom for Rene !"
" Ah, if he were only rich and happy, like Monsieur
Carew!"
82
The Sylvestres.
"Should I love him better?" This also was said
fiercely. "Would a million of money alter Ren£ at
all ?—the colour of his eyes, the shape of his mouth,
the tone of his voice? Would it give him a new
temper, sweeter than the old ?—a new nature, nobler
than we have found his ? Oh ! don't talk, like all the
rest of the world, about being rich and happy, dear
Madame Sylvestre."
" I but wished it, seeing how you two are drawn to
each other," Euphrosyne answered.
Ingaretha rose from her seat, threw her arms round
Euphrosyne's neck, and added, in the same impetuous
tone,
" If he is poor, am I not rich ? That will do just as
well. There, you have the whole truth. I am going to
marry Rend And why not ?" she asked, anticipating
Madame Sylvestre's unspoken objections. "Am I so
rich in friends that I do not want him ? Is my life so
good that he could not make it better ? He is a thou-
sand times richer than I, after all."
And then she smiled on her friend lovingly, and
kissed her hand, as if fain to coax her into an assenting
mood.
"He is richly endowed, Heaven knows," said Euphro-
syne ; " and he adores you as only now and then a man
adores a good woman. But is passion the best guide to
be followed when the supreme crisis of life comes ? I
know not—I doubt "
She was silent for awhile, overcome with mixed emo-
tion, and then continued, Ingaretha kneeling at her feet,
Ingaretha's fair head laid on her knees:
"How can I advise you in this, my dear? Yet I was
about your own age when the same decision was forced
Euphrosyne's Counsels, 183
upon me, and I obeyed what my heart dictated without
questioning. Was it well or ill ? God only knows."
And then she laid her hands on the girl's soft hair,
and sighed again and again.
" You made some one happy who cared for you; that
was well ?" asked Ingaretha.
" Even the happiness of another person may be pur-
chased too dear. I don't feel sure that what I did was
wrong, dear Ingaretha; but from time to time I have
fearful misgivings. Love, I might almost say idolatry,
of one human being took supreme possession of me at
the time of which I speak, and has never loosed its hold.
I mean my husband. I left all else, and followed him
to the world's end, because I loved him. So will you
leave all else, and follow Eend ?"
"What do I leave ?" asked Ingaretha impetuously. " I
know well enough that people will hate me for what I do;
but need that trouble me much ? They will say that I
am lost to all sense of family pride and womanly duty,
and will talk of me under their breath as of one past
compassion. Why should we mind that ? Eene can
help me to a better life than that I leave behind."
Madame Sylvestre sighed and said nothing.
"Is it not so?" Ingaretha continued, with persistence.
" You see how isolated I am here—as far removed from
the people of my own class as if I lived hundreds of
miles away, If I pretended to be unlike myself, I
should be thought well enough of; but I cannot do that.
I determined, on first coming to this property, that I
would lead an honest life at any cost—I mean, the life
I held to be best, most satisfying, noblest. And what I
have sought, I have only found with you—and with—
him."
184
The Sylvestres.
" Ah ! you think too well of us. Our fulfilments fall'
sadly short of our ideals," Euphrosyne said sorrowfully,
.adding, " You do not know all."
" Would you have me take hack my word, then ? Do
you think I am wrong in promising to marry him V
Ingaretha asked, looking up with dismay.
" As far as he is concerned, I have not a word to say.
I have never known but one Ken£, loyal, pure, true. I
was thinking of ourselves then, my husband and me, who
cause our friends so much unhappiness, however dearly
we love them. Would that your lot were otherwise
cast!"
"You speak as if you had done me some great harm,"
Ingaretha said; " whilst it is you who have saved me
from my enemies."
" But you might have married Mr. Carew; and he,
too, is good and loyal, and, I think, would make you
very happy."
" Never !" Ingaretha said, crimsoning. " Are you, as
well as the rest of the world, so blind where we two are
concerned ? Are we not always quarrelling ? If fate
had not given me a face that pleases him, he would find
me detestable."
" You will be vexed with me for what I am going to
say, I know," Euphrosyne went on earnestly; " but I
have had it on my mind for a long time, and now is the
time to speak. There are some things in life that I
hold to be more necessary to happiness than the fulfil-
ment of passionate love; such as a mind at peace with
itself, an even existence based upon well-tested prin-
ciples, a dignified and assured relationship with the
outer world. Love is beautiful and good; but of itself
alone it cannot mould life after the fashion of the
Euphrosyne s. Counsels.
cherished ideal. How often is a promising career hin-
dered, if not shipwrecked altogether, by a too blind
following of what seemed a supreme destiny or a divine
instinct, but was in reality no more than a hasty pas-
sion ? I do not for a moment aver that the lesson is
lost, or that the fruits of it may not in time be precious
and sweet-savoured; but when I think of the wasted
strength, the ill-spent forces, the life-long remorse of
the noble soul that has been so betrayed, I feel that the
experience has most likely been gained too dearly. You
will say what has this to do with Bene, or with Mr.
Carew? Just this, that the one, however noble his
ideals may be, has led a restless, wandering, unsatisfied
life; whilst the other, by virtue of inheritance, pos-
sesses those qualities you would be sure to look for in
your husband—self-repose, calm, and the dignity arising
from an unassailable social position."
Ingaretha made no answer, but sat at her monitor's
feet, pale and impatient.
" I must seem to have a spice of hypocrisy in me to
talk thus," Euphrosyne went on, " but indeed it is not
so. I am an old woman, and have lived through a great
many sad experiences. I know that my people have
great virtues and some faults, and I cannot let you cast
in your lot with us unwarned. Pardon me, my dear,
out of my great love only have I spoken."
And she laid her hands caressingly upon the golden
hair.
" I know, I understand," Ingaretha said, kissing her
friend's thin brown hands; "but I cannot break my
promise. Life will be a little difficult perhaps, surely
not so difficult as I should have found it otherwise."
What could Euphrosyne say ? It was very sweet to
The Sylvestres.
hear such words from Ingaretha's lips, and to forecast
the coming bliss of Rend's chequered life. Yet, had
not courage been wanting, she would fain have said
more, and laid her own story before the enthusiastic
girl as a warning—that half-finished story, so full of
romance, of tragedy, and of vicissitude.
Thus the matter ended. The promise given was to
be held, and the surprise of it passed through the stages
of other surprises, beginning in vague doubt and dismay,
ending in tranquil acceptance. Monsieur Sylvestre's
attitude was, as might be expected, one of unmitigated
rejoicing. According to his thinking, Love should be
lord of all, and duty, with all other virtues, follow, meek
servitors in his train. By such love only was the world
to be regenerated, and well for all that Ingaretha should
lead the way.
<fAh!" he would say with comic unconsciousness to
his wife, "if I were only Ren6, when Rene comes out of
prison!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
new-comers.
Monsieur Sylvestre was right when he said that in a
week or in a day the Phalanstery might emerge from
the dusky habitations of vision into the open light of
real existence, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Within
a fortnight after the utterance of his prophecy, no less
than three arrivals had happened, and letters of inquiry
poured in from almost all quarters of the civilised world.
A well-known political economist once declared it hia
New-Comers,
18 7
belief that " To every one according to his wants," was a
maxim which would bring about the salvation of
society; and Monsieur Sylvestre's manifesto to Material
Bankrupts and Moral Millionaires looked very much
like a sermon upon such a text. Certainly his corre-
spondents so read it, and the material bankrupts who
called themselves moral millionaires wanted a great
many things.
One wrote from Alsatia:
" My husband and I love each other dearly, but do not
feel drawn together by that elective affinity without
which every-day life becomes a burden. We are quite
willing to make the mutual sacrifices necessary for a
solution of the difficulty, namely, to seek our counter-
parts elsewhere. My husband thinks he should find his
in Central America, and perhaps some birds to stuff
also, of which occupation he is passionately fond. I can
cook excellently, and adore Schubert. As soon as you
can send us the passage-money—we have just had to
give up a dancing-school for want of funds—I will set
out for England, and bring with me our two tame
parrots, which will amuse you all greatly."
A second wrote:
"Sir,—Have supper and bed for two. Coming by
the 6.15 train, p.m., to-morrow.
"T. C."
A third -wrote in French:
" Unknown Friends,—Will you have pity upon a
friendless girl who is forsaken by all the world? If
only to die on your door-steps, I will come to you.
"Aglae."
l88
The Sylvestres.
What with hosts, guests, the hired labourers, and the
lame, the halt, and the blind, bidden from the highways
to daily feasts, Euphrosyne's resources were already
taxed to the utmost. The apple-chamber was almost
empty; the vegetable garden was stripped; one by one
the fatted fowls had disappeared; large inroads had been
made upon the potatoes protected by earth against snow
and frost. Her heart sank within her when she heard
the first tidings of the expected visitors, and straightway
confided her fears to Maddio.
" Dearest little mother," he said, caressingly, " you
forget that all these dear people will work. We can
dismiss our two labourers, and that will be a gain of a
pound a week, not to speak of the occasional bounties
they receive. And perhaps they may come with full
purses. Who knows V
She shook her head incredulously.
" Never, never! We have had the good, the beautiful,
the high-souled, and the sorrowful knock at our doors;
but the rich, never. And where are the strangers to sleep.
There is no room, except in the attic with the owls."
" I love owls," Maddio answered. " This very night
I will take up my abode in the attic with the well-
beloved birds."
" But what shall we do for food, dear Maddio ? The
chickens are gone, and it seems hard to slay the hens
when we greatly depend upon eggs."
" I will seek mushrooms and hedgehogs, which you
know are dainty eating. Then there are always our pigs."
"Not always. The number is sadly reduced already,
and we can't have any young ones for a long time. My
heart misgives me when I think of the long winter
before us,"
New-Comers.
"Well, there is a chance that some rich enthusiast
may cast in his lot with us, as I have long prophesied/'
he rejoined, blithely.
"But your prophecies don't come true, my poor
Maddio."
The entrance of Monsieur Sylvestre put a stop to the
conversation.
" Let everything wear a festive appearance to-night,"
he said, gaily. "A profusion of flowers is necessary
above all things, and some coloured waxlights for the
supper table. By-the-by, what is there for supper,
dear wife V
She assumed a cheerful expression immediately.
" Let us not mislead our friends. We are no epicures,"
she said. "Lor my part, I should say that a good soup,
with bread and ale, would amply suffice."
"Nay, we ought to commemorate the happy event
with a bottle of wine. What think you, good Maddio ?"
Maddio scratched his head, well pleased at the notion
yet hesitating on Euphrosyne's account. He could not
find it in his heart to say yea or nay.
" That is as E ortune wills," he answered at last. "If our
cellar is empty, I think we can be merry enough without
wine. If a bottle or two is to be found there, I won't
say that it might not add some lustre to the occasion."
Euphrosyne contrived to waive the subject, knowing
that the cellar was as empty as a cherry-tree at Christmas
time; but, as good luck would have it, Mrs. Minifie
chanced to call that afternoon. Of course Mrs. Minifie
heard the news, and of course Mrs. Minifie was invited
to supper. As she shook hands with her hostess at
parting, she whispered slyly:
" Good company and a bad supper is like riding a
The Sylvestres.
fast trotter with a stone in his foot, I take it. There's
no go in him, do what you will. I'll tuck a bottle of
Mr. Minifie's old port under my arm, and who will be
the wiser V'
And she was as good as her word. Mr. Minifie kept
the money, but Mr. Minifie could not carry the contents
of the larder and cellar about with him. Accordingly,
whenever Mrs. Minifie wanted to be generous, she
made inroads upon the family stores, too often scanty
enough, though wine was never wanting. Full of antici-
pation as a school-girl bound to her first party, Mrs.
Minifie set off to Pilgrim's Hatch. Life had gone better
with her of late. Not a day passed but she interchanged
a friendly hand-clasp with Euphrosyne, Monsieur Syl-
vestre, or Maddio. They always welcomed her, and to
the solitary and neglected a friendly welcome is like an
unexpected ride to a footsore wayfarer.
The sound of her carriage-wheels brought Monsieur
Sylvestre and Maddio to the door beaming with delight.
Maddio kissed her hand; Monsieur Sylvestre gave her
his arm, and led her into the little parlour.
"One of our good friends," he said, "whom I am
proud to introduce to Mr. Jack Carrington, barrister,
Mr. Harry Carrington, his brother, also barrister."
" Oh, gracious!" Mrs. Minifie said, her sense of pro-
priety forsaking her on a sudden. " What a kettle of
fish!—I mean, what a nice party! I hope you are well,
sir," she added, turning to Mr. Jack, a sallow-com-
plexioned, slender gentleman, -with a large lemon-
coloured beard and pale blue eyes, the colour of
London milk.
" I am sorry I cannot oblige you with a favourable
answer, madam. My brother and I are both as ill as
New- Comers.
191
Can be, or we should not be here. To tell the truth, we
have been suffering from a succession of fevers for the
last ten years—pray don't be alarmed—nothing catching.
First of all, we had the Hegelian fever, and were laid up
with it for months, with violent paroxysms of delirium.
No sooner were we fairly recovered than we got an
attack of Spiritualism, and were very bad indeed—
delirium was nothing to it. We ought to have been
shut up like maniacs, instead of which people en-
couraged us to cut capers like dancing dogs at a fair.
We pulled through somehow; but before we could
fairly turn ourselves round, we were on our backs with
Comtism, and our friends looked on it as a hopeless
case. Again we rallied, however, and our convalescence
progressed so favourably as to lead to a hope of entire
recovery. But, alas, we are now worse than ever!"
" And what is the matter with you this time ?" asked
Mrs. Minifie, but half comprehending his speech.
" You tell her, Harry," said Mr. Jack, mournfully.
" You ask what is the matter with us ?" Mr. Harry
rejoined, with some brusqueness. " Why, Socialism, of
course. It's on us, and we can no more shake it off
than the ague."
" Oh dear, oh dear!" Mrs. Minifie said. " I hope you
will shake it off. Suppose you try a little bark and
port wine. It is good for all kinds of fevers."
"Dear lady, do you suppose our friend to be serious ?"
Monsieur Sylvestre said, doing the honours of her bottle
of wine with eager hospitality. Bather regard his
speech as the effervescence that precedes the sparkling
draught. To-day we sip the wit, to-morrow we drink
the wisdom."
"Whose?" asked Mr. Jack, sotto voce. Then he
The Sylvestres.
added, aloud, "For my part I want neither wit nor
wisdom, but a ploughman's muscles, a ploughman's
appetite, and a ploughman's insensibility. Give me
these, and I will fall down and worship you. What
say you, brother ?"
Mr. Harry, who was an exceedingly large, soft, sleepy-
looking person, and handsome, if any one can be called
handsome whose face is utterly devoid of expression,
shrugged his shoulders, uttered an'ejaculation of disgust,
and relapsed into silence.
"We are on different tacks," pursued the other. "I
am all spirit—a flaming wick without a particle of
grease. My brother is all tallow, and no flame. To
sum up, the one has come hither in quest of a soul, the
other in quest of a body; if your spiritual fall short of
your corporeal influences, we must seek elsewhere."
Just then another tap was heard at the door, and
Maddio rushed to open it excitedly.
"The unknown lady!" ejaculated Madame Sylvestre.
"The unknown lady?" repeated the two brothers
inquisitively.
"The unknown lady?" echoed Maddio, leading by
the hand a young lady, who looked ready to drop of
fatigue.
CHAPTER XXVII.
aglae's story.
At the request of the stranger, she was at once carried
off to her room. It was a tiny chamber in the wall,
which had nevertheless been made to look cosy enough
Aglae's Story.
193
by means of carpets, dressed tapestry-wise round the
walls, an old-fashioned screen, and other contrivances of
warmth. Fire-place, of course, there was none, for
which Euphrosyne apologised pathetically, but the
young lady seemed disposed to make light of trifles.
"If I can only get to bed, and have something to
eat," she said, " I shall be the most thankful creature in
the world. Ah! madame, you do not know how I have
suffered!"
"Poor child, poor child!" said Euphrosyne, kissing
her on the cheek. "Like ourselves, then, you have
tasted misfortune!"
" Madame, I shall never have another happy moment.
I have no home, and those who should have been good
to me turned to be my greatest enemies."
"You have lost your mother, perhaps?" said Eu-
phrosyne, with a look of hungering tenderness.
" My mother is lost to me, madame. She was a bad
woman, and were it not for her I might have been as
happy as other girls. But let us not talk of it now."
" True, true. I will fetch you something to eat, and
then leave you to sleep," Euphrosyne answered; but
having performed her errand, she still lingered. There
are some women whom the sight of fresh girlhood always
affects strongly. Perhaps they are moved by the
remembrance of having also been sweet and lovely—or
they are touched by reason of their motherly instincts—
just such a one was the dreamed-of daughter that never
came, or would have been—the little angel buried in
infancy; or—God help such mothers!—the unknown
child from whom some dread fate has separated them
for life.
Pretty as she was and graceful as she was, this young
13
194
The Sylvestres.
creature was rather prosaic, after the manner of convent-
bred Frenchwomen. She finished her supper with the
utmost composure, paying no heed to Euphrosyne's
sympathising glances, and having swallowed her last
crumb of bread, asked for more. When the meal
finally came to an end, she held up her cheek to be
kissed after a child's careless fashion, saying:
" If you will come to me when it is getting light and
lie on my bed, I will tell you my story from beginning
to end, and you can advise me what to do. Good-night,
dear madame."
Euphrosyne went away full of mysterious yearnings
and unrest. She felt strangely drawn towards this
young stranger, who had dropped among them as a little
bird found in a chamber unawares. Young, pretty, and
neglected, who stood in such need of motherly love as
she ? The touch of homely commonplace manifested in
word and gesture Euphrosyne failed to notice. She
only saw what was artless and pathetic, and longed,
with all the motherly tenderness of her nature, to caress,
guide, and console.
Euphrosyne. slept little that night. For months she
had not been in so uneasy a mood. Dreams of days
long past, though too well remembered, disturbed her
uneasy slumbers. She saw herself in the first home of
her married life, before she had beheld the face of Mm
for whom she had sacrificed all, surrounded with the
stately circumstance of the first lady in the place, having
children at her knee, spending her days among flowers
and missals and monotonous deeds of charity—a calm,
measured life, without surprises. Vision after vision of
this kind troubled her till she fairly woke, and finding
herself awake, determined to dream no longer.
Aglae's Story.
195
Striking a light softly, she found it was nearly time
to be up and stirring. And there was the promise made
to her new guest. She dressed herself hastily, closed
the door softly, and proceeded to light the kitchen fire.
But when she had swept and dusted and laid the cloth,
it was still too early to disturb the traveller. She
busied herself a little longer, put out the barn-door key
and the milk-pails, opened the dairy shutters, and set
the pails in readiness. Then she crept up the attic
stairs and lay down, quiet as a mouse, beside the still
sleeping girl.
By-and-by, there was a glimmering of light in the
little chamber, and the first sounds of the day's business
might be heard below. The horses were led to the pond
to drink, the hens were summoned to feed, beans and
barley-meal were brought down the granary steps for the
pigs. By whom? Lying there in the early wintry
dawn, Madame Sylvestre had but a vague idea. Perhaps
it was Maddio, perhaps the old day-labourer who had
lately been made a partner in the concern, perhaps her
husband or one of the new-comers. These things went
mostly by chance at Pilgrim's Hatch.
The cold grey light grew stronger and stronger, and
soon the sleeper stirred. Madame Sylvestre lay close as
she dared to the warm young thing, partly because she
was trembling with cold, and partly because she wished
that the awakening might not be sad and lonely. What
an abundance of youth and health and beauty was
here! How had it come about that such a one should
be forlorn and a wayfarer ?
At last she was fairly awake, and lay with wide-open
eyes turned towards the light, and lips parting in a
smile.
13—2
196
The Sylvestres.
" You are here as you promised, madame," she said.
" Ah, how good it is to feel among friends once more.
You will not send me away 1"
" Have no fear on that score, dear child."
" I can do a few things to earn my bread, such as
silk embroidery, teaching music, and keeping accounts,
perhaps. But I said I would tell you how I came
here, and I will begin. Never was such a sad history,
madame."
" Poor child!" Euphrosyne said, with a tender pres-
sure of the hand. " It is indeed hard to be unhappy at
your age."
" All might have been different had my mother loved
me. Listen, madame, and judge for yourself whether
I am not right in thinking her the most wicked woman
in the world. She had everything that the heart could
desire—a beautiful home, a distinguished name, little
children; and yet all these failed to content her, and
she gave them up to satisfy a moment's fancy! I think,
if she is living now, she must have awful moments of
remorse. Dear madame, I come of one of the best
families in France—Eoman Catholic, of course—and
was educated with my sisters in a convent. We thought
ourselves orphans, till one day, just before leaving
school, the mother-superior took us into the closet and
told us it was not so. 'Your mother,' she said, 'was
dead to you from the moment she forsook the Holy
Church and her duties to her children. She had been
married to your father as a mere child, and he was
double her years. All the more ought she to have
shown submission to his will whilst he lived, and com-
pliance with his injunctions when she became a widow.
But no, with freedom her proud and intractable spirit
Aglaes Story.
19 7
broke forth as a wild animal turned loose. She would
do this, that, anything she willed, and hearkened neither
to conscience nor counsellors. There came to the neigh-
bouring town a stranger giving himself out as a follower
of Fourier, the great communist (whose heresies may
God extirpate !), a teacher of mathematics by profession,
young, supremely handsome, gifted with a marvellous
eloquence. Your mother was entrapped in the wiles of
Satan, and, instead of clinging to her confessor and the
saints, gave way to this unhappy passion. Think of it,
my children! she would fain have made this man the
head of her house, but, fortunately for you, guardians
stepped in. The choice was given her whether she
would surrender her children and all the dignities she
held as your father's widow, or—her lover. She chose
the last, and thus you became, in the spirit, if not in
the letter, orphans. Let the example of your mother
warn you for ever off the shoals of passion, and, what is
hardly less fatal to the happiness of women, intellectual
independence. Had your mother submitted her intel-
lect to her religious teachers from the beginning, she
would never have become a renegade and a cast-
away.'
This, madame, is the substance of what the mother
told us, and I could not get it out of my mind. I fancy
I am a little like what my mother must have been, for
when we returned home the monotonous life of the
village became hateful to me. I seized by stealth all
the books I could find in the library that told me any-
thing about Fourier and his disciples, and devoured
them greedily, knowing all the time how wicked it was.
I wanted to find out what had enticed my mother away.
And the more I read, the more I became dissatisfied
198
The SylvestreS.
with things around me. I longed for such a career as
she had chosen, untrammelled, swayed by inclination,
full of love, pleasure, and variety. I say again, I knew
how wicked it was, but without such an example I
might have been as good as other girls. My mother
must be blamed for all. Well, I went to Paris for the
first time, and was there promised in marriage to one
of my second cousins, a grave, hard man, double my
years, and much given up to public affairs. As you
may imagine, I trembled with fear at his lightest
word, and dreaded my wedding-day as much as if I
were going to be led to execution. Could I escape
such a fate ? was my thought night and day. I dared
not avow myself unwilling to marry my cousin. I
knew what a wretched lot awaited me as his wife.
And so time wore on, and we were married. Madame,
need I say what came of it ? I found my married life
110 less intolerable than I had expected; and one day,
when my husband had reproached me harshly for some
trifling fault, I left him, and went back to my old home.
But there I was treated so unkindly that I could not
stay. My husband made no overtures of reconciliation.
Eeceiving by chance one of your newspapers one day
with a book I had ordered from Paris, Lamennais'
' Paroles d'un Croyant,' I determined to go to England
and to join your Phalanstery. Tell me, madame, was
there ever so sad a story as mine V
But Euphrosyne had not a word to say. Silently as
one in deep sleep she had rested hitherto by the story-
teller's side. Softly as a somnambulist she now rose,
and made her way to the door. In the faint light of the
wintry morning the stranger could not see how pale
she looked and how she trembled, but she could hear
In the Dairy.
199
a sob rising to her throat as she returned hastily to
the bedside, and gave her a broken blessing and a
caress.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
in the dairy.
Precisely at eight o'clock the bell should have rung for
breakfast, but though Pilgrim's Hatch prided itself upon
being the most methodical little community in the
world, the bell sounded by chance, and indeed breakfast
seemed to come by chance, upon six mornings out of
the seven. As it was everybody's business in general,
and nobody's business in particular, to see that the
morning meal and the morning's duties were gone
through with punctuality, shortcomings^ were passed
over without comment and without reproach. The only
rule observed with the utmost rigidity was that each
should perform the work he had a liking for—a rule
subject to inconveniences under most circumstances, but
less so in an industrial army of which each soldier was
a commander-in-chief. On the day in question, which
happened to be an unusually damp and disagreeable
one, there were pig-sties to clean out, in addition to
turnip-cleaning, and one or two farming jobs of a more
engaging nature. "With the utmost alacrity the men
declared themselves ready for turnip-cleaning, etc., but
for once the divine principle of the attraction of labour
seemed inert: there were no volunteers for the pig-sty.
At last Maddio set off contentedly on the unsavoury
errand, arming himself with a musical-box by way of
zoo
The Sylvestres.
panacea, which was placed on the wall, and slosh, slosh
went his spadefuls to the tune of the march in " Faust,"
and " Bobert, toi que j'aime." Mr. Jack was initiated
into the business of the turnip-house, where he sat for
three hours on a three-legged stool cleaning Swedes and
beetroot gingerly in white kid gloves. Mr. Harry was
set to mole-catching; it being supposed that the contact
with these highly intelligent little creatures, and the
amount of caution required in dealing with them to
bring about their own destruction, would develop, if
indeed it were capable of development, the intellectual
part of Mr. Harry's being. The spiritual part was to be
left to music, the aesthetic instruction of the youthful
population of the village, and the ladies.
Meantime the women were not idle. Madame Syl-
vestre and her young friend, who called herself
Aglae, had, in addition to the house-work, to clean
the dairy and make the butter, for it was churning-day
—happiest day of all the seven to poor Euphrosyne,
ever, like Eve, on hospitable thoughts intent. It was
all cold work, and Aglae said more than once to her
companion—
" Dear madame, how you tremble! Let me fetch you
a warm shawl."
But Euphrosyne trembled no less when the shawl
was wrapped around her, and accused herself of having
foolishly caught cold.
" I am always forgetting that we are not in our sunny
beautiful Algerie," she said, " and did some garden-work
yesterday without my bonnet on. How you are here
to take care of me, I shall not do such foolish
things."
" Indeed you must not," answered Aglae, kissing her.
In the Dairy. 201
" I will look after you, as if you were my own mother,
and had been kind to me."
"No, no, no," Euphrosyne said, drawing back with
almost a frightened look. " I am not good enough to be
so treated. You don't know me. God be thanked—
none know me—as I know myself."
Aglae went on with her dairy-work disconcertedly.
She was a novice in the art of rolling butter, and
blundered, perhaps with some intention. The alternating
tenderness and reserve of her companion struck her as
strange in the extreme. She felt aggrieved that her
story should as yet have received no expressions of
sympathy. If such a story could not touch Madame
Sylvestre's heart, could anything touch it ? Aglae, ever
on the alert to be pitied or coaxed, bore up with her
disappointment as well as she could, till the heavier
part of the day's work was over. When they sat
down to needlework she could no longer hide her
thoughts.
"Can't we talk a little now?" she asked. "I am
very impatient to hear what advice you have to give
me, and as yet you have not said a word. Dear
madame—mother, if I may so call you "
" Oh! yes, if you will—but again I tell you I do not
deserve that sacred name."
" Have you never had any children ?" asked Aglae,
opening her large eyes.
She could not believe that the passionate caress of
the morning was anything but an outburst of motherly
feeling.
"My children were all lost to me in their infancy.
No childless woman was ever so unhappy as I. Yes,
call me mother, and love me and trust me, and you
202
The Sylvestres.
shall be to me as my own child," Euphrosyne said
between tears and kisses.
" And Monsieur Sylvestre, may I talk freely to him
too ? Will he love me also V Aglae said, ever on the
alert to discover more sympathy.
" I am sure he will, but do not talk to him of your-
self just yet. I will tell you why some other time,"
Euphrosyne answered agitatedly. "He is sure to be
good to you, and love you for having come to us."
"Would he not tell me what to do? I must be
counselled."
"Have a little patience, dear child. This very day
I will take you to see our best friend and protector, a
lady who has right thoughts about all things. To her
you can freely pour out your troubles."
Aglae looked unconvinced. She could not conceive
of any other counsellor to whom she could so readily
go as to Monsieur Sylvestre. There was his great per-
sonal fascination, to begin with, and what woman,
especially a woman who has been disappointed in love
and marriage, can resist the charms of a sweet voice, a
noble carriage, and a beautiful face ? That very morning
he had come into the little sitting-room where she was
busily dusting, had thrown himself at full length upon
the sofa, begging her to talk him to sleep. As he lay
thus taking, according to his habit, a few minutes' rest
in the midst of the day's labours, Aglae looked and
looked again, wishing she had been young with him
and chosen by him of all other women in the world.
Monsieur Sylvestre's beauty, far from vanishing with
age, had but grown more and more apparent. His eyes,
always fine, shone now with a tenderer, more insinuating
lustre j his smile was warmer and more universal than
In the Dairy.
203
of old; what he had lost in physical perfection he had
gained in spiritual subtlety. The look of that undying
youthfulness of spirit with which he was largely en-
dowed, embellished limbs and lineaments in spite of
failing person and whitened hair. Such an old age as
his—beautiful, self-indulgent, Quixotic—is especially
captivating to those reared among rigid formulas and
prosaic ideals.
Aglae fluttered about him coyly as a maiden in the
presence of a half-declared lover. One moment she
fancied he would be cold, and wrapped a shawl about
his feet j the next she thought the fire would scorch his
face, and placed a screen so as to shield him, he smiling
and nodding approval. At length, seeing that she was
in no humour to let him sleep, he held out his hand,
and motioned her to sit on a low stool at his feet.
"Welcome, my child," he said, smiling. "It is a
little late for me to say that word, but you will already
have understood that you are among friends. Work,
which, when glorified by the power of attraction, is the
richest heritage given by God to man; love, over whose
kingdom all should have boundless sway; self-develop-
ment, by which we mean the fullest play given to all
the faculties, social and individual—all this shall you
have to the full measure, running over."
His eyes turned towards her with a friendly expres-
sion, and then closed. She sat still as a mouse, and
soon he fell into a soft sleep, holding one of her little
hands in his.
Aglae confessed to herself that she had never in her
life beheld so adorable a being. Had the lover of her
erring mother been such a man, she felt as if it was in
her heart to pardon her,
204
The Sylvestres.
CHAPTER XXIX.
ingaretha's flitting.
Who has not, at some time or other, gone to the friend
of his bosom for bread and come away with a stone ?
The old affection has no more stirred from its abiding-
place than the sun from the heavens; but some cloud is
in the way, and it cannot shine forth, making the day
that dawned sadly the brightest of the year. When
Madame Sylvestre set out for the Abbey, accompanied
by Aglae, she never doubted that the great nightmare
brooding over her spirit would be transformed at In-
garetha's touch, if not into an angel with healing on its
wings, at least into winged sorrow touched with the
hues of heaven. But Ingaretha's whole being was for
the time self-absorbed and self-centred. A fever of
expectancy and inquietude was wasting her day by day.
Euphrosyne found her, flushed and discomposed, at her
writing-table, little Bina Greenfield stamping and
sealing letters for her demurely, whilst, through an open
door, might be seen the figure of Amy kneeling before an
open packing-case.
"You are going away?" asked Euphrosyne, with a
dismayed look.
"Yes, I cannot stay here. And poor Amy's children
want a change after their whooping-cough. I am going
to take them all to the sea."
" Good heavens! are you ill ?" Euphrosyne said,
taking her hand tenderly. "Your cheeks are hot, your
hands tremble, your eyes are too bright. What is it ?"
"Nothing, nothing. I had intended to run away
without saying good-bye, to escape questioning," In-
lugarethcis Flitting.
205
garetha answered, running her fingers distractedly
through her hair. " The place is dull, and I have not
enough to do. That is all the matter, I assure you.
But after we have had enough of the sea, I am going to
London, perhaps to Nice—anywhere so long as I get
away from Culpho."
Euphrosyne felt as if a cold hand were laid on her
heart. A few minutes ago, all troubles seemed bearable
because of Ingaretha's love and presence; now, In-
garetha's coldness and departure seemed the greatest
trouble of all. For a few moments she was speechless,
stunned by what in reality was the most natural oc-
currence in the world, and a day or two ago would have
by no means affected her deeply. Then the bitterness
passed. She put away her own discomfiture, and talked
cheerfully of the proposed journey.
" You are wise to go away," she began.
" I should think it is wise," Bina put in, nodding her
little head sagely. " Nobody ever thought of taking us
to the sea before!"
" There is a lady waiting in the drawing-room for me,"
Euphrosyne said, giving the little, maiden a kiss. " Will
you go and talk to her and amuse her till I come ?"
When the child had gone, and Amy had disappeared
from the inner room, she told Ingaretha Aglae's arrival
and history. But what a different story to that she had
purposed to tell. How commonplace and matter-of-fact
it sounded! How unmoved was her listener! She
chided herself for having used words with so little soul
in them, forgetting that if
" A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the torgue
Of him that makes it,"
206
The Sy Ivestres.
so does a tragedy's. Had she fallen at Ingaretha's feet,
saying, with agonised tears, "She of whom I have
spoken is my own child. Here is the mother who for-
sook her—whose example brought her to this. Pity and
forgive," she felt sure that the surprise would still have
been tardy and the sympathy lukewarm.
Euphrosyne rejoined her young companion with an
expression of dejection, and the two started off drearily
on their homeward walk through the snow; but ere
they had gone a dozen yards from the house a servant
came running after them with a message. The ladies
were to be driven home in the brougham, and were first
to have tea with Mrs. Greenfield, Miss Meadowcourt
desired them to say. They turned back willingly. Bina
met them on the doorstep, and led the way to a snug
little breakfast-parlour, far away from poor, sick-at-heart,
fevered Ingaretha. Amy sat down to the tea-table with
a beaming face. Bina entertained the company. An
hour passed like a moment.
And at the end of the hour, just as they were on the
point of starting home, a beautiful golden head peeped
in, brightening everything like the sun. It was Inga-
retha's real self, not her ghost, this time, and she sat
down and took Pennie on her knee, and gave one hand
to Euphrosyne after the old way.
" 1 behaved badly to you just now," she said. " For-
give me. I am ill, I think, or perhaps out of my senses.
I shall be better by-and-by."
Then she turned to Aglae, and talked kindly to her ;
but the young Frenchwoman was not easily to be won
over. It had seemed to her preposterous that Ingaretha
could have any trouble so important as to eclipse her
own, and hungry as she was for sympathy, she wilfully
Ingaretha* s Flitting.
207
withheld response to the proffered cordiality. By Inga-
retha Euphrosyne's sulky young guest was forgotten ere
she had been out of the house half-an-hour.
The next day the little party set out for the South of
England; and what a journey of enchantment was that!
Poor Amy's entire experience of travel had begun and
ended with a fortnight's honeymoon at Henley-on-
Thames, and she was like a child in her eager apprecia-
tion of everything—the journey to London, the two
days' sight-seeing; finally, the mixed land and sea
journey, first to Brighton and then to that verdant little
island of ours which Sir Philip Sidney might have had
in his mind when he described the scenery of his Ar-
cadia. No wonder that to the curate's wife and children
the place seemed peopled with good fairies, an island of
the Blest, a realisation of childhood's choicest visions!
After a time Ingaretha attained that peace she had
longed for during the last month. The irritability in-
duced by over-concentration of thought passed away.
She became again the Ingaretha of old.
At twilight the children would gather round her knee
and beg for stories. Unconsciously she had fallen into
the habit of telling Kene's story, and they loved it best
of all. They listened breathlessly whilst she told of his
unhappy childhood, his wanderings, his desolation, his
imprisonments, and his patriotic ambitions; asking when
she stopped, " How does it end ? Does he marry some
beautiful lady ? Does he turn out to be a prince ?" and
so on. To make them happy she said " Yes," sighing
softly to herself when the telling of the story was
ended.
Happy indeed is the friend of little children! Inga-
retha wondered at the affection of Amy—herself a child
208
The Sylvestres.
—and Amy's children for her. They -would sit at her
feet, looking up at her face, or would stroke and kiss her
hair, her dress, her hands, as if she were something more
than mortal. And why ? Simply because she had been
kinder to them than any one in the world—had not only
held a cup of water, according to Scriptural injunction,
to " one of these little ones," but had taken good heed
of the quality of the water, seeing it was fresh from the
spring, sparkling to behold, good to drink.
Thus time wore on, and Amy had to go home.
Ingaretha carried off Bina to London, and gave the
little maiden a round of dissipation. What with the
Crystal Palace, and the pantomimes, Bina was very
near losing her quaint pretty old womanishness alto-
gether, and becoming a child again. They stayed in the
house of a maternal uncle of Ingaretha's, a stately old
gentleman, who had no particular love of curates or
large-eyed, half-starved-looking little girls always in
want of shoes or frocks.
Prom this house Ingaretha went to visit others of her
kinsmen and kinswomen, knowing well enough it was
for the last time. In a few months they would regard
her as irrecoverably lost to them as if she had married
a gipsy, or eloped with some schoolfellow's husband.
She determined to behave graciously now, and at least
leave such a remembrance as should not disgrace
her.
" Do you love all your relations V asked sage Bina
one day.
"Not all, of course, you strange child."
"Because I don't like relations at all. They are
always scolding. I think they are of very little use
except to go to each other's funerals."
Ingarethas Flitting.
" But, Bina, some relations do not scold at all, and
are always good to each other."
" Yery few/'Bina said, shaking her head; "Mamma
has a great many, and whenever they come to see
us, she is cross and miserable for days after, No, I
don't like relations. I think it is a pity they were
invented/'
About a fortnight after Amy's departure, Ingaretha
was startled by receiving the following telegram from
Peasemarsh:
"Dear Eriend,—We are in great trouble, and un-
speakably need your counsel. Can you come to us, if
only for a day ?
" Euphrosyne."
Of course she started for Suffolk by the next train.
CHAPTEE XXX.
winter at pilgrim's hatch.
The year opened favourably at Pilgrim's Hatch. Why,
indeed, should not things prosper ? The land was of
that good quality—called mixed soil—dearest of all to
the heart of the farmer. Prices were fair. Their stock
throve. Nothing seemed wanting but good crops to lay
the foundation of a permanent prosperity. Even Euphro-
syne's heart grew light at times when she went again
and again to the family cash-box and found it reple-
nished. A little money goes a long way among the
believers in an age of gold, and, so long as a guinea
remained; none dreamed of poverty to come.
14
■£ 10
The Sylvestres.
The actual poverty around them was a greater trouble.
We who fare sumptuously and sleep warm, shiver at the
first mention of winter, and talk of it as an enemy; but
what does winter mean to us ? The household board is
spread a little more bountifully, friendly hospitalities
are carried on with unwonted vigour, all over the house
fires are kept burning, from the furthermost corners of
the earth soft furs are brought to keep us warm, life is
made twice as luxurious and twice as indolent as in
summer. But to the poor the seasons come differently,
and winter means the combined miseries of cold, hunger,
and despair. Take these happy Suffolk villages, for
instance, where the wealth of the land is so abundant
as to give one an idea of the golden age of Greek fabu-
lists. In spite of bequests of living and dead bene-
factors, and donations of coals and flannel, winter brought
an amount of suffering to the weak and aged, of which
only eye-witnesses have an idea. In every parish, frost
and snow throw three or four men out of work, and some
of these will be rheumatic sexagenarians, hitherto inde-
pendent, and fathers of families. Children are born in
cold weather, delicate people fall sick in cold weather,
old people die in cold weather, and what a burden of
anxiety does each of these events imply! The measure
of barley and the flask of oil are not increased as they
were to the Shunamite woman, and meantime the weak
old mothers must be nourished, the consumptive girl
must have medicine, the aged grandmother must be laid
under the sod. Talk not of the workhouse, 0 matter-
of-fact philanthropist! No more aristocratic spirit ex-
ists than that animating the heart of our sturdy Suffolk
ploughman. If he is so unfortunate as to live past
work and have no good child, son or daughter, to give
Winter at Pilgrim's Hatch.
211
him a corner by the fireside, he lays aside his spade and
his reaping-hook with bitter tears, and betakes himself
to the prison dreaded a thousand times more than the
grave. The few pleasures and privileges—alas! that
they should be so few!—he enjoyed whilst able to work,
have vanished for ever; the walk to church with friend
and neighbour, the friendly pipe and tankard of ale, the
little garden lovingly cultivated, the farmhouse sights
and sounds, familiar and dear, the bit of local news
gossiped over with such unction—upon all these have
closed the walls of a living tomb, and there is nothing
more to do but await the end.
Monsieur Sylvestre, Euphrosyne, and Maddio were
far from ignoring the suffering around them. They
gave what indeed they had not to spare, went without
bare necessaries that others might be fed and clothed.
Ingaretha, of course, gave of her abundance freely; but
among the tenants of Pilgrim's Hatch a vast and mag-
nanimous scheme was floating, which promised to do
what was beyond almsgiving, however princely. They
resolved, when Michaelmas came, to follow in the wake
of Assington, and by making it a co-operative concern,
lift at least half-a-dozen labourers from the slough of
poverty-stricken dependence into freedom and pros-
perity. At present the scheme was kept a secret.
CHAPTER XXXI.
MRS. minifie's prophecies.
Meantime, the business of the farm was carried on with
renewed enthusiasm from Christmas till Easter. A few
bullocks were purchased in order to fatten for the
14-2
212
The Sylvestres.
spring fair, and money was freely laid out upon oil-cake,
mangel-wurzel, and other necessary adjuncts to the
process. How Maddio's face beamed as he helped his
compeers to dole out these delicacies to the large-eyed,
soft-coated, gentle things! With what exhilaration he
scattered the bright-yellow Swede turnips to the hungry
sheep bleating in their wintry fold! Then there was
the less poetic work of the ordinary day-labour to be
done, the hedging and ditching; and what could by no
means be called poetic at all, the farmyards to be
cleaned out, and the manure to be spread on the fallow
land. When February came, there were the barley-
stubbles to be ploughed up, and, as the weather was
mild and open, beans and peas were put in. Our grand-
sires—at least, so runs the Suffolk tradition—used to
prove the temperature of the land by sitting on the
ground. If it was cold, seed-time was not come; if the
contrary, the sowing began. The saw, " When black-
thorns blow, then barley sow," was held good by them;
but that was in the time when nut-brown ale had not
been superseded by the decoctions of Bass and Allsopp;
and now the barley is got in as early as possible, the
earlier the sowing, the better the quality, being found
the rule. With the advance of spring came a period of
greater activity, the wheat to be cleaned, horse-hoeing,
harrowing, ridging the land intended for root crops, and
other tasks equally important.
How happy were these Utopians as they performed
their work! To them, nothing was mean, sordid, or
common. There was a good naturalist among them,
our old friend Maddio, and at the touch of the natura-
list's wand every inch of homely soil becomes enchanted
ground. To plough a field or trim a hedge was to un-
Mrs. Minifies Prophecies.
213
ravel new secrets of animal and vegetable life, micro-
scopic, yet marvellous; to live a day longer out of doors
was to become sovereign of a thousand beautiful realities
hitherto alien and undiscovered. One day it was some
new property of a flower he made out; another, some
hitherto doubtful idiosyncrasy of bird or insect that he
settled for once and for all; undreamed of analogies
and generalisations awaited him at every turn. And
let none smile down largely, taking his triumphs and
his disappointments to be light and childish things. Is
it not by such steps as these that we are brought nearest
to the great mysteries and greater simplicities of the
universe? The kingdom of art lies perhaps out of
the reach of every one, but there is ample opportunity
for all the naturalists in the world. We have only to
stretch out our hand, and the door of nature opens
without any magical Sesame.
All this time Aglae was the only apparent element
of disturbance in the place. She could not endure the
spectacle of peace and happiness from which she was
shut out, and, one by one, Maddio and the brothers
Carrington were taken into her confidence and made
unhappy. From Monsieur Sylvestre only she held
back, being bound by a promise to Euphrosyne. He
knew, of course, the vague outline of her story, but
nothing of her birth, parentage, and family. Because
Aglae's history would have perplexed and disconcerted
him, it was studiously withheld, as was everything else
that might have had the same tendency, whether scan-
tiness in the larder, a financial crisis, or an experimental
fiasco. Whatever happened, he must be kept happy.
But there were other elements of trouble floating
about, of which at present they did not know.
214
The Sylvestres.
Originality is the one unpardonable sin in country
places, and it was little likely that such flagrant crimes
committed daily and hourly against routine should
escape notice. The good-humour of the neighbourhood,
like the sunshine of a tempestuous day, was fictitious.
Black clouds loomed in the distance. Already the growl
of distant thunder might be heard. Omens of stormy
weather were evident to all those who had ears to hear
or eyes to see. But none were seen or heard by the
joy-loving tenants of Pilgrim's Hatch.
One day Mrs. Minifie came to give what she called a
friendly warning. It was her fullest determination to
beat about the bush, but on finding Madame Sylvestre
alone, the temptation to be sensational was.irresistible.
" Goodness gracious!" she cried, floundering about the
little room like a seal in mud. " The dear woman sits
reading her book as composedly as if there were no such
thing as a devil on the prowl or bad folks putting their
heads together. My good creature, don't you know that
you are sitting on hot coals, and your good man's life is
not worth an empty cotton-reel? Pray get up and
bestir yourself, instead of looking as innocent as a turtle
before being cut up for a dinner-party."
Madame Sylvestre dropped the little volume she was
reading, her invariable companion, the "Paroles d'un
Croyant," and looked up in quiet dismay.
"Dear Madame Minifie," she said, "there are no
marauding Arabs here, and no Imperial police prying
into everything. What need we fear ?"
"That's just like you clever people," Mrs. Minifie
said impatiently. "You know all about the stars
millions of miles off, and run your heads against the
first brick wall you come near. I tell you, you're no
Mrs. Minifies Prophecies. 215
more safe here than you were in the country of earth-
quakes, Mohammedan assassins, famines, and plagues
and burnings."
" Oh, heavens!" said Madame Sylvestre, " I thought
that here we might safely await our dying day! And
we have got a home that the most fastidious might envy.
Never did I so adore a place as I adore this."
" I should have thought you had chopped and changed
about so often that one place was as much like another
to you as a cabbage is to a caterpillar! But I tell you
that you must all look sharp if you wish to stay here
and keep a whole skin."
" Of what crime do people accuse us ?" asked Madame
Sylvestre, beginning to tremble with retrospective mis-
givings. "We have done no one any harm, and have
tried to be friendly to all."
"That's just it," Mrs. Minifie said. "You have been
doing good to the people, and they don't like it. Nobody
does. From morning till night you have doctored and
preached, and gone out of your way to put things right,
and it was only natural that you should come to be
looked upon as enemies. There's Mr. Whitelock, the
parson, a man who calls himself enlightened. He will
be the first to tar and feather you all."
"Surely a Christian and a gentleman of education can
hut think well of us for treating the poor people like
our brothers and sisters V Euplirosyne asked sadly.
" Brothers and sisters be fiddle-de-dee, my dear. Of
course, it's all true, but it's mighty unpleasant to grand
folks to be told so. I always thought that the world
wanted mending myself; but what about those who set
about the mending? I wouldn't stand in your shoes
for something!"
?i6
The Sylvestres.
((We have only taught the poor people," Madame
Sylvestre answered with humility, "and helped them
when they were in trouble, doctored them when sick,
and so forth, To make sure of good on earth is un-
doubtedly next door to making sure of heaven hereafter.
In this we have hut co-operated with such men as the
rector."
" How the dear creature talks!" Mrs. Minifie cried.
" One would think she was as innocent as a chick with
one foot out of the shell! I only tell you what other
folks think, and they look upon you as a set of Atheists
and Mormons, and that unless we very soon get rid of
you, we shall all go to the had together. There, I've
told you the truth, and your own mother couldn't do
more, There's Monsieur Sylvestre coming. I'll begin
over again for his benefit."
" For the love of Heaven, not a word!" Euphrosyne
said with an imploring gesture. " I will think of what
is best to be done, but let us not disturb his peace."
" Nonsense! How can women expect their husbands
to be good for anything whilst they treat them as if
they were made of ginger-bread ? It is Monsieur
Sylvestre's goings on, and not yours, that people most
object to."
" He is an angel, and even his imprudences are die-
tated by a love of his fellows," Euphrosyne answered.
" I entreat you to be silent."
" As you like, of course. But remember I've cried
' Wolf,' and if you stay like silly sheep to be gobbled
up, it isn't my fault."
And with that Mrs. Minifie went, for the first time
feeling disinclined to hear Monsieur Sylvestre's honeyed
discourse. She admired him as much as any one, but
Mrs. Minifies Prophecies. 217
she had fallen in love with Euphrosyne at the same
time, and being herself an ill-used wife, she was ever
on the alert to discover others equally victimised.
CHAPTER XXXII.
the enemy strikes in the dark.
"Why did that dear lady go away?" asked Monsieur
Sylvestre, dropping into an easy-chair, just as Mrs.
Minifie's carriage might be seen—dark and ill-omened
as some cumbersome beast of prey—diving into the
gloom of the wintry twilight. As Euphrosyne made no
immediate answer, he went on:
" If ever there was a person quite exceptionally
charming, that person is our good friend, Madame
Minifie. Ever self-forgetting and mindful of the pre-
sent only, what a lesson does she teach the selfish,
anxious, unenjoying world! And then with what in-
fantine zest will she throw herself into such small
pleasures as chance or kindness may put in her way!
I find Mrs. Minifie a person to envy and imitate. She
has about her withal a pleasing—I might say idiotic,
only the word is unacceptable—well, I will call it
humorous naiveM, wholly at variance with the prose of
respectable life."
" Poor soul! She is sadly tried by her husband, a
man of coarse nature and cold heart. I cannot help
looking upon that man as our enemy."
Monsieur Sylvestre laughed lightly.
" We have no enemies here. I would, for our dear
friend's sake, that her husband were made of finer
218
The Sylvestres.
metal; but, as far as we are concerned, I am sure we
have no trustier well-wisher than our good counsellor
Minifie."
" Methinks he is over-officious and careful in matters
that do not concern him. But I have no wish to mis-
judge any one," Euphrosyne said apologetically.
She said this absently, forgetting for the moment
that she was not soliloquising alone, a habit she had
gained during her long period of solitude. Startled at
her own words, she was fain, too late, to retract them.
But Monsieur Sylvestre only smiled, and made answer:
" My precious child, is it not thy only fault that thou
beckonest the evil hour which might otherwise pass us
by ? In our beloved France, in the wilds of America,
in beautiful Algerie, it was always so. Fortune smiled
upon us till thy cunning eyes saw the ill-omened form
of her sister Mishap in the distance. Trust me, ah!
have I not said it a thousand times ?—Upon those that
smile, good fortune smiles."
Euphrosyne was silent. Like a child that had been
reproved, she sat with hands meekly folded and filling
eyes. She knew well enough how differently things would
have gone with them had she followed her own instincts
of self-preservation, but would not have contradicted
him for worlds.
" Keproach me not with that contrite face," he said,
holding out his hand, which she kissed with almost
abject fervour and gratitude. " It is the one fault of
your sex to be over-anxious, whilst ours must be ac-
cused of a thousand. Well, amuse me by telling more
of the machinations of this redoubtable adversary. Will
he cast us into prison, as did the Imperialists of France ?
Will he sow the seeds of anarchy among us, as traitors
The Enemy Strikes in the Dark. 219
did in the Far West ? Will he burn us out and pillage
us, as did the poor ignorant Arabs of the Tell ? Never
think it, dear love. It is poverty that makes man enemy
of man, and our good neighbour Minifie is an agricul-
tural Midas, turning all he touches into pure gold. We
are poor enough here among a race of millionaires to
sleep the sleep of safety."
" True," Euphrosyne answered. " By the side of such
men as he, we are poor indeed, though millionaires in
comparison with our former selves."
" Again comparing and looking back ? Oh! have
done with it, I beseech you. What treasure have we
poor mortals to compare in preciousness with the God-
sent boon of the present, that draught held to our lips
in golden goblets, if rejected once, rejected for ever.
Whether we were poor and miserable yesterday is of
little moment, what will befall us to-morrow we must
leave to the gods; but a happy day makes us all heirs.
Let us enter upon our heritage joyfully, ring the bells,
hang out banners and garlands, teach the youths and
maidens to dance to merry music, without wondering
what will happen next."
He threw himself on the sofa'with a sigh of supreme
satisfaction, and taking up a volume of poems, read
aloud one or two fragments. His voice, naturally sweet
and strong, had been so trained as to prove an instru-
ment in his hands capable of expressing every shade of
feeling. Euphrosyne had never accustomed herself to
regard her husband's elocution as a common pleasure,
and plied her needle softly, so as not to interfere with
the ever well-beloved magical sound.
Half-an-hour passed thus, and by-and-by Aglae stole
in to listen, then Maddio, then the brothers Carrington.
220
The Sy Ives ires.
Sleet was falling, and they found it much pleasanter to
sit in the cosy little fire-lit parlour, hearing favourite
poems read in a choice manner, than to wade knee-deep
through the sloshy farmyards carrying in pailfuls of
new milk, and of that compound delectable to porkers
called in Suffolk parlance, " swill." The Fourierist doc-
trine of the attractiveness of labour often flagged on
such days, but somehow the pigs got fed and the horses
got cleaned down; it was surprising how things seemed
to take care of themselves.
Daylight waned, the book was laid aside, and Monsieur
Sylvestre began to discourse. A more reverend-looking
figure would be hard to find than that of the teacher of
Pilgrim's Hatch, as he sat in his arm-chair in an atti-
tude of easy grace, touched with just a shade of prophetic
assumption. His long silky white locks lay upon the
collar of his black velvet coat—some fair admirer's gift
—his white hands accompanied his words with rhyth-
mic gestures, his graceful, stately person was disposed
with dignity, and his eyes glowed with passionate elo-
quence.
"Think," he said, "of the beautiful mysteriousness
which casts a halo around the daily life of communists
like ourselves. We open our arms to rich and poor,
saints and penitents, the learned and the simple, and
we know not what a day, nay, an hour, may bring forth.
This very moment there is perhaps on his way to us
some wealthy believer in regenerated humanity, some
princely philanthropist ready to found a palatial Phalan-
stery, some rich seeker after good who up till now has
sought for what he thirsted in vain. Miracle-workers,
indeed, are those who devote their lives to social reform,
and we may ourselves be called miracle-workers."
The Enemy Strikes in the Dark. 221
At these general compliments the eyes of Enphrosyne
and Maddio were moistened with joyful tears, all faces
beamed, and a pleasurable silence reigned throughout
the little assembly, broken at last by a loud knocking
at the front door.
"Did I not speak aright? Without doubt this is
some noteworthy convert to the doctrines of our great
master," Monsieur Sylvestre said, smiling radiantly,
" or some angelic messenger of sympathy and affection
from far-off fellow-workers. Sweet wife, open the
door and bid the strangers hearty welcome."
Euphrosyne rose; Maddio, too inquisitive to wait
the result, followed her; the rest, all but Monsieur
Sylvestre, stood on tiptoe, peering into the little
entrance-hall. Two dark figures presented themselves,
and after a little parleying, Euphrosyne darted back to
the sitting-room, trembling in every limb.
" What alarms you ?" asked her husband with a
tranquil solicitude.
" The police, the police!" she said, every word
freighted with terror inexpressible. "Then Madame
Minifie was right. We are in danger of our lives."
Aglae screamed, Maddio turned white to the lips—
even Monsieur Sylvestre showed signs of agitation.
Then, making a violent effort, Madame Sylvestre
controlled herself so far as to turn to the unwelcome
strangers and say, " Please enter, gentlemen, and
pardon me, I pray you, for having been discourteous in
my agitation. I know not what I did."
" Come on, Tommy," said one factotum of the law
to the other; " let's out with it, and get away as quick
as we can."
Tommy, thus apostrophised, read in a solemn
222
The Sylvestres.
voice a summons issued by the parish against Monsieur
Sylvestre, commanding him to appear before the magis-
trate on the next day of sitting, to answer a charge of
having disturbed Mr. "Whitelock's congregation by open-
air preaching at his last discourse.
The policemen then withdrew, leaving behind them
much more uneasiness than the occasion warranted.
The brothers Carrington did what they could to allay
the fears of the assembly, and Monsieur Sylvestre
affected an unconcerned air; but a chill had fallen on
the spirits of all. One by one, each became silent and
self-centred. The apparent danger, like the cloud no
bigger than a man's hand, threatened to burst over
their heads, overwhelming and destroying.
CIIAPTEE XXXIII.
VILLAGE RADICALISM.
As soon as the news spread of Monsieur Sylvestre's
forthcoming appearance before the magistrates, people
began to prick up their ears and discover for them-
selves the viper they had harboured in their bosoms.
Not an hour passed but some awful discovery was made,
or some dreadful conclusion arrived at about him and
his belongings. The weird, well-known Peasemarsh
legend became fresh in everybody's memory; and was
not the wizard of the story among them again, beautiful,
wily, fair-tongued, working mischief in the dark?
There were black looks and lowering frowns for poor
innocent Maddio and Madame Sylvestre whenever they
happened to be in the village, insubordinate remarks
Village Radicalism.
223
and rude gestures from the pupils of the night-school,
coarse familiarities and insinuations by no means
refined from the audience at the Academy. As yet,
this spirit had not been manifested before the august
cause of so much obloquy. Whatever might be Mon-
sieur Sylvestre's faults or crimes, he was as yet shielded
from insult by a halo of dignity, self-assertion, pathos
—one knows not what name to give to a quality as
difficult to describe as a perfume. It is enough that
no one slighted, no one insulted, no one looked askance
at him.
At the village forum daily scenes took place now
that would have been laughable but for the under-
current of ill-feeling perplexity always engenders among
the ignorant. One day Tat Tideman, the village cobbler,
barber, and wag, declared it his opinion that the tenants
of Pilgrim's Hatch were no better than the inhabitants
of Sodom and Gomorrah, Monsieur Sylvestre was no
woman's husband in particular, and vice versa.
" Go it, Tat," cried a quiet, pious man, who never did
■any harm, but loved a little broad sensationalism when
it came in his way.
And Tat did " go it."
" Gentlefolks are much like other folks, I take it,
when skinned of their fine clothes,".he went on; "and
Miss Meadowcourt—well, I don't wish to say a word
against a lady who has always been kind to us—but
Miss Meadowcourt is as near like the rest as could be.
I know something about Miss Meadowcourt I would
tell anybody for a pot of beer."
" Come, that's stingy," said a voice from the crowd.
"Out with it, Tat," cried another; "brag first and
beer afterwards."
224
The Sylvestres.
Thus appealed to, Tat began in a roundabout way to
tell his story.
"Don't you suppose I keep people shaved or shod
without knowing within a little what their heads and
their heels are about, and Father Sylvestre's tongue
goes like a trotting mare when he has had a good
dinner. You will hear something queer one of these
days about Miss Meadowcourt, I'll warrant."
" Give over, Tat," said one of the best men in the
village, a sober, first-class ploughman. " Slander not
thy betters, man; never yet did slippery tongue do a
thriving trade."
Tat, a little wiry, bull-dog fellow, who was, intel-
lectually and physically, the terror of the village, though
too good-natured to be a bully, here doubled his fists
and knit his brows.
" If you weren't an old woman, I'd black your eyes
nicely," he said, " for teaching your grandfather how to
crack walnuts; but I can tell all of you, the best man
here as well as the worst—if indeed there is best and
worst among such a lot—thus much, that when you
know as much as I do, you'll stand on your heads un-
bidden."
This did not satisfy the assembly, and by little and
little they wormed it out. Miss Meadowcourt, the rich
lady, the owner of almost all the land in the parish, the
future wife, as they all thought, of Mr. Carew, himself
rich in dignities and acres—Miss Meadowcourt, declared
to be the prettiest young lady for miles round, was
going to do what, think you ? Become a nun, and
enter the new Protestant convent of St. Beowulf's?
Worse than that. Marry parson, old enough to be her
father? That was nothing to it. Give it up? Well,
Village Radicalism.
225
then, Miss Meadowcourt was going to marry one of
those poverty-stricken foreigners who had hung around
the Abbey for the last few months—the one now away,
who used to say he was no better than we, and had to
work for his bread; and why away ? Because he was
put in prison for having tried 'to assassinate the Em-
peror of the French.
Most were silent.
" You don't say so ?" said one,
" I don't believe it," said another. " Miss Meadow-
court has no pride with us poor folks, and shakes hands
with us just as lief in her Sunday clothes as on week-
days. But she's not a lady to demean herself by going
to church with such as us; at least, so I take it."
" Lord love your soul, you're a thousand years behind
your time, all. of you," Tat said explosively. "Don't
you know that times are changing, and that poor folks
are to have their turn at last? You hear what the
parson says 0' Sundays—' The poor shall be filled, and
the rich sent empty awayand though nobody believes
it, parson least of all, the time is drawing nigh. Whether
this, that, or t'other, marries whomsoever, hersoever, or
himsoever they pleases, matters no more to us than to
the King of the Cannibal Islands; 'tis but the bringing
together of two fools to torment each other. But, I tell
you, we shall see something, such as we never saw the
like on, afore long. You eat your fat pork, and swallow
your hard dumplin', and look as unconcerned as sucking
babes. What will you say when you smell roasts
all the year round, ay, and taste 'em too, and plum-
puddin' into the bargain ? Well, that's what we poor
folks are coming to. I don't read the penny papers for
nothing, and don't go to Ipswich, and talk to the book-
226
The Sylvestres.
learned mechanic chaps for nothing. And I don't read
the Scriptures for nothing either, and can expound a
prophecy as well as most of the parsons. The rich
have had their day; that's what the penny papers and
the Scriptures and the night watchin's teach me. And
we are to step in their shoes, and jolly fun it will he, to
my thinking, to do nothing from morning till night but
hover about a public-house jingling the money in one's
breeches-pockets, and treatin' old acquaintances to six-
pennorth of the best. Now, when I hear of ladies like
Miss Meadowcourt taking up with such as have no
Sunday clothes, and not a farthing to bless themselves
with, thinks I, things are coming rounder and rounder,
and soon they'll come round to us."
There was a silence of some minutes, during which
many varied expressions passed over the broad faces of
the assembly. Some grinned blankly, and nothing
more. Others nudged each other, with sly winks of
incredulity. The oldest and sagest looked terribly
discomposed.
" Tat may talk as he may," said the ploughman who
had before remonstrated. "I've read the Scriptures
every Sabbath for the last forty year, and have never
come across any passages promisin' plum-puddin's and
roast beef to poor folks all the year round. Things may
change, and the world may turn topsy-turvy for all I
know; but this I am pretty sartin about—as long as
we live, and our childer's childer, there'll be them who
eat nigh to bustin', and them who go hungry and dry.
It's the Lord's will."
With that he rose and went.
The odour of soberness being withdrawn, an explosive
burst of laughter filled the place. In spite of Tat's au-
Village Radicalism.
227
thority, both mental and physical, the scriptural roast
beef and plum-pudding, the breeches-pocket full of
money, and the rest of the things that he declared to be
coming " rounder and rounder," seemed sheer joking.
A few coarse jests and homely, one might almost say
brutal, sarcasms followed the laughter, after which pipes
were smoked and pots emptied in silence. This sort of
scene became an almost daily occurrence, and as upon
each some fresh scandal was fabricated or some old one
embellished, it may be imagined what a pretty story
soon circulated about the little community at Pilgrim's
Hatch. Madame Sylvestre was but one of Monsieur
Sylvestre's numerous wives. Maddio did not carry in
Madame Sylvestre's milk-pails and wait upon her with
such politeness for nothing. Oh, they were a bad lot!
And was there not something diabolical in the artful-
ness with which they could draw money out of rich,
good sort of people like Miss Meadowcourt ? It was all
very well to say that these heathenish foreigners had
done good in the place. They had cured sick cows,
being neither doctors nor proper quacks? The Evil
One was in it all, without a doubt. Did not our
fathers and grandfathers say that some day the Pease-
marsh wizard would appear again ? And if he was
not here now, he would never come at all, to their
thinking.
Thus evil-tongued report went abroad, saying all
kinds of evil things about three harmless folks, whose
only crime had been a passionate craving after the good
of their fellows. Far and near spread the rumour, till
soon not a leal servitor remained among Monsieur
Sylvestre's train of proMges.
And as the day of trial drew near, the wise shook
15—2
228
The Sylvestres.
their heads forebodingly, and the malicious made less
decorous signs of evil portent.
Ingaretha was away, so was Mr. Carew; and, except
these two, he had no staff upon which to lean. What
would avail his smooth speeches and his honeyed voice
now ?
CHAPTER XXXIY.
the rector speaks his mind.
It was a mild February afternoon, and the rector of
Culpho sat in his little study, writing his Sunday ser-
mon—thrice blessed sermon, that sent half a hundred
worn-out folks to sleep ! Happy sleepers ! happy
magician! What would we not give, now that we have
grown old and weary, to recall certain Sabbaths of our
childhood, when we nestled cosily in the remotest corner
of the old family pew, and drowsed and droned to the
familiar tune of the weekly discourse ! Those days are
gone for ever. The pews are no more. Perhaps, could
we hear it now, the voice of the village priest might not
exert its wonted sway on our senses. Yet the remem-
brance of that long sleep in the summer afternoons
comes back, how lovingly, in the days when all plea-
sures are difficult, and sleep most of all!"
The rector's study looked upon a pretty flower-bed
full of crocuses and snowdrops, a cluster of bright green
evergreens, and a strip of pale blue sky. Little birds
still twittered under his window in search of a last
crumb. A tame old hen strutted across the gravel
path. The rector's elderly mare might be seen grazing
The Rector Speaks his Mind. 229
in tile churchyard. Altogether it was a peaceful scene,
suggestive of bachelor domesticities and tranquillity.
But Mr. Whitelock was not in a tranquil mood this
morning. Ingaretha's absence had but strengthened the
rector's inclination, or what he was pleased to call
passion; and the last spark of hope was being fanned
into flame by many favouring circumstances. None
could say what change might take place in her mind
when once she was removed from evil and unpropitious
influences. He knew well enough that his enemies and
rivals were legion, but felt himself something like
Hercules setting his foot upon the hydra's neck. Was
not Mr. Carew far away ? Was not Rene Rubelle in a
French prison ? Was not Monsieur Sylvestre in danger
of prison also, and his wife and companions in disgrace ?
It seemed not unlikely that Ingaretha might, on re-
turning home, find herself so lonely as to turn to him
involuntarily for comfort and counsel. If she stayed
away a little longer only, the mischief now brewing
might have matured, and she would find herself in
Culpho almost without a friend.
Just a little malice, therefore, as well as a good deal
of love, quickened the rector's thoughts, and entered
into the composition of his sermon. It seemed to him
no ill opportunity to take up the cudgels once again,
and do battle for orthodoxy and conservatism. If all
was true that he heard, and he heard a great deal, high
time it seemed that some stringent measures should be
devised in order to preserve the village from divers
heresies, both spiritual and social. These free-thinking
friends of Ingaretha's did not do or think things by
halves. They held that all the world should be
educated; they believed that all the world would be
230
The Sytvestres.
saved; there were hardly limits to the audacity of their
hopes and the latitude of their creeds.
And there was another point which the rector was
thinking of while writing this sermon; namely, the
licence of speech that had lately crept into the village
conclave concerning Ingaretha. If all was true that
little birds whispered in his ear, unpardonable things
were said of this lady, and saving himself, who was
there to stand up and give them the lie ? She had
taken no pains to win friends and champions of her
own rank; she had hitherto rebuffed his offers of love
and protection. Would she not feel differently when
made aware of the chasm yawning at her feet? He
could but look forward to her misfortunes as his own
best chance of happiness, and forbore to chide himself
for the selfish thought, because of the happiness thereby
insured to herself. The sound of carriage wheels caused
him to start. It was a common hack carriage laden
with trunks and portmanteaus, and Mr. Whitelock, who
never entertained staying visitors, turned pale as the
suspicion crossed his mind that some long-lost-sight-of
poor cousin or unfortunate college friend had swooped
down upon him for a few weeks. And a child's head
peeped out of the window. He drew back aghast.
Shrinking back, he watched the approach of the strangers
from behind the window curtain. But when the carriage
stopped at the door, a lady stepped out, wrapped to the
delicate chin in a travelling-cloak of dark purple velvet,
bordered with white fur; tall, fair, rosy-cheeked, golden-
haired. Could this lady be the one he was thinking about ?
Of course it was Ingaretha, and in another moment
they were shaking hands in the hall, and talking after
the old friendly fashion.
The Rector Speaks his Mind. 231
"Can my maid take little Bina to the lire some-
where ?" asked Ingaretha. " I have many things to talk
to you about, and was too impatient to go home first.
We are all famished," she added with a smile and a
bewitchingly begging look.
The rector was both charmed and bewildered.
" Oh! dear, what can I offer you ? A glass of wine ?
A biscuit ? A little bread and butter ?"
He ran hither and thither, with a bunch of keys in
his hands, distractedly.
"Which did you say you would have?" he said,
suddenly, sitting down again and pulling the bell
violently.
"We are too hungry to mind what it is, so long as we
get food," Ingaretha said.
" Mary, bring in the bread and butter and cold meat
directly, and wine-glasses. I will fetch up a bottle of
sherry from the cellar. And, Mary, bring some water
for the little girl."
After a good deal of bustle, the luncheon-tray ap-
peared, and the host did his best to acknowledge the
grace and importance of his guest. But the host
nascitur, non fit It is granted to the choicest souls
only to embellish the daily board, whether homely or
regal, with the aroma of true hospitality. Ingaretha
could not help contrasting the clumsy courtesy of Mr.
Whitelock with the exquisite grace of Monsieur Syl-
vestre. She had sat down to his table on the borders of
the desert many a time, and though the fare consisted
only of a loaf and a bunch of bananas, something, one
knew not what, always lingered round the little feast
like a perfume. Here the water was not turned into
wine, the bread was not consecrated after the poet's
232
The Sylvestres.
fashion—all was bare prose and reality, from beginning
to end.
• When the little girl had been sent away to play with
the kitten, Ingaretha plunged at once into the business
that had brought her to the rectory.
" This is sad news about Monsieur Sylvestre's sum-
mons before the magistrates. Who is at the bottom of
such malicious mischief-making?" she said, with eager-
ness.
Mr. Whitelock turned red, fidgeted in his chair, and
at last made answer:
" My dear Miss Meadowcourt, any effort to put an
end to the dissemination of seditious and blasphemous
doctrine must be called righteous interference. Pray
forgive me for speaking so plainly to you."
Ingaretha was silent. The rector, thinking he had
made an impression, went on:
" You do not know what a pass things have come to
in the village since you went away. Formerly, my
people were contented, laborious, resigned to a lot of
privation and poverty. The parish-church was well
attended, the Sunday-school also; Christmas doles were
thankfully received; minister and congregation worked
harmoniously together. How grievously is all this
changed ! Your reforms—undertaken, I cannot doubt
with the most charitable motives—were the beginning
"of- evil. The more you did the greater was the discon-
tent engendered. You gave the people good water, you
built them commodious dwellings, founded village
libraries, lavished money upon all kinds of means for
their comfort, and your 'proteges "
" My friends," put in Ingaretha.
" Your friends followed in your wake and aggravated
The Rector Speaks his Mind. 233
the evil a hundred-fold. Where you gave an inch, they
promised an ell. What you did in a temperate and
well-intentioned spirit, they carried on with the zeal and
fervour of propagandists. My flock desert my teaching
on Sundays, rebel against my authority on week-days.
The whole neighbourhood is being gradually leavened
with the leaven of discontent and heterodoxy by the
beguiling tongue of Monsieur Sylvestre."
The rector wiped the drops of perspiration from his
brow, and the tears of mingled excitement and anger from
his eyes. He had let indignation get the better of him
unawares. But sooner or later he must have told her
the whole truth, and the sooner the better. Her query,
though intentionally unoffending, had dropped like a hot
coal into a heap of smouldering ashes. The deed was
done, and she must bear the consequences.
" I am very sorry to hear this," Ingaretha said sadly.
" But you do not know all yet," the rector went on,
gathering boldness from Ingaretha's subdued look. " An
unheard-of license of speech pollutes the daily discourse
of these hitherto well-behaved rustics. Their hours of re-
creation are regaled with loose slanders or abuse of their
betters. Neither rank, nor age, nor sex is spared—"
" But surely Monsieur Sylvestre is not to be blamed
here T asked Ingaretha. " Of all men in the world he
is the purest-hearted, the simplest-minded, the most
charitably disposed. Oh ! do not accuse him of teaching
the people to slander and speak ill of others."
The rector looked at her fixedly for a second or two,
then rose, turned away his face, so that she might not
be too much dismayed, and said-:
"Miss Meadowcourt, your blindness in this matter
cruelly misleads you. It will be acting a friendly part
234
The Sylvestres.
to remove the veil from your eyes, and however painful
to me I must speak out. A foul slander about yourself
is circulating in the place, and the author of that slander
is no other than Monsieur Sylvestre."
Ingaretha turned pale.
"What do they say of me?" she asked, looking straight
at the rector.
The downright, unflinching look of her blue eyes en-
couraged him to proceed.
" It is said," he went on, "that you have so completely
gone over to the so-called cause of the lower classes as
to decide upon casting in your lot with theirs. In plain
words, people marry you to a man of the people."
" And what else ?" Ingaretha added calmly, though
a flush had mounted to her brow.
The rector stared at her aghast.
" You ask me what else ?" he stammered. " Is not
this enough ? Is not this filling the cup of insult to
the brim ? Think again, Miss Meadowcourt. What
opinion must people have of you to dare to utter such
a calumny ? The bare thought of it takes my breath
away," and the poor rector gasped for breath.
" I do not know that names signify much," he went
on, after a pause, feeling a little irritated at the lady's
composed silence, " but I can give you every particular,
if you choose."
" There is no need," Ingaretha answered.
" The evil report has reached you, then ?"
She was silent. Quite incapable of divining her
thoughts, he went on:
" Is it not high time that steps should be taken to
stamp out, once and for all, this contagion of ill ? You
seem unmoved, you say no word. You cannot be
The Rector Speaks his Mind. 235
indifferent to the reports of those malevolent scandal-
mongers."
Ingaretha was still silent. The rector grew im-
patient.
" Your friends at least do not know how to control
their indignation. That your goodness and friendliness
to those beneath you should be thus rewarded rouses a
vindictive spirit in the meekest. I for one cannot
stand by quietly whilst your reputation is being
damaged."
Ingaretha looked on the carpet and said no word.
Stung by undemonstrativeness which looked like
ingratitude, and at the same time buoyed up by a hope
that the present occasion seemed to warrant, the rector
added:
"Nothing that people could say to your discredit
would alter my feeling for you, pray believe that. If I
have spoken with zeal, it is because your good name is
more precious to me than my own. Only say the word,
give me the right to defend it, and the lie is disproved
for ever."
"And if it is no lie, but the simple truth, will you
stand by me still V asked Ingaretha, with trembling
lips, and tears in her sweet eyes.
CHAPTER XXXV.
parting in sorrow.
The rector was stunned. Much as he had doubted his
own power of reading Ingaretha's character, he never
looked for such a surprise as this. She was, as he
236
The Sylvestres.
knew well, a creature of impulses; fresh as Eve, naive
as Undine, brave as Rosalind in the midst of nineteenth-
century civilisation, she stood apart from all other
women, by reason of a brave, direct spirit, and a sweet
and courageous temper, out of keeping with the sphere
in which her lot was cast.
This brave spirit and courageous temper the rector
now more than ever called by the hard names of
perversity and unfeminine decision. He had foretold
much mischief that would arise therefrom, but of such
a catastrophe as this how could he dream ? Dismay,
anger, contempt, alternately took possession of him.
He could not give her his hand and a sorrowful blessing
as Carew had done. He coldly debated in his own
mind what words were best fitted to express his ab-
horrence of the step she contemplated.
At last it was Ingaretha who spoke.
" If you think my crime too great to be forgiven, at
least do not accuse Monsieur Sylvestre of having led
me into temptation," she said. " I assure you he is as
innocent of this as yourself."
" That cannot be," answered the rector. " But for
him, those companions of his would never have had the
audacity to settle down here. He is at the bottom of
all the troubles that afflict this unhappy place."
"I have tried to do good, and not harm, in the
village," Ingaretha said, with dignity, " and under other
circumstances I should follow the same course. I
trust that my marriage will be a blessing, not a curse,
to those whose happiness I am bound to consider."
"Ah!" cried the rector, with a bitter smile. "You
little know what you say or what you do. Think for a
moment of the consequences of an unequal marriage in
Parting in Sorrow.
237
your case. By the goodness of God you were born to
a position so exalted and enviable as to place you
apart from most women. A pillar of the Church, a
prop and a stay to the State, the pride of your equals,
and the oracle of your inferiors, what a career was
before you had you been meek and godly-minded!
Instead of choosing the better part like Mary, which
would not be taken away from you, with Martha you
were fain to be troubled about many things. And
things that could not possibly do you good: Socialism
—I can hardly bring myself to utter the hateful word—
formed your daily reading instead of Scripture. Your
Sabbaths were desecrated by ungodly music and secular
singing. Your friends were chosen from among the
upholders of Republicanism and free thought, incul-
cators of the hateful doctrine of equality. ' Evil com-
munications corrupt good manners,' and you, no more
than any other person, especially a woman, could
escape contamination. Little by little, you suffered
yourself to be ensnared in the wiles of evil doctrine,
till, alas! no counsels could reach you, nor remon-
strances touch you. I have done my best throughout
the last few months, but y ou turned your back upon
the lover, despised the friend, rejected the priest. I have
now no word to add except—May God have pity upon
you, and bring you to see the error of your ways!"
He did not offer her his hand, nor did he so much as
incline his head towards her, but rose to go; then, feel-
ing the discourtesy of the act, he sat down again, pale,
sad, exhausted.
Ingaretha, seeing the hopelessness of the cause she
had come to plead, was in no mood to pursue the con-
versation further. That Mr. Whitelock should misjudge
238
The Sylvestres.
her was no surprise. That he could in his anger say
hard things was scarcely unexpected. It was surely not
her fault that she could not love and marry him. Was
she not free to choose lovers as well as friends, opinions
as well as duties ?
She rose and held out her hand with a candour that
might have touched one more irate than the rector.
" I am very sorry," she said, standing before him with
the sunshine on her cheeks and hair—as fair a thing as
the world could show that bright spring day! " I hope
you will forgive me by-and-by."
The rector brightened.
" May you be more and more sorry," he said, taking
her hand and holding it for a minute in his own.
" And sorry in time, Miss Meadowcourt; I, your sin-
cerest friend, cannot wish you anything but this. Good-
bye."
" Good-bye," Ingaretha said, with a kindly smile. She
could not feel rancour against her old friend, when his
eyes were moist and his voice unsteady.
Then he silently attended her to the carriage, and the
man was ordered to drive home.
" What is the matter ?" said Bina.
" Mr. Whitelock has been scolding me, that is all."
Bina opened her large eyes.
" I thought rich people were never scolded, whether
naughty or not; and I am sure you are never
naughty."
" In Mr. Whitelock's eyes I am very naughty," Inga-
retha answered, adding, " And perhaps I have not been
so good to him as I have been to you."
The child kissed her sleeve ecstatically.
" Oh, haven't you just been good to me, and to the
Parting in Sorroiv.
239
children too! May I go home this very afternoon \ I
want to see Sammy's face when he gets his fishing-rod,
and Pennie's when she sees her doll's wax legs !"
Ingaretha kissed the child, and promised that the
pony-carriage should take her to Peasemarsh directly
they reached the Abbey.
It was a dreary going home. Fires were burning all
over the house, flowers were placed on her table, the
pleasant rooms seemed to welcome their mistress, but
not joyfully. It was a childish fancy, perhaps, engen-
dered by Mr. Whitelock's warnings, that before her,
with mocking finger on its lips, stalked the ghost of
her future life, saying, " Beware! beware!"
She wandered from room to room, trying to chase
away the unbidden spectre, and dream a golden dream.
After all, what had she heard ? Only the forebodings
of a nature quite incapable of understanding her own
ideal, and the ideal of those with whom she had cast
her lot. Nothing could make Mr. Whitelock's paradise,
whether material or spiritual, her paradise; but in
Monsieur Sylvestre's, in Maddio's, in Rent's, she was
content to dwell for ever. They might err; to what
reformers is it given to build up as quickly and exactly
as to pull down ? In one respect they would never err.
Whatever misfortunes might happen to them, whatever
temptations assail or persecutions overtake, clear and
bright as a flame would burn their feeling of brother-
hood and passionate sympathy with humankind. From
their high standard no traitors would entice, no fictions
allure. Strong unto death, they would serve and defend
their cause till the end.
It might be that sorrow was in store for her instead
of happiness. She could not tell. But something in
240
The Sylvestres,
her heart told her she had chosen the right casket, and
she believed the voice. Was it not a thousand times
better to weep with those she loved, than to rejoice with
those to whom she was indifferent ?
The golden dream did not come at her bidding, but it
came after a time. The door of her prison opened—she
knew not how—and like a bird escaped into the blue,
her spirit soared, rejoicing. The world faded from her
vision, bright clouds hovered overhead, strains of won-
derful melody floated about, golden ether sucked her in.
Hand in hand with love, she saw herself wandering
through the cycles of time, crowned, transformed, im-
measurably blest!
CHAPTER XXXVI,
the trial.
Monsieur Sylvestre's trial happened to fall upon one
of those unfriendly March days, in the embraces of
which you feel as woebegone and helpless as if hugged
to the bosom of a polar bear. The wind howled, the
sleet drifted, the naked trees bowed their heads with a
look of human dreariness, the folded sheep limped
about, bleating piteously, the pigs shrieked in their
sties, the wise barn-door fowls roosted all day long.
Monsieur Sylvestre had recovered his spirits long
before the appointed day, and made his toilette cheerily.
Ingaretha had presented him on his last birthday with
a superb suit of winter clothes, consisting of coat and
pantaloons of dark blue cloth, sealskin waistcoat, and
ample cloak, fastened at the throat by a large silver
The Trial.
clasp. His long white locks, never neglected, were
brushed with more than ordinary care, his pocket-
handkerchief was of fine white lawn, his gloves fitted to
perfection, his boots had received an extra polish; his
appearance was altogether elegant and distinguished.
There was not one of the little family who had not
assisted at this important toilet. Maddio brushed the
boots, Aglae adjusted the cravat, one of the brothers
Carrington officiated as barber, the other as valet;
Euphrosyne meekly brought to hand brush, comb, and
whatever else was needed.
Precisely at ten o'clock Ingaretha's brougham drove
up to the door, and Monsieur Sylvestre jumped in with
a jaunty step, the others watching him much as chil-
dren watch their favoured companion bound to ball or
fair.
" Do not go without a word of farewell," Euphrosyne
said. " How can we tell what may happen ere we meet
again V
" Away with thy affectionate importunities 1" he an-
swered, arranging his cloak in artistic folds. "We are
bound to no inquisitor's council or Yehmgericht. Aw
revoir, chers enfants /"
He waved his hand gaily to the group, ordered the
coachman to drive off, and leaning back on the cushions,
made quite a triumphal entry into the town. One
would have thought he was about to receive some royal
investiture, or at least a lordly legacy, so nonchalant
and self-satisfied was he.
Meantime the magistrates were hurrying to the town-
hall, muffled to the throat, and wishing that people
would not be so inconsiderate as to steal faggots, or
trap rabbits, and by other misdemeanours call comfort-
16
The Sylvestres.
loving gentlemen from their firesides on such a morning.
One by one they took their seats, and amid hand-
rubbing, coughing, and other demonstrations to the
severity of the weather, gossiped cheerfully, poked fun
at each other, and otherwise beguiled the time. When
business fairly began, there was comedy as well as
serious matter on hand. Some out-and-out Eadical had
presumed to find fault with the magistrates, who had
pharged the board ten shillings a head for dinner when
on a visit of inspection to the county asylum. Was
ever such impudence ? The items of the dinner were
detailed amid mixed mirth and censure. Should not
magistrates dine, forsooth, and at the expense of the
.county, when they generously gave their time for the
•public good ? The irate gentlemen uttered strong in-
vectives against the impudent republican spirit that
must be stamped out, another recited facetious scraps of
poetry, a third, endeavouring to throw oil upon troubled
waters, quoted Scripture, and there the matter ended.
Then the cases were hurried through. First, the old
man was convicted of having helped himself to some
sticks from the squire's park palings, then a boy of
fourteen for having trapped a young rabbit, and so on
—the court getting more and more crowded as the time
for hearing Monsieur Sylvestre's case drew on. Public
curiosity was tickled at the thought of Miss Meadow-
court's proUgd being taken up in the company of
poachers and drunkards.
At last he appeared. Walking to the place assigned
him, he confronted the magistrates, smiling and bowing
augustly. By his side stood the accuser, Bob Sheldrake,
Mr. Whitelock's clerk and sexton, wishing himself a
hundred miles away.
The Trial.
243
Monsieur Sylvestre was accused of having preached
so near Mr. Whitelock's church, and in so loud a voice,
that the congregation were disturbed in their devotions.
Two or three of Mr. Whitelock's most regular hearers
supported him as witnesses. Sylvestre, the foreign
gentleman, could he heard, and the clergyman could
not, etc. All these answers were given with blushes
and stammerings, Monsieur Sylvestre smiling con-
temptuously the while. At this state of affairs, a buzz
ran through the place. Ingaretha's name dropped from
many lips. Mr. Stapleton stretched forward, blushing
scarlet at the bare possibility of such a thing; one or two
of his companions eyed each other with a shocked look;
the crowd gaped, wonderstruck.
Of course it was Ingaretha. Gathering up the folds
of her dark-blue riding-habit, she made her way to the
centre of the hall, with heightened colour and kindling
eyes. That day she had put on nothing for grace and
all for spite, saying to herself that she would be ugly,
as befitted tfie occasion. She had hidden her hair with
a long black veil, had muffled up her throat with fur,
and otherwise sought to disfigure herself, But how
beautiful she looked despite these lendings! 'Monsieur
Sylvestre nodded approval. The magistrates felt un-
comfortable, the unhappy village clerk wished that the
earth would straightway swallow him. Mr. Whitelock
turned red and white, and gasped for breath. A change
came over the spirit of the entire assembly.
Ingaretha was afterwards ashamed of herself for
having spoken with so much childish impetuosity and so
little self-possession. But when she found herself con-
fronted with Mr. Stapleton and others of her father's old
friends, and guessed what was passing in their minds,
16—2
244
The Sylvestres.
she found it a hard matter to speak at all. The amaze-
ment and displeasure of Mr. Pollard, Mr. Stapleton, and
others of her neighbours, might not in themselves he
matter of concern, but it vexed her to think they should
regard her conduct in any but a generous light. Was she
not, after all, simply trying to do the first duty that came
to hand? The most difficult problem of life but
resolved itself into this.
Having kissed the book somewhat gingerly, for a very
dingy little book it was, she said what she had to say;
her voice, always sweet and clear, trembled only once.
" Monsieur Sylvestre is one of my best friends, and I
have attended his open-air preaching often. I have also
attended Mr. Whitelock's church whilst the outdoor
preaching went on. I am sure the one did not interfere
with the other; whoever says so grossly exaggerates.
It is nonsense.t It is even falsehood. Monsieur Syl-
vestre's preaching is not what might be called orthodox;
it is unsectarian, but it is good and charitable, and
devout. Whenever I was present nothing took place
that could be called disturbance of the peace, or in-
terference with the service of the parish church."
Then she withdrew. The magistrates put their heads
together and whispered. Mr. Whitelock's face fell.
He saw that Ingaretha's testimony had lost him his
cause.
And so indeed it had. Monsieur Sylvestre was
politely requested to hold his outdoor preachings a
little farther off the church next summer, and the case
was dismissed forthwith.
Ingaretha rode home in a passion. Monsieur Syl-
Vestre was as much elated as if he had won a stupendous
Victory. Ingaretha's common sense told her that such
The Trial.
245
a victory was worse than defeat, since it would in-
evitably be followed by a series of petty persecutions.
Monsieur Sylvestre saw nothing before him but triumph
and exultation.
To Mr. Whitelock the discomfiture was crushing.
He went home and moodily shut himself up in his
study for the rest of the day.
What could he do with it? His adversary had
worsted him in drawn battle, and boasted of allies
stronger than his own. Ingaretha, like most women,
possessed the softness of the dove combined with the
cunning of the serpent. He could not perceive in lier
a vestige of the meek and godlike spirit commended in
the Scriptures as a woman's best adornment. She was
polluted by contact with unbelievers, she was perverted
by false doctrine, she was blinded by self-confidence.
How could he save her soul and shield his own repu-
tation ? There were not wanting disaffected members
of the Church on the alert to cry, "Ichabod, Ichabod,
thy glory is departed," and here was indeed an occasion
for them to exult over one of the discomfited of God's
ministers.
He shed tears of mingled retrospection and forecast.
The clouds that darkened his horizon showed no silver
lining. Thwarted, defied, rivalled, he prefigured him-
self as going to the grave, an unwept and unhonoured
martyr of the tottering Church.
It must not be supposed that amid all this burning
indignation the rector suffered 110 pangs of self-
questioning. He had hitherto been far too placid, too
hardly moved, too easily won over. It behoved him tc»
wage fierce war with the allies of evil sent hither to
prove and torment him. Away then with mild per-
246 The Sylvestres.
suasions and honeyed reproaches. On with the armour
of the Church militant, sword, and helmet, and breast-
plate. Avaunt, bewitching eyes, and rosy cheeks, and
golden locks that had ensnared and betrayed him!
Hail, rigid duty and puritanic simplicity, and ardent
self-abnegation!
Thus the rector struggled with himself.
CHAPTEE XXXVII,
excommunicated.
Ingaketha's secret being known to the rector, the
little birds flew east, and the little birds flew west, till
it was soon known to all the world of St. Beowulf's
Bury. Never within living memory had such a scandal
happened. That the lady of the manor, the first
heiress of the county, the descendant of the noble De
Meduecourts and Bannisters, should hold disreputable
political and social views, and consort with the per-
verted representatives of Socialism, Democracy, and
Eree Thought, was bad enough; but that she should so
far forget her duty to herself, her ancestors and society
as to marry a man of the people, a journalist moreover,
and a vagabondish refugee to boot, passed all bounds of
patience. The matrons forthwith held a solemn con-
clave, and sentence of excommunication was unani-
mously voted against the misguided girl.
Ingaretha's heretical teachings were spreading in spite
of the resolves of the older and wiser folks. Youth will
be ingenuous, and to young girls Ingaretha's conduct
seemed heroic. They had seen with their eyes and
Excommunicated.
247
heard with their ears. This man might be poor., un-
fortunate, and of low birth. But who that was rich and
prosperous and nobly bred among their brothers and
lovers could be compared with him, not only for natural
gifts, but for acquired graces ? He was beautiful, fasci-
nating, full of enthusiasm arid courage. He only wanted
the purple mantle and golden lute to be like the trou-
badour of song and story, who went from castle to castle
winning everywhere the guerdon of knightly praise and
woman's love.
But to the modern mothers of unmarried daughters
the poor troubadour with the purple mantle and golden
lute was a pariah, and nothing more. He might make
bright eyes weep and brave hearts beat faster with stir-
ring melodies. What was that in comparison with the
virtues of wearing unexceptionable broad cloth, and in-
heriting a certain amount of acres or bank shares ? In-
garetha, in their eyes, was lowering herself as much as
if she were about to elope with her groom or gamekeeper.
Whereupon Amy Greenfield ventured to say :
" Monsieur Bene may be poor, but he is an accom-
plished gentleman, I am sure; if not who is ? He
speaks Italian and Spanish beautifully, and English
pretty well. He can recite pages of Dante and Calderon;
he can paint and sing, and play two or three musical
instruments; he never uses any but elegant language;
and he has the most astounding memory of books he
has read and places he has seen. He never says a thing
one does not wish to remember."
A storm broke over her head.
" What! you, a clergyman's wife and a mother, ap-
prove of such people! When did this paragon of yours
make his appearance in the parish church ? Pray think
248
The Sylvestres,
twice before you declare yourself to be the champion of
such a cause."
There was uo need to think twice. Amy knew well
enough that her children's bread depended upon her
own and her husband's good behaviour, and, though
burning to speak, held her peace, She determined, at
any cost, not to give up her friend. Her children must
suffer want rather than Ingaretha's affections be so
outraged,
By little and little Ingaretha realised the bitterness
of her position.
She was doomed to be an outcast, a scapegoat, a pariah
among the people who had known her as a little child,
Aristocrat and plebeian, wealthy and straitened, mighty
and insignificant, alike viewed her resolve with suspicion
and contempt. By common consent she was to be
placed outside the pale of society, and there kept for
ever. Even her father's old friend, Mr. Stapleton, came
to her and with tears in his eyes confessed that hence-
forth he must come alone, since his wife and daughters
decided it must be so. What her guardian and legal
adviser said may be easily imagined. He also shed a
few bitter tears when he found that persuasions and
forebodings could do no good. Cold little notes of fare-
well came from those ladies who had hitherto figured
as something more than mere acquaintances. Mrs.
Pollard, for instance, and Lady Virginia Pennington,
and one or two others, who felt, by reason of superior
years, that they were at liberty to add counsel to cas-
tigation.
Like the shadow of an olive grove to some weary
Eastern wanderer came the following letter from Mr.
Carew:
Excommunicated.
249
"Dear Friend and eormer Fellow-traveller in
this happy place" (he wrote from Florence)—"I cannot
let the Spring go by without a word. The skies, the
sunshine, the violets, make me their messenger to greet
you. Take theirs and mine together, and I will not ask
which is the most welcome.
"The Winter has gone—I know not how,but it is gone,
thank Heaven—dead and buried beneath the snow;
may flowers grow over its grave! Will not some one
send me a word to say that you are well and happy, and
not wholly forgetful of old friends ?
" This exquisite land sweetens one's temper and in-
clines one to be better than one's will. In England—
soon after parting from you—I tore into a thousand,
fragments the little Christmas poem that was to have
made us all merry masqueraders under your hospitable,
roof. But half for your sweet sake, and half for sweet
Italy's, I have forgiven Fortune for her churlishness to
me, and re-written what I had begun for you.
" May I send you my poem as a wedding gift ? I
have nothing better to give, though I would fain have
my best gift better still. Greet Monsieur Sylvestre
and Madame and Maddio affectionately for me. Having
you for their friend, I fear they need no poor offices of
mine, though—as you know well—it would make me
happy to serve them. Alas! I fear I must not offer to
serve you!
" Farewell! Think of me as of one whose best hap-
piness it is to have been unhappy for your sake. Your
leal servitor,
" Carew."
Ingaretha, sitting solitary in her home, answered her
poet's letter thus:
250
The Sylvestres.
" I am almost too sorrowful to thank you for a word
of kindness that reached me in the midst of loneliness
and dismay. Because I am bent upon following a dif-
ferent path from that of my neighbours—wisely, I
cannot say, but honestly, God knows—they have leagued
together to persecute me. But I will not be crushed.
What right have they to be my judges ? Your friend
is no longer what you remember her, but fierce, and
angry, and vindictive. God help me! if it were not for
him in prison, and for those few friends I know that I
can count on, I should hardly have the courage to write
you now, but would rather give up ail and die. . . ."
Tears fell on the page, and she took it up in her
hands, thinking it would be better to send no letter at
all than so sad a one as this. But he was a poet, and
loved her with an abiding love. She had affronted
him a thousand times, and he had always remained her
friend—the need of sympathy was too great to be with-
stood.
After a time the letter was proceeded with
" Do not think I am always in this mood. I did not
dream there was anything worth weeping about till
your kind letter came. Now I have determined to dry
my eyes and do what I have to do bravely.
" Let me have your poem, dear friend. I shall never
be too joyful or too unhappy not to read every word of
it. God bless you! Good-bye.
" Ingaretha."
She did not like to write to him fully of all her
troubles—Monsieur Svlvestre's trial, the gross behaviour
of the village, the rector's hardness towards herself, and
Excommunicated.
251
the rest. Why should he have the burden of her sor-
rows, and none of her joys? Nor did she say, "Come
to us when the corn is ripe, and bring your poem with
you," though it was in her heart to do so. " Poor
Carew," she said and sighed, "poor Rene, and lastly,
poor Ingaretha!"
Could her persecutors have seen her then, doubtless
a very comfortable assurance of retribution in store for
this stray sheep would have filled their minds. Inga-
retha was a brave woman, ready to walk through fire
for the friends she loved and the truths she held sacred;
in the primitive Christian period she would have been
a martyr; in revolutionary times a victim; in the nine-
teenth century—a transitory period from aristocratic
principle to radicalism—she was neither wholly a
martyr nor a victim, but shared in some measure the
ill-fortunes of both. Without husband, father, or brother
to stand by her in this hour of need, who can wonder
that at times her courage flagged and her spirits drooped ?
But she had put her hand to the plough, and would
not look back.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LOVER AND FRIEND.
Two or three weeks slipped by—they seemed months
to Ingaretha—and one morning she woke to find it was
spring. Like some beauty whose festive toilette had
been delayed by undue sleep, Nature had aroused her-
self on a sudden. Lo, as if by magic, the floors of earth
were covered with flowery carpets, the woodland orchestra
252
The Sylvestres.
resounded, gentle showers watered the tender green
leaves, the sun shone warm, hut capricious little rivers
escaped from prison purled along the meadows.
Ingaretha's young heart could not withstand this
gaiety and fulness of life. She put aside the sombre
clothes of winter gladly, and donned a blue dress,
smiling to think how beautiful she would have been in
poor Bend's eyes. Her hair—the golden hair praised
by poets ever needs sunshine !—looked twice as lustrous
and twice as lovely as in winter-time; her cheeks
glowed with the thankfulness of youth, her heart beat
more quickly than it had done for days—and all because
spring had come.
This first spring day brought a surprise. Beturning
from a long walk in the park, she saw the tall figure of
a man on the lawn, who hastened towards her with joy-
ful cry and outstretched hands.
Of course it was no other than Mr. Carew. He had
arrived that very morning from Borne, and without
waiting to change his travelling dress, hastened to pay
his respects to the lady of the Abbey. His face beamed
with the delight of seeing her again, though he could
not fail to note how agitated she looked, how touched,
how grateful.
It was in his heart to say, " I could not stay away,
knowing you to be in trouble," but he checked the too
friendly speech, and greeted her after a more distant
fashion.
"What a welcome home is such a day as this f he
said. " I can't tell you how thankful I feel to be in
England again."
He saw that her eyes were filling, and her lips vainly
trying to frame an answer, and went on lightly:
Lover and Friend.
253
" Yet I never found Italy so beautiful before. Per-
haps it was because you were not there, and Nature
tried to console me. But I was not consoled, and I
have come back, determined to do the best I can with
my life here."
Chivalrous truths, like the hero of the Odyssey, will
not bear ignoble disguises, and throwing off their rags,
are transformed from beggar to prince in a twinkling.
Carew lacked courage to dress his generous thought in
princely robes, but the transparent lendings dropped
without warning.
Ingaretha held out one hand to him, whilst with the
other she hid the tears she could not stay. He led her
gently to a seat in the winter-garden. They sat down
side by side without a word. His calmness, his quiet
solicitude, his unspoken tenderness, reassured her. She
also grew calm, and began speaking as to an old friend,
" I suppose I ought not to be surprised at the outcry
raised against me," she said; " but I did not realise
what an important person I was before." This was said
with a bitter smile. " I am not cutting myself off from
home interests and home duties. Nothing could make
me do that. You know Hand as well as I do—how
large-hearted and self-denying he is; can you believe
that he would wish me to sacrifice these things for his
sake ?"
She turned to him with a look of eager appeal, which
he met frankly and cheerfully.
"No," he answered; "I never knew a man whose
character was so out of keeping with the spirit of the
age. I for one have reason to thank Bene, and all like
him, who live for something else besides the gross satis-
factions of the hour."
254
The Sylvestres.
It was a generous speech, and she would fain have
thanked him for it, but knew not how. Never looking
at her but with the look of exultation in his eyes that
testified to her presence always, he went on :
" I will be candid with you, and say for once and for
all that I do not approve of his ideals, nor of the ideals
of his teacher, Monsieur Sylvestre. It seems to me
that all reformers of their school lose sight of the ele-
mentary truth taught alike by nature, by art, and by
poetry—that is, the necessity of repose to great action.
Granted that we are on the eve of a stupendous social
revolution—and I am not sure that I here differ from
them—who most further what is righteous in this or
any other revolution, think you ? Those who bestir
themselves to uproot old institutions, or those who, in
the solitude of their chambers, devise and perfect the
plan of the new ? The last without a doubt. And
iconoclasts there must be, and demagogues there must
be, and Red Republicans, and social experimenters. But
is it not the better part to think instead of to work ?—to
create instead of to destroy ?—to send out winged
thoughts, rather than to ply spade and sledge-hammer
in the service of the world-menders ? At the risk of
seeming discourteous to those you love best in the
world, I say, Yes, and again, yes."
Ingaretha was silent for a minute or two, then an-
swered slowly and thoughtfully:
" I do not think I agree with you any mora now
than I did when we talked of the same subject in the
corn-fields last summer." She blushed and went on:
" Surely it has been practice, and not theory, the follow-
ing after truth, and not the framing of ideals, that has
done most to make the world happier and better ? Is
Lover and Friend.
255
not all reform, whether moral or material, the fulfil-
ment of truth-loving lives, rather than the expression
of truth-seeking minds."
Carew answered with an animated look:
" Mistrust idealists as you may, but grant them thus
much—they keep alive the torch of truth when all else
is darkness; and by the light of that torch, the strong
as well as the weak are guided on their way. I am sure
that so far we are both agreed."
" Perhaps," she answered; " though even that light
dies out sometimes. I have sadly lost my way of late."
"Nay,then," he said, his eyes moistening and his lips
quivering as he glanced at her sweet face, " let me, in
default of a better guide, help you to find it. I know
well enough what troubles you. Do you think I have
lived for thirty-eight years without understanding the
character of my neighbours—the narrowness of some,
their dogmatism, their self-indulgence ? To my cost, I
know it but too well. Perhaps there was never so un-
popular a person as myself in this part of the world,
and why ? Simply because I am no fox-hunting
country squire after the old pattern, but a lover of art
and literature, a writer of verses, moreover—the iniquity
of the wildest socialist dreamer can go no further than
this—and an indifferentist in politics. I looked into
the matter somewhat deeply, and discovered, not suffi-
cient grounds for self-abasement, but ample argument
for self-justification in this very unpopularity. In what
did I sin ? In selfishly appropriating to myself the
social supremacy which the largest landed proprietor
might fairly claim ? By no means. In niggardly re-
fusing to lay out money upon any improvements
necessary for the people ? Not at all. My only crime
256
The Sy Ives ires.
was that I persistently followed my own ideas in the
conduct of life. I valued art, and I was indifferent to
social economy and politics. I threw myself heart and
soul into the first, and eschewed the last. Are you not
affronting the same vulgar prejudices, the same egotism,
the same littleness, simply by an honest adherence to
natural feeling ? Let us comfort ourselves with the
reflection that we could not serve our friends and neigh-
hours better than by doing the very thing they hold in
abhorrence."
She smiled doubtfully.
" My case is different from yours, ft may be childish,
but I cannot help feeling that there is some cause for
the hue and cry raised against me. I can hardly believe
so badly of the world as to consider myself a martyr."
" Only have patience, dear friend," he said, " and you
will see things in a wholly different light. It is quite
possible to offend all the powers that be, and yet live
worthily and happily, blessed by the gods. I, for one,
am your leal knight and servitor and companion, pre-
pared to lay down this poor life any day for my liege
lady's sake."
He said this lightly, though in a voice that trembled
with emotion, and taking up the fringe of her scarf,
kissed it, as if thereby sealing the words. She answered
with a blush:
" I tremble for Monsieur Sylvestre, Euphrosyne, and
Maddio. They have shown nothing but kindness to the
poor people, and are yet looked upon as their enemies.
Madame Sylvestre was almost broken-hearted the other
day because their labourer's wife refused to let her sit
up with a sick child* Formerly her services were
accepted thankfully."
Lover and Friend.
25 7
Carew inclined his head significantly in the direction
of the rectory, and Ingaretha understood the gesture.
" Of course the village takes its cue from the clergy-
man," she said, " and Mr. Whitelock is their declared
antagonist. He goes from house to house preaching a
crusade against us all. How can we conciliate him V
" Let time do that, and leave him to the devices of his
own understanding."
" And the others ? Nobody comes to see me. If I
meet old acquaintances in the streets, they bow coldly
and pass on. I am no longer invited to go to their
houses. These are but trifles, yet they gall."
Carew shrugged his shoulders.
" What else is to be expected V he said. " You can-
not gather figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns. Ignore
their existence."
" But think of the harm they can do our poor friends!"
Again Carew made a gesture of impatience.
"You are too imaginative," he answered. "With the
best intentions of doing mischief in the world, I cannot
conceive any further harm happening to the Sylvestres
through the agency of these people. Monsieur Sylvestre
can have nothing to fear so long as he minds his own
affairs."
" You have influence with Mr. Whitelock," Ingaretha
began hesitatingly. " Perhaps you will be able to reason
with him."
"You forget that he is a theologian," Carew said,
rising; " but rest assured I will do all I can to bring him
to reason."
He held out his hand, said good-bye, and had turned
to go, when he stopped suddenly. "Be happy!" he
said, falteringly, and that was all.
17
258
The Sylvestres.
Then he walked away quickly, never once looking
hack. Ingaretha walked indoors, feeling more cheerful
than she had done for days. She smiled to herself at
the impetuosity of poets. Carew, the dreamer, the
enthusiast, the devotee of art, was taking upon himself
to do battle with the world and the flesh like the most
matter-of-fact person in the world; and all for her sake.
For her sake! His chivalrous devotion made her
both glad and sorry.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
a happy thought.
A happy thought came to Carew as he walked home
that spring morning. The first thing he did on crossing
his own threshold was to sit down and write the fol-
lowing letter:
" My dear Ghenilda,—When we parted in Florence
last month, you said that nothing should induce you to
spend the next few months in London, and that till
Micheldever comes back from his Japanese mission you
did not know what to do with yourself. Will you come
here?—of course bringing little Harry and the baby,
and whatever belongings you like. There is plenty of
room for all.
" I did not ask you before, in the first place, because
I had no idea of staying at home for more than a few
weeks: and in the second, because I could not possibly
foresee what would happen here, making your presence
so very desirable that I have hardly patience to send
this letter by post, longing for the swiftest carrier-
A Happy Thought. 259
pigeon in the world. I believe you are fond of attending
Woman's Eights meetings, and I see your name down
in the Times (whenever I take it up, which is seldom,
for I hate newspapers!) for twenty pounds to one
society for securing women's franchise, fifty pounds to
another, etc., etc. You like to talk about missions, and
would, I believe, enter an apothecary's shop as appren-
tice, if your husband had no objection. But I don't
want to tease you and make you cross. I want you to
come and fulfil a mission here.
" I write on behalf of that beautiful and sweet young
lady, Ingaretha Meadowcourt, my neighbour, and our
fellow-traveller in former days. You cannot have for-
gotten her, though I know that women who live in the
world have short memories; or, if you have forgotten
herself, her hair must have stayed in your memory—
softer than the finest silk, brighter than the purest
gold, a never-to-be-forgotten splendour for all beholders!
But I will not make a fool of myself—she is going to
marry another man.
"Ingaretha feels that she, too, has a mission, and
that mission is no other than to marry a social re-
former, and throw herself, heart and soul, into a cause
which, I believe, you have not yet espoused, namely,
the cause of the working-classes; and naturally, she
does this to the chaotic, unimaginable horror of the
good, stupid, twaddle-loving people here.
" Well, does your woman's imagination carry you on
to the end? Of course, and I am answered thus:
' Dear brother, I will fly to Wilbye Hall, and stand by
your friend Ingaretha.' Kiss the children.
" Your always affectionate
"Cakew,"
17—2
26o
The Sylvestres.
This letter, addressed to Lady Micheldever, Florence,
was despatched in time for the early London mail from
St. Beowulf's; Carew watching the messenger fairly off,
with an elated look.
Then he ate, drank, changed his travelling clothes,
opened letters, looked over bills, and signed cheques;
lastly, unpacked his Italian souvenirs and note-books
rather sadly.
In what a different frame of mind he had gone
through the same task last year! Then there was still
a little hope for him; now he could not hope any more.
He remembered well with how much satisfaction he
awoke, to find himself in Ingaretha's England; how
beautiful everything looked—sky, and tree, and flower;
how he seemed to move in golden ether; how Hope
danced ever before him, wearing Ingaretha's smile,
mocking Ingaretha's voice—and now ? It seemed too
cruel!
He covered his face with his hands. It was good to
serve her and share misfortune with her; but it was
not good, having done all this, to be severed from her
as long as life should last. His unselfishness could not
go so far as that. He might stand by her and by her
lover in the teeth of the world. He should never be
resigned to the supreme renunciation implied in such
conduct—never, never, never!
He dashed away the bitter tears, and bestirred him-
self in the work he had undertaken. To prepare for
the arrival of his half-sister Ghenilda, was to prepare
mortification for Ingaretha's persecutors, and the pro-
tection of an amiable and spirited woman for herself.
The wife of a peer, and of an ambassador, Ghenilda
might well carry a high hand amongst the small gentle-
A Happy Thought.
261
folks of the place. He knew exactly how matters would
turn out. Ghenilda, a spoiled child—three years ago
the beauty of the season—a woman of the world withal,
had a touch of childishness, naivete\ call it what you
will, in her nature, that prompted her to do wicked and
even spiteful things. She would look upon it as an
excellent joke to settle down at Wilbye Hall, and lead
the small great folks an uneasy life of it. And she
was not so conventional as to object to taking the world
by surprise once in a while. An affectionate wife, a
devoted mother, can do no wrong, urged Ghenilda, and
feeling herself above suspicion, she often did things
that, if not wrong in the world's eyes, had just a spice
of impropriety in them. And grave duennas and prim
matrons shook their heads, auguring evil consequences
therefrom, Ghenilda caring not a straw. Her husband
was easy-tempered, and as his temper concerned hei; a
great deal, and that of her neighbours very little, she
pleased herself in most things.
That very day Carew called upon Mr. Whitelock;
and after an interchange of civilities, said, with appa-
rent carelessness:
" I expect my sister in a few days, to stay here till
the end of the summer."
" Indeed! I shall take an early opportunity of
paying Lady Micheldever my respects. It will be a
great pleasure to see her again."
" She wouldn't have come to such a dull place just
now, I daresay," Carew answered, " but that she can
make herself useful. The way in which people treat
Miss Meadowcourt, on account of her engagement, is
abominable, and Ghenhilda will come chiefly on her
accounts They are old friends, as you know."
2 62
The Sylvestres.
" True, I miglit have thought of that," answered the
rector, looking too much aghast to think of anything.
" How dull of me!"
" I hope you intend to take up the cudgels on hehalf
of your parishioner," Carew went on. " My sister, as a
woman, can do much; hut you, as a clergyman, more.
A narrow, persecuting spirit ought to he preached
down."
The rector fidgeted in his chair, rose, walked to the
window, and sat down again. He must hold his own,
—he must hold his own, he repeated to himself.
" You cannot mean to say that you approve of Miss
Meadowcourt's choice ?" he asked, putting on a judicial
expression.
"Miss Meadowcourt has an entire right to please
herself. Is she out of her senses or not ? Let the
physicians declare her mad, and shut her up in a
lunatic asylum; or let her he considered as a rational
being, and treated accordingly."
" I quite agree with you."
"Then, for Heaven's sake, act up to your opinions
like a man," said Carew, starting from his chair, and
grasping the rector's hand. " Now, if ever, is the time
for you to take the lead in public opinion. Miss Mea-
dowcourt can no more be indifferent to the petty
animosities and carping spirit of a whole neighbourhood
than any other sensitive woman. You have influence
with some of these people. Make them see their con-
duct in its own detestable light."
"I cannot take the lead in public opinion against
my conscience," the rector said, shrinking back. "I
agree with you that Miss Meadowcourt should be
treated according to such opinion as we are able to give
A Happy Thought.
263
of her sanity; and though I cannot believe that her
reason has gone, it has been so terribly led astray by
evil counsellors and influences, that she is daily forfeit-
ing her right to consideration as a member of the Church,
a lay-woman, and a lady. I have not concealed these
sentiments from Miss Meadowcourt herself, feeling that,
at the risk of alienating her friendship, I ought, as a
clergyman, to warn her against her besetting sins, which
are perversity, contempt of authority, and leaning to-
wards lax doctrine. But I spoke in vain. My dear
sir, I trust I do not speak in vain to you."
Carew got up and made for the door.
"You have not," he said coldly. "I now know
exactly what Miss Meadowcourt must expect from her
friends. I have no time to say any more. Good-day."
" Stay a moment, I beg of you," the rector cried.
" You misunderstand me if you think that I intend to
turn my back upon her at such a time. All my former
remonstrances were made in a truly Christian spirit,
and from time to time it will be my duty—and painful
pleasure too—to renew them. It would indeed be cruel
to leave her as a sheep having no shepherd. And who
knows but that she may learn ere long to distinguish
real well-wishers from flatterers and parasites, and thus
be brought to see the error of her ways V
" I am sure Miss Meadowcourt will never forsake her
old friends at Pilgrim's Hatch, if that is what you
mean," Carew answered. " I am sorry you have- such
a mean opinion of them and of her. Good-day."
"Hay, one word more," cried the rector, growing
excited. " I cannot let you go entertaining these un-
charitable thoughts of me. Do not suppose I have been
brought to treat Miss Meadowcourt harshly without
264
The Sylvestres.
much inward struggle and the severest self-examina*
tion. I have taken the matter into my closet, and there
scrutinised it in a humble and patient spirit. I know
I am right in the course I pursue with regard to her."
" May it end prosperously!" Carew said. " But now
I really must go."
And for the third time that day he said " Good-day."
Carew went home boiling over with indignation. It
was not his habit to exercise a nice ethical discrimina-
tion in matters, however nearly affecting him; but their
aesthetic relations he never for an instant lost sight of.
He grieved deeply for Ingaretha's resolve, not because
he saw any moral perversion in it, but because his taste
was shocked, and he recognised in this instinctive re-
pugnance of feeling a higher law than any other by
which his conduct was guided. That Ingaretha's life
and aspirations would ever be anything but noble, he
did not doubt for a moment. Why, then, should her
expression of both receive spontaneous and as yet un-
warranted disapproval by those who had no canons of
taste, but judged every action according to an accepted
standard of right and wrong? He comforted himself
with the thought that, after all, men like Mr. Whitelock
have very short-lived influence, and that people who
suffered themselves to be led by him must be twice as
narrow and twice as undiscriminating as himself.
The rector retired to his study more perturbed in
spirit than ever. It was bad enough to quarrel with
Miss Meadowcourt—it was worse still to quarrel with
Mr. Carew; yet he nmst hold his own—he must hold
his own. He kept repeating this self-imposed charge
like a child who fears he shall forget his well-conned
lesson before the time for rehearsal arrives. What
A Happy Thought.
265
would become of bis, pastoral authority, indeed, if he
suffered himself to be overridden by such men as Mr.
Carew, a pleasant neighbour, certainly, and a liberal
contributor towards parochial expenses, but an idler, a
dabbler in history, and, above all, a lukewarm churchman.
CHAPTEK XL.
ghenilda's reign.
The first morning in April saw Carew's bachelor's quar-
ters changed as if by magic. So complete was the do-
mestic invasion to which he had been subjected, that not
a corner of the house could now be called his own. At
first it had seemed as if room could not possibly be
found to accommodate such an important personage as
the two-year-old heir and his retinue, but after innumer-
able battles between Carew's housekeeper and the child's
nurses and nursery-maids, the matter was settled. Poor
Carew begged that everything else might be left to take
care of itself, so long as the children (for he acknow-
ledged the existence of the little girl also) had what
they wanted, and put up with all kinds of inconveni-
ences serenely. As for Ghenilda, she would not have
minded sleeping in carpetless rooms, eating off earthen-
ware, foregoing lace on her pillows, and submitting to
other hardships, but she had very exalted ideas of what
was necessary for the well-being of her boy. His baby
sister was a pretty plaything, and would be sure to turn
out good and insignificant, but her brother was already
somebody of consideration, and what would he not be in
a few years ? By every mail long letters went to Japan,
266
The Sylvestves.
filled with details of little Harry's sayings and doings.
Nothing that he said or did could he unimportant, his
mother thought. "When our boy is a man, what a
happy woman I shall be!" she wrote to her husband,
feeling quite happy then. The first morning after her
arrival, she took possession of the library, begged Carew
to give up all notion of writing poetry, or otherwise em-
ploying himself during her stay; and then, having
seated herself before the fire, poured forth a volley of
questions :
" What is this man like whom Ingaretha means to
marry ? When will the wedding take place ? Where
will they live ? I am dying with impatience to know
all about it."
" I must take one question at a time," answered Carew,
never looking up from his desk. He was carefully going
through his Italian sketches, pencil in hand. " What
did you first want to know, my dear ?"
" Is the man Ingaretha means to marry handsome ?"
"Beautiful! Just that, and nothing more."
"Oh!" cried Ghenilda, growing very animated. " Then,
of course, she is very much in love with him V
" Of course."
" Happy Ingaretha," Ghenilda said.
" My dear child, you were in love with Micheldever
three or four years ago, Is not once enough V
" But our love-making was a very prosaic affair!
Could anything have been more prosaic ? I have never
had a touch of romance in my life, never."
And the happy little lady sighed.
" Don't envy poor Miss Meadowcourt," Carew said;
" I fear she will not be very happy."
" Why should she be unhappy ? There are plenty of
Ghenilda! s Reign.
267
things women value a thousand times more than jewels
and fine clothes. If it were not for my hoy, I would
just as soon be poor as rich. I am sure the happiest
people in the world are those who live in semi-detached
villas upon three hundred a year."
" Who put that notion into your head ?" Carew asked,
smiling.
"No one. I have reasoned it out for myself. We
have everything in such lumps that one gets sick of
it—too many indolent, flattering servants; too much
travelling, too much eating, too much running about in
London, too much staying at home in the country. But
tell me, why is Ingaretha sure to be unhappy ? I am
sorry she is not going to marry you, Carew."
" And I am sorry too."
Then he told her as much as he knew of Kend.
Ghenilda was enchanted. She had never before heard
so romantic a story. She felt sure Ingaretha would be
happy. She would do her utmost to make things easy
and pleasant to her. After all, Ingaretha lived out of
the world—there was no world at St. Beowulf's Bury—
and any marriage she might make in no degree affected
general society. That was consolatory. Carew let his
sister chatter till she was tired, and then suggested that
it might be as well to say all this over again to Ingar-
etha, adding:
" For I leave her in your hands entirely now, and you
must be like a sister to her."
" Unlike a sister, you mean," Ghenilda answered.
" Almost all the sisters I have ever known detested each
other."
" Be an angel, then."
" Poor Carew!" Ghenilda said caressingly. " How
268
The Sy Ives tree.
good and unselfish you are in this wicked, selfish
world !"
Carew made his escape, and after a long consultation
held by Ghenilda with nursery authorities, it was settled
that the little boy might safely venture as far as the
Abbey; and of course nothing could be more important
than the dress and good looks of the small potentate,
and though infinite pains were bestowed on his toilette,
the admiring mother was by no means satisfied at last
that he looked his best.
" I am half sorry I did not let him wear his violet
tunic after all," she said on the way. " This dress makes
him look too much of a baby."
Ingaretha was on the terrace when the carriage drove
up, and Ghenilda for a moment forgot the violet tunic,
so lost was she in admiration of the queenly creature
who advanced to welcome her.
Ingaretha had a grand maternal way with children,
that fascinated them more than all the chirping and
cooing in the world. She bent forward, and without
hesitation took the boy in her strong arms, who never
questioned her right to do so, falling in love with her at
once. She kissed him, smiled at him, and bore him
statelily into the dining-room, where luncheon was
ready.
" Oh! if I were but tall and strong, and golden-haired
like her," thought Ghenilda, grown suddenly out of
patience with her own mignonne beauty. "She carries
the boy as if he were a feather, and at six-and-twenty,
has a complexion as fresh as his. I do envy Ingaretha!"
Ingaretha was drawing a comparison in her own mind
just then, but of a very different kind. Here was a
happy wife, a proud mother, a good, true, simple woman,
Ghenilda!s Reign.
269
whose life had been no problem, but so plain from the
beginning that all who ran could read. Her ideals, her
duties, her sympathies, might be circumscribed, but they
were substantial and fixed. The torment of doubt, the
forlorn struggles in the dark, the blind striving after the
highest guidance, which were her own portion, Ghenilda
would never know; and how God-sent, how enviable,
seemed such ignorance!
When the child was gone, Ghenilda went up to her
friend, and threw her arms about her with school-girlish
effusion.
" My poor ill-used child," she said, " how can we be
good enough to you V
" I don't complain of being ill-used, but ill-judged,"
Ingaretha answered. " I feel sure, if once the people
who set themselves as judges over me would take the
trouble to ascertain my real motives, they would think
differently. It is inconsequence, not harshness, I com-
plain of."
" What can you expect ?" Ghenilda said consolingly.
" Two-thirds of one's friends and neighbours are geese,
as far as I can discover."
" And it is not pleasant to have the whole flock at
one's heels, hissing and screeching," Ingaretha said.
"I suppose not. But, for my own part, I would
rather be on unpleasant terms with stupid people. I
would indeed."
"You forget that I want to help them. When I
speak of friends and neighbours, I include those
whom I am in duty bound to look after—I mean the
poor."
" Ghenilda made a pretty little gesture of dismay.
" Have you come to that ? I thought that goodness
27 o
The Sylvestres.
to the poor was what we all take to when we are old
women, by way of doing penance for our sins."
"By being good to the poor, I don't mean giving
away coals and flannel petticoats," Ingaretha said im-
patiently ; " but something quite different. I hate play-
ing the Lady Bountiful. I hate the subservience that
so-called charity implies. Why should we not help the
poor as we help each other ?—that is to say, by living
in sympathy with them, and by holding before them the
highest ideals we can attain to ?" With increased spirit
she added:—" Charity—I use the word in its material
and vulgar sense—has had a fair trial in the world,
and what has it done ?:—I want sympathy to have its
turn."
"Oh! dear," Ghenilda said, suppressing a yawn.
" What a dreadfully serious world we live in nowadays!
Last year I heard of nothing in London but Bepression
of Mendicants and Bights of Labour, Bights of Labour
and Bepression of Mendicants, from morning till night.
But I can't feel interested in the working classes. I
can't indeed, Ingaretha. Harry says the time is coming
when lords and ladies will have to black their own boots
and cook their own dinner. I should go without, though
I wouldn't mind making the boy's pudding. But I
think it is a comfortable world. Why disturb it V
Ingaretha smiled and was silent. Ghenilda suddenly
dropped on her knees before her, took her hand, and
said coaxingly:
" I am dying to see a portrait of somebody. May I ?"
" I have only a crayon sketch Mr. Carew made in
Italy five years ago—not quite good, but very clever.
You shall see that."
She fetched the portrait, a slight, suggestive, highly
Ghenilda! s Reign.
271
poetic sketch of her 'protege at the age of twenty-two,
and placed it, sighing, in Ghenilda's hand. The two
looked at it together. Features, expression, proportion,
were superlatively beautiful.
Ghenilda looked long and said nothing. What was
there to say? But her eyes softened, and a sweet
serious expression stole over her face as she silently
contemplated the picture. Ingaretha, understanding
the look and the silence, kissed her on the brow.
As might be expected, this little incident paved the
way for a confidential talk, which lasted till Ghenilda
suddenly started up aghast.
" Oh!" she cried self-reproachfully, " how naughty I
am! WTiat will nurse say at keeping Harry out so
late ? Dear Ingaretha, let me go at once.5'
CHAPTER XLI.
ingaretha as inquisitor.
All this time Euphrosyne was distracted by an inward
conflict. Aglae's position at Pilgrim's Hatch was be-
coming daily more and more anomalous. She might at
any time be discovered and recalled by her abandoned
husband, or she might remain indefinitely under their
roof, increasing the difficulties of her new friends a hun-
dred fold. If they betrayed her secret, they were guilty
of treachery; if they kept it, of fraud. There was cer-
tainly no sin to be laid at the door of the husband that
could warrant such conduct on the wife's part. Never-
theless, she seemed to drift further and further from the
2J2
The Sylvestres.
world she had left behind, without any apparent con-
sciousness of thereby incurring moral responsibility.
" I know that I am wicked," she would say, when
tenderly upbraided by Euphrosyne," but my mother is
alone to blame for having given me such bad instincts.
I am not of myself a perverted creature. It is im-
possible for women to be good who are born of bad
mothers."
Such speeches would make Euphrosyne shiver and
turn pale to the lips, but she did not cease her remon-
strances. She had a twofold reason for persuading the
young wife to return home and seek conciliation—firstly,
because she held it to be her duty; and secondly, because
she foresaw danger if she stayed.
This free and easy life of theirs was childishly simple
and pure, but not without temptations to a dissatisfied
and inexperienced nature like that of Aglae. She was
ever on the alert for more sympathy and more affection
than the circumstances could warrant, and never tired
of pouring out her troubles to Maddio and the brothers
Carrington. They were brought together both in the
hours of toil, and recreation. Passionately fond of
music, dancing, and any other amusement, she sang,
danced, and played in their company. What if she
should fall in love with any one of these men ? True,
Maddio was old enough to be her father, but in heart
he was as fresh as a boy, and prone to indulge in
romantic sentiment. Maddio, moreover, though kept
from sin by native goodness and innocence, acted up to
no code of laws, human or divine, and might at any
moment commit some culpable though not ill-meaning
indiscretion. Oh! if Aglae would take warning, and
Ingaretha as Inquisitor.
473
save herself from what would be a crowning shame and
sorrow to them all!
The poor woman wasted herself to a shadow with
secret misgivings and self-reproach; and none saw how
she suffered, except Ingaretha. Again and again she
entreated her to speak out, but in vain. Euphrosyne
would ever parry the loving thrusts, and declare that
she had no especial reasons for concern.
" But you know, dearest child," she would say,
smiling plaintively, " that I am not, like my husband,
able to send cares to the four winds always."
Ingaretha spoke to Monsieur Sylvestre, but as well
expect the bluebottle that has alighted on some curate's
nose to understand the Ten Commandments he is reading
as Monsieur Sylvestre to admit the existence of any
unseen evil in this pleasant world.
"My wife is over-anxious—that is all," he said
lightly. " Have we not in our possession all the bless-
ings intellectual man can desire—freedom, friends, the
happy consciousness of a destiny fulfilled? No harm
can happen to us—except to leave them for ever."
At last, Ingaretha lost patience, and one morning, wThen
she found herself alone with her old friend, gave free
utterance to what was passing in her mind.
" My dear Madame Sylvestre," she said, " do be frank
with me. You do not eat—1 am sure you do not sleep,
and you are growing thinner every day. It is Aglae!
Aglae alone who is making you miserable; I know it
without a word."
"I naturally feel great inquietude about the dear
child's future."
" Do you really love her ?" Ingaretha asked sharply.
To her, Aglae had ever seemed cold and unattractive. ■
18
274
The Sylvestres.
"Young, friendless, and unhappy, could any one help
being drawn towards her ?"
" I am not drawn towards her, I confess," Ingaretha
answered. "It sounds a little hard to say so, but it
seems to me that her friendlessness and unhappiness
are of her own making."
" She had a bad mother," Euphrosyne said, with
bitter emphasis.
" It is impossible to believe that she does not ex-
aggerate her grievances, seeing her discontent here,
although overwhelmed with kindness," Ingaretha went
on, still warm and indignant. " If she were as wretched
as she represents herself to be, would she sing, dance,
and coquet upon every opportunity ? I mistrust alike
her sorrow and her penitence."
Euphrosyne looked pained and unconvinced. It was
rarely she contradicted Ingaretha in anything, but
though silent, as usual, to-day, her face broke through
the rule and betokened opposition.
" Oh ! let her go home," Ingaretha added, in a voice
of entreaty. " She has duties there; here she hinders
others from doing theirs. Do not be angry with me.
I feel soon she will work mischief if she stays."
Still Euphrosyne said nothing. Ingaretha took her
hand, and put her arm around her neck.
" Who is this stranger that she should make you so
Unhappy ? Let me be a daughter to you instead, since
I love you a thousand times better than she does."
" Oh!" said Euphrosyne, trying to steady her voice
and master the mysterious agitation that possessed her.
" I do not deserve to be loved either by her or by you.
You would never guess how unworthy I am !" Tears
began to flow as she added, kissing the girl's hand
Ingaretha as Inquisitor.
meekly, " If I could love you a little less, I could con-
fide to you a little more, but affection makes us very
proud. I cannot humble myself to the dust before
you."
" Why should you humble yourself to the dust before
any one ?" Ingaretha said, returning that penitent kiss
by a dozen full of grateful affection, and adding, half-
playfully, " If any of us are fit company for the saints,
it is you, and you only."
Euphrosyne shook her head mournfully.
"I have willed to live nobly," she answered, "but,
alas! my spiritual conceptions have ever been imaged
in clay, so victoriously has flesh warred against spirit
since my youth upwards until now. Before me moved
always a golden vision—the far-off, the ideal, the divine;
and when I reached it and embraced it, all that was
godlike had vanished, the gross and earthly alone
remaining behind. God knows how I have struggled
with myself. Yet it has been always so."
Her cheeks had turned from deathly white to fever
red, her eyes were unnaturally lustrous, her voice
strange, her brow covered with perspiration. Ingaretha
felt a sudden pang of apprehension. Was her old
friend's sensitive nature wrought upon by domestic
difficulties to a pitch of insanity ? How account other-
wise for this agony of doubt and introspection, out of
keeping, as it seemed, with the occasion ? " Which of
us can say that we have wrought out our ideals into a
perfect life?" she said. "If you have not satisfied
yourself, think of those you have helped and encouraged.
I, for one, without you, should have lost my way many
and many a time."
"No; oh no; you must not say that. Seek wisdom,
18—2
2 y6
The Sylvestres.
sweet one, rather from those who have walked in a lowly
path of duty without stumbling, than from those who
have kept their eyes fixed on the stars, whilst treading
forbidden ways. None have sinned more grievously
than I."
" Thus each of us says in his secret heart," Ingaretha
said, in a sorrowful voice.
" Ah, you do not know all!"
"You could not tell me anything that would make
me love you less, or more. Of whom else could one say
that V
Euphrosyne shook her head.
" I am such a coward, or I would speak out," she said,
with a look of unspeakable misery in her face. " But I
dare not, I dare not, though I am killing myself with
silence. I love you too dearly to make you unhappy
on account of my evil doings."
And saying that, she embraced her as passionately as
if for the last time in life, and left the room.
For several days after this interview Madame Syl-
vestre used to steal away from the others, and shutting
herself in her bedroom, write assiduously. Her sane-
tuary invaded, pencil and paper were hidden away,
slyly as the beloved romance of some nursery novelist,
and a week slipped by ere her task was done. Then an
untidy little manuscript, composed of a dozen blank
sheets of letters, and fastened together by a piece of
darning wool, was one day thrust into Ingaretha's
pockets by deft hands.
This manuscript was a letter, and on the outer leaf
was written in large characters—Keep my secret.
A Confession.
2 77
CHAPTER XLII.
a confession.
" I do not know, I cannot guess, how you will receive
this communication from me. If, as I have a right to
expect, your respect vanishes and your love grows cold,
suffer not my husband to perceive the change. This is
all the mercy I ask at your hands, and I am unworthy
to ask even that little. Oh! my beautiful, my beloved
Ingaretha, would to Heaven I had never been rejoiced
at your loveliness, and solaced with your affection!—
then I should not have known what it is to have con-
sorted with angels, and be thrust from their company
into the bottomless pit. So greatly I suffer in this self-
abasement, that I think it is the helplessness of those
dear ones around me only for which I shall henceforth
live. How easy it were to die when life reproaches you,
not sorrowfully, but in anger, with mocking fingers on
its lips! Dearest child, picture me twenty-five years
ago as of your own age, but already a wife and mother,
widow of a man double my years, and mother of children
over whose future I was to have no more control than
the mere cle lait whom they had loved twice as well as
myself in their infancy. Figure to yourself such a posi-
tion, and you need not ask whether I was happy. I
had inherited from my father, a man of rare gifts, but
some eccentricities, all kinds of qualities that warred
against the life to which marriage condemned me—love
of learning, habits of inquiry, passionate enthusiasm for
reform, and craving after new ideas, whether in religion,
in politics, or in art. My intellect having, of its own
accord, burst the bonds of spiritual despotism, in other
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The Sylvestres.
words, the Eomish Church, found itself like a child's
kite, tossed this way and that, wafted ever and anon a
little way towards the supreme light, but invariably
borne downwards, sometimes rent with agonised effort, at
others soiled with earth-stained tears. A French-woman,
the descendant of noble-spirited men and women,
who had laid down their lives in the cause of liberty,
no wonder that the era of their martyrdom, the French
Eevolution, was constantly in my thoughts. I envied
the destiny that had been so dear to them, and the
privilege they had enjoyed of making the last sacrifice
for humanity. ' Is this to live V I cried in the bitter-
ness of my isolated condemnation; ' bearer of a name
I do not honour, mother of children I am forbidden to
rear, head of a household in which I count as a cipher!'
It seemed to me a death in life for which the grave
would have been a kindly exchange. In such terror of
my heresies had my husband stood, that, according to
his will, my little girls were to be kept in the convent
till they should be eighteen! and though he could not
prevent them from being with me in their holidays, he
had provided a counteraction against such evil influences
in the presence of an elder sister, who was bound over
to stay with us. I cannot blame her for having made
me suffer, seeing the differences of opinion that existed
between us.
" The monotonous years dragged to a close, I know not
how, and suddenly stopped. My heart beat fast once
more. The morning sun was pleasant. The roses in
our garden seemed glorious things. I found myself
singing in the dreary old chateau, like an escaped bird.
For the first time, I had seen him who is now my hus-
band. 0 Ingaretha! I am old now, and that day seems
A Confession.
279
no more to belong to my life than an exalted vision, a
golden dream ! Yet was mine, mine, mine!
" Summer had come in my beautiful, beloved France.
Our chestnut alleys thrilled with the full-throated songs
of nightingale and throstle; our orchards were rosy
with apple-blossoms; our little fountain sparkled mer-
rily in the sunshine; the village children, dressed in
white and crowned with garlands, kept the festival of
Ascension. I was left alone in the chateau with an
old servant.
" Idling over some needlework out of doors, I was sud-
denly aroused by the sound of a man's voice, the most
musical I had ever heard, and, looking up, saw a superb
figure standing before me, gracious, statuesque, beautiful
beyond dreams. Bare-headed he stood on the threshold
of my little summer-house, sunshine on his brow, eyes,
and beard; never were youth and intellectual beauty
and love typified in a nobler image ! By a few words
the stranger put me at my ease. He then presented a
letter of introduction. I begged him to be seated, and
forthwith he told his errand.
" He was by profession a teacher of mathematics, he
said, and wished to settle down at V for the pre-
sent, if circumstances so favoured him that he could
there fairly earn his bread. I promised to do my best
to help him; he thanked me, and went away.
" I became one of his pupils, throwing heart and soul
into a study for which my mental characteristics pecu-
liarly fitted me; and from that time life became new
and wonderful. It was not his plan to teach isolated
facts. He saw a divine unity of plan running alike
through the world of nature and of science—Nature's
interpretations—and to express and elucidate this
280
The Sylvestres.
unity, he brought together myriads of experiences and
deductions, which, in his hands, became fused into the
light of universal truth. Marvellous were the stores of
knowledge he had gained, more marvellous still his
power of assimilating it and appropriating it to others.
His love of humankind was second only to his thirst
after spiritual perfection; and, swayed alternately by
motives of a vehement benevolence and dreamy ab-
straction, he was one day a moralist, the next a vision-
ary.
" I had been in the habit of seeing him for about a
month, when he poured out to me his social views and his
belief in the approaching material and moral regeneration
of mankind by means of the modern Social Iieformers.
For the first time I found myself in the company of an
ardent disciple of Fourier, that great original thinker,
who saw in the glorification of labour and of pleasure, the
associated home or phalanstery, the future happiness of
the human race. In glowing words, the systems of
St. Simon, Eobert Owen, and other Socialist dreamers
were described to me, till I felt lost in the contempla-
tion of the universal paradise into which they were
about to turn the world. I looked around me; I studied
history. I was appalled by the selfishness that not
even Christianity, nor civilisation, nor the French Eevo-
lution had eradicated from the rich, the refined, and the
happy. Could I believe that such a state of things—
misery, toil, ignorance, on the one side; self-indulgence,
ease, and intellectual freedom on the other—was des-
tined to be perpetual ? I believed, rather, in the good-
ness of God and of man, and said, No. The prison
walls of my soul crumbled away. All around became
vast, luminous, melodic, I realised at last what I had
A Confession,
281
hitherto striven after darkly, the rich capacity of indi-
vidual life. Even I, a woman, was no worthless or
ignoble creature, but a link not to be spared in the
chain of universal being, a power for good or evil among
my fellows, an entity designed for some special purpose
by the great Creator. I felt as if all my sex must be
glorified in the divine conviction that now possessed
me. What the greatest of the ancient philosophers had
denied us, what the apostles of Christianity ignored,
what mediaeval reformers and modern revolutionary
leaders doubted or despised, these latter-day prophets,
these so-called Socialists, acknowledge, without stint or
spare—namely, the dignity of women. They alone, of
all would-be conquerors and iconoclasts, hurled to the
ground the hideous dictum that Might is Eight, and
willed to govern the world by moral instead of physical
force. Could I choose but accept such teaching joy-
fully ? I, who had been treated as a cipher, a child, a
slave in my husband's house ?
"And when one day, he who had been alike my
teacher, prophet, and friend, who had transformed ex-
istence from a weary and useless burden into a precious
and fruitful usufruct, and filled the future with a
thousand happy expectances, said, with trembling lips
and eyes brimful of tears, ' I love you. Go with me
to the Far West, and let us work together in the cause
of humanity,'—ah ! you, who are also given to generous
womanly impulses, will know how my heart leaped at
the thought of sharing the ambition of such a man! All
other love, all other duty, seemed dead within me. By
the old I had been cast out and despised, by the new
I was exalted and enlarged. I saw nothing behind me
but monotony, neglect, and insignificance; before me
282
The Sylvestres.
rose height upon height of intellectual and spiritual
effort, which by his side I felt strong enough to climb.
" Could I condemn myself to nothingness when such a
career lay before me ? Could I separate myself from
one so beautiful, so good, so enthusiastic, the only being
in the world to whom I was linked by the supreme ties
of soul-reaching sympathy ? That I loved him, and
that my love for him has been the one passion of my
life, I need not say to you.
" For days I wrestled with myself. My children had
been allowed to love me scantily: but I was their
mother. My husband had distrusted me; but I had
once been his wife and bore his name. My home had
never grown sweet and familiar, but it was the home
which he had given me. A thousand times I said to
myself that I would stay and carry my secret to the
grave. He, however, was not to be easily won over to
such renunciation. Openly, as became a man and a
lover, he spoke out to my kinsfolk, and of course spoke
in vain. It came to this : I had to choose between my
children and my lover.
"Looking back upon that time, Ingaretlia, I marvel at
my decision. I cannot conceive of any woman so de-
ciding against her home, her ancestral faith, and her
children. It is true that the first had been estranged
from me, the second I had long before voluntarily dis-
carded, the last were not as yet endeared. It is, more-
over, true that I could only see a very trifling good to
be gained by this supreme self-sacrifice required of me,
whilst plenary acceptance involved devotion to the whole
human race, and, as I could but believe, the completed
happiness of one who seemed to me noblest of noble
men. But I reasoned wrong in this—radically, irre-
A Confession.
283
trlevably wrong. To diverge from the plain path of
duty is to incur an incalculable responsibility—I do not
say always for evil or for nought—nay, it may even be
in the end for good, but how rarely! We cannot be
quite sure that the supreme crisis by which a grand soul
is so misled and mastered as to will what seems, but is
not, good, bears always evil results. To him who is
conquered by his own passions, no matter how elevating
and magnanimous, the secret retribution is without
doubt bitter, but the prescribed good struggled after
may have been attained. The world stands by, unedified
and unbelieving.
"Think of my children, Ingaretha, and pity me. Can
I believe now that my love might not have helped those
motherless, fatherless little ones—that my life, however
sad and narrow, might not have been good and pitiful in
their eyes ? God had made me a mother of women-
children, and I could pause deliberating where my
proper duty and highest destiny lay.
" Well, I went away with him, and his love proved a
sweeter and better thing than I had rapturously dreamed.
We lived no common life, indulged in no mean aspira-
tions, consorted with no gross or uncongenial natures.
How glorious existence seemed to me in those early
years of second marriage, second birth! I—who had
been heretofore wrapped in the commiseration of my
own dreary undeveloped self—now became the com-
panion and equal of experienced, enthusiastic men, of
high-spirited and courageous women. In the Far West
we joined an ardent little community of Fourierists, and
with them for some years lived harmoniously. Our
manner of life was simple but laborious, pleasure-loving
but pure. Every one toiled and span, but every one
284
The Sylvestres.
reaped and enjoyed. On festivals, which came often,
we had music and dancing in gaily-garlanded halls.
The children, like Bacchanals, sported about us, their
little brows decked with chaplets and flowers in their
hands. The old joined in their pastime. It seemed,
indeed, as if the dream of a golden age had come true.
And we had our religious holidays also, on which occa-
sions old and young, rich and poor, marched in solemn
procession to our Temple, where we consecrated birth,
love, and death, and there celebrated the jubilee of
seed-time and harvest with joyous canticles.
" But this idyllic existence was not without shadows.
Is it impossible for the lofty dreamer, in clothing his
aspirations with substantial form, to eliminate every
particle of material dross ? Alas ! my experience says
yes. I have dwelt in daily communings with idealists
and reformers; I have worked side by side with those
whose sole aim it was to spiritualise and enlarge their
fellow-men; I have seen this general fervour kindle
divine emotions, stifle unworthy instincts, throw a halo
around simple souls. Yet in none has the outward
realisation of inward ideals been complete and unsullied
by earthly contact. Alas that I should have to confess
thus much to you !
" The little association was broken up, and we returned
to Europe, then in the throes of a universal revolution.
We stayed in Paris during the terrible years following
Forty-eight. The coup d'6tat saw our friends and
fellow-workers outlawed, incarcerated, massacred. My
husband was one of the 'Deportes,' and his place of
exile was Africa. What we suffered in those unhealthy
plains of La Maison Carrde I cannot now recall without
a shudder. The water was poisonous, the air freighted
A Confession.
285
with miasma, the people hostile, and the land a wilder-
ness. We escaped marvellously enough, with our
lives, and after some years were allowed to change our
place of abode. In the plain of the Sig a few scattered
followers rallied round the standard of Fourier, and
again an associated home, or Phalanstery, was formed,
my husband being always the leading spirit. He was
adored as if he had been a god. At that who can
wonder ?
" And all this time no looked-for retribution had come
upon me. Pestilence, pillage, burnings, and famine
were hard to bear, but they befell the innocent as well
as the guilty—good, true, long-suffering mothers, as
well as her who had forsaken her fatherless little ones.
Fever and famine spared me. The earthquake destroyed
me not. I moved like one wearing a charmed life, and
his love was so sweet that I never prayed to die. For
his sake I was content to live and remember, were life
and memory to last a hundred years. But at last, and
in most unlooked-for fashion, has my punishment come.
How can I tell you the truth? How can I keep
silence ? Think a little, Ingaretha. Guess the sequel
of this sorrowful story.
" You have lately chidden me for undue concern in
the welfare of the young stranger whose coming has
caused us all so much embarrassment and anxiety.
Something of her history is already known to you.
Add to it the early portion of my own, and pity us both;
love me still a little if you can. For the faults of this
poor child, her mother—your poor broken-hearted
Euphrosyne—alone is responsible. Do not utterly re-
ject her. My tears blot the page. I can only add, on
my knees, ' Forgive, forgive !'
" Euphrosyne."
2 86
The Sylvestres.
CHAPTER XLIII.
conflicts.
Ingaretha had hitherto honoured Euphrosyne above
every living soul. The girl's expansive nature had
found in her old friend that complete sympathy which
no other friendship, not even Rene's, had as yet yielded.
Where Euphrosyne loved, she loved passionately, and
Ingaretha was among her dearest. Difference of years,
of position, of nationality, had not stood in the way of
as sweet and high-souled a friendship as ever knit two
good women. To Euphrosyne, Ingaretha seemed the
loveliest and most lovable of human things. To In-
garetha, Euphrosyne was a model of wisdom, resignation,
dignity. The brightness and freshness of the one were
a constant refreshment and delight; the tenderness and
elevation of the other, a constant solace and admonition.
Both were striving from day to day to mould their
lives into noble shape. Both lived as much in the
inner spiritual world of aspiration and endeavour as in
the palpable world of fact and reality.
And what a blow was this ! Unforeseen, irrevocable,
never to be forgotten whilst the sun rose and set, for
poor Ingaretha!
She sat with the letter in her hand, not knowing
how the time passed, hoping yet dreading to be dis-
turbed, longing for some excuse, even some physical
pain that might give her reason to wail and wring her
hands, and walk up and down the room distractedly.
But she could not do this. She must go about her
daily work, dry-eyed, calm-browed, with measured foot-
Conflicts.
2 87
step, and tell no one of the hell of doubt in which her
spirit dwelt.
' Oh! if Eend Were hut here!" escaped her lips; and
then on a sudden she turned red and white, and trem-
hied in every limb.
"What if he too had his secret ? And Monsieur
Sylvestre ? And Maddio ? None of all these had
held so high a place in her affections as Euphrosyne.
None had been so childishly revered, so lovingly and
entirely leaned on, so adored on bended knee. Euphro-
syne fallen from her high pinnacle, could these weaker
ones hold their place ?
She thrust off the unworthy suspicion, and tried to
reason away her abhorrence of Euphrosyne's life-secret.
After all, she was a woman, and being herself a woman
she could afford to judge her gently, and forgive until
the seventieth time seven. The others might have
committed lesser crimes than she, but what were their
temptations in comparison with her own ? They could
not have suffered as she had suffered, struggled as she
had struggled, yielded on the same ground that she
had yielded. Her sin towards her children was irre-
deemable; but had not society sinned irredeemably
towards Euphrosyne ? How many women would have
done graver harm without such apparent cause for self-
reproach ? Thus much might be said in justification of
one who did not seek to justify herself—her life had
been no whited sepulchre. What she had dome amiss
had been done openly, to be judged both of God and
man. But repeat as she might that oft-quoted phrase,
" more sinned against than sinning," Ingaretha could
not find rest or comfort. The friend of her bosom was
fallen from her high estate, never, never to be so high
288
The Sylvestres.
set up any more. Impulsive and devoted as she was,
Ingaretha was too clear-minded not to take in at a
glance the height, and breadth, and depth of this
woman's wrong-doing, and though full of love and
compassion, she could not straightway throw herself in
her arms, saying, " All is with us as before."
Over our poor Ingaretlia's soul brooded a darkness
she could not dispel. Seeing how grievously the short-
comings of those to whom she was indifferent had
troubled her, how she had lately vexed herself about
the little-mindedness, and malice, and animosity of her
so-called friends and neighbours, it was no wonder that
a downright piece of wrong-doing in one she honoured
and adored, should torment her almost beyond en-
durance.
" I will expect nothing from any one henceforth,"
she said to herself with extreme bitterness; " nothing,
nothing, nothing. Who is proof against temptation?
Who is true to his highest instincts ? Who is entirely
good and true and noble ? If not Euphrosyne, then
none in all the world."
She wept abundantly. Sadder tears she had never
shed.
At last her indignation was spent, and she reproached
herself only.
" What am I, that I should judge her ?" she cried:
" I who have had fine opportunities, and yet have lived
no noble life. Ought I not rather to fall on her neck
and embrace her, confessing my own faults, my own
backslidings, my own littlenesses ? I have believed in
myself too much. Taking for granted that what I
willed to do was invariably well done, I have set myself
above those who were content to act up to a simpler
Conflicts.
289
code of duty. I have tried to d<5 more than others;
and yet if I died to-morrow, should go to God empty-
handed."
Thus, half praying, half meditating, she passed a long
hour of retrospection. Then she wrote a little pen-
cilled note to Euphrosyne, which ran as follows:
" What am I, that I should judge you ? I will keep
your secret as long as I live; hut let us never talk of it.
"Yours ever,
" Ingaretha."
That was all. Euphrosyne would know that her
friend remained her friend still. To say that she did
not suffer in the other's self-abasement would have
been to slander the name of friendship. Time could
heal Ingaretha's wound, but time itself could not eradi-
cate the scar.
When the two met for the first time, it was Ingaretha
whose voice faltered, whose cheek changed colour, whose
hands trembled. Self-controlled, and almost cold in her
pride of humiliation, Euphrosyne was fain to draw back
from the proffered hand, to withhold the expected kiss;
but Ingaretha, with sudden emotion, put her arms
around her and kissed her fervently. Then, others
being present, each took refuge in self-imposed calm,
and after the first meeting was over, the rest seemed
easy.
But Ingaretha had learned one obvious lesson from
Euphrosyne's life that she would never forget. Day
and night she kept applying to her own case the moral
of her friend's story; and it was a long time before she
could clearly see her way through the mazes of doubt
and difficulty with which she was beset.
19
290
The Sylvestres.
How could she so order her future life as to subserve
it to one guiding principle of right ? To dash blindly at
generous deeds without weighing their ethical im-
portance, was but to follow Euphrosyne's example, to do
evil that good might come; or at least, like the dog in
the immortal fable, to throw away a small substantial
good, for a large but shadowy resemblance of it.
Clearly her duty lay in this dull English village,
among these slangy, fox-hunting gentlemen and insipid,
novel-reading ladies; among these ignorant, beer-
besotted ploughmen, and drudging, unjoyful housewives.
Here she had a position, a career, a standpoint, un-
satisfactorily as she might occupy the first, imperfectly
as she might fulfil the second, slowly as she might
advance from the last, the good to be accomplished, and
the evil to be combated, were defined.
And there was, moreover, this to be said about her
home-life. She had a tradition to keep up, a wonderful
anchor to unsteady souls! Her opinions, actions, am-
bitions, were not only of importance in the world's eyes
on her own account, but on account of those who had
gone before her—ancestors and ancestresses—who had
been high-spirited, hard-working men and women.
She could not console herself by the universal sophism
that such and such a line of conduct would be admissible
because of her own insignificance; as if any one's conduct
were insignificant.
How she worked out her life-problem mattered, most
of all, to herself, having a personal affection for those
of her name who had done well before her, because of
inherited responsibility. Being her father's daughter,
she was bound to live worthily for his sake.
Amid perplexing thought upon thought, broke, with
Conflicts.
291
sudden flash, a ray of conviction. What Eastern travel
had failed to teach her, and the happy South, and other
many-coloured experiences, she should surely learn in
the New World. Her mind turned with joyful leap
towards America. There, humanity, with loins girded
like a young athlete, was setting to work to build up a
new and equitable society. Could she do better, could
Bene do better, than journey thither and profit by the
teachings of the younger and happier country ? Many
of the social problems over which they were puzzled,
had there found pacific solution—education of the
people, emancipation of the working-men, a free church,
and so on. Such a step would surely be the most
fitting apprenticeship to the guild of social reformers
they proposed to enter. They might learn little, and
be wanting in moral and intellectual power to apply that
little, but they would at least have gone to the best
school before pretending to teach others.
On Bene's willingness to accede to any wishes of her
own, Tngaretha knew she might confidently reckon.
His love for her was no calm affection, bond-servant of
the intellect and the will, but the over-mastering passion
of a reckless nature, that owned neither kingship nor
statute. Contemplating such a love, she might well feel
alternately proud, joyful, and afraid.
CHAPTEB XLIV.
dfisillusionne.
What should she do with her child? asked the un-
happy mother a hundred times a day. The expected
solace for which she had sacrificed so much had not
19—2
The Sylvestres.
come. Ingaretha was in her secret; still cold and im-
placable, she held aloof from Aglae. She could forgive
her own sins and shortcomings, but she could not take
the victim of both to her heart. Euphrosyne was at a
loss to understand this hardness in Ingaretha's large
nature. She forgot that, if youth is twice as generous as
age, it is also twice as hard. And she lost sight of the
fact that was ever present in Ingaretha's mind, namely,
the amount of suffering Aglae's failing in duty towards
others had caused herself. " Let Aglae go," said Inga-
retha. But Euphrosyne hesitated.
At last matters were brought to an unexpected crisis
by the departure of the brothers Carrington. It hap-
pened mysteriously.
The news fell like a thunderbolt one morning when
the accustomed chairs at the breakfast table were empty.
Maddio, refusing to believe that two such pleasant
gentlemen could decamp after this fashion, searched
their rooms, and returned to the search again and again.
But, to use a homely local phrase, " neither feather nor
' bone was to be seen of themthey had gone, no one
knew whither. Monsieur Sylvestre breakfasted calmly,
dropping a consolatory word now and then to his crest-
fallen companions. Aglae wept copiously, recalling the
pleasant talks, the toils lightened by companionship,
the evening recreations gone for ever.
Aglae was inconsolable. She refused to help in the
dairy since there was no longer a chivalrous fellow-
worker to beguile the labour with song and jest.
Dominoes lost their attraction. Vainly might Maddio
Solicit her hand for the waltz, or her aid in the poultry-
yard or kitchen-garden. She was sullen, reserved,
almost vindictive. Euphrosyne saw thatv now if ever
DisillusionnL
293
the Gordian knot might he cut, and her mental tortures
and terrors allayed for ever. Aglae was ready to go.
Every day added to her present ennui. Every day
lessened her past animosities. Again and again she
began penitent little notes to her husband, which stopped
midway, and were never despatched. At last Euphro-
syne spoke to Monsieur Sylvestre. Would he say the
word, without which Aglae would never find moral
courage to depart ? It was clearly his duty, she rea-
soned, and who could tell how long they might have
shelter to offer her ? Their friend Ingaretha would soon
be thousands of miles away, and unable to protect them.
They were in duty bound to reduce their expenses to
the minimum, seeing that she was their only benefactor.
Thus reasoned Euphrosyne, the ever practical, ever well-
intentioned. But as well talk to the winds and waves
as preach expediency to Monsieur Sylvestre.
" Heavens, dear wife," cried the philosopher, out of
breath with impatience, " thou talkest like one of the
prattling children of unreason! That this dear child
has other claims upon her I do not deny. But there is
an elective affinity in duties as well as in affections, and
with admirable perception indeed has the great Fourier
seized and applied both truths. 1 Who are our rela-
tions ?' says he. 'Not primarily those who, being de-
scended from a common progenitor, chancewise bear our
name. Bather those with whom we are linked by
spiritual kinship, whose ideas claim common parentage
with our own, no matter how divergent may be our
material ancestries.'"
"But she has a husband, dear one. Thou for-
gettest "
" Bah ! does any union which lacks the communion
294
The Sylvestres.
of souls deserve the name of marriage ? Let him go to
the North Pole."
" You do not know all," began Euphrosyne, longing
for courage to blurt out, " She is my child!"
" Thank Heaven, I do not know all," rejoined Monsieur
Sylvestre with a shrug of the shoulders. "Fortunate
are those from whom Pandora has withheld the gift of
curiosity. I am happy in ignorance of many things."
" True," sighed Euphrosyne heavily; " and yet there
are times when I feel overwhelmed with the conviction
that we are seeming better than we are."
" How sayest thou so V asked the other, almost in
anger, " when the direct contrary is the truth ? Maddio
is looked upon as a fool or a knave by the vulgar
What angel in heaven is purer and better than he?
Thou art sadly misjudged by the outer world, because
of thy homely apparel, and perhaps too humble mien.
What woman in all the kingdom possesses thy coura-
geous spirit and thy capacious understanding ? And as
to myself, without undue vanity, I think I may fairly
say that I have been morally and intellectually under-
valued throughout life. It. is always so. Do not too
readily assent to the disparagement of an undiscrimi-
nating and often envious world."
Thus a hundred, nay a thousand times, had Euphro-
syne been silenced by this man's eloquence against her
better judgment. In clear daylight her intelligence
ever entered upon the impending discussion; midway,
it staggered amid blinding coruscations of wit and
flashes of fancy; towards the close it gave way, dazed,
bewildered, mastered by a magic power from which
there was no escape.
Again and again she, tempted, struggled in the
Ghenilda's Reign. 295
meshes; again and again the sophist smiled and had
his way.
CHAPTER XL V.
ghenilda's keign.
All this time Ghenilda had not "been idle. At the
outset of her campaign she said to herself that all those
who had ill-used Ingaretha should he humbled, and
she was as good as her word. Carew would remonstrate,
saying:
" Oh! let the good folks alone. So long as Miss
Meadowcourt has a friend to stand by her, what does it
matter ? I did not bring you here to make our neigh-
hours uncomfortable, but to do her good. Don't turn
yourself into a social Erinnys."
" I don't know what a social Erinnys may be," Ghe-
nilda said, laughing, " but I cannot forbear punishing
people who deserve it. There is a sort of virtuous
satisfaction about that kind of ill-nature."
" Well, have it your own way. But make things as
little unpleasant as possible.".
" Oh, Carew ! you speak as if the greater part of the
world had feelings. Will you never be desillusionne,
my poor little boy V
And the little lady would lecture her brother with
an air of patronising affection he could not withstand.
Ghenilda might be a trifle worldly, nay, a trifle foolish,
but she was of his blood; she had a kind heart, and
she loved him dearly. She, too, loved Ingaretha, and
he could not find it in his heart to chide or contradict
her. It must be confessed that her fashion of carrying
296
The Sylvestres.
out ethical convictions looked somewhat extravagant.
Her first step was to organise the wedding celebration
on what was in that part of the world a scale of unsur-
passed magnificence. Carew being too rich by half for
a bachelor, and being chivalrously devoted to this lady,
she thought nothing could be better than that he should
give a magnificent festival in her honour. This was to
take place on the eve of the wedding-day. Time, taste,
and money without stint were to be devoted to it, and
it was to be handed down in local tradition as the most
splendid local celebration on record.
In vain Carew argued that Rene's social position and
peculiar lot, a dozen reasons besides, rendered advisable
some simpler manifestation of cordiality. His little
masque, for instance, might be turned to account, and
would be a graceful and unostentatious compliment.
He had already asked a musical friend to compose
suitable music. What so easy as to put the whole
thing into the hands of a reliable impresario, and have
an unpretending amateur performance ?"
" And imfite about forty picked people ?" asked Ghe-
nilda.
" Invite everybody."
" Oh no ! I can't go in for a sort of tenants' ball.
Ingaretha is going to feast the poor people; and it is
etiquette she should. We are only called upon to give
a private entertainment, " Ghenilda answered with per-
sistence, " and I am determined to choose my guests
discreetly. I will make out a list to-day, leaving you
the right of veto,"
" And of adding an appendix, of course ?"
" Hot for the world."
Carew resigned himself to his fate, leaving the
Ghenilda's Reign.
297
management of everything to Ghenilda, except the
putting on the stage of his poetic drama. Upholsterers
might do their worst with the house. Ghenilda might
commit ravages among the tender feelings of the neigh-
bourhood; his household might, for the time being, slip
entirely out of his control. The only point he cared to
contest was the management of his masque. That, he
determined, should not be vulgarised by upholstery
and theatrical millinery. To make the necessary
arrangements he went to London for a week, leaving
Ghenhilda quite happy.
" Stay away a fortnight, dear boy, if you can," she
said, as she kissed him on the doorstep; " you will be
terribly in the way for next week."
No sooner was he fairly off than a series of prepara-
tions was begun on the largest, costliest, and noisiest
scale.
Carew had bound over the mistress of the ceremonies
not to meddle with his play, but nothing had been said
about the theatre. Ghenilda determined that it should
be magnificent. She devoted to the subject every
moment she could possibly spare from her boy's society,
and with the fashionable young clerk from Johnson
and Gingham's, in Oxford Street, threw heart and soul
into the subject.
The difficulties seemed enormous. There were no
rooms that were not either too small, too narrow, or too
many-cornered. Taking down hangings and doors did
not cure the evil; removing every obstruction in the
way of cabinets and tables did not cure it either.
Unless the walls were knocked in, it was impossible to
accommodate a moderate audience. Idea after idea
occurred; first of a Grecian theatre with tents, on the
298 The Sylvestves.
\
lawn; but it would be sure to rain, and people were
horribly afraid of catching cold, said Lady Micheldever.
The clerk sighed, sympathised with my lady's difficulties,
but was too modest to make suggestions.
" If we had the entrance-hall to work upon, my lady,
we could do ourselves credit," at last he said desperately,
and with the air of a genius surprised at its own flights.
" Capital!" cried Ghenilda, joyfully. " The entrance-
hall is exactly what we want. Block up the front door,
turn the conservatory into a public entrance, do away
with the anterooms, and the rest will be easy."
Forthwith began the work of destruction, which was
continued lustily from dawn to well-nigh midnight.
Chip, chip, went the mason's chisel; tap, tap, the
carpenter's hammer. Little Harry thought it good fun
to see the white-capped workmen on their high stools
—to him they seemed in the sky. Ghenilda clapped
her hands at the success of her plan. " If the work
went on as it had begun," she said, " by the time Carew
returned, the worst part would be over."
But Carew, with the restlessness of your poet and
lover, who never kept appointments, and always made
his journeys a little sooner or a little later than he had
agreed upon, returned unexpectedly by the mail train
one night, and finding no front door in its usual place,
thought he must be either crazed or drunk. The fly-
man drove round and round the house in vain—the
accustomed door had disappeared. At last gravel was
thrown upon the butler's window/who let in his master
through the back way, and explained everything. Carew
returned to London by an early train next day. '
It was not likely that the splendour of Ghenilda's
preparations went unnoticed. Kumours got afloat of
Ghenilda! s Reign.
299
the hundreds of yards of blue and gold stuff with which
the hall was being draped; of the elegance with which
the temporary theatre was being erected; of the choice
musical entertainment to be given; of the grandeur of
the guests who were invited from a distance, and so
forth. The truth was, of course, magnified a hundred-
fold, till, what with curiosity as to the real state of
the case, and suspense as to who should be invited, the
life of the majority became almost unbearable. Ghe-
nilda laughed to herself, guessing pretty well what was
going on in people's minds.
It is hardly necessary to say that the looked-for
reaction regarding Ingaretha's engagement had long
since taken place. People blamed themselves for the
impetuosity with which they had jumped to conclu-
sions.
" Why, oh, why," cried these self-convicted offenders,
" did the gods deny us discretion V
They hastened to make amends by falling at Ingare-
tha's feet, and she received them kindly.
"How forgiving you are!" cried Ghenilda to her
friend. " Nothing would have induced me ever to be
civil again to such Philistines."
But Ingaretha had no intention of being uncivil to
the Philistines. She saw in this universal bowing down
before Ghenilda something better than mere tuft-worship
or time-serving.
It was quite likely that, without such intervention at
all, good sense and good feeling would finally have had
their way; and, if it were otherwise, might not intel-
lectual obtuseness, rather than moral perverseness, be
the stumblingblock ? Whether Ghenilda's example was
followed because of her exalted social position, or because
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The Sylvestres.
of an honest conviction that, without such an example,
would never have dawned upon her neighbours' minds,
mattered little. She was only too thankful to shake
hands all round and be at peace with them once more.
Meantime came the season of flowers, corn, and fruit,
the full-blown summer, arrayed, like Solomon, in all
his glory. Perfect days and splendid nights glided by
in quick succession, till what had seemed far off as the
blossoming of seeds yet unsown, became a thing of to-
morrow.
Ren£ was on his way home.
CHAPTER XLVI.
fikst days of freedom.
Rene, speeding by Great Eastern Railway through the
glowing Suffolk landscapes towards St. Beowulf's Bury,
had no presentiment of the magnificent reception in
store for him. Indeed, he could not yet believe that
Ingaretha's lips would seal what Ingaretha's hands had
written, that she would say finally what she had said
once, that she would take his democratic standpoint,
his ruinous fortunes, his discredited name, and make
them her own for ever and ever. It was too wonderful
to be true, he thought. Ha! it was no small blessing
to be free once more; to see a broad expanse of summer
sky, to smell the sweets of cottage-gardens, to nod a
blithe " Good-morrow" to little children, standing open-
mouthed to watch the train go by, to feel himself a
man amongst men once more, but neither gagged nor
fettered, free to speak out his thoughts, to wave his hat
First Days of Freedom.
301
for liberty and the people, to hasten whithersoever he
would in their service.
He marvelled at the calmness of his fellow-travellers,
whose minds seemed full to the brim with buying and
selling, going and coming, and the still more trivial busi-
ness of the day. Could they be ignorant of the supreme
struggle convulsing all Europe ?—of the universal revo-
lution taking place, wherever kings held sway and the
people suffered ?—of the light that was breaking upon
combined human intelligence ?—of the tide of progress
slowly but inevitably setting in? They needed only
his experience to quicken their benumbed spirits with
something like fire.
For what was any pain or penalty of Nature's im-
position set against the tyranny of man over man ? To
be shipwrecked, struck down by lightning, wasted with
fever, unhoused by earthquakes, was a light misfortune
in comparison with this same most diabolical resource
of tyrants, of which he knew more than most. We are
apt to rail against the animosities of Nature, for the
most part felt to be beyond our control; but what is
the first lesson history teaches us ? That |om the
smallest to the greatest evils with which humanity has
been affiicted, the larger portion has been self-imposed,
in her own power to cure or hinder. Oh, blind, teachers
of the blind, thought Rene, secretly apostrophising the
spiritual, social, and intellectual leaders of the day—of
what good are your sermons on holiness, your acts of
charity, your educational schemes, whilst you do not
inculcate the divine principle without which these are
bitter as apples of Sodom in the people's mouths, god-
less as vessels of clay in their hands ? And this divine
principle—equality—which poets praise, knowing it not,
302 The Sylvestres.
under the name of sympathy, is the same for which I,
among worthier victims, suffer; which makes despotism
quake, although its heel is on our necks; which will,
must, being God's precept, vanquish in the end.
Then he mused, whilst being borne through the glow-
ing Suffolk landscape.
The train flew past the beautiful environment of
Sudbury, Gainsborough's town, undulated pastures, clear
little rivers, along which many a barge was lazily gliding
in the sunshine. Majestic screens of interlaced elm and
oak he saw, pleasant farmhouses here and there, patterns
of thrift and order. All these sights filled the heart
of our poor weary Bene with ecstasy. He put his head
out of the window and drew in greedy breaths of the
balmy air; he forgot how time went in the un-
accustomed enjoyment of lovely things; and started
and turned pale when the train came gradually to a
standstill, and the porters shouted " St. Beowulf's
Bury!"
Was he already there ? It seemed impossible. But,
before him, with flowers in their hands, stood, smiling
and weeping, his good old friends, Monsieur Sylvestre,
and Euphrosyne, and Maddio; and behind them Amy
Greerffield, also tearful, holding Bina and Sammy by the
hand; and Carew, waving his hat, advanced from an
open carriage in which sat a lady, young and beautiful,
but not Ingaretha, with a little boy at her side. Bene
sprang forward, fell on Monsieur Sylvestre's neck,
kissed Euphrosyne on the cheek, and gave a hand to all
the rest by turns. At first no one spoke. After a few
minutes none seemed able to keep silence. Bina and
Sammy, who had drawn back blushing and stammering
a moment before, now took entire possession of their old
First Days of Freedom.
303
playmate. Euphrosyne repeated the question again and
again," Thou art well, dear child V Monsieur Sylvestre,
who had recovered his sportive humour, now rallied his
companions upon their uncontrolled emotion. Maddio,
having dried his eyes, put his handkerchief in his
pocket.
Then Carew came up, calm, gracious, cordial.
"My sister trusts that you will allow her to drive
you home," he said, " and we shall both feel grateful if
you will become our guest for the present."
"We had hoped Monsieur Eubille would have come
to us: Sammy's little bed is all ready for him," began
Amy, in a voice of meek disappointment.
" And we also expected him," Euphrosyne said.
Bene was embarrassed.
" Come and speak to my sister, at all events," Carew
continued, and taking him by the arm, straightway con-
ducted him to Lady Micheldever's carriage. Ghenilda
smiled her sweetest smile, feeling sure that in this lover
of her friend's she had a half-savage to deal with, and
consequently a conquest to make far more difficult and
interesting than those that ordinarily fell to her share.
She held out her hand, uttered a perfect little speech,
made little Harry blow him a kiss, and finally said that
she had driven to St. Beowulf's on purpose to take him
home.
Poor Bene had not a word to say. He detested all
fine ladies except Ingaretha, and had never yet consented
to sit in any one of Ingaretha's carriages, except an
unpretending phaeton. Brimful as he was of burning
thoughts and passionate hopes, to drive home by that
superb personage in silks, feathers, and laces, to subject
himself to the supercilious politeness of her flunkeys, to
304
The Sylvestres.
talk of extraordinary things in an ordinary way to
Carew's sister ?—no, he could not do it.
" A thousand thanks, madam," he said, drawing hack
proudly, " but I cannot do what you ask. I beg to be
forgiven. My old friends await me. I go with them."
He took off his hat, bowed low, and joining the others,
set off to St. Culpho on foot. Of course, Ingaretha's
carriage was there too. But he felt that he would rather
not use it just yet.
In single file the little party trudged off, Bene in the
midst, holding a child with each hand. Monsieur and
Madame Sylvestre next; lastly, Amy and Maddio.
There was at first no coherent talk, merely a babble of
happy sounds—how could it be otherwise, seeing what
children alike great sorrow and great joy make of us
all ? But when they had walked for half-an-hour along
the familiar road in company, the strangeness of their
happiness passed away. Their tongues were loosed,
heart leaped to heart as in the days of old.
"Was it very bad in prison?" asked Sammy. "I
think I should like to try it just once for a little
while."
"And the dear rats. Did you tame them?" asked
Bina.
Bend promised to tell them everything some day.
" But I can invent prettier stories," he added. Then
in his turn he poured forth a volley of questions. Was
Ingaretha well ? Did she expect him that very day ?
Had the farm prospered ? Did Maddio's newspaper
still exist ? And how were Mrs. Minifie, the ratcatcher,
little Mattie, and other old friends ?
Half way they rested by the roadside. Here a field-
path led to Peasemarsh, and into this Bene's companions
First Days of Freedom. 305
turned, leaving him with kindly forethought to finish
his walk alone. He hurried on, flushing and trembling.
Now for the first time the reality flashed on him. He
was Ingaretha's lover. How should he greet her, his
adored friend, his sovereign lady, his beautiful mistress ?
Of course, when the empty carriage returned, she had
set out on foot to meet him. A sudden bend of the
road brought them face to face. She held out both
hands, and, shy as five-year old maiden enamoured of
playmate lover, lifted up her sweet face for a kiss.
Overmastering joy shone out, transfiguring brow, lip,
and eyes. For a moment both sobbed, but for a
moment only; then, hand in hand, they took their
homeward way. She was ever a little shy with those
she loved best, this sweet, serious, playful Ingaretha;
and now it seemed more difficult than ever to call him
Bene, as she had done when boy and girl they had
planned Utopias together; more difficult than ever to
take him under the shelter of her wing and tell him to
do this, that, a hundred things good for him and the
world. She wished that day she had not been so tall,
so strong, so favoured of nature, seeing how pale and
thin he had grown, and how difficult he found that five-
mile walk.
"We must keep holiday and run about like children
for a whole year," she said, dropping on a bank with a
sigh of half-feigned fatigue. " What does it matter how
the world goes on, so long as you are quite happy for a
little while V
It was a childish speech, and blushed for ere fairly
uttered. He smiled at her impetuosity, and began to
make excuses for what he called his shaggy, hang-dog
appearance.
20
306
The Sylvestres.
"But I am quite well," he added with an air of
vexation. "After two or three good days, you will
see me flourish as of old. What matters all the misery
now V
Both were silent for a time, and by little and little
glided into a calm and sunny mood. Overhead glowed
the radiant sky flecked with pearly clouds, in hazel
thickets close by the full-throated linnets were singing,
before them rose a gentle sweep of ripening barley that
made a soothing murmur as of little waves. Nature
was playing to them in a minor key.
On a sudden Rene's spirit passed from quiet satis-
faction to uncontrollable rapture.
" Has it come true ?" he cried, turning towards her
with a look of adoration and joy she never forgot.
" Has it all come true ? The dreams I had in prison
again and again, to live with thee in the golden age—
to see thy golden hair
He covered his face with his hands, and shed the
tears that needed no comforter.
CHAPTER XLVII.
bride, bridegroom, and wedding guests.
Whilst Ingaretha and Rene were agreed for a short space
to " fleet the time carelessly as they did in the golden
world," a great storm was raging in the hearts of the
Beowulfians. Whatever hopes and suspicions had
lingered in people's minds, of the stability of Inga-
retha's purpose were now vanished for ever, The first
Bride, Bridegroom, Wedding Guests. 307
lady of the place was resolved to marry a man of the
people. The marriage license was purchased. The
bridegroom had come. The wedding-day was fixed.
Like an angry wind that stirs up unwonted currents
in a quiet pool, the unwelcome conviction disturbed the
minds of the harmless villagers. Mr. Carew's sister, the
great lady, who had come down to countenance the
affair, might flatter rich people into countenancing it
also. They were not to be so hoodwinked. What was
Lady Micheldever to them, or they to Lady Michel-
dever ? But with Ingaretha it was quite otherwise.
She seemed as much their property as the village
church or common. Their grandfathers and great-grand-
fathers had looked up to her grandfather and great-
grandfather, and it was little short of wickedness to
ask them to look down now upon this sweet, good,
beautiful young lady. On whom did the wickedness
rest ? Not on herself, surely, nor her friends and equals,
—not even on the man she had promised to marry; but
on one whose alluring tongue and cunning softness had
bewitched her as they had bewitched others, making
her see evil in the shape of good, and right in devil's
masque. Oh, they hated him, this Monsieur Sylvestre!
They would teach him that it was dangerous to inter-
meddle with their lady's affairs. Loving as a daughter
she had been to him, and this was her reward. Cajoled
into a low marriage, despoiled of her future, for aught
they knew baptised into some strange and unholy reli-
gion. Further human craft and human devilry could
not go. To have one of their own set in authority over
them, forsooth! was this the upshot of Monsieur Syl-
vestre's charitable teaching ? They saw it all clear as
day. He had entrapped Ingaretha into this marriage
20—2
308
The Sylvestres
for his own selfish purposes, and already rejoiced in the
benefits that were thereby to accrue to himself. If
Ingaretha would but open her eyes to see, her ears to
hear ! They knew well enough that the people at Pil-
grim's Hatch were not quite so good as they should be.
There must be truth at the bottom of the queer stories
circulating about them all. Monsieur Sylvestre had
one or two black wives in Africa, Maddio was no better,
and Madame Sylvestre's morals nothing to boast of, as
far as they could make out. Had this sinister spirit
been checked from the beginning by those in authority
—Mr. Whitelock, for instance, or Mr. Minifie, or the
Methodist preachers at the chapel—all would have been
well; but instead of allaying the evil, all these public
leaders but aggravated it. Mr. Whitelock spoke out
his opinions of unbelievers and radicals without reserve,
Mr. Minifie winked at any outburst of malice and sus-
picion, the preachers—several of whom were friends and
fellow-workmen—denounced the foreigners and their
deeds in strong scriptural language. The sense of Inga-
retha's shame, and their own helplessness, overwhelmed
them with a gloom they could not shake off. What
tidings reached their ears of wedding feasts being made
ready for the poor, were received with sullen indifference
or peevish mistrust. Thus this much-contested marriage
was like a medal having two sides, the lower covered
with shapes symbolic of evil, the upper stamped with
holy images, and wreathed with fair-omened flowers.
Happy for bride, bridegroom, and wedding guests that
they only saw the upper side I To them the time was
rapturous. Care was put away for a season. In Rene's
honour a series of fetes unparalleled in the annals of
Culpho were given—music, song, and dance closed the
Bride, Bridegroom, and Wedding Guests. 309
festive day. Rend, the hero of the hour, lived in it
calmly, neither looking backwards nor forwards.
Monsieur Sylvestre was transformed by pure joy;
one might almost say transfigured, since it was difficult
to believe that he trod the ground so airily without
light pinions to his heels, wore clothing spun in mortal
looms, and glowed so radiantly, uncrowned by never-
dying roses. His face shone, he moved about with the
gaiety and conscious grace of some happy old god.
Wherever he went, he scattered beneficent smiles and
words, blind to the unsympathetic silence of the dull
and unappreciative.
On Ingaretha's neck he hung, with playful speech, a
gold chain, as a wedding gift. Had the history of this
gold chain been clearly made out, Ingaretha was clearly
the original owner of it; but, in Monsieur Sylvestre's
eyes it mattered little how he came by a thing, so long as
he had the pleasure of giving it, and consecrating it by
a few choice words, a hand-clasp, or, better still, \yhere
circumstances allowed, a kiss.
" See, my exquisite child," he said, as she complimented
him on the beauty of his gift, " how in this simple thing
a supreme truth is symbolised! For, pure, rounded,
and beautiful, like this chain of virgin gold, is that un-
alloyed, blissful, and lovely passion which binds in
eternal union the leading spirits of humanity. May
you, beloved friend, be a link in it for ever!"
Euphrosyne, sad and pale, was like " the wedding
guest who beat his breast, she could not choose but
hearvoices from the past were whispering to her from
morning till night.
Though outwardly serene, she never for a single instant
lost sight of some shadow of evil portended by these
3io
The Sylvestres.
fateful bridals. The others playfully chided her, and
that was all.
Even Ingaretha failed to see the only cloud visible
on her horizon.
Carew was throwing himself, heart and soul, into his
fairy masque, and ever greeted her with a cheerful face.
Eriends, neighbours, and oh! wonderful, even relations!
began to smile upon the bride-elect and her bridegroom.
Not a day passed but costly gifts poured in from all
quarters. Postman, railway porter, and lacquey depo-
sited, one after the other, their precious burdens at
Ingaretha's door, and others were introduced mysteri-
ously through stone walls and iron bolts, as if through
the agency of an Ariel.
Nor was Ingaretha less bountiful than her friends.
To Monsieur Sylvestre came gifts, choice and appro-
priate, we may be sure, which he received with lyric
outbursts of love and gratitude.
Of course Maddio was not forgotten, nor Amy and
her tribe of hungry-eyed, warm-hearted little ones, who
were clothed like little fairy-tale princes, in honour of
their good angel Ingaretha's wedding. Mrs. Minifie
received a token of kindness, and even Aglae was not
forgotten.
What woman can refuse to smile upon beautiful
clothes ? When, one morning, Euphrosyne woke up to
find by her bedside a stately dress becoming her years
and gravity, yet in harmony with the joy fulness of the
occasion, accompanied by head-gear and jewels to match,
she was, lost for a moment in almost girlish delight.
"Wake up, dear husband," she cried, shaking her
sleeping lord with trembling hand. "Look at this
lovely gown of richest satin, such as an empress might
Bride, Bridegroom, and Wedding Guests. 311
wear, and of warmest ruby colour too, becoming one of
my sombre complexion. Does it notTemind thee of the
well-attired chatelaine thou once wooed in our beautiful
France V
" Ah, the vanity of woman! waking us even from our
latest and sweetest slumber," said Monsieur Sylvestre,
dreamily. "Well, draw up the blinds."
She obeyed; and gloriously the rays of the summer
sun streamed in, adding superfluous splendour to the
costly robe.
" Superb ! Thy costume will match my own better
than I had hoped," answered the delighted husband.
" But be careful to procure a cunning barber; for, with
all thy perfections, thy right hand has strangely lost its
cunning in the matter of self-adornment. And now let
me sleep again, leaving the dress so disposed that my
eyes may light on it when awaking, and so enjoy a new
surprise."
Feminine-like, she was dying to behold herself in all
this unexpected pomp of pearls and satin, but to gain-
say her husband was impossible. Later in the day,
when she found herself mistress of a spare half-hour,
Aglae was taken into her bedroom, and the dress tried on.
Aglae had a knack possessed by most young women
of adjusting ornaments, arranging hair, tying ribbons,
and acquitting herself gracefully of the thousand and
one responsibilities of the toilette. To see her adopted
mother, as she always called her, for once becomingly
and sumptuously attired, filled her with pleasant excite-
ment. In unwonted exuberance of spirits she brushed
and plaited the soft brown hair, even now but sparsely
silvered, smoothed out the ample skirt, fastened waist-
clasp, brooch, and bracelets. All the innate coquetry of
312
The Sylvestres.
a Frenchwoman burst on a sudden into full bloom.
She clapped her hands, danced, sang, at sight of Euphro-
syne's splendour.
" I do love you, my mother," she said, throwing her
arms around her neck and kissing, not her cheeks or her
lips, but her pearls, " I do, I do. Ah ! you don't know
how much younger and better you look now than in
your ugly old gowns ! And, strange to say, I am sud-
denly reminded of my own mother's portrait at home.
My aunts used to show it to us sometimes when telling
us of all her wickedness "
" The one painted in miniature ?" asked Euphrosyne,
forgetting prudence in a moment of pleasurable absorp-
tion. Then catching Aglae's look of bewilderment, she
added with a painful re-awakening :
"You surely have described that portrait to me,
dearest child. I seem to see it at this moment. Thy
mother in those days was considered beautiful even by
those who were most unfriendly to her. She wore a
dress of plum-coloured satin, and her hair, after the
manner of that period, in pyramidal plaits on the top
of her head ; on her heart a stomacher of old point lace,
fastened by an old-fashioned miniature encircled with
pearls. Ah me! how sadly has time changed all that
grace into ungainliness!"
She covered her face with her hands and wept aloud.
" What is the matter, dear little mother V cried the
young girl, kneeling at her side. " You are saying such
mysterious things, that I feel quite frightened. Did
you know her, that unnatural parent ? Oh! no, no.
It cannot be. Let us not talk of her portrait any more,
but of your beautiful dress. I cannot bear to see you
weep.'!
Bride, Bridegroom, and Wedding Guests. 313
Seeing Aglae's agitation, Euph.rosyne by a great effort
recovered self-control. She dried her tears, gave a
plausible pretext for her abandonment, and contrived to
quell Aglae's disquietude.
This little scene took place on the third day before
the wedding.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
the eve of the wedding.
In peerless, full-blown splendour, a queen among sum-
mer days, dawned the eve of Ingaretha's wedding. A
gentle shower had fallen during the night, and joy
thrilled the happy teeming earth. Long stayed the
image of that august July day in local memory. Sun-
shine, foliage, flowers wore a look of unparalleled mag-
nificence for beautiful Ingaretha's sake.
Red as a rose she stepped forth, leaning on Rent's
arm, to say a word or two to the villagers after their
midday feast in the Abbey garden. Her golden hair
gleamed in the sunshine, her white dress looked angelic,
her sweet voice faltered, her sweet eyes filled as she
thanked the good village-folk for their hearty wishes.
The hats waved in the air, handkerchiefs fluttered,
hands were clapped, and a stupendous, soul-moving,
old English " Hurrah ! hurrah ! Long live our lady!
Hurrah ! hurrah !" sounded not only through the park,
but to the village.
When the crowd paused for breath, Ingaretha moved
a step forward and said calmly, though with evident
reluctance and perturbation, " Dear friends and neigh-
bours, I hope that your kindness and good-will go not
3H
The Sylvestres.
with me only, but with this gentleman whom I have
chosen for my friend—my husband," she added, blushing
as she corrected herself.
And again a cheer was raised, Rend bowing acknow-
ledgment somewhat coldly.
" One can see that these good folks look unkindly
on me in spite of their vivats," he whispered to Inga-
retha as he led her indoors, pale and trembling with
emotion.
" They will love you in time," she said caressingly;
"remember that you are a stranger and a foreigner,
whilst myself they have known as a little child. Have
patience, dear Rend, and all will be well."
He kissed her hand fervently, and made no answer.
Hand-in-hand they wandered about the beautiful old
house, avoiding the merry-making crowd out of doors.
Tor by four o'clock another feast took place on the
lawn, namely, that of the school children; and after a
quiet hour of demolishing cakes and goodies, the red-
faced, joyous little multitude, all clad in gay new gar-
ments of Ingaretha's finding, dispersed about the park,
bent upon pleasure. Throughout the afternoon of that
memorable day Rene and Ingaretha were left much to
themselves. Their guests were occupied with the good
things provided for them. Carew and his friends were
occupied with the all-absorbing masque.
In quiet happy tones, the lovers talked of many
familiar things. All rapture had passed away, a great
quietude possessed them. They planned out such a
future as should be good both for themselves and the
world. In childlike humility and childlike trust, they
looked forward to aspirations after what seemed to
them the highest good and the fulfilment of their dearest
wishes.
The Eve of the Wedding. 315
They decided to go to America, not five years hence,
nor five months, nor even five weeks—hut in five days,
so impetuous were they to school themselves in the
art of social reform. They would see with their own
eyes this New World, which by common consent was
allowed to be the teacher of the Old—this Arcadia of
fact, not of fiction, in which " et nos in Arcadia,
fuimus" should greet them, broadly spoken with
Yankee brogue. And what they learned in this prac-
tical paradise should be zealously turned to account on
their return home.
Meantime, in Carew's house a gorgeous scene was
being enacted. The masqueraders, among whom were
Monsieur and Madame Sylvestre, Ghenilda, Amy and
her elder children, Maddio and Aglae, were assembled
in the green-room for a final revision of their toilettes—
Carew as umpire. Fantastic and beautiful clothes make
children of us all; and on this account it were to be
wished that a masked ball oftener took the place of
stereotyped dance or soiree. On the occasion in ques-
tion wealth in abundance, and good taste, poetic faculty,
moreover, were summoned to fete Ingaretha's wedding
with becoming splendour; and the success was perfect.
Where did all the treasures come from on a sudden
massed together? Which of Ingaretha's friends had
" ransacked the ocean for orient pearl ?" Which had
cunningly picked out such marvellous silks from the
lumber of Algerian or Cairene bazaar ? The eye was
dazzled, the imagination fired, the pulse quickened by
this great display. For, besides the sparkle of diamond
and ruby, refulgence of pearl and opal, here were
Persian embroideries heavy with gold, mantles and
robes of those indescribable Eastern colours, which
3i 6
The Sylvestres.
reach the acme of gorgeousness without the slightest
tinge of commonplace. Not an inch of inartistic stuff
would Carew permit, though some of the ladies all hut
went down on their knees before him, begging for their
favourite bit of crude pink or blue gauze. Carew, pliant
on all other points, stood firm as a rock to his theory,
and would not abrogate one of his harsh decrees. Thea-
trical vulgarities must be discarded, or he would throw
up the whole thing.
After a good deal of skirmishing, therefore, he had
his way with admirable results. Standing in the midst
of the radiantly-dressed gods and goddesses, nymphs,
nereids, fauns, and elves, that kept flocking from inner
chambers, he dispensed additional favours, such as rich
exotics, golden wands, silver trumpets, and other choice
embellishments.
At the stroke of four, something like order took pos-
session of this " fairy rabblement." The ladies flew one
way, the men another, the children, transformed into
elves and miniature bogies, scuttled into the nursery,
and the clatter of tea-cups and the aroma of cigars
proclaimed their several occupations.
All this time the great hall was filling. There was a
flutter of fans, a buzz of admiring voices, a scramble for
the best places, and a ravenous devouring of ices and
tea till the overture began. Then Ingaretha stole to
her place quietly, with Ren£ at her side, smiling and
nodding to their assembled friends, both looking some-
what pale and overwrought. A bell tinkled, the music
ceased, and the curtain drew up amid acclamations of
delight at the opening scene of Carew's Masque of ye
Golden Age.
The Eve of the Wedding 317
CHAPTER XLIX;
the eve of the wedding—continued.
The glittering pageant had come to an end. Gradually,
as the purple and gold of an autumn sunset, all the
gorgeousness melted away in the great hall, leaving it
dusk, deserted, silent. The musicians, bird-like, chirped
a final note ere putting away their instruments. Actors
and audience dispersed for a little repose before the
crowning piece of hospitality—namely, the banquet—
should take place. Carew retreated to the one corner
in his own house where he felt at home, namely, the
music-room, and there received the compliments of
three or four real admirers. Ingaretha was there, and
Euplirosyne, and Amy Greenfield; perhaps the three
persons out of that vast assemblage who could best
appreciate what had made his poetic effort the glowing,
moving, enchanting thing it was. Eor these three
women were all in the secret of the lqve that had
prompted such homage; and mingled with their praises
was a pitying tenderness he, and he only, could perceive.
He smiled graciously, acknowledging their approval,
but feeling sick at heart. From that day forth hope
would not exist for him, and without hope could even
the life of an artist be endurable ? This beautiful and
adored Ingaretha would to-morrow no longer be sove-
reign lady of his, would step down from the throne of
his heart, would break her sceptre of empire and choose
another kingdom. He hardly knew how he answered
her questions, how he met her kind glances, how he so
far mastered himself in that supreme hour of misery as
not to shock her by a wild word or gesture. But he
318
The Sylvestres .
did master himself. His looks, his words, his actions
belonged to him, and never once swerved from a cold,
sad, soul-stricken dignity. Poor Carew!
Lighthearted as a happy lover, Monsieur Sylvestre,
having received abundance of pretty speeches, sought
out Bene, and begged his company for a walk.
" I am bound to fetch a song from Pilgrim's Hatch,
that I promised to sing to thy Ingaretha," he said,
" and in the hurry of departure forgot it. Put on thy
hat, dear fellow, and go there with me. A three-mile
walk will do thee no harm this divine summer night;
and it is the last chance we shall have of talking
familiarly for who knows how long ?"
Bene obeyed. The two slipped out unobserved—
Monsieur Sylvestre still wearing the garb of his rdle,
namely, a mantle and purple robe, and holding in
his hand a magician's rod. They set off at a brisk
pace.
What a never-to-be-forgotten night it was! starry,
dewy, melodious. In Carew's park the nightingales
were singing joyful epithalamiums; through the thickets
thrilled the passionate notes, following them wherever
they went. Glow-worms shone like altar flames here
and there; light clouds passed over fields of stars; the
stately shadows of forest trees lay across little lawny
glades, whence the fawns scuttled away at sound of
their footsteps. Sweet breaths of wild-rose and freshly-
mown hay were blown here and there. Except for the
light footstep of fleeing fawns, and the songs of the
nightingales, all was still.
Monsieur Sylvestre trod the ground as airily as con-
quering hero who is followed by music, banners, and
the trophies of victory. He could not control the
The Eve of the Wedding.
319
ecstasy which had taken possession of him. He sang
snatches of happy songs, whistled, laughed, jested.
Bene was almost sad. His companion's self-aban-
donment irritated, hurt him. How could they he sure
that Ingaretha, in choosing him, was choosing the right
casket ? Gradually the old man yielded to the sober-
ing influence, and talked of serious things. A sympa-
thetic chord was struck, and the two voices for a time
ran harmoniously together.
" Be not discouraged, my son, if, during the first few
years of thy marriage, the responsibilities of thy new
position weigh heavily upon thee. Let nothing daunt
thee, neither the prejudices of thy new social medium,
nor undue care for the material safety of those nearest
and dearest, nor mistaken susceptibilities with regard to
worldly things. For what is all this treasure of which
thy mistress is possessor but dross, till it be transmuted
by the touch of the reformer ? Have a care, therefore,
lest from a pardonable, although most dangerous sensi-
tiveness, thou missest the golden opportunities pressed
upon thee by the gods."
Finding that Bene was silent, the old man continued
in more stirring tones:
" Now, indeed, is Socialism in our own persons glori-
fled and exalted! Now, indeed, is the time to prove
worthy sons of a lavish and heretofore ill-used mother.
In this thy union with a rich and noble lady I see the
beginning of a better time, the dawn of a bright fulfil-
ment; but the time and this fulfilment will both be
abortions, unless thou, by thy own strength, shalt bring
about such desirable issues."
"Oh!" said Ben£, thoughtfully and sadly, "you
forget that I love Ingaretha, and that I cannot help
32 O
The Sylvestres.
putting her happiness "before everything. Any other
honourable man would feel the same."
" But I perceive plainly enough that her happiness
lies with that very ambition to which I am urging
thee," continued the other eagerly. "What is it that
she loves in her husband ?—not any model of stereo-
typed behaviour, not any echo of common excellencies
and endeavours, not any shadow of another man's self,
but a bold, brave, original thinker and doer, bearing the
fresh stamp of Nature's mint." He placed a hearty
hand upon the young man's shoulder, and added,
"Heaven bless thee, Bene, and keep all such sophis-
tries leagues remote from thee! Ingaretha's happiness,
forsooth! As if a good woman's happiness did not at
all times lie in the accomplishment of her husband's
fondest wishes!"
"What am I that I should assume to myself the
government of her affairs ?" said Bene earnestly. " Her
support, her advice, her ideas I will receive thankfully
in furtherance of our cause, but the renunciation of her
heritage, never!"
Monsieur Sylvestre tossed his head more in scorn
than vexation.
" My son," he said, in the sweetest tones of his sweet
voice, " were I to believe that in marrying Ingaretha
thou contemplatedst, even for a moment, the subordi-
nation of supreme destiny to petty duties, I should
weep for the backsliding of our once staunch supporter.
But I no more believe in thy retrogression than I believe
in Ingaretha's willing surrender of the beautiful and the
divine for the gross and short-lived. No, I see clearly
before me, and never was my spirit more completely
clothed with the mantle of prophecy, the magnificent
The Eve of the Wedding. 321
future in store for us all, and, 111 us all, for humanity.
This grand and lovely creature—thy wife from to-
morrow—is henceforth to be the Eumenid, the grace-
giving, feud-dissolving Fate of the two great divisions
of society—the rich and the poor—the splendid and
the forlorn—the blissful and the wretched. By her
unspeakably good and tender ministrations, for the first
time in blessed England, will be laid the stone of the
happy state and the perfected society. For I see that
the chief problem of our time is to be solved only by
those magical words—the equal right of every man to
the soil; and it is for you and Ingaretha to sacrifice
yourselves for the common good. Look ye well to it!
For myself, and those who are of my generation, the
good, infantine-hearted Maddio, the devoted, high-souled
Euphrosyne, remains but the sowing of the seed which
is to bear such glorious fruit. Night infinite—I should
rather say, day eternal—is dawning, and our work in
the old familiar world is nearly done; nor do we repine,
so long as our children"—here his voice trembled—
" the spiritual sons and daughters born to us, continue
the work. Promise me thou wilt not fail us when we
are moved out of sight and hearing for ever."
"Nay, do not press vows upon me," Kene answered,
much moved. "I will never prove a traitor to the
cause of the people. That I promise you, but how can
I pledge myself to more ? To live an unworthy life by
the side of a woman like Ingaretha were impossible.
We must both trust her, and all is sure to be well."
" Would I could change places with thee!" cried the
old man, in a sudden burst of ecstasy. " Young, beau-
tiful, the bridegroom of the sweetest woman under the
sun, and not only the sweetest, but the loveliest, the
21
322
The Sylvestres.
world, large as it is, would hardly contain my exulting
soul. If ever a man had reason to rejoice, it is thy-
self."
Bene did not answer. Monsieur Sylvestre, whose
frolicsome mood seemed enhanced by his fantastic
habiliments, began to sing and wave his golden wand
to the tune:
Allons, enfant du prol^taire,
Pour qui naisse un siecle meilleur,
Arbore la double banniere
De poete et de travailleur,
Comme Amphion, gloire immortelle !
Yiens avec nous et batissons
Les murs de la cit6 nouvelle,
Au bruit des marteaux, des chansons,
Frappons,
Chantons," etc.
CHAPTER L.
THE EVE OF THE WEDDING—CONTINUED.
As Monsieur Sylvestre and Rend passed out of the park
gate into the high-road leading through the hamlet of
Peasemarsh, they were conscious of something unusual
going on there. Erom the top of the village street to
the bottom did not measure more than a few hundred
yards, and yet, during this short and ordinarily un-
eventful way, they were to-night encountered by many
strange and, it might have seemed, portentous sights
and sounds, but that on the eve of Ingaretha's wedding
nothing of evil omen could surely take place! The
lantern hanging over the door of the Barleycorn Inn,
half-way down the street, showed them stray figures
The Eve of the Wedding,
323
furtively making for the road; doors were opened and
shut in consternation, snatches of excited talk reached
their ears from a distance, whilst, instead of a cheery
" good-night," or " fine evening " from the passers-by, an
ominous silence was preserved towards them. One
drunkard cursed them as he reeled past. An ill-
favoured-looking lad came to his father's garden gate,
uttered an opprobrious yell, and then ran back again.
Two women standing on neighbouring doorsteps whis-
pered loudly, in malicious tones, " There they go, good
luck to 'em!" The honest old tollgate-keeper answered
their friendly greeting with a hard stare.
"The good Ingaretha's wine has fairly addled the
understandings of these simple folks," Monsieur Syl-
vestre said. " But I am not inclined to look upon an
occasional excess as otherwise than beneficial to ordi-
nary human nature, cramped as it is by daily routine.
After a second or third occasion of this kind, they
would learn to conduct themselves with the elevation
becoming a great event."
Another drunkard reeled by.
"To-morrow will see the reaction of such unac-
customed debauch," continued Monsieur Sylvestre.
"Dressed in their Sunday garments, and wearing a
solemn aspect befitting so august an occasion, we shall
see these besotted revellers changed into decorous and
sensitive beings. The ceremony of thy wedding with
their Lady Ingaretha will touch their hearts and
electrify their intellects like a miracle."
A third drunkard fell heavily against them in the
darkness. They put him tenderly on his legs again and
proceeded.
They had now left the village behind them, and
21—2
324
The Sylvcstres.
reached a stile from which a pathway leading along two
meadows led to Pilgrim's Hatch. Beside them, as they
went, flowed, amid plumy sallows, a little river, thickly
overgrown with reed and rush, and perfumed with
willow herb, meadow-sweet, and marsh valerian. The
old man bent down and bathed his hands and brow in
the cool water.
"I too have drunk a little more wiue than is my
habit," he said, "but how good and reviving is the
luscious draught poured out by sweet hands ! In love
of Ingaretha I would hot mind how often I thus freely
indulged myself. As sings the divine Beranger:
' Le vin charme tous les esprits,
Qu'on le donne
Par tonne.;"
Just then a loud noise was heard, half ominous, half-
exultant, that could be called neither a shriek nor a
growl, but was something made up of both; a vague
roar of many human voices, a wave of angry sound
dashed against the silent walls of night. Almost sim-
ultaneously a vivid light blazed out from the hollow.
The two men stood still, gazed, listened, held their
breath.
" Some homestead burns! It is close by thy dwelling.
My father ! Pilgrim's Hatch is fired!" cried Eene, catch-
ing his companion's hand.
" Hay," answered Monsieur Sylvestre, smiling, though
his knees had trembled at the fateful, and, alas! but
too familiar sight. " I cannot believe that there are
devils at work at this propitious hour. A hay-rick,
perhaps, has been set oil fire by its inward heart. Small
misfortunes farmers must expect such sultry weather
The Eve of the 'Wedding. 325
as this. Well, let us hasten forward, and see for our-
selves."
They set off running at a nimble pace, and every step
proclaimed the awful truth but too plainly. Pilgrim's
Hatch was blazing. To blind men there would have
been ample signs of such a catastrophe in the tramp of
hurrying feet, the rushing wind, the unwonted glare of
the heavens, the sudden crash and sudden pause, the
ebb and flow of the fiery current, the human awe ex-
pressed alike by the noise and silence of the spectators,
the cries of frightened beasts, the indescribable commo-
tion made up of all.
Ren^ and Monsieur Sylvestre were now in the midst
of the cruel, heart-breaking scene; for no sooner had
they leaped the little fence dividing the meadows from
the orchards and stackyard of Pilgrim's Hatch than the
whole truth broke upon them. Among the handful of
lookers-on they had not a single friend. These half or
wholly drunken men and lads, these yelling women and
girls, were come hither, not to help them in their hour
of need, after brotherly and sisterly fashion, but under
diabolical leadership to work any mischief that oppor-
tunity offered. Among the quietest folds are sure to be
one or two black sheep, and in this harmless, homely
populace, evil counsellors, backed by debauch and
malice, were raging with tiger-like fury. They would
show these accursed foreigners, forsooth, whether they
could do as they liked with good-living people! Who
knew what wickednesses against God and man were
propagated in their so-called Phalanstery; and if they
had bewitched the first lady in the land into making a
, disgraceful marriage, what might not happen next ?
When the very best behaved and most intelligent of
326
The Sylvestres.
the village folk were fairly beside themselves with
puzzlement and mortification, little else but evil be-
haviour was to be looked for from the ill-favoured and
the blockheads. Be that as it may, mischief had been
set afoot somehow; and, once set afoot, there were not
wanting aiders and abettors of it. Is there not a mad-
man in us all ? as some writer has said.
In the twinkling of an eye the two men were waked
from delicious dreams to agonising reality. The sweet,
starry night, with fragrance of wild flowers, gentle ripple
of brooklet, and thoughts of their beautiful Ingaretha,
were clean gone, swept away, absorbed into a gloomy,
disastrous limbo, without any beauty or pitying look of
love. They were alone, two stray angels in hell were
not lonelier; and they knew well enough, no need for a
trumpet to proclaim it, that not a hand would be raised
to help them in this their hour of direst necessity.
"Mount our good Jack, and ride to St. Beowulf's for
the engine," cried Monsieur Sylvestre; " yet stay, our
poor beasts must first be placed in safety. Surely some
one will help us. Ho there! Josh, Sam, Ebenezer, will
you desert your old friend on the eve of your lady's wed-
ding ? Water, bring water, for MissMeadowcourt's sakel"
He stepped forth boldly amid the besotted crew,
looking as fantastic a figure as the imagination can con-
ceive, in his long purple mantle, golden girdle, and
jewelled cap. Standing in the full flash of the confla-
gration, he waved aloft his magician's rod, face and
figure glowing with unspeakably weird majesty.
There was a hush of clamouring voices and hurrying
feet, a momentary feeling or instinct of awe, then a mad
cry ran through the half-tipsy rabble, and the fire was
forgotten.
The Eve of the Wedding.
32 7
As if by preconcerted signal, though most likely the
attack, or, at least, the mode of it, was entirely unpre-
meditated, two or three of the ringleaders rushed upon
the still unsuspecting old man.
"The wizard! the wizard!" cried one, and the cry
was caught up by the rest. "Water, water for the
wizard!"
In another moment the magician waved his hand,
head erect, arms raised, figure calm and grandly posed,
but for a moment only. Now he totters, now he drops
his staff, now he falls. Rene, horror-stricken, rushes to
the rescue. In vain. What can two men, one old, the
other enfeebled by months of prison, do against so many ?
Struggling faintly in the rude embraces of his tormen-
tors, Monsieur Sylvestre is borne to the little horse-
pond he had loved so well, is thrust once, twice, thrice,
into the rank water, amid loud laughter and cheers, is
held down where the reeds and rushes grow thickest,
buffeted, pelted, cruelly, knavishly, dishonourably han-
died, that starry, hitherto sweet summer night.
Rene turns upon the assailants like a madman, as he
feels, and, for the nonce, is indeed. He flings a few fiery
words at the crowd. They pay no more heed than to
shout derisively, " The bridegroom, do you hear, the
bridegroom! the bridegroom!"
"Cowards! villains! how dare ye?" he cried between
his teeth; and, finding words of so little use, tries what
blows can do.
Wondrously enough—for after that long term of semi-
existence in prison, his strength was not great—he hurls
one burly giant to the ground, attacks another harder to
deal with, then is set upon by several; blow succeeds
blow; the combatants grow desperate; blows flow freely;
328
The Sylvestres.
Rene, able to fight no longer, whether well or ill, hears
a last sound from his beloved master ere he too sue-
cumbs.
The melodic voice, though faint, penetrates that hate-
ful din, and reaches poor Rene, comforting him a little
—if anything could comfort him.
"They are still our brothers . . . forgive . . . for-
give!"
CHAPTER LI.
a ghostly banquet.
Mr. Carew began to wonder what had become of his
guests when eleven o'clock struck and neither Monsieur
Sylvestre nor Rene made his appearance. The banquet
was ready. The guests grew impatient. The bride
waited in her chamber to pass into the hall, not red as
a rose now, but pale as a lily. Would this long summer
day never come to an end ? she thought, weary alike of
pain and pleasure.
During the last few hours she had gone through
emotions enough to tire out the bravest woman under
the sun; and then to-morrow the emotions were to begin
again! To bid farewell to her maiden life, so sweet, so
free, so dear to many, was not easy. Neither was it easy
to enter upon a new career with this man, so adored,
admired, trusted, pitied. ■ She could count upon his
faith and his integrity; she knew that she need never
dread the last affront to a true woman, namely, a
changeful love; but there were other things that might
come to pass, hardly less bitter. She could not help
A Ghostly Banquet. 329
seeing, with the exquisite instinct of her sex, how, in
spite of his own tact and discretion, in spite of reticence
and self-sacrifice on her part, a certain disenchantment
was possible.
These foreshadowings, vague as noontide cirri, floated
across the mind of our poor weeping, smiling, glad, sorry
Ingaretha. Oh, would that the day were over, and the
year, and five years! so that, the worst and best alike
being known, she and Bene might live evenly, neither
too much hoping, nor too much fearing!
She could not understand why no summons came for
the banquet, and moved about impatiently; now altering
the flower in her hair; now changing her shawl, her
jewels; now frowning at herself in the glass. Why
looked she so pale and weary, when it behoved her to he
beautiful, above all other occasions in life ? thought
Ingaretha.
She heard a voice in the outer room, which was
Ghenilda's boudoir, a man's voice, and yet not Bene s.
Strange! Taking up her handkerchief, jewelled fan,
and bouquet of white roses, she passed out.
It was Carew. He stood at the door of the little
sitting-room, importuning the maid for a word with Miss
Meadowcourt.
" Come in," said the sweetest of all the voices then
sounding throughout Wilbye Hall. " Are we never to
have any supper and go home, Mr. Carew ?"
He came forward, shut the door upon the indignant
maid, then stood irresolute, not knowing where to begin.
His manner troubled her, so strangely tender it was, so
wholly unlike the calm, almost stately manner he had
observed towards her throughout that eventful day.
" What has happened ?"
330
The Sylvestres.
Her face asked the question without a word. A new
paleness, not of weariness, but of inquietude, overspread
cheeks and brows. The queenly figure trembled. The
noble head drooped. The hands shook.
" Something most unexpected has happened," Carew
answered, with all the cheerfulness he could assume.
" Don't be frightened."
Then he got out the ugly words as best he could.
" Pilgrim's Hatch has been set on fire. I must go
and give what help 1 can."
"And Bene and Monsieur Sylvestre?" asked Inga-
retha quickly.
u They are there; but from all I can learn the village-
folk are drunk, and are making a row, so that I fear
they can do but little. I will go at once "
Still he stayed, held back by Ingaretha's beseeching
look. She began to speak, stopped short, began again,
and for the second time failed. Misgiving after mis-
giving crossed her mind during that short deliberation.
A fire on the eve of her wedding-day! The village
drunk and disorderly! Monsieur Sylvestre and Bene
alone and unaided amidst such a scene! All these facts
put together looked ominous! Could it be that the
unpopularity of her marriage had brought about such a
catastrophe ? She put away the hateful thought, and
motioned Carew to go.
"Nevermind the guests and the supper," she said,
trying to smile, though he could see that her eyes were
full of tears. " Go to them as fast as you can."
" And what will you do ?" he asked, loath to relinquish
the intoxicating task of counsellor. "Stay here with
Ghenilda and the children."
" Why should I not return to the Abbey ?" she
A Ghostly Banquet. 331
answered, finding fresh cause for terror in every word.
" My servants are surely sober ?"
"Yes; but Wilbye is so much nearer to Pilgrim's
Hatch than the Abbey, that you will hear news twice as
soon by staying here."
Carew did not urge the real reason, namely, that if
all was true he had just heard, she might encounter
painful sights on the way. But she saw plainly enough
that, in spite of that quiet request, he "was ready to go
on his knees on behalf of the petition.
" It will be much better for you to stay with my
sister. Do believe me when I say so," he added quite
plaintively, and she consented.
" I will do anything you like, if you only go," she
said, in a half-peremptory, half-pleading voice. And
without a word or look he was gone.
The maid, at a sign, shut the door upon her lonely
lady and went away. In a few minutes Ghenilda rushed
in to give Ingaretha, as she thought, a little courage and
a good many kisses.
"My darling, my darling," she cried, " could anything
have been more unlucky ? A bridal feast without
either bride or bridegroom! But why don't they eat
the supper first and put out the fire afterwards ? I am
frightfully hungry, so good-bye."
She ran back to put in her pretty head and say :
" I will send up something for you to eat, or bring
it, that would tempt you more. Don't fret yourself,
sweetest. I am sure Carew need not have gone, nor the
others either. A fire is soon put out, and there are
always proper people to do unpleasant things."
With that she went away, her exhilaration at the
success of the fete undaunted by what seemed a very
332
The Sytvestves.
secondary misfortune. The guests accepted her high
spirits as a permission themselves to be unconcerned,
and except for Euphrosyne's pitifully resigned face, no
one would have supposed that anything unusual had
happened. Maddio left his seat as soon as Ghenilda's
explanation was made. Among that crowd of gor-
geously dressed merry-makers Euphrosyne felt herself
terribly alone. She was fain to fly to Ingaretha, but
dared not. The splendour of satins and rubies seemed
a mockery more bitter than she could bear. To her,
also, this momentous day seemed interminable.
When at last the banquet ended, and the millinery-
laden carriages rolled away one by one, she crept noise-
lessly to Ingaretha's door, longing, yet not daring to
enter. Once she knocked feebly, but no answer came.
Then she went away, hiding herself in some quiet
corner.
Meantime, Ingaretha was trying to coax time into
speed somehow. She took up one book after the other,
but the words bore no meaning. She walked back-
wards , and forwards till the reflection of her own shadow
in the looking-glass grew unbearable. She lighted a
fire, in a momentary shiver of cold, then threw open
the window, feeling as suddenly overwhelmed with heat.
Elowers were on the table of the outer room, and wine
and food, but the roses had no fragrance, the wine tasted
bitter, the bread nauseous. Was there nothing she
could do to pass away this terrible interval of suspense?
The thought of Euphrosyne was not absent from her
mind; but though Euphrosyne had never been dearer
to her than now, though she had forgiven her from her
heart and conscience long ago, she could not summon
courage to seek her sympathy now.
A Ghostly Banquet.
333
The hours passed somehow. It was long past mid-
night when Ingaretha heard a quick footstep under her
window. By this time the house had grown quiet, and
she started up, thinking that Carew or Bend, or some
messenger had come. But the sound, instead of ad-
vancing, grew fainter and fainter, and soon died away.
It was Madame Sylvestre, who, unable any longer to
endure suspense, had started off on foot and alone for Pil-
grim's Hatch. The exploit to her was a trifle. In far-off
Algerie she had performed many a one really difficult
and hazardous. But in Ghenilda's household she knew
that such an act would be an extraordinary precedent,
and she waited, therefore, till she could slip out unob-
served. After this little incident, a long interval of
perfect silence occurred. Cold, worn out, and sick at
heart, Ingaretha was dreaming nightmare dreams on the
sofa, when a soft tap at the door caused her to wake up
with a cry.
Carew had come back alone.
CHAPTEB LI I.
carew's tidings.
Was it indeed Carew, or the mere semblance of what
had so lately been his gracious, serene, harmonious self?
Bespattered with mud, deathly pale, agonised, dismayed,
he looked more like some weather-beaten, sorely-tried
campaigner than gentle poet bound on fair lady's bid-
ding. So ghastly, indeed, was the news written on the
unwonted disorder of his person, and discomfiture of
his face, that Ingaretha's first impulse was to draw back
334
The Sylvestres.
horrified. But the sound of her name uttered by the
familiar voice, and the look of sympathy shed upon her
hy well-known, kindly eyes, recalled her to herself; she
came near him, and stood still, calmly awaiting what-
ever news he had to give.
The momentary radiance that overspread Carew's
features as he met that pathetic look of appeal passed
away. With almost a convulsive movement he withdrew
into the shadow, so that she might not see the misery
written on his face. Then he dropped into a chair from
sheer exhaustion. Ingaretha brought him a glass of
water. He drank it like a man raging with thirst, and
the draught gave him strength to speak.
"I have brought you no good news," he said, with
a ghastly smile. "It is all much worse than we
thought."
" Where are Monsieur Sylvestre and Bene ?" asked
Ingaretha, looking straight at him with her large sad
blue eyes.
" Oh, wait!" said Carew, with a look of indescribable
wretchedness. " Let me begin at the beginning. How
can I tell you V
"Was Pilgrim's Hatch set on fire by our own
people ?" she asked, trembling in every limb. " Are they
two safe V she dared not ask now.
" It is monstrous—savage—diabolical!" he went on,
almost wildly, " that on the eve of your wedding-day
such a crime should be committed!"
He rose from his seat, took a turn in the room, then
sat down again, covering his face with his hands.
"Were they two hurt—Bene and Monsieur Syl-
vestre V asked Ingaretha, still maintaining outward
composure. For Carew's sake she was striving after
Carew* s Tidings.
335
self-mastery. His intense horror at whatever had hap-
pened, his pathetic endeavour to spare her, his almost
child-like dilatoriness, were gradually preparing her for
something very terrible.
At last she faltered out, averting her face:
" There is no one else to tell me but you: of what
use to wait ?"
True enough. There was no one else to tell her but
he, and the longer he waited the harder became his
task. He drew a deep sigh, and determined to have
done with it, with hope, with happiness, with anything.
Life seemed a burden since Ingaretha's heart was to
be broken.
"They are both hurt," he began—so much hurt,
indeed, that there is little hope." Then he gasped out,
" God help you, poor child; they are dead!"
Whatever was Christianly, brotherly, manly, Carew
said to the sweet thing sobbing beside him, imploring
with bitter tears for some other news than this.
" It cannot, cannot be!" she wailed. " Tell me it is
not so! Take me to them! I know they are not dead i
and with other wild speeches, she clung to him, knelt to
him, like a suppliant for the grace he could not give.
He ran to Ghenilda, thinking that in such an hour of
supreme sorrow a woman's comfort might be best. And
Ghenilda did what she could, though a very helpless
little thing in times of trouble. She sobbed on Inga-
retha's neck, and kissed her friend a dozen times, and
coaxed her after babyish fashion into going to bed.
Then she lay down by her side, put her arms around
her, and babbled forth innumerable phrases of endear-
ment. " Carew will tell you all in the morning," she
said, parrying Ingaretha's question. " Don't let us cry
336
The Sylvestrcs.
ourselves ill," arid so on; Ingaretha accepting her con-
dolences passively and gratefully.
Whilst Ghenilda prattled on, thought after thought,
each a physical torment, passed through her brain.
What would become of Euphrosyne ? — poor, poor
Euphrosyne ! What was the use of sunshine without
Monsieur Sylvestre to enjoy it ? What was she to do
with all the treasures stored up for Bend ? Youth,
happiness, hope had waited for him in vain, and now
all seemed worthless. Oh! if she could only have
made him happy for a year, for a little year, she could
have renounced the rest. Who had done this cruel
thing ? And why had it been done ?
Carew had withheld as many of the painful details
as he could, but the truth stood out, stark, appalling,
ghastly. Monsieur Sylvestre had been murdered, and
Bend, in attempting to rescue him, had met his death-
blow, whether intentional or not, seemed to alter the
fact very little. " Oh! the horror of it—the horror of
it," she moaned, the fair head tossing wildly, the golden
locks deluged with tears. " Oh, the horror of it," and
then she would shrink from the isolation she had sought,
and fling herself into Ghenilda's arms.
" Don't think of the wickedness," Ghenilda said. " It
is enough to have the sorrow; who knows but that it
may have been mere accident, after all ? Carew may
have misunderstood, or the people may have been too
frightened to know what they said. Try to sleep,
dearest. Now, don't you think if I brought little
Harry into bed and put him in your arms, it would
comfort you ? Never were arms so soft as his, and he
looks so pretty in his little nightgown, and he will kiss
you and pet you. Yes, I must fetch him."
Careivs Tidings.
Ingaretha had no fancy for the child's arms around
her just then. She felt suffocated already, hut of course
Ghenilda had her way. The end of it was that the little
hoy, not liking to be taken from his lordly crib) screamed
and kicked so violently that he was sent away. Ghenilda
retired to her dressing-room to send off telegrams, and
Ingaretha got some quiet. Would the day never come ?
she thought, one moment; and the next, if only night
and silence and darkness would remain to her for ever!
What had she to do with sunshine and singing any
more? Life had turned its back upon her, hitherto
smiling, seductive, so dearly loved life! It seemed as if
no friend were left in heaven or earth to poor widowed,
orphaned Ingaretha. Tor years she had been striving
to do her very best with the destiny entrusted. to her,
shaping it tenderly, breathing over it softly, praying,
hoping, aspiring, and just when something like the ideal
began to shine through the clay, came a thunder-clap,
smiting both worker and image. She could never, never,
begin the work again. Where she had fallen there she
felt that she must lie till friendly death should beckon.
CHAPTER LIII.
euphrosyne's vision.
Under the clear light of stars, Euphrosyne set out ill
quest of evil fortune. She had cast aside her splendid
festive robe, not without a certain melancholy feeling of
satisfaction. All through the day the incongruity ex-
isting between her real and fictitious self—the first so
full of gloomy foreboding, the second so gay and gala-
22
338 The Sylvestres.
like, had been present with her, and now the two were
severed, a voice within whispered, for ever.
She passed through the park at a brisk pace, following
the path that her husband and Rend had taken a few
hours before. Sad as she was, and unquiet as she was,
the divine beauty of the summer night touched her
spirit with self-enchantment. More than once a prayer
escaped her lips. To whom did she pray ? To the
great creative Spirit of the universe ? To the solitary
star that lingered as if out of sympathy with her sorrow ?
To the perfume of close-shut flowers ? To the exquisite
hues that heralded the day? To the day itself that
dawned at last, lovely, peaceful, gracious ? She knew
not. She only prayed, and the act comforted her.
As she trudged along the open road, a loud noise of
wheels and horses' feet broke the stillness. It came
nearer and nearer. She shrank into the hedge, for it
seemed as if vehicles and horses would make way for
no one. It was the St. Beowulf's fire-brigade, hastening
towards Pilgrim's Hatch.
A little while after, she heard a steady sound of
tramping footsteps, and again she hid herself in the
friendly shadow of the hedge. This time it was a
company of six policemen, who were also making the
best of their way towards the fire, dropping ominous
words as they went.
She hastened forward, but her strength failed her
strangely. She felt held back, as if in a dream, by
some supernatural, implacable power. Now her knees
trembled; now her feet stumbled; now she was impelled
into a wrong path; now into a miry place. Of all her
journeys made on foot this was surely the most disastrous
Yet how fair and peaceful was this Summer dawn I
Enphrosyne s Vision.
339
The misfc vanished from the meadows. The grey earth
was gradually warmed with tender light, the birds began
to twitter and chirp, the insects ecstatically hummed
everywhere. The beautiful life and activity of nature
had begun afresh.
She trudged on, till at last she came within a few
hundred yards of Pilgrim's Hatch. A thrill passed
through her at the thought of encountering her husband.
Was he brave enough to bear up against this crowning
misfortune ? If his spirit quailed now, what could she
do to comfort him ?
She sat down, almost fainting with suspense. As yet
the place was not in sight, and she could only foretell
what had happened by strange sounds and dimly-out-
lined sights, weird, unfamiliar, prophetic. Por instance,
a little pet calf trotted past her, moaning helplessly.
Where was its dam, and what terror had driven the
hapless being hither alone ? Again, the cart-horses had
got out of the stable, and were standing at the meadow
gate, with a human look of desolation and homeless-
ness. Then there was an unwonted clucking of fowls
and squeaking of pigs; authoritative cries of unknown
voices in command; disastrous sounds ; solemn pauses,
suffocating smells of burning wood and straw—signs
innumerable of the great calamity, the full measure of
which she had come to learn.
Whilst resting thus, overwhelmed physically and
morally with a crushing sense of her woes and helpless-
ness, one of two things must have happened. Either
she slept and in her dreams saw, as not infrequently
happens in times of acute emotion, the vivid semblance
of the invisible reality—in other words, she was con-
scions of what took place without knowing it; or, and
22—2
34°
The Sylvestres.
the one case is as likely as the other, she saw what wa3
real and tangible, and mistook it for the phantasmagoria
of dreams. Be this as it may, what she saw whilst
she. sat thus, mute, motionless, electrified, was this:
Four men came by, bearing on their shoulders a
burden that glittered in the sharp morning light.
Kingly, imperial, almost godlike was the figure lying
so softly on rude improvised bier, arms folded, head
resting softly, limbs in decent and decorous repose,
the silken locks of white hair gently stirred by the
first breeze of day. Golden mantle and purple robe
fluttered a little, but otherwise all was still and grand.
Who had died in this remote Suffolk village of such
majestic stature, such unparalleled beauty, that the whole
place seemed magnified, sanctified, deified by the pre-
sence of the dead ?
Euphrosyne rose from her seat and sprang forward,
crying: "My husband, my life!" then fell back in a
swoon. The spectacle passed on. A second time came
four men hastily forwards, bearing on their shoulders a
helpless burden, not enveloped gorgeously like the first,
but noteworthy nevertheless. Bend, so beautiful in life,
had gained no ugliness in death, rather a marble-like
tranquillity, and look of resignation, that in life had
been wanting.
A little crowd of women and children followed in the
rear. One kindly creature fell back and ministered to
the poor, horror-struck, paralysed thing lying by the
road-side.
When Euphrosyne recovered herself the sun had
risen, and in the full light of it stood a familiar figure.
Mr. Minifie, for it was he, had alighted from his horse
fastened to a tree opposite, for the purpose of seeing
Euphrosyne s Vision,
341
what could be done for her. He was a hard, unsympa-
the tic man, and doubtless, if the truth were made clear,
rejoiced inwardly that punishment had overtaken these
mischief-makers; nay, to his influence might be traced
the bad feelings that had brought about such a murderous
catastrophe. Yet he was moved by the spectacle of
Euphrosyne's desolation so far as to offer the best con-
eolation at hand.
" Come along with me," he said, lifting her not ungentlv
from the ground. " My wife shall put you to bed and
do for you as if you were a sucking baby. What's the
use of waiting here all by yourself, and your grand
friends have got enough to think about ? Come along."
The last coarse touch, though well meant, decided her
to accept his offer. Yes, true enough, Ingaretha and
Mr. Carew had enough to trouble them without her, and
Mrs. Minifie was an angel of kindness in spite of her
half-crazed ways. She got up, but strength failed her,
and Mr. Minifie saw that to get her to the farm on foot
was impossible. So a cart-horse tumbril was fetched,
and into it, helpless as an infant, was put Euphrosyne,
begging piteously, from time to time, to be taken to her
husband. " Don't heed what she says," Mr. Minifie said
to the driver. " The sooner we get the poor soul put to
bed and give her something to quiet her the better, for
we've enough to do to-day."
Euphrosyne listened trembling. What did he mean
to give her ? Absinthe, laudanum, or some anodyne
more potent still? No, she would go on her knees to
Mrs. Minifie rather than submit to that. They should
find her submissive in all things else, but she would
never consent to forego the use of her senses at such a
time.
342
The Sylvestrcs.
If she only dared to fly to Ingaretha !
But no sooner had she crossed the threshold than
the dreaded Mr. Minifie disappeared, and she knew well
enough that from her hostess she had nothing to fear.
At first it seemed as if Mrs. Minifie looked upon words
as the only panacea for human woes. After talking
without pause for the best part of an hour, however, she
began to bestir herself. A bed was got ready, some of
her own scarecrow nightclothes were put upon unresist-
ing Madame Sylvestre, food was brought, and utterly
worn out with the suffering of the last few hours, she
rested a little.
When an hour or two later Mr. Minifie came in, for
once he was greeted with a pleasant look.
" I've done my best," she said. " She's quiet for a
time."
" We've enough on our hands without looking after
her," growled Mr. Minifie. " Give me something to
eat."
" How scared you look!" Mrs. Minifie said.
" So would you if you had seen what I have seen,"
Mr. Minifie rejoined. " I suppose two or three of 'em
will hang for it."
" Of whom ?" asked Mrs. Minifie, in her turn looking
frightened.
" Do hold your tongue. When people put others out
of the way they generally hang for it, don't they ?"
" Oh dear ! oh dear! the poor ignorant things ! I
don't believe they meant to do any mischief," said Mrs.
Minifie, crying. " I hope our Joe and his brother
Ebenezer aren't in the scrape."
" I wouldn't say they are or they ain't. It's a bad job
for 'em all,"
Evphrosynes Vision,
343
Mr. Minifie made a hearty breakfast without uttering
another syllable. Mrs. Minifie sat on a low stool and
cried till he fairly gave her to understand that she must
either control herself or quit his delectable society. She
then sat down and ate and drank also.
CHAPTEE LIV.
carew ex catiiedri.
Could it be true ? Had the day, begun so goldenly,
ended in bitterness, in hatred, in death ? Under this
beneficent sun, on this smiling soil, had a tragedy been
committed, fearful and bloodstained as any sung by the
old Greek poets ? Were these apparently matchless
bridals, boasting on the one hand of sweetness, stateli-
ness, goodness, and beauty, on the other, of fiery pro-
letarian virtues, sorely-tried faith, passionate love of
humanity, devotion to freedom, and other qualities
wholly poetic and ideal, sundered by the most dreaded
of the Fates, black-robed Atropos, armed with the fatal
scissors ?
Like a spectre dawned the day that was to have been
the fairest of all the seasons—grey, cold, stricken with
an inarticulate, almost human dread. A creeping terror
spread over the place, seizing alike the old man and the
infant, the strong and the weak. On whose head would
fall the fearful punishment of such fearful crime ? There
was not a family in the hamlet of Peasemarsh which had
not good grounds for trembling in its shoes, since some
member or other had been present at the fire.
But who had struck the first match and dealt the
first blow ?
344
The Sylvestres.
Ay, there was the question that sent mothers, wives,
and sweethearts flying to each other for comfort, advice,
anything in the way of friendly words! All day long
there was sobbing, wringing of hands, and praying
among the women; stolid, ill-concealed suspense and fear
among the men. The end of the misery none could
see. Of Ingaretha's sorrow few thought just then. At
an early hour the authorities of the place were astir,
Mr. Whitelock, Mr. Stapleton, Mr. Minifie, and the
churchwardens. Mr. Whitelock's first thought was of
Ingaretha. How would her haughty spirit bear this
blow ? Would she bow in meekness, or hold up her
head in defiance ? He determined to see her if possible.
She would surely not refuse to see the parish priest,
the shepherd of those poor misguided sheep which had
gone so far, so fearfully astray. There were obstacles
which he had not taken into account. Ingaretha was
Ghenilda's guest, and to be Ghenilda's guest was the
same thing as to be Carew's. Both brother and sister
knew well enough that for the present Mr. Whitelock's
presence would be as unwelcome to their poor Inga-
retha as frosts in May, and quietly, though firmly,
resisted.
" Grievous, indeed, although I must admit well-
merited, is the punishment that has overtaken my poor
parish," began the rector; " I could but look for some
signs of the divine displeasure, seeing how for the past
year the people and those who set themselves up as
their teachers offended not only the laws of social
custom and the prejudices of right-minded conserva-
tism, but alas! the cardinal points of theological teach-
ing. And now the innocent will suffer for the guilty."
" Oh! Mr. Whitelock!" cried Ghenilda, bursting into
Carew ex Cathedra.
345
indignant tears, "how can you say that? The guilty
are every one of those who had a hand in this horrid
affair, and I hope they will all be severely punished.
Not one should be spared—no, not one—if I were the
judge."
" Mr. Whitelock is after all right, dear," Carew said,
with sorrowful sarcasm. "The innocent will suffer for the
guilty. These poor people ' knew not what they did.'"
" Of course one can but look upon them as passive
instruments of heavenly judgment," continued the rector,
not seeing the drift of Carew's meaning. " They must
be undoubtedly brought to punishment; but in this
case, seeing what fearful heresies through their agency
have been uprooted, justice should surely be tempered
with mercy. Why, a hundred or two years back they
would have been looked upon as benefactors of the
Church and humanity."
Carew was silent.
Ghenilda's cheek flushed, but she too held her peace.
" Do not misjudge me, I pray you," the rector went
on. " If I speak of the dead with undue severity, you
must grant that I do not do so writhout grounds. We
live in a period perhaps the most critical the world has
ever seen. To avert the evil day, to stave off as long
as may be the spread of free discussion and the ascen-
dency of the people, is all that is left to us—once a
class honoured before all, now so despised that even
the education of the poor is taken out of our hands!
How can I, a minister of our holy Church, an upholder
of our time-honoured government, do otherwise than
wage war against their enemies ? And you must admit
that of their enemies those two unhappy men were the
most determined and implacable,"
34^
The Sylvestres.
" I have no inclination to enter into a discussion
about my poor friends' political or religious opinions,"
Carew answered. "I, for my part, appraise a man
according to his character—and theirs were true, good,
noble. Nothing will ever make me alter that opinion."
" But they made a tool of Miss Meadowcourt—they
despoiled her of her substance—they inveigled her into
contracting a scandalous marriage—they made her turn
her back upon her old friends—nay, they tempted her
from the path of orthodoxy, of family tradition, I may
say of social duty; and you call these men true, good,
noble ! My dear sir, pray do not allow your feelings to
be carried thus far ahead of your reason."
" What is reason V asked Carew bitterly. " If it is
unreasonable to weep for men like these, then I say
blessed be unreason. Is it not enough that Ingaretha
—Miss Meadowcourt—loved them ? Could a woman
like that love anything evil or impure 1 Orthodoxy,
family tradition, social duty! Heavens ! is not Miss
Meadowcourt something better than all these ? What-
ever she does must be good and beautiful; whatever
she upholds, worthy and true "
" Miss Meadowcourt, no more than any other daughter
of Eve, is free from the taint of sin," the rector pur-
sued; " and I trust she will be brought by these
unhappy circumstances to see where she has done
amiss. Had she listened to me in the first instance, the
evil would have been averted; but with the obstinacy
of her sex, she pursued her own ways, and they have
led her into this pitfall."
" And now the only thing we have to do is to comfort
her as much as possible," Ghenilda said, looking signifi-
cantly at Carew. He motioned her to go, saying, in a
Carew ex Cathcdrd.
347
low voice, " We had better settle that matter without
you, dear."
She went away, and then Carew began :
"It is Miss Meadowcourt's earnest wish that her
poor friends should both be buried in the churchyard
of her parish. She has indicated the spot to me, and
perhaps you will kindly let me show it to you."
Mr. Whitelock looked aghast.
" There are difficulties in the way, great difficulties;
you forget that neither Monsieur Sylvestre nor his com-
panion has been made eligible by holy baptism for
Christian burial."
"If you object to perform that service, only signify
your wishes at once," Carew said very coldly, " and we
will find some one else to take your place."
" But there are other difficulties in the way "
and the rector hesitated.
" Oh! why this waste of words V Carew cried in an
agony of impatience. "I thought the time was gone
by when superstitions such as these enslaved the souls
of men. Is not the spirit better than the symbol ?—
the soul of a thing better than its name ?"
" Alas! alas ! are we all mad ?" cried the rector.
"Who could have foreseen this terrible perversion?
And amongst the most enlightened of my flock. Mr.
Carew, it is impossible that we can reason together,
feeling and judging, as we do, so diametrically opposite
on vital points. Let us forbear any further discussion
for the present, lest, in undue heat, we may say things
we should afterwards be sorry for."
"With all my heart," Carew said.
They shook hands frigidly, and the rector went.
Carew shut himself in his room, and gave way to a
passion of self-pitying, indignant, miserable thought.
343
The Sylvestres.
" Oh," he said, " why have I undertaken duties for
which I am no more fitted than a child ?"
He was tender and patient as a woman, but lacked
the faculty of doing disagreeable practical things in a
happy way. This encounter with Mr. Whitelock might
have ended very differently, had his antagonist per-
suaded, coaxed, temporised. It would have been far
more after Carew's nature to persuade, coax, temporise;
but just because he was placed by chance in a dilemma
for which he was not fitted, he was not true to himself
—his genial, gracious, pliable self—but behaved like
an entirely different person. Irascible, obstinate, stern,
Mr. Whitelock might well wonder what had bewitched
the foremost and hitherto suavest, of his parishioners.
It was a bitter day for all in that once peaceful Suffolk
village, alike for rich and poor, lofty and insignificant.
But the misfortune of others seldom comes without some
abatement, in the shape of self-congratulation to our-
selves. Carew could not help feeling in the midst of his
agonised distraction, how good and sweet it was to have
Ingaretha leaning on him now. The rector, though sin-
cerely grieved for the beautiful white lamb that had
gone astray to her sorrow, was heartily glad at the just
punishment inflicted upon wrong-doing. Ghenilda,
who, in spite of her warm and outspoken admiration for
Bend, had never from her heart acquiesced in the ill-
starred betrothal marriage, was already saying to herself
that Providence has worked ill that good may come;
Ingaretha might yet be happy; and unequal marriages
are always miserable. All is for the best.
Poor heart-sick, soul-sick Ingaretha, pillowed in tear-
wet golden hair, knew that only Euphrosyne sorrowed as
she sorrowed, and dared not ask for her yet. Thus
passed this woeful wedding-day.
Rest!
349
CHAPTER LY
rest!
Tragedy very little affects ordinary minds; and after
the first spasm of horror had passed away, the neigh-
bourhood woke np with alacrity to the unwonted, the
all-delicious bliss of a thorough piece of sensationalism.
How came into full play those petty, prying instincts of
human nature which flock about an unpleasant thing,
like the eagles that gather round the carcass. The
appalling crime and the noble grief, with all their mean-
ings, were lost sight of; bitter feelings were absorbed in
consideration of the thousand and one minutiae connected
with death or burial. Would Ingaretha put on black,
and if so, what kind of black ? These, and hundreds of
other questions, the good people of Culpho and Pease-
marsh asked themselves impatiently, catching hold of
any rumour with unhealthy appetites. Hot a yard of
crape or a pair of black gloves could have been smuggled
into the Abbey without the fact becoming instantly
known for miles round. If inquisitiveness could be
taken as the gauge of public sympathy, Ingaretha was
surely the most beloved and pitied of any lady in mis-
fortune.
And there were not wanting demonstrations of a
kindlier nature. Besides the outpouring of real affec-
tion, such as that of Amy Greenfield and her children,
and Mrs. Minifie, came little tokens of brotherly, sisterly
feeling, alike from rich and poor. Flowers were left at
the Abbey all day long, modest posies plucked by village
children in cornfield and wood, and costly bouquets of
exotics; and with both friendly messages and inquiries.
350
The Sylvesires.
Poor, pale, heart-broken Ingaretha had no smile to give
in return for these peace-offerings. " Why should they
not have shown Rene a little kindness V she said. " It
cannot do me any good now."
Why describe a day of complete mourning ?—why
paint hours of unmixed pain and unassuaged misery
from sunrise till nightfall ? We all know well enough
what such days and such hours are like, and need no
reminder of them beyond the whitened hairs and deep
lines they have left behind. Are we better or worse for
the griefs that have no consolation ? God in heaven
only knows. His stricken creatures would fain not doubt.
Early that dreaded morning, Euphrosyne had flown
to Ingaretha's arms. The old woman and the girl were
brought as near to each other then as if they had been
descended of the same stock, begotten of the same parent.
Ingaretha only remembered what Euphrosyne suffered.
Some recording angel seemed to have blotted out the sin.
Long they wept together without a word.
" How pale you have grown in these last few days!"
at last Euphrosyne said. " You must not weep too
much now."
" Why not ?" asked Ingaretha. " If I am pale, there
is nobody to grieve about it since Rene is gone. I
shall soon be old and ugly, and die. I can't eat. I lie
awake or dream horrors all the night. The summer air
seems stifling. Oh! who can comfort me ?"
Then she threw her arms about Euphrosyne's neck,
and moaned like a sick child.
" You must go away from this place; you will feel
differently in another atmosphere," Euphrosyne said
cheerfully. " At your age one can never say, ' All is
lost.' "
Rest!
351
t( Lady Micheldever means to take me to the East, I
think," Ingaretlia answered, still resting her head on
her friend's breast. " But I cannot go without you—I
will not."
Euphrosyne made no answer, but kissed the pale
cheek with passionate emotion.
" Promise that you will not forsake me," Ingaretha
answered persistently.
"We must wait a little," Euphrosyne said. "Per-
haps it will be best for you to see no one who reminds
you so nearly of the beloved ones lost to us. Eor a
time I think you ought to travel with Lady Michel-
dever, and leave us here—" she corrected herself, adding
" anywhere—away from you."
But Ingaretha persisted. They, too, could console
each other a little, perhaps. They must not part yet.
And then, by-and-by, Euphrosyne and Maddio must
settle their plans, so as to be near her always. But no
talk of plans just yet, only to get away as fast and as
far as possible.
Just then Ghenilda came in, and asked if Carew
might speak to Ingaretha for a moment. She assented,
and the four met for the first time since he had re-
ceived their congratulations as poet and master of the
ceremonies nearly a week, nay, surely an age ago. To-
day he was again master of the ceremonies, but of "what
a different kind!
They shook hands and sat down, all three looking on
the ground; one was 110 sadder than the other. Carew,
who had been quite calm a minute before, was over-
come at the sight of Ingaretha's black dress and pale
face. After a long silence, he rose and said:
" I must not stay, it is time to set out. Maddio is
352
The Sylvestres.
waiting. Have you anything to say to me before I
go?"
" Ho—yes," said Ingaretha; then rising, with a sob
in her throat—"Yes," she repeated, and snatching up a
pair of scissors that Euphrosyne had been using for
garlands, cut off a long thick lock of her beautiful hair.
"That is for Ken&'s grave—you understand. God
bless you!" she said, turning her face away.
"It shall be as you say," he answered. Then he
went, and they heard the low grating sound of wheels
on the gravel path underneath. Ghenilda came to try
to comfort them. Amy, too, was in the house, and
Bina, ever anxious to play the part of a good little fairy
to her adored Ingaretha. The hours passed somehow.
When the carriages came back, and she knew that all
was over, Ingaretha hid herself from the others, and
went out of doors. All the morning she had been
pining for solitude. Hot the kindliest of kindly looks,
nor the tenderest of tender words, but had driven her
almost crazy with a sense of their impotence. What
were caressses, looks, words ? Who or what could con-
sole this poor, half-maddened, desolate thing called
Ingaretha ? Could Hature ? Could the great all-
prevailing spirit called God? Could the Christ to
whom miserable men and women had throughout ages
fled for healing ? She sat down in a solitary spot and
wept abundantly. Did any comfort come ? She knew
not, but when she had done crying, the whole aspect
of the day had changed. A shadow had fallen over
the noontide glory of the day, the mocking, triumphant
singing of the wind had ceased, and the noisy chorus
of throstles and linnets; instead came little rippling
sounds of softest breezes, amid birch and abele, and
the plaintiv®. note of solitary stock-dove.
Rest /
353
How placid it was, how gracious, how lovely ! When
the park ended, the pastures began, and what pastures!
The happy cows stood knee-deep in the warm grass, or
eyed themselves meditatively in the clear little river.
The silvery grey sallows waved gently to and fro. Far
away the same picture — grazing cows, and clear
shadows, and silvery sallows—was repeated in minia-
ture. There was nothing else to be seen, except the
sky, in which shifted a few bright clouds. Ingaretha
threw aside her hat, and rested her head on a knoll of
turf, thinking all the time of new-made graves in her
own churchyard. The two friends lying there had
been her heroes. Sooner or later she felt sure that the
world would have recognised their grand qualities, and
now they were dead, and their chances of glory with
them. She had never doubted of Kene's great future.
He possessed moral and intellectual qualities which the
other lacked—self-denial, a practical turn of mind, pride,
discretion, insight into the characters of men. There
was in the complexion of his being something that took
stronger hold of the thoughtful and the truth-seeking
than the dazzling fascinations of Monsieur Sylvestre,
something not wholly moral, not wholly intellectual, but
made up of both, and heightened by a daring, uncom-
promising temper.
If he could only have lived in the beautiful world a
little longer, and unlearned that cynicism for which she
had so often chidden him! What had his thirty years
brought ? Alas, nothing but want and disappointment,
and the frustration of ideals and hopes. And just when
her whole life had been so planned as to make his own
perfect, came this cruel ending. The old rage came back,
the old horror, the old longing for retribution; but for a
23
354
The Sy Ives ires.
moment only. These poor besotted Suffolk labourers
were not his fate; they had but accomplished blindly an
inevitable consequence. Bene and Monsieur Sylvestre
were not of this world; they were purer, better, loftier
than the best of their fellows, and it was of such stuff
that martyrs were always made, whether of faith, of
progress, or of doubt. But where were they? What
meant this impenetrable darkness and silence that
hindered their spirits from communing with her own ?
Would such separation last throughout life ? And after ?
She bowed her head, praying, almost involuntarily,
that it might not be as she had sometimes feared, that
the heavenly world to come and life everlasting might
be as true as the golden age upon earth, in which she
had never doubted. Only a little hope to hold her on,
a little courage to live, a little faith to guide her! She
asked for nothing more.
CHAPTEE LYI.
a conspiracy.
That same afternoon Maddio and Euphrosyne set out on
foot for Pilgrim's Hatch. They had never talked of
familiar things since the dread events of a week ago
How their hearts were full to overflowing, and as they
sauntered along under the shade, their tongues were
unloosened. Both had wept till they could weep no
longer. Calmly and without break they began to speak
of the future.
"What do you mean to do, little mother?" asked
Maddio. " Our poor dwelling is nearly destroyed, our
.A Conspiracy.
355
stores consumed, our purses empty. Unless some great
piece of good luck happens to us, we can never get on
our legs again. And then, how can we feel safe in this
place any more ? The people are as ferocious as the
Bedouins."
"Dear Maddio, listen to me," Euphrosyne said,
talking coaxingly, as if to a six-year-old school-boy. " I
have much to say to you, and I know you will be
patient and yielding. Promise me that you will do all
I require of you."
" Of course, you know best, being a woman, and for
years the adviser of our beloved father and teacher,"
Maddio answered with emotion. "Only speak, dear
mother."
"Well, to begin at the beginning—alas, my poor head
is so sadly confused that I hardly see any beginning or
any end. 1 fear my wits are going, and what would
become of you then ?" answered Euphrosyne, putting
her hand to her brow. " But I must begin somewhere,
and it shall be with our plans. We will leave this
sweet, but for us ill-omened place at once and for ever.
Let us go to-morrow."
" So soon ?"
" And why not ? We can bring no comfort to the
living, and the dead need us not. Let us go to-mor-
row."
" As you think best," Maddio said reluctantly; for
the poor man could not contemplate losing the flesh-
pots of Egypt without a pang.
" Dear brother, only think a moment, and you will
see that we ought to do it. Our Ingaretha's heart is
well-nigh broken by these miseries, and all that her
friends can do is to put out of sight the reminders of
23—2
356
The Sylvestres.
them. We cannot console—at least, let us not trouble
that sweet child any more."
" But who will take care of her when we are gone ?"
" Oh! what kind of care was ours ? During the year
we have spent in England, anxiety after anxiety, sorrow
after sorrow, has been heaped upon her head, till her
cup of endurance is filled to the brim. The longer we
stay, the more she will have to bear."
Maddio made no answer. Even the events of the
last few days had failed to damp the childish ardour
of his nature. He could not help thinking that after a
time the wounds would be healed, and life would smile
afresh.
" I have thought of a plan for sparing her," pursued
Euplirosyne, looking older and greyer and more like a
ghost of her former self, with very sorrowful mood; "we
will go secretly, and without a "word of farewell."
Maddio started as if stung.
"Listen, dear brother. Though we sleep to-night
under Ingaretha's roof, we can get away unknown to
her. The men, fortunately, are in a different wing of
the house, and the servants sleep so late in the morning
that there is no fear of being discovered. We can slip
out at night and get the early morning mail to London,
and once there are placed out of every one's reach."
" True enough," Maddio answered ruefully.
" In London we will stay a few days, till all search
for us shall be over, and then form our future plans,"
pursued Euphrosyne with feverish eagerness. "I think
we had better go Ear West. We have one good com-
rade there—you remember the Alsatian Sigbert, who
was once with us in Algerie—he would surely be kind to
us. Or we could settle down in some friendly little town
A Conspiracy,
357
in Alsatia. I conld earn my bread by teaching; you
could do it also, and even Aglae might do something—"
"Would Aglae go with us?" askedMaddio,brightening.
"Maddio," Euphrosyne said, stopping short, and
looking at him with an expression of solemn appeal,
" I have something to tell you about that young stranger
which you must never divulge to any living soul. She
is my own child, born of that first neglected, unhappy
marriage of which you have heard me often speak. By
some strange chance she was led here, herself an un-
happy neglected wife, the victim of a narrow, unsatisfy-
ing existence. But, as yet, I have not made myself
known to her. I think I should always have kept
silence, had not two things happened—"
She stopped short, wiped away two big tears, and
added:
" My husband never knew, for I felt all along that I
ought to reconcile her with her own people and persuade
her to go home; and I knew that, being fond of Aglae,
and interested in her as it was, he would have felt all
the more sorry to part with her had he known all. But
a little before my dear saint died, Aglae, too, became a
widow, and was thus free to choose her own career.
Hitherto we have not yet talked of the future, but this
very day I am going to tell her all, and she shall do as
she likes."
" Of course she will go," Maddio said, growing more
and more cheerful; " and why should we not found
another Pilgrim's Hatch in the Hew World ? Let us
go to Central America. The climate is perfect. The
natives are kindly disposed to Europeans. The flora
and fauna are beautiful and varied. Dear mother, I am
ready to go this very moment."
353
The Sylvestres.
" As full of hope as ever!" Euphrosyne said with a
mournful smile, " whilst I long for nothing else "but to
lie down by my husband's side. Alas! dear Maddio,
I have no courage to clear, plant, dig, and build afresh.
To obtain a shelter and food is all I seek, and it may
be to do a little good to my suffering fellows. Were
Aglae willing I would fain join one of the sisterhoods
whose mission it is to nurse the sick. It is a practical
scheme, and oh ! how tired I am of dreams ! We shall
see. But what hinders thee from going whithersoever
though wiliest ? It would be hard to part, but we should
love each other all the same."
"No, I will never forsake thee," said Maddio fer-
ventlv; " never, whilst I live. Do not speak of what is
impossible."
" Let us set out this very night, then—without bid-
ding any one adieu—except the dead/' Euphrosyne said
eagerly. "We have money enough to carry us a little
way. Aglae is not penniless. We must trust to Heaven
for the rest."
Silently and sorrowfully they made the round of their
so late happy home, gathering a flower here, dropping a
tear there, lingering long in the haunts they had loved
best. The afternoon was perfect; radiant, glowing,
balmy. And when the purple and gold died out of
the sky, a soft haze settled upon the place, subduing the
summer landscape to the complexion of their thoughts.
" It is as if the spirit of our beloved master spoke to
us and compelled us," Maddio said, in a low voice.
" Never in my life did I feel so assured of the immor-
tality of the soul as I do at this instant. Dearest
mother, believe with me that our adored friends have
still part in the activity and love of the universe."
A Conspiracy.
359
u I will try," said the poor woman meekly.
Long they remained standing at the gate, not able to
tear themselves away from the scene of such mingled
enjoyment and hope, foreboding and despair. Not an
inch of ground before them but had been hallowed by
affection, beautified by the graces of daily life, dese-
crated by hate ! They are turning their faces towards a
new home and another life; but they knew that they
should never find any home very dear, or life very
sweet now. Their adored master, their beloved com-
rade, were gone, and with these two were lost to them
what had been more precious than life itself.
Without a word they returned to the Abbey. On
their way they met two or three of the village folks,
who slunk past in silence. Had they followed the in-
stinct of the moment, they would have gone up to
Madame Sylvestre and said—" Poor thing, we are sorry
for your misfortunes and our own. You have always
been a good friend to us. God bless you!" But pride
and sullenness kept them silent, and years after they
were sorry.
It was the last ever seen of those two pathetic
figures in the village.
Early next morning news was spread abroad of their
mysterious departure. They had fled, leaving no trace
behind, and with them the young Erenchwoman, for
whom Madame Sylvestre had shown such strange tender-
ness. And years after, when the agony of that stormy
time had passed away, the remembrance of Euphrosyne
and Maddio was cherished among the country-people.
They felt that these two had been more sinned against
than sinning, and the sayings of the gentle souls, their
deeds of Christian charity, and their sufferings were
36O
The Sylvesires.
wept over as if nothing had marred the harmony of
their intercourse. There was in the teaching of Euphro-
syne and her companions an almost divine pitifulness,
that made the poor misguided peasant-folk sure of
being forgiven for the direst offence of their lives. Thus
had a matchless doctrine been taught by the disciples
of Socialism!
CHAPTER LYII.
farewells.
Rumour said that Ingaretha was about to flit also, and
many signs portended a long absence. Packing up was
going on all day long at the Abbey. Several servants
were to accompany their mistress. Mr. Minifie, more-
over, was dismissed, and a new agent—reported to have
liberal views—took his place. Miss Meadowcourt was
going to the East with Lady Micheldever, people said,
and none knew when she would come back again.
Visits of condolence had already been paid, and now
friends and neighbours flocked to say farewell. Ghenilda
received most of them, but there were one or two Inga-
retha would not treat so cavalierly. Mr. Whitelock,
for instance, who had many things to say to her.
' Touched by her pallor, her sadness, and her black
dress, he began with a fervent " God bless you!" and
sat down, not knowing what to say next.
Ingaretha made a great effort to be cheerful.
" You will have heard my plans," she said; " we
start to-morrow for Malta, and from thence to the East,
where Lord Micheldever is to meet us. I do not
intend to return home for several years."
Farewells.
361
" I am sorry to hear you say that," Mr. Whitelock
answered, " sorry for all olir sakes, though glad for your
own. I can but hope that change of air and scene
will mitigate the painfulness of these unhappy though
not wholly unforeseen events. May it be God's will
that great good may come out of much apparent evil."
Ingaretha had determined not to take affront, let the
rector say what he might. She held her peace and he
continued: " Of death, how seldom it happens that one
can say, ' Thou hast come too soon!' Your friends,
whatever might have been their mental gifts, lacked
the faculty of discretion, and took no account of the
realities lying around them. Can aught of good issue
from the schemes of those who live without God in the
world ? My dear Miss Meadowcourt, pray pardon me
for speaking so plainly to you, but we are old friends,
and I cannot believe that plain speaking amongst old
friends is ever a real harm. And now we have to
think of those through whom offence hath come. There
is naturally great distress among my poor people, and
great dread of the punishment that may fall upon the
wrong-doers."
"I hope the law will deal gently with them," In-
garetha said. "I have talked with my guardian, Mr.
Mede, about it, and he seemed to think that it was sure
to be so."
The rector shook his head.
"Perhaps no heavier verdict will be awarded than
manslaughter against the ringleaders, who will be
sentenced to several years' transportation. Lesser
punishments will surely be inflicted upon two or three
foolish lads whose misfortune it was to have been
besotted with drink in honour of your wedding "
362
The Sylvesires.
Ingaretha's cheeks flushed with indignation.
" Nay," she answered quickly, " none of the village-
folks went away drunk from the Abhey. It was no
fault of mine that they afterwards flocked to the ale-
house, and gave way to excesses."
" Be that as it may," pursued the rector, " they got
maddened with drink and acted like madmen. But who
can doubt that, all things considered, their punishments
will be far greater than they deserve? These mis-
guided ploughboys belong, in almost every case, to
honest, hard-working, church-going families, and the
lightest sentence the law can inflict will bring sorrow,
and shame, and desolation to a hundred hearts. A few
months' imprisonment may seem little to us. Think
of what it is to them ? The very fact of being tried at
the assizes brands their brow with an ineffaceable mark
of disgrace. Babes now sucking at the breast will learn
to point their fingers in scorn at this or that fellow-
parishioner; little children at the Sunday-school will be
ashamed of their fathers and brothers; family will be set
against family in never-ending feuds, which vainly may
I, or my successor when I am gone, try to heal. My
heart is well-nigh broken at the sorrows of my flock."
His lip quivered, his eyes filled, and Ingaretha too
was greatly moved. She held out both her hands to her
friend. They wept together. All grievances were for-
gotten in that incomparable reconciliation.
" Oh!" she cried, with great emotion, " what can I do ?
What can any one do to make things better ? I would
willingly give up the greater part of my fortune to buy
back the peace of the old times. But what are words ?"
" My dear friend," answered the rector, wiping away
his tears, " that my prayers have been offered for you
Parewelts.
3^3
night and day during the past weeks, I need not say.
But, by the light of our own poor, unassisted reason, we
may perhaps arrive at some conclusions not wholly
without service in this emergency. In the first place,
have you taken any steps towards providing these un -
fortunate people with counsel V
" Mr. Mede would not hear of such a thing. He said
that the law must take its course."
" And what does Mr. Carew say ?" asked the rector.
" I have, unfortunately, no influence over him, and on
more than one occasion lately we have vexatiously
differed on several points. Still, Mr. Carew is a kind-
hearted man, and would be likely to take quite an op-
posite view to that of a cut-and-dry lawyer."
" Mr. Carew promised to provide the counsel himself.
He is very kind."
"He is, indeed," answered the rector. "I see Mr.
Carew's faults as clearly as any one. But the sweetness
of his temper—except when he is defending your friends
•—atones, one might almost say, for all. Dear me, that
is really generous of him!" And the rector seemed on
the verge of falling into a reverie.
" What else can we do V asked Ingaretha.
"You are quite right to keep me to the point, Miss
Meadowcourt. What else can we do ? There are the
families of the convicted to think of. Dick Smithson,
who seems to have been the ringleader, supports his
widowed mother, and two younger children. Maple—
as you know never a very sober fellow—has a wife
dependent upon him and a large young family. If any
are convicted of manslaughter, it will be these two."
" Of course the women and children must not suffer.
I am ready to leave with you any amount of money you
3^4
The Sytvestres.
think proper and necessary. Will you administer it,
Mr. Whitelock ?"
" I cannot refuse such a request," answered the rector,
graciously; " and you may rely upon my economy and
discretion. There will be the children to send to school."
" Let everything be done that is necessary," Ingaretha
said, unwilling to waste time in details. " How little I
can ever do for them or anybody now! I have lost all
heart. I feel as if I should never have courage to come
home again."
" In time this feeling will pass away," the rector said,
encouragingly. " Dear friend, I can but hope that you
are destined to work much good in your native place
still, though without doubt after a different fashion. I
have watched your career for the last few months with
mingled feelings of admiration, pain, and amazement.
We live in a time of dissension and dismemberment.
He who is not with us at the present day, is doubly,
trebly, against us. May I hope that when you return to
England riper in experience, sobered in judgment, and
having grown in grace as well as in years, you will no
longer stand aloof from those who have never ceased to
need and regret you? Well, one may say too much
when the heart is full. Eorgive and forget what has
pained you in this or any other conversation with me;
remember only the kind wishes and sincere aspirations
of your true friend and faithful pastor."
He rose to go. She held out both hands to him.
They said good-bye, and then he went away, wiping his
eyes. Never in the course of his existence had the good
rector felt so sad, so humble, so melancholy. Ingaretha
gone, all the brightness of the world seemed gone. He
wished that they had never pained each other.
Farewells.
365
The next person admitted to an interview was Mrs
Minifie.
" Oh dear!" said Mrs. Minifie. " Who'd have thought
that in the midst of all this trouble I should have the
one wish of my heart gratified ? My dear Miss Meadow-
court, I should never have stayed so long in this
miserable world but for the hope of seeing my husband
meet with his deserts! And he has done so now, and
no mistake. Your dismissal will make people wonder
where their wits have been to let a wolf go about in
sheep's clothing so long."
" I don't look upon Mr. Minifie exactly as a wolf in
sheep's clothing," Ingaretha said, with a faint smile.
"We have never been able to agree about important
things, so that it was much better to part before
coming to a downright quarrel. That is all."
Mrs. Minifie shook her head.
" Not quite all, I think; of course, I can say what I
like of my own husband, and between ourselves, dear
Miss Meadowcourt, he is to blame for much of the bad
feeling against poor dear Monsieur Sylvestre, and "
"Do not let us talk of it," Ingaretha said quickly.
" How good you have been to poor Euphrosyne, and how
grateful she was! Oh! Mrs. Minifie, nothing is yet
heard of her. I cannot tell you how uneasy their
mysterious silence makes me. They may be starving."
"Madame Sylvestre won't starve, God bless her!"
Mrs. Minifie said with cheerfulness. " If there's a penny
to be earned, by hook or by crook, she'll turn to and
earn it, were the trade as new to her as steeple-chasing
to a sailor. Maddy might, poor innocent, but then
who's better off than a fool with a woman to look after
him?"
366
The Sylvestres.
" True, tru e," Ingaretha answered, absently. " I under-
stand why they are silent. Madame Sylvestre is as
proud as a queen, and cannot endure the thought of
receiving further help from her friends. She could do
it for her husband, but not for herself."
" What a blessing to be relieved of such a helpless
creature!" was on Mrs. Minifie's lips. She checked
herself, however, and said, "Well, one never knows how
people will take things. Now, if it pleased God to
make me a widow, I should feel twenty years younger.
But then Madame Sylvestre never saw faults in any-
body, least of all in her husband."
" What faults, indeed, had he ?" said Ingaretha,
speaking more to herself than her companion.
"As far as I can make out, only one, but that a
mighty inconvenient one. He never could see straight
before him. Whether the mischief lay in his eyes or
his brain, or the way in which his head was set on his
shoulders, I don't know; but it is certain he was always
thousands of miles or hundreds of years away from the
matter in hand. Why, you couldn't turn out a decent
apple-dumpling under those conditions."
" I suppose, when I have lived a few years longer, I
shall judge him as the rest of the world does," Ingaretha
answered ruefully; " but I know I shall always love
him."
" What has love to do with such faults as his ?" Mrs.
Minifie said. "You can forgive anything in a man
who has the disposition of an angel."
" True; it is so."
" Now, with my husband it is different," began Mrs.
Minifie; but Ingaretha had no wish to hear a tirade
against Mr. Minifie.
Farewells.
367
" Shall we take a turn in the garden, or look at the
greenhouse ?" she asked.
Ingaretha fetched hat, basket, and scissors, and they
went; the scissors were used so recklessly that soon
the basket was full; roses, Japanese lilies, grapes,
peaches and plums lay heaped together in gorgeous
confusion.
" Think of all these beautiful things wasted whilst
you are gone !" Mrs. Minifie said, sighing.
" Why need they be wasted ?" asked Ingaretha, and
ere the words were fairly uttered there was the clamour
of five little voices, and the tread of five pair of little
feet.
It was the curate's children come to bid their adored
Ingaretha good-bye. Amy had brought them dressed
in their best, and each brought some tiny parting gift—
a flower, a home-made pin-cushion, a pair of mittens,
even baby presented an apple.
After a long, happy hour in the garden, Amy said
they must go. The little ones looked at mother brother,
and sister, wondering who would begin to cry soonest,
and at the first sign of moisture in Amy's eyes, all
burst into loud sobs. Pennie and the two youngest
children clung to Ingaretha's skirts. Bina and Sammy
each held one of her hands, fondling it with tears and
kisses. Ingaretha's self-possession forsook her, and
even Mrs. Minifie betrayed emotion.
At last it was over. Ingaretha, left alone, went
indoors, and walked about her haunted rooms with a
pale, dreamy face.
She felt that an era of her life had ended. The story
was told, the dream was over, the vision passed away.
She could not look towards the future with hope, nor
368
The Sylvestres.
could she quite despair. But for a time, at least, she
had done with tears.
CHAPTER LVIII.
greetings: five years after.
It was Midsummer-day, and alone in her rose garden
wandered, dreaming, the Lady of the Abbey. Was this
stately creature indeed the Ingaretha of old? Had
Time so enlarged the girlish figure, so ennobled the
candid brow, so subdued the playful smile ? Golden-
haired, fair-complexioned, sweet to look upon as ever,
still she was greatly changed. The maiden had grown
into a woman, and the womanhood was grand and calm
and beautiful.
She had only just returned to England after five
years of foreign travel, and to-day for the first time had
put aside her mourning. Again and again Ghenilda
would coax her to put on a coloured dress, and again and
again she had refused. " What does it matter whether I
wear black or not ?" she used to say impatiently, and
nothing Ghenilda urged in reply could persuade her to
swerve from this determination. But on returning home
her mind wholly changed. Those long years of sorrow
and isolation had also been years of self-questioning and
inward conflict. She said to herself that sooner or later
the effort must be made, and the life in England must
be begun afresh, though for months and months she
could not summon resolution enough to say, "I will
begin to-morrow." At last it was done. She had
wrenched herself by a violent effort from an indolent
Greetings : Five Years After. 369
surrender to regret and artistic impressions. She had
returned to England to gather up the broken threads of
neglected duties, and weave them, it might be, into
something tangible and good.
Such a return home could not but be dreary. For the
first time the truth dawned upon her that she had parted
with her youth. Her brow was still smooth; there
was no streak of silver in all the gold of her hair; her
limbs were full of vigour and elasticity; yet she had
parted with her youth, and with it that intoxicating
enthusiasm, that enthralling hope, that unbounded
faith, which are indeed, not of youth only, but youth
itself.
And what had she gained % A little more clearness
of vision, a little more humility, a little more reverence,
a little more steadfastness ? She asked herself the
question many times, but as yet the answer had not
come,
Another question she asked herself often, and that
was also unanswered. "What should she now do with
her life ?
The past had taught her many things, but it had not
taught her this. From whence would the teaching
come ?
All these thoughts passed lightly across her mind as
she wandered about her garden this rose-crowned, joyous
June day. The old Abbey seemed to smile gravely
down upon its owner. The happy summer winds were
singing a quiet welcome in the trees. The little river
rippled with a caressing, enticing sound. Her heart
grew lighter as the hours wore on. She sat down by
the river-side, singing to herself.
On a sudden the inner gate clicked. Looking up, she
2-i
370
The Sylvestres.
saw Carew. She had expected him, and rose with out-
stretched hands.
There was such an affectionate candour and ease
about this meeting, that at the first glance, a stranger
might have said they were brother and sister. But
when the greeting was over, and the two sat down side
.by side, it was not so. They talked carelessly, almost
absently, of far-off, unfamiliar things ; or if they touched
upon the near and the cherished, it was after the fashion
of swallows skimming a pool. Again and again, he was
fain to talk of herself and the past they had lived to-
gether ; again and again, she found herself approaching
upon those inner experiences that had made them the
true friends they were, and even the surface was stirred
lightly, and the depths left untouched.
The poet never grows old, and Carew looked the same
as he had done five years ago. His eyes—true poet's
eyes—were irradiated ever and anon, as he spoke, with
some exquisite thought, or some happy emotion; his
voice, musical as the sound of waves upon a summer's
night, was winning as ever; his smile had no look of age
in it; sportive one moment, grave the next, alive to
every passing impression of grace and loveliness—his
was indeed the temper over which Time in vain seeks
to assert sway. Looking at him, Ingaretha was half
disposed to envy that happy unconsciousness, that win-
ning trustfulness, that fascinating quality of enthusiasm,
by which life is made a never-ceasing enchantment.
He, on his part, was saying to himself the while he
talked lightly of books and art—" What am I beside this
noble, self-contained, large-natured creature ? Alas ! a
dawdler, a dreamer, a half-poet, and nothing more !"
Tims they set <=->V tv- sirff. <mrh little divinirm the
Greetings: Five Years After. 371
other's thoughts. It was nearly two years since they
had parted, and during that time many things had hap-
pened, of which they chatted carelessly, now and then
dropping unawares into some deeper channel.
" You are going to spend some time here, I believe ?"
Carew said.
"Yes," she answered.
" And so am I."
They both fled from the welcome topic, like birds
coquetting over the spot where they have selected to
build.
" Have you heard any news of Madame Sylvestre V
asked Carew after a long pause.
"Ah! I have so much to tell you about her," In-
garetha answered gratefully. " You remember that we
—that is, Ghenilda and I—found them—the three,
Euphrosyne, Maddio, and Aglae—living in a village of
Alsace. Madame Sylvestre had opened a school for
very little children, Maddio cultivated a garden, Aglae
was the dancing-mistress of the place; their little home
was peaceful, and I might say, happy. You can imagine
what our meeting was like. How joyful, how sad, how
full of emotion ! Euphrosyne showed me very proudly
a little sum of money she had laid by for old age; per-
haps eight pounds in all; and I think I never saw her
so contented with herself. But we wrote all this to you
when you were wandering about—I think in the rose-
gardens of Cashmere," she said with a smile.
" Do go on. You did not tell me half enough. You
don't know how I have looked forward to your narra-
tive.
" How can I go on ?" she said, her face suddenly over-
shadowed by an expression of pain. "We had hardly
24—2
372
The Sylvestres.
reached England when the war broke out. They lost their
little all—house, garden, furniture—and had to fly. We
next heard of them, with the red cross on their arms, follow-
ing the English ambulance. They were foremost in the
battle-field, and seemed to have enchanted lives. It was
grand! But when all was over, and peace was made,
they had no heart to begin life afresh. Maddio sub-
mitted to be separated from them, and set out alone to
join some old comrade in the Ear West. Euphrosyne
and Aglae have been reconciled to their own family.
That is the end of their story."
" It might have been sadder," Carew said.
There was another long pause; then he made one
more effort to carry on the conversation.
" And the village folks ?" he asked. " Have you had
time to see any one here V
Her face brightened.
" I have seen Amy and her children—all grown big
children now, and so radiant! Did I ever tell you that
a year ago I was enabled to present Mr. Greenfield with
a living ?—worth only five hundred pounds a year, with
a house, garden, and two acres of glebe, but wealth to
them. I don't think there are happier people under
the sun. The children get good food and clothes, and
education. The curate—now the rector—holds up his
head. There is nothing they desire now but to be useful."
" You did not tell me that. How glad I am! And
the poor people V
"The two who were convicted of manslaughter—
you know why—are just out of prison. I hope now
that all things will go on smoothly in the old place. At
any rate, it will not be my fault if it should be other-
wise"
Greetings: Five Years After. 373
" And the good rector—Mr. Whitelock ? You must
forgive my curiosity. Eemember that I have come
straight from Constantinople, and during my travels
had no news except what I gained from yourself and
Ghpnilda."
" Mr. Whitelock is married to the young lady who
admired him, and made black-currant jam for him in
the old days. He was here yesterday with his bride."
Again there was a long pause.
Ingaretha knew well enough why Carew stayed so
long, and what he wanted to say before he went; sad
one moment, gay the next, capricious all the time, she
would fain have had him go without a word. The
spirit of the past seemed to hold her back, whispering
pensively, " Forsake me not! forsake me not!" The
spirit of the future beckoned her onwards with caress-
ing, melodious voice. She felt as if she belonged to
two separate existences.
" And now let us talk of ourselves," Carew said at last.
" Oh! why V she exclaimed, with perverse depreca-
tion. " I told you in my letters how grateful I was for
all your kindness, and Ghenilda will bear witness to
the statement. What else is there to say ?"
It was an ungracious speech, and Carew resented it
as any man must have done. But her lips, not her
face, had spoken, and he took heart. There was, more-
over, something so enchanting about the presence of
this new Ingaretha—an unspeakable sobriety and
sweetness, an indefinable witchery, made up half of the
trust she had learned to place in him, half of the em-
pire she had chosen to exert over him, that he had
found her lovelier, sweeter by far than the old. lie
felt impelled to exquisite joy and said:
37-4
The Sylvestres.
"If not to-day, then to-morrow; if not to-morrow,
the next day," he answered. " I have plenty of patience
left."
There was something pathetic in these words, and
Ingaretha, blushing, apologised for the incivility of her
own speech.
"How childish is this ceremoniousness between us
two !" he added. "You know well enough that I did
not come here to receive your thanks. You cannot help
knowing what I mean when I ask permission to talk of
ourselves."
Again she blushed. This time without a word, but
she put her hand in his, and he saw that she would
never send him away in sorrow any more.
"After all," he went on, with a self-convicting,
radiant smile, " there is this to be said in my favour.
Circumstances have favoured me. I am your neigh-
bour. Having so many interests and duties in common,
I must be a poor creature indeed to be of no use to
you."
" As if I were thinking of that now P she said.
" But I ought to think of it. I ought to ask myself,
when I demand so much, what I have to give in return.
Ah! there is the subject of our old quarrel, though I
don't think we shall ever quarrel any more."
"You have an unfair advantage over me," she re-
plied, with a tone of vexation underlying the sweet
arch voice. " I cannot for a moment forget how good
you were to us all when I was in trouble."
" What is mere kindness ?" Carew asked with bitter
impatience. " You have always made my life heavenly.
Is that no kindness ?"
She turned away her face, but, in spite of the gesture,
Greetings: Five Years After. 375
he knew how pale she had grown, how tearful, how
serious! With a great effort, she said at last:
"You have wasted your youth upon me."
"Was it wasted? Oh no. What I am now, I have
become by reason of that probation. Could I speak to
you frankly, could I lay bare my heart to you—could I
still be your friend, had it been otherwise ? Never.
Looking back, it seems to me that we were both children
when last we talked of familiar things. Since then
you have learned to understand me, and I have begun
to understand myself."
She smiled gratefully, tearfully. There was no need
of words. Her face said that she had learned to under-
stand him of late years.
" How absurd our strife was about the claims of art
and philanthropy!" he said. "You were often wrong,
and I was not always right, when we were younger,
dearest." '
It was impossible not to smile at his naive way of
putting things. He felt too happy to pick and choose
words or phrases. What friendship was sweeter, purer,
more tried than theirs? He knew that he might at
last speak freely without giving affront.
Thus, gliding from mood to mood, from joy to melan-
choly, from tenderness to caprice, they spent the long
summer afternoon. Now they talked of serious things
in low, memory-freighted voices; now of trifles, sportively
and with frequent smile.
At last Carew reluctantly took up hat and stick to
go. She walked with him to the little garden-gate.
The light of the setting sun still lingered rosy-red about
the dense shadows of the park, whilst overhead, floating
in rosy clouds, sailed the crescent moon.
376
The Sylvestres.
All was very still.
" I shall see you to-morrow. What a prophecy of
happiness!" he said.
She smiled responsively and left him, looking badk
to wave her hand and utter a last adieu. He waited
till her hair no longer illumined the dusky twilight,
and then walked honie, dreaming, under the starry,
lucent heavens.
The golden visions of youth and the rapturous dithy-
rambs of early passion could no longer reach those two
tried hearts; but they were filled to overflowing with
an exquisite sense of perfect sympathy and unbounded
repose.
THE END.
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