514569!l, 5
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GEORGE ELIOT'S NOVELS.
AUTHOR'S HOUSEHOLD EDITION.
MESSRS. FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in compliance with a wide-spread demand, and with the approval of the author, have now ready a Household Edition
of GEORGE ELIOT'S NOVELS, uniform   with the editions of READE and
THACKERAY, which have met with so universal acceptation, and have been
conceded to best possess the requisites of
Cheapness, Legibility, Compactness, and Elegance.
The Edition consists of five volumes, as follows:Adam    Bede,...     ONE VOLUME.
The Mill on the Floss,..         "
Romola,...                      " 
Felix Holt,...               " 
Silas Marner,               )
Scenes of Clerical Life, 
Bound in green morocco cloth, with gilt back and sides, uniform with the
Household READE and TIACKERAY.
Price, $1.00 per volume.


FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., Publishers.




SILAS


MARNER,


AND


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
BY


GEORGE


ELIOT.


HOUSEHOLD EDITION.
BOSTON:
FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.
1869.




UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGEL




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1
I




CONTENTS.
Page
SILAS MARNER,......               1
SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
THE SAD FORTUNES OF THE REV. AMOS BARTON,..  113
MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY,.....158
JANET'S REPENTANCE,....                233




I ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  ~__1_ ~ ~ __1_-~ IU III_...1  Ci~~- -~-_  (~  111_._~-~~  ( ---- I




I


SILAS


MARNER:


THE WEAVER OF RAVELOE.




i




SILAS MARNER.
PART I.


CHAPTER I.
IN the days when the spinningwheels hummed busily in the
farm-houses, - and even great ladies,
clothed in silk and thread lace, had
their toy spinning-wheels of polished
oak, - there might be seen in districts
far away among the lanes, or deep in
the bosom of the hills, certain pallid,
under-sized men, who, by the side of
the brawny country-folk, looked like
the remnants of a disinherited race.
The shepherd's dog barked fiercely
when one of these alien-looking men
appeared on the upland, dark against
the early winter sunset; for what dog
likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?
-and these pale men rarely stirred
abroad without that mysterious burden. The shepherd himself, though
he had good reason to believe that the
bag held nothing but flaxen thread,
or else the long rolls of strong linen
spun from that thread, sas not quite
sure that this trade of weaving, indispensable though it was, could be carried on entirely without the help of
the Evil One. In that far-off time
superstition clung easily round every
person or thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occasional merely, like the visits of the
pedler or the knife-grinder. No one
knew where wandering men had their
homes or their origin; and how was a
man to be explained unless you at
least knew somebody who knew his
father and mother? To the peasants


of old times, the world outside their
own direct experience was a region of
vagueness and mystery: to their untravelled thought a state of wandering
was a conception as dim as the winter
life of the swallows that came back
with the spring; and even a settler, if
he came from distant parts, hardly ever
ceased to be viewed with a remnant
of distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a long course
of inoffensive conduct on his part had
ended in the commission of a crime;
especially if he had any reputation for
knowledge, or showed any skill in
handicraft. All cleverness, whether
in the rapid use of that difficult instrument the tongue, or in some other art
unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself
suspicious; honest folks, born and
bred in a visible manner, were mostly
not over-wise or clever, - at least, not
beyond such a matter as knowing the
signs of the weather; and the process
by which rapidity and dexterity of
any kind were acquired was so wholly
hidden, that they partook of the
nature of conjuring. In this way it
came to pass that those scattered linenweavers-emigrants from the town
into the country- were to the last
regarded as aliens by their rustic
neighbors, and usually contracted the
eccentric habits which belong to a
state of loneliness.
In the early years of this century,
such a linen-weaver, named Silas
Marer, worked at his vocation in a
stone cottage that stood among the




SILAS MARNER.


nutty hedgerows near the village of
Raveloe, and not far from the edge
of a deserted stone-pit.  The questionable sound of Silas's loom, so unlike the natural cheerful trotting of
the winnowing machine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a halffearful fascination for the Raveloe
boys, who would often leave off their
nutting or hirds'-nesting to peep in at
the window   of the stone cottage,
counterbalancing a certain awe at the
mysterious action of the loom, by a
pleasant sense of scornful superiority,
drawn from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with the bent,
treadmill attitude of the weaver. But
sometimes it happened that Marner,
pausing to adjust an irregularity in
his thread, became aware of the small
scoundrels, and, though chary of his
time, he liked their intrusion so ill
that he would descend from his loom,
and, opening the door, would fix on
them a gaze that was always enough
to make them take to their legs in
terror. For how was it possible to
believe that those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner's pale
face really saw nothing very distinctly
that was not close to them, and not
rather that their dreadful stare could
dart cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth
at any boy who happened to be in the
rear? They had, perhaps, heard their
fathers and mothers hint that Silas
Marner could cure folks' rheumatism
if he had a mind, and add, still more
darkly, that if you could only speak
the devil fair enough, he might save
you the cost of the doctor.  Such
strange lingering echoes of the old
demon-worship might perhaps even
now be caught by the diligent listener
among the gray-haired peasantry;
for the rude mind with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benignity. A shadowy conception of
power that by much persuasion can
be induced to refrain from inflicting
harm is the shape most easily taken
by the sense of the Invisible in the
minds of men who have always been
pressed close by primitive wants, and


to whom a life of hard toil has never
been illuminated by any enthusiastic
religious faith. To them pain and
mishap present a far wider range of
possibilities than gladness and enjoyment; their imagination is almost
barren of the images that feed desire
and hope, but is all overgrown by
recollections that are a perpetual pasture to fear. " Is there anything you
can fancy that you would like to
eat? " I once said to an old laboring
man, who was in his last illness, and
who had refused all the food his wife
had offered him. " No," he answered,
"I've never been used to nothing
but common victual, and I can't eat
that." Experience had bred no fancies
in him that could raise the phantasm
of appetite.
And Raveloc was a village where
many of the old echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that it
was one of those barren parishes lying
on the outskirts of civilization, -inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly
scattered shepherds; on the contrary,
it lay in the rich central plain of what
we are pleased to call Merry England,
and held farms which, speaking from
a spiritual point of view, paid highly
desirable tithes. But it was nestled
in a snug, well-wooded hollow, quite
an hour's journey on horseback from
any turnpike, where it was never
reached by the vibrations of the coachhorn, or of public opinion. It was
an important-looking village,, with a
fine old church and large churchyard
in the heart of it, and two or three
large brick and stone homesteads,
with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, standing close
upon the road, and lifting more imposing fronts than the rectory, which
peeped from among the trees on the
other side of the churchyard; - a
village which showed at once the
summits of its social life, and told the
practised eye that there was no great
park and manor-house in the vicinity,
but that there were several chiefs in
Raveloe who could farm badly quite
at their ease, drawing enough money


It




SILAS MARNER.


5


fiom their bad farming, in those war
times, to live in a rollicking fashion,
and keep a jolly Christmas, Whitsun
and Easter tide.
It was fifteen years since Silas
Marner had first come to Raveloe; he
was then simply'n pallid young man,
with prominent, short-sighted brown
eyes, whose appearance would have
had nothing strange for people of
average culture and experience, but
for the villagers near whom he had
come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities which corresponded with the
exceptional nature of his occupation,
and his advent from an unknown
region called " North'ard." So had
his way of life: - he invited no comer
to step across his door-sill, and he
never strolled into the village to drink
a pint at the Rainbow, or to gossip
at the wheelwright's; he sought no
man or woman, save for the purposes
of his calling, or in order to supply
himself with necessaries; and it was
soon clear to the Raveloe lasses that
he would never urge one of them to
accept him against her will, -quite
as if he had heard them declare that
they would never marry a dead man
come to life again.  This-view  of
Marner's personality was not without
another ground than his pale face and
unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney,
the mole-catcher, averred that, one
evening as he was returning homeward, he saw Silas Marner leaning
against a stile with a heavy bag on 
his back, instead of resting the bag
on the stile as a man in his senses
would have done; and that, on coming up to him, he saw that Marner's
eyes were set like a dead man's, and
he spoke to him, and shook him, and
his limbs were stiff, and his hands
clutched the bag as if they'd been
made of iron; butjust as he had made
up his mind that the weaver was
dead, he came all right again, like, as
you might say, in the winking of an
eye, and said " Good night," and
walked off. All this Jem swore he
had seen,       by token that it
was the veryAJe had been mole

catching on Squire Cass's land, down
by the old saw-pit. Some said Marner must have been in a " fit," a word
which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish,
shook his head, and asked if anybody
was ever known to go off in a fit and
not fall down. A fit was a stroke,
was n't it 1 and it was in the nature
of a stroke 'to partly take away the
use of a man's limbs and throw him
on the parish, if he 'd got no children
to look to. No, no; it was no stroke
that would let a man stand on his
legs, like a horse between the shafts,
and then walk off as soon as you can
say "Gee!"    But there might be
such a thing as a man's soul being
loose from his body, and going out
and in, like a bird out of its nest and
back; and that was how folks got
over-wise, for they went to school in
this shell-less state to those who could
teach them more than their neighbors
could learn with their five senses and
the parson. And where did Master
Marner get his knowledge of herbs
from,. —and charms too, if he liked to
give them  away?   Jem  Rodney's
story was no more than what might
have been expected by anybody who
had seen how Marner had cured Sally
Oates, and made her sleep like a baby,
when 'her heart had been beating
enough to burst her body, for two 
months and more, while she had been
under the doctor's care. He might
cure more folks if he would; but he
was worth speaking fair, if it was
only to keep him from doing you a
mischief.
It was partly to this vague fear
that Marner was indebted for protecting him from the persecution that his
singularities might have drawn upon
him, but still more to the fact that,
the old linen-weaver in the neighboring parish of Tarley being dead, his
handicraft made him a highly welcome settler to the richer housewives
of the district, and even to the moe
provident cottagers, who had their
little stock of yarn at the year's end; /,




SILAS MARNER.


and their sense of his usefulness
would have counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was not
confirmed by a deficiency in the
quality or the tale of the cloth he
wove for them. And the years had
rolled on without producing any
change in the impressions of the
neighbors concerning Marner, except
the change from novelty to habit.
At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men said just the same things
about Silas Marner as at the beginning; they did not say them quite so
'often, but they believed them much
more strongly when they did say
them. There was only one important addition which the years had
brought: it was, that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of money
somewhere, and that he could buy up
"bigger men " than himself.
But while opinion concerning him
had remained nearly stationary, and
his daily habits had presented scarcely any visible change, Marner's inward life had been a history and a
metamorphosis, as that of every fervid nature must be when it has fled,
or been condemned to solitude. His
life, before he came to Raveloe, had
been filled with the movement, the
mental activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as in this,
marked the life of an artisan early
incorporated in a narrow  religious
sect, where the poorest layman has
the chance of distinguishing himself
by gifts of speech, and has, at the
very least, the weight of a silent
voter in the government of his community. Marner was highly thought
of in that little hidden world, known
to itself as the church assembling in
Lantern Yard; he was believed to be
a young man of exemplary life and
ardent faith; and a peculiar interest
had been centred in htin ever since he
had fallen, at a prayer-meeting, into
a mysterious rigidity and suspension
of consciousness, which, lasting for
an hour or more, had been mistaken
for death. To have sought a medical
c xplanation for this phenomenon


would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by his minister and
fellow-members, a wilful self-exclusion from the spiritual significance
that might lie therein.  Silas was
evidently a brother selected for a
peculiar discipline, and though the
effort to interpret this discipline was
discouraged by the absence, on his
part, of any spiritual vision during
his outward trance, yet it was believed
by himself and others that its effect
was seen in an accession of light and
fervor. A less truthful man than he
might have been tempted into the
subsequent creation of a vision in the
form of resurgent memory; a less
sane man might have believed in such
a creation; but Silas was both sane
and honest, though, as with many
honest and fervent men, culture had
not defined any channels for his sense
of mystery, and so it spread itself
over the proper pathway of inquiry
and knowledge. He had inherited
from his mother some acquaintance
with medicinalherbs and theirpreparation, - a little store of wisdom which
she had imparted to him as a solemn
bequest, —but of late years he had
had doubts about the lawfulness of
applying this knowledge, believing
that herbs could have no efficacy
without prayer, and that prayer
might suffice without herbs; so that
the inherited delight he had in wandering in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot began to wear to him the character of a
temptation.
Among the members of his church
there was one young man, a little
older than himself, with whom he
had long lived in such close friendship that it was the custom of their
Lantern Yard brethren to call them
David and Jonathan.     The   real
name of the friend was William
Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a
shining instance of youthful piety,
though somewhat given to over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to
be so dazzled by his own light as to
hold himself wiser than his teachers.




SILAS MARNEIR.


7


But whatever blemishes others might
discern in William, to his friend's
mind he was faultless; for Marner
had one of those impressible selfdoubting natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire imperativeness
and lean on contradiction. The expression of trusting simplicity in
Marner's face, heightened by that absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer-like gaze which belongs
to large prominent eyes, was strongly contrasted by the self-complacent
suppression of inward triumph that
lurked in the narrow slanting eyes
and compressed lips of William
Dane.   One of the most frequent
topics of conversation between the
two friends was Assurance of salvation: Silas confessed that he could
never arrive at anything higher than
hope mingled with fear, and listened
with longing wonder when William
declared that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever since, in the
period of his conversion, he had
dreamed that he saw the words " calling and election sure" standing by
themselves on a white page in the
open Bible. Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale-faced
weavers, whose unnurtured souls have
been like young winged things, fluttering forsaken in the twilight.
It had seemed to the unsuspecting
Silas that the friendship had suffered
no chill even from his formation of
another attachment of a closer kind.
For some months he hatbeen engaged
to a young servant-woman, waiting
onlyfor a little increase to theirmutual
savings in order to their marriage;
and it was a great delight to him that
Sarah did not object to William's
occasional presence in their Sunday
interviews. It was at this point in
their history that Silas's cataleptic fit
occurred during the prayer-meeting;
and amidst the various queries and
expressions of interest addressed to
him by his fellow-members, William's
suggestion alone jarred with the
general sympathy towards a brother
thus singled out for special dealings.




He observed that, to him, this trance
looked more like a visitation of Satan
than a proof of divine favor, and exhorted his friend to see that he hid no
accursed thing within his soul. Silas,
feeling bound to accept rebuke and
admonition as a brotherly office, felt
no resentment, but only pain, at his
friend's doubts concerning him; and
to this was soon added some anxiety
at the perception that Sarah's manner
towards him began to exhibit a strange
fluctuation between an effort at an increased manifestation of regard and
involuntary signs of shrinking and
dislike. Hie asked her if she wished
to break off their engagement; but
she denied this: their engagement was
known to the church, and had been
recognized in the prayer-meetings; it
could not be broken off without strict
investigation, and Sarah could render
no reason that would be sanctioned
by the feeling of the community. At
this time the senior deacon was taken
dangerously ill, and, being a childless
widower, he was tended night and.
day by some of the younger brethren
or sisters. Silas frequently took his
turn in the night-watching with William, the one relieving the other at
two in the morning. The old man,
contrary to expectation, seemed to be
on the way to recovery, when one
night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, observed that his usual audible
breathing had ceased.  The candle
was burning low, and he had to lift
it to see the patient's face distinctly.
Examination convinced him that the
deacon was dead,-had been dead
some time, for the limbs were rigid.
Silas asked himself if he had been
asleep, and looked at the clock: it
was already four in the morning.
How was it that William had not
come? In much anxiety he went to
seek for help, and soon there were
several friends assembled in the house,
the minister among them, while Silas
went away to his work, wishing he
could have met William to know the
reason of his non-appearance. But
at six o'clock, as he was thinking of




SILAS MARNER.


going to seek his friend, William came,
and with him the minister. They
came to summon him to Lantern
Yard, to meet the church-members
there; and to his inquiry concerning
the cause of the summons the only
reply was, " You will hear." Nothing
further was said until Silas was seated
in the vestry, in front of the minister,
with the eyes of those who to him
represented God's people fixed solemnly upon him. Then the minister,
taking out a pocket-knife, showed it
to Silas, and asked him if he knew
where he had left that knife? Silas
said, he did not know that he had left
it anywhere out of his own pocket, -
but he was trembling at this strange
interrogation. He was then exhorted
not to hide his sin, but to confess and
repent. The knife had been fbund
in the bureau by the departed deacon's
bedside, - found in the place where the
little bag of church money had lain,
which the ministerhimself had seen the
day before. Some hand had removed
that bag; and whose hand could it
be, if not that of the man to whom
the knife belonged? For some time
Silas was mute with astonishment;
then he said: " God will clear me; I
know nothing about the knife being
there, or the money being gone.
Search me and my dwelling; you will
find nothing but three pound five of
my own savings, which William
Dane knows I have had these six
months." At this William groaned,
but the minister said: "The proof is
heavy against you, Brother Marncr.
The money was taken in the night
last past, and no man was with our
departed brother but you, for William
Dane declares to us that he was
hindered by sudden sickness from
going to take his place as usual, and
you yourself said that he had not
come; and, moreover, you neglected
the dead body."
"I must have slept," said Silas.
Then, after a pause, he added: "Or I
must have had another visitation like
tbat which you have all seen me
uder, so that the thief must have


come and gone while I was not in the
body, but out of the body. But, I
say again, search me and my dwelling,
for I have been nowhere else."
The search was made, and it ended
- in William Dane's finding the wellknown bag, empty, tucked behind the
chest of drawers in Silas's chamber!
'On this William exhorted his friend
to confess, and not to hide his sin any -
longer. Silas turned a look of keen
reproach on him, and said: " William,
for nine years that we have gone in
and out together, have you ever known
me tell a lie? But God will clear
me."
"Brother," said William, "how
do I know what you may have done
in the secret chambers of your heart,
to give Satan an advantage over
you "
Silas was still looking at his friend.
Suddenly a deep flush came over his
face, and he was about to speak impetuously, when he seemed checked
again by some inward shock, that
sent the flush back andl made him
tremble. But at last he spoke feebly,
looking at William.
"I remember now,-the knife
was n't in my pocket."
William said, " I know nothing of
what you mean." The other persons
present, however, began to inquire
where Silas meant to say that the knife
was, but he would give no further
explanation; he only said: "I am
sore stricken; I can say nothing. God
will clear mes
On their return to the vestry there
was further deliberation. Any resort
to legal measures for ascertaining the
culprit was contrary to the principles
of the Church: prosecution was held
by them to be forbidden to Christians,
even if it had been a case in which
there was no scandal to the community. But they were bound to
take other measures for finding out
the truth, and they resolved on praying and drawing lots. This resolution can be a ground of surprise only
to those who are unacquainted witi
that obscure religious life which has




SILAS MARNER.


9


gone on in the alleys of our towns.
Silas knelt with his brethren, relying
on his own innocence being certified
by immediate divine interference, but
feeling that there was sorrow and
mourning behind for him even then, -
that his trust in man had been cruelly
bruised. The lots declared that Silas
Marner was guilty. He was solemnly
suspended from church-membership,
and called upon to render -up the
stolen money: only on confession, as
the sign of repentance, could he be
received once more within the fold of
the  church.  Marner listened   in
silence. At last, when every one rose
to depart, he went towards William
Dane and said, in a voice shaken by
agitation: -
"The last time I remember using
my knife was when I took it out to
cut a strap for you. I don't remember
putting it in my pocket again. You
stole the money, and you have woven
a plot to lay the sin at my door. But
you may prosper, for all that: there
is no just God that governs the earth
righteously, but a God of lies, that
bears witness against the innocent."
There was a general shudder at this
blasphemy.
William said meekly: " I leave our
brethren to judge whether this is the
voice of Satan or not.   I can do
nothing but pray for you, Silas."
Poor Marner went out with that
despair in his soul, - that shaken trust
in God and man, which is little short
of madness to a loving nature. In
the bitterness of his wounded spirit,
he said to himself, " She will cast me
off too." And he reflected that, if she
did not believe the testimony against
him, her whole faith must be upset as
his was. To people accustomed to
reason about the forms in which their
religious feeling has incorporated itself, it is difficult to. enter into that
simple, untaught state of mind in
which the form and the feeling have
never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt to think it
inevitable that a man in Marner's
position should have begun to ques1 


tion the validity of an appeal to the
divine judgment by drawing lots; but
to him this would have been an effort
of independent thought such as he had
never known; and he must have made
the effort at a moment when all his
energies were turned into the anguish
of disappointed faith. If there is an
angel who records the sorrows of men
as well as their sins, he knows how
many and deep are the sorrows that
spring from false ideas for which no
man is culpable.
Marner went home, and for a whole
day sat alone, stunned by despair,
without any impulse to go to Sarah
and attempt to win her belief in his
innocence. The second day he took
refuge from benumbing unbelief, by
getting into his loom and working
away as usual; and before many hours
were past, the minister and one of the
deacons came to him with the message
from Sarah, that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas received
the message mutely, and then turned
away from the messengers to work at
his loom again. In little more than a
month from that time, Sarah was
married to William Dane; and not
long afterwards it was known to the
brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas
Marner had departed from the town.
CHAPTER II.
EVEN people whose lives have been
made various by learning sometimes
find it hard to keep a fast hold on
their habitual views of life, on their
faith in the Invisible, —nay, on the
sense that their past joys and sorrows
are a real experience, when they are
suddenly transported to a new land,
where the beings around them know
nothing of their history, and share
none of their ideas, -where their
mother earth shows another lap, and
human life has other forms than
those on which their souls have been
nourished. Minds that have been




10


SILAS MARNER.


unhinged from their old faith and love
have perhaps sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past becomes dreamy because its symbols
have all vanished, and the present too
is dreamy because it is linked with no
memories. But even their experience
may hardly enable them thoroughly
to imagine what was the effect on a
simple weaver like Silas Marner,
when he left his own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe.
Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within sight of the widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded region, where he felt hidden even
from the heavens by the screening
trees and hedgerows. There was
nothing here, when he rose in the
deep morning quiet and looked out on
the dewy brambles and rank tufted
grass, that seemed to have any relation with that life centring in Lantern
Yard, which had once been to him
the altar-place of high dispensations.
The whitewashed walls; the little
pews where well-known figures entered
with a subdued rustling, and where
first one well-known voice and then
another, pitched in a peculiar key of
petition, uttered phrases at once occult and familiar, like the amulet
worn on the heart; the pulpit where
the' minister delivered unquestioned
doctrine, and swayed to and fro, and
handled the book in a long-accustomed manner; the very pauses between the couplets of the hymn, as it
was given out, and the recurrent swell
of voices in song: these things had
been the channel of divine influences
to Marner, - they were the fostering
home of his religious emotions, - they
were Christianity and God's kingdom
upon earth. A weaver who finds hard
Words in his hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions; as the little child
knows nothing of parental love, but
only knows one face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms for
refuge and nurture.
And what could be more unlike
that Lantern Yard world than the
world in Raveloe? - orchards:looking


lazy with neglected plenty; the large
church in the wide churchyard, which
men gazed at lounging at their own
doors in service-time; the purple-faced
farmers jogging along the lanes or
turning in at the Rainbow; homesteads, where men supped heavily and
slept in the light of the evening hearth,
and where women seemed to be laying
up a stock of linen for the life to come.
There were no lips in Raveloe from
which a word could fall that would
stir Silas Marner's benumbed faith to
a sense of pain. In the early ages of
the world, we know, it was believed
that each territory was inhabited and
ruled by its own divinities, so that a
man could cross the bordering heights
and be out of the reach of his native
gods, whose presence was confined to
the streams and the groves and the
hills among which he had lived from
his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of something not unlike
the feeling of primitive men, when
they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness,
from the face of an unpropitious deity.
It seemed to him that the Power in
which he had vainly trusted among
the streets and in the prayer-meetings
was very far away from this land in
which he had taken refuge, where men
lived in careless abundance, knowing
and needing nothing of that trust,
which, for him, had been turned to
bitterness. The little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly,
that frustrated belief was a curtain
broad enough to create for him the
blackness of night.
His first movement after the shock
had been to work in his loom; and
he went on with this unremittingly,
never asking himself why, now he was
come to Raveloe, he worked far on
into the night to finish the tale of
Mrs. Osgood's table-linen sooner than
she expected, - without contemplating beforehand the money she would
put into his hand for the work. He
seemed to weave, like the spider, from
pure impulse, without reflection.
Every man's work, pursued steadily,
tends in this way to become an end i




SILAS MARNER.


11


itself, and so to bridge over the loveless chasms of his life. Silas's hand
satisfied itself with throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little
squares in the cloth complete themselves under his effort. Then there
were the calls of hunger; and Silas,
in his solitude, had to provide his own
breakfast, dinner, and supper, to
fetch his own water from the well, and
put his own kettle on the fire; and
all these immediate promptings helped,
along with the weaving, to reduce his
life to the unquestioning activity of
a spinning insect. Ie  hated the
thought of the past; there was nothing that called out his love and fellowship toward the strangers he had come
amongst; and the future was all dark,
for there was no Unseen Love that
cared for him. Thought was arrested
by utter bewilderment, now its old
narrow pathway was closed, and affection seemed to have died under the
bruise that hadtfallen on its keenest
nerves.
But at last Mrs. Osgood's tablelinen was finished, and Silas was paid
in gold. His earnings in his native
town, where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been after a lower
rate; he had been paid weekly, and of
his weekly earnings a large proportion
had gone to objects of piety and
charity. Now, for the first time in
his life, he had five bright guineas put
into his hand; no man expected a
share of them, and he loved no man
that h3 should offer him a share. But
what were the guineas to him who
saw no vista beyond countless days of
weaving? It was needless for him to
ask that, for it was pleasant to him
to feel them in his palm, and look at
their bright faces, which were all his
own; it was another element of life,
like the weaving and the satisfaction
of hunger, subsisting quite aloof from
the life of belief and love from which
he had been cut off. The weaver's
hand had known the touch of hardwon money even before the palm had
grown to its full breadth; for twenty
years mysterious money had stood to


him as the symbol of earthly good,
and the immediate object of toil. He
had seemed to love it little in the
years when every penny had its purpose for him; for he loved the purpose
then. But now, when all purpose
was gone, that habit of looking
towards the money and grasping it
with a sense of fulfilled effort made a
loam that was deep enough for the
seeds of desire; and as Silas walked
homeward across the fields in the
twilight, he drew out the money, and
thought it was brighter in the gathering gloom.
About this time an incident hap.
pened which seemed to open a possibility of some fellowship with his
neighbors. One day, taking a pair of
shoes to be mended, he saw the cobbler's wife seated by the fire, suffering
from the terrible symptoms of heartdisease and dropsy, which he had
witnessed as the precursors of his
mother's death. He felt a rush of
pity at the mingled sight and remembrance, and, recalling the relief his
mother had found from a simple
preparation of foxglove, he promised
Sally Oates to bring her something
that would ease her, since the doctor
did her no good. In this office of
charity, Silas felt, for the first time
since he had come to Raveloe, a sense
of unity between his past and present
life, which might have been the beginning of his rescue from the insect-like
existence into which his nature had
shrunk. But Sally Oates's disease
had raised her into a personage of
much interest and importance among
the neighbors, and the fact of her
having found relief from drinking
Silas Marner's "stuff" became a
matter of general discourse. When
Doctor Kimble gave physic, it was
natural that it should have an effect;
but when a weaver, who came from
nobody knew where, worked wonders
with a bottle of brown waters, the
occult character of the process was
evident. Such a sort of thing had not
been known since the Wise Woman
at Tarley had died; and she bad




SILAS MARNER.


charms as well as "stuff"; everybody went to her when their children
had fits.  Silas Marner must be a
person of the same sort, for how did
he know what would bring back Sally
Oates's breath, if he did n't know a
fine sight more than that? The Wise
Woman had words that she muttered
to herself, so that you could n't hear
what they were, and if she tied a bit
of red thread round the child's toe
the while, it would keep off the water
in the head. There were women in
Raveloe, at that present time, who
had worn one of the Wise Woman's
little bags round their necks, and, in
consequence, had never had an idiot
child, as Ann Coulter had.   Silas
Marner could very likely do as much,
and more; and now it was all clear
how he should have come from unknown parts, and be so "comicallooking." But Sally Oates must
mind and not tell the doctor, for he
would be sure to set his face against
Marner: he was always angry about
the Wise Woman, and used to threaten those who went to her that they
should have none of his help any
more.
Silas now found himself and his
cottage suddenly beset by mothers
who wanted him to charm away the
hooping-cough, or bring back the
milk, and by men who wanted stuff
against the rheumatics or the knots
in the hands; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the applicants
brought silver in their palms. Silas
might have driven a profitable trade
in charms as well as in his small list
of drugs; but money on this condition
was no temptation to him: he had
never known an impulse towards
falsity, and he drove one after another
away with growing irritation, for the
news of him as a wise man had spread
even to Tarley, and it was long before people ceased to take long walks
for the sake of asking his aid. But
the hope in his wisdom was at length
changed into dread, for no one believed
him when he-said he knew no charms
and could w.ork no cures, and:very


man and woman who had an accident
or a new attack after applying to him
set the misfortune down to Master
Marner's ill-will and irritated glances.
Thus it came to pass that his movement of pity towards Sally Oates,
which had given him a transient sense
of brotherhood, heightened the repulsion between him and his neighbors,
and made his isolation more complete.
Gradually the guineas, the crowns,
and the half-crowns grew to a heap,
and Marner drew less and less for his
own wants, trying to solve the problem
of keeping himself strong enough to
work sixteen hours a day on as small
an outlay as possible. Have not men,
shut up in solitary imprisonment,
found an interest in marking the moments by straight strokes of a certain length on the wall, until the
growth of the sum of straight strokes,
arranged in triangles, has become a
mastering purpose? EDo we not wile
away moments of inanity or fatigued
waiting by repeating some trivial
movement or sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is incipient habit? That will help us to
understand how the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing passion in men whose imaginations, even
in the very beginning of their hoard,
showed them no purpose beyond it.
Marner wanted the heaps of ten to
grow into a square, and then into a
larger square; and every added guinea,
while it was itself a satisfaction, bred
a new desire. In this strange world,
made a hopeless riddle to him, he
might, if he had had a less intense
nature, have sat weaving, weaving,looking towards the end of his pattern,
or towards the end of his web, till he
forgot the riddle, and everything else
but his immediate sensations; but the
money had come to mark off his weaving into periods, and the money not
only grew, but it remained with him.
He began to think it was conscious of
him, as his loom was, and he would
on no account have exchanged those
coim, which had becomehis faiiiars,




SILAS MARNER.


13


for other coins with unknown faces.
He handled them, he counted them,
till their form and color were like the
satisfaction of a thirst to him; but it
was only in the night, when his work
was done, that he drew them out to
enjoy their companionship. He had
taken up some bricks in his floor
underneath his loom, and here he had
made a hole in which he set the iron
pot that contained his guineas and
silver coins, covering the bricks with
sand whenever he replaced them. Not
that the idea of being robbed presented
itself often or strongly to his mind:
hoarding was common in country districts in those days; there were old
laborers il the parish of Raveloe who
were known to have their savings by
them, probably inside their flock-beds;
but their rustic neighbors, though not
all of them as honest as their ancestors in the days of King Alfred, had
not imaginations bold enough to lay
a plan of burglary. How could they
have spent the money in their own
village without betraying themselves?
They would be obliged to "run away,"
- a course as dark and dubious as a
balloon journey.
So, year after year, Silas Marner
had lived in this solitude, his guineas
rising in the iron pot, and his life
narrowing and hardening itself more
and more into a mere pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation to any other being. His life had
reduced itself to the mere functions of
weaving and hoarding, without any
contemplation of an end towards which
the functions tended. The same sort
of process has perhaps been undergone
by wiser men, when they have been
cut off from faith and love, —only,
instead of a loom and a heap of
guineas, they have had some erudite
research, some ingenious project, or
some well-knit theory.  Strangely
Marner's face and figure shrank and
bent themselves into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his
life, so that he produced the same sort
of impression as a handle or a crooked
tabe, which has no meaning standing


apart. The prominent eyes that used
to look trusting and dreamy now
looked as if they had been made to
see only one kind of thing that was
very small, like tiny grain, for which
they hunted everywhere: and he was
so withered and yellow that, though
he was not yet forty, the children
always called him "Old Master
Marner."
Yet even in this stage of withering
a little incident happened, which
showed that the sap of affection was
not all gone. It was one of his daily
tasks to fetch his water from a well a
couple of fields off, and for this purpose, ever since he came to Raveloe,
he had had a brown earthenware pot,
which he held as his most precious
utensil, among the very few conveniences he had granted himself. It
had been his companion for twelve
years, always standing on the same
spot, always lending its handle to him
in the early morning, so that its form
had an expression for him of willing
helpfulness, and the impress of its handle on his palm gave a satisfaction
mingled with that of having the fresh
clear water. One day as he was
returning from the well, he stumbled
against the step of the stile, and his
brown pot, falling with force against
the stones that overarched the ditch
below him, was broken in three
pieces. Silas picked up the pieces and
carried them home with grief in his
heart. The brown pot could never
be of use to him any more, but he
stuck the bits together and propped
the ruin in its old place for a memorial.
This is the history of Silas Marner
until the fifteenth year after he came
to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat
in his loom, his ear filled with its
monotony, his eyes bent close down
on the slow growth of sameness in the
brownish web, his muscles moving
with such even repetition that their
pause seemed almost as much a constraint as the holding of his breath.
But at night came his revelry: at
night he cosed his shuttes, and made




14


SILAS MARNER.


fast his doors, and drew out his gold.
Long ago the heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to hold
them, and he had made for them two
thick leather bags, which wasted no
room in their resting-place, but lent
themselves flexibly to every corner.
How the guineas shone as they came
pouring out of the dark leather
mouths! The silver bore no large
proportion in amount to the gold, because the long pieces of linen which
formed his chief work were always
partly paid for in gold, and out of the
silver he supplied his own bodily
wants, choosing always the shillings
and sixpences to spend in this way.
He loved the guineas best, but he
would not change the silver, - the
crowns and half-crowns that were his
own earnings, begotten by his labor;
he loved them all. He spread them
out in heaps and bathed his hands in
them; then he counted them and set
them up in regular piles, and felt
their rounded outline between his
thumb and fingers, and thought fondly
of the guineas that were only half
earned by the work in his loom, as if
they had been unborn children, -
thought of the guineas that were coming slowly through the coming years,
through all his life, which spread far
away before him, the end quite hidden
by countless days of weaving. No
wonder his thoughts were still with
his loom and his money when he
made his journeys through the fields
and the lanes to fetch and carry home
his work, so that his steps never
wandered to the hedge-banks and the
lane-side in search of the once familiar
herbs: these too belonged to the past,
from which his life had shrunk away,
like a rivulet that.has sunk far down
from the grassy fringe of its old
breadth into a little shivering thread,
that cuts a groove for itself in the
barren sand.
But about the Christmas of that
fifteenth year, a second great change
came over Marner's life, and his history became blent in a singular manner with the life of his neighbors.


CHAPTER II.
THE greatest man in Raveloe was
Squire Cass, who lived in the large
red house with the handsome flight
of stone steps in front and the high
stables behind it, nearly opposite the
church. He was only one among
several landed parishioners, but he
alone was honored with the title of
Squire; for though Mr. Osgood's
family was also understood to be of
timeless origin-the Raveloe imagination having never ventured back to
that fearful blank when there were no
Osgoods, - still, he merely owned
the farm he occupied; whereas Squire
Cass had a tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite as
if he had been a lord.
It was still that glorious war-time
which was felt to be a peculiar favor
of Providence towards the landed
interest, and the fall of prices had not
yet come to carry the race of small
squires and yeomen down that road
to ruin for which extravagant habits
and iad husbandry were plentifully
anointing their wheels. I am speaking now in relation to Raveloe and
the parishes that resembled it; for
our old-fashioned country life had
many different aspects, as all life
must have when it is spread over a
various surface, and breathed on variously by multitudinous currents,
from the winds of heaven to the
thoughts of men, which are forever
moving and crossing each other with
incalculable results. Raveloe lay low
among the bushy trees and the rutted
lanes, aloof from the currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnestness: the rich ate and drank freely,
and accepted gout and apoplexy as
things that ran mysteriously in respectable families, and the poor
thought that the rich were entirely in
the right of it to. lead a jolly life; besides, their feasting caused a multiplication of orts, which were the heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented
the boiling of Squire Cass's hams, but
her longing was arrested by the unctu



SILAS MARNER.


15


ous liquor in which they were boiled;
and when the seasons brought round
the great merry-makings, they were
regarded on all hands as a fine thing
for the poor. For the Raveloe feasts
were like the rounds of beef and the
barrels of ale,- they were on a large
scale, and lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. After ladies
had packed up their best gowns and
topknots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording streams on
pillions with the precious burden in
rainy or snowy weather, when there
was no knowing how high the water
would rise, it was not to be supposed
that they looked forward to a brief
pleasure. On this ground it was always contrived in the dark seasons,
when there was little work to be done,
and the hours were long, that several
neighbors should keep open house in
succession. So soon as Squire Cass's
standing dishes diminished in plenty
and freshness, his guests had nothing
to do but to walk a little higher up
the village to Mr. Osgood's, at the
Orchards, and they found hams and
chines uncut, pork-pies with the scent
of the fire in them, spun butter in all
its freshness, - everything, in fact,
that appetites at leisure could desire,
in perhaps greater perfection, though
not in greater abundance, than at
Squire Cass's.
For the Squire's wife had died long
ago, and the Red House was without
that presence of the wife and mother
which is the fountain of wholesome
love and fear in parlor and kitchen;
and this helped to account not only
for there being more profusion than
finished excellence in the-holiday provisions, but also for the frequency
with which the proud Squire condescended to preside in the parlor of the
Rainbow rather than under the shadow
of his own dark wainscot; perhaps,
also, for the fact that his sons had
turned out rather ill. Raveloe was
not a place where moral censure was
severe, but it was thought a weakness
in the Squire that he had kept all his
sons at home in idleness; and though


some license was to be allowed to
young men whose fathers could afford
it, people shook their heads at the
courses of the second son, Dunstan,
commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose
taste for swopping and betting might
turn out to be a sowing of something
worse than wild oats. To be sure,
the neighbors said it was no matter
what became of Dunsey, - a spiteful,
jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy
his drink the more when other people
went dry, - always provided that his
doings did not bring trouble on a
family like Squire Cass's, with a
monument in the church and tankards older than King George. But it
would be a thousand pities if Mr.
Godfrey the eldest, a fine, open-faced,
good-natured young man, who was to
come into the land some day, should
take to going along $he same road as
his brother, as he had seemed to do of
late. If he went on in that way, he
would lose Miss Nancy Lammeter;
for it was well known that she had
looked very shyly on him ever since
last Whitsuntide twelvemonth, when
there was so much talk about his being away from home days and days
together.  There was something
wrong more than common, - that was
quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey did n't
look half so fresh-colored and open as
he used to do. At one time everybody
was saying, What a handsome couple
he and Miss Nancy Lammeter would
make! and ifshe could come to be mistress at the Red House, there would be
a fine change, for the Lammeters had
been brought up in that way that they
never suffered a pinch of salt to be
wasted, and yet everybody in their
household had of the best, according to
his place. Such a daughter-in-law
would be a saving to the old Squire, if
she never brought a penny to her fortune, for it was to be feared that notwithstanding hisincomings there were
more holes in his pocket than the one
where he put his own hand in. But if
Mr. Godfrey did n't turn over a' new
leaf, he might say "Good by " to Miss
Nancy *Lammeter.




SILAS MARNER.


It was the once hopeful Godfrey
who was standing with his hands in
his side-pockets and his back to the
fire, in the dark wainscoted parlor one
late November afternoon in that
fifteenth year of Silas Marner's life at
Raveloe. The fading gray light fell
dimly on the walls decorated with
guns, whips, and foxes' brushes, on
coats and hats flung on the chairs, on
tankards sending forth a scent of flat
ale, and on a half-choked fire, with
pipes propped up in the chimney-corners: signs of a domestic life destitute of any hallowing charm, with
which the look of gloomy vexation on
Godfrey's blond face was. in sad accordance.  He seemed to be waiting and listening for some one's
approach, and presently the sound of a
heavy step, with an accompanying
whistle, was heard across the large,
empty entrance-hall.
The door opened, and a thickset,
heavy-looking young man entered,
with the flushed face and the gratuitously elated bearing which mark the
first stage of intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey's
face parted with some of its gloom to
take on the more active expression of
hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under the chair in the chimneycorner.
"* Well, Master Godfrey, what do
you want with me?" said Dunsey,
in a mocking tone.  "You're my
elders and betters, you know; I was
obliged to come when you sent for
me."
" Why this is what I want, - and
just shake yourself sober and listen,
will you?" said Godfrey, savagely.
He had himself been drinking more
than was good for him, trying to turn
his gloom into uncalculating anger.
" I want to tell you, I must hand over
that rent of Fowler's to the Squire or
else tell him I gave it you; for he's
threatening to distrain for it, and it '11
all be out soon, whether I tell him or
not. He said, just now, before he
went out, he should send word to Cox


to distrain, if Fowler did n't come and
pay up his arrears this week. The
Squire's short o' cash, and in no humor to stand any nonsense; and you
know what he threatened if ever he
found you making away with his
money again. So, see and get the
money, and   pretty  quickly, will
you l"
"Oh!" said Dunsey, sneeringly,
coming nearer to his brother and
looking in his face. " Suppose, now,
you get the money yourself, and save
me the trouble, eh l Since you was
so kind as to hand it over to me, you '11
not refuse me the kindness to pay it
back for me: it was your brotherly
love made you do it, you know."
Godfrey bit his lips and clenched
his fist. " Don't come near me with
that look, else I '11 knock you down/'
"0 no, you won't," said Dunsey,
turning away on his heel, however.
"Because I m such a good-natured
brother, you know. I might get you
turned out of house and home, and
cut off with a shilling any day. I
might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice
young woman, Molly Farren, and
was very unhappy because he could n't
live with his drunken wife, and I
should slip into your place as comfortable as could be. But you see, I
don't do it, - I 'm so easy and goodnatured. You '11 take any trouble for
me. You 11 get the hundred pounds
for me, - I know you will."
" low can I get the money? " said
Godfrey, quivering. "I haven't a
shilling to bless myself with. And
it's a lie that you'd slip into my
place: you'd get yourself turned out
too, that's all. For if you begin telling tales, I'll follow. Bob's my
father's favorite,-you know  that
very well. He'd only think himself
well rid of you."
"Never mind," said Dunsey, nodding his head sideways as he. looked
out of the window. " It 'ud be very
pleasant to me to go in your company,
you're such a handsome brother,
and weo always been    o fond of




SILAS MARNER.


17


quarrelling  with  one  another, I frcy, quivering, and pale again. "My
should n't know what to do without patience is pretty near at an'end. If
you.  But you'd like better for us you'd a little more sharpness in you,
both to stay at home together; I know  you might know that you may urge a
you would. So you '11 manage to get man a bit too far, and make one leap
that little sum o' money, and I'11 bid as easy as another. I don't know but
you good by, though I'm sorry to what it is so now: I may as well tell
part."                            the  Squire everything myself,-I
Dunstan was moving off, but God- should get you off my back, if I got
frey rushed after him  and seized nothing else. And, after all, he'll
him  by the arm, saying, with an know some time. She's been threatoath: -                          ening to come herself and tell him.
"I tell you, I have no money: I So, don't flatter yourself that your
can get no money."                secrecy 's worth any price you choose
" Borrow of old Kimble."        to ask. You drain me of money till
" I tell you, he won't lend me any I have got nothing to pacify her with,
more, and I sha' n't ask him."    and she 'll do as she threatens some
"Well then, sell Wildfire."     day. It's all one. I'll tell my father
"Yes, that 's easy talking. I must everything myself, and you may go
have the money directly."         to the Devil."
"Well, you 've only got to ride hin  Dunsey perceived that he had overto the hunt to-morrow. There '11 be shot his mark, and that there was a
Bryce and Keating there, for sure. point at which even the hesitating
You '11 get more bids than one."  Godfrey might be driven into decision.
"I dare say, and get back home at But he said, with an air of unconeight o'clock, splashed up to the chin. cern: -
I 'm going to Mrs. Osgood's birthday  "As you please; but I '11 have a
dance."                           draught of ale first."  And ringing
"Oho!" said Dunsey, turning his the bell, he threw  himself across
head on one side, and trying to speak two chairs, and began to rap the
in a small mincing treble.  "And window-seat with the handle of his
there's sweet Miss Nancy     com- whip.
ing; and we shall dance with her, and  Godfrey stood, still with his back
promise never to be naughty again, to the fire, uneasily moving his fingers
and be taken into favor, and -    among the contents of his side-pockets,
"Hold your tongue about Miss and looking at the floor. That big
Nancy, you fool," said Godfrey, turn- muscular frame of his held plenty of
ing red, "else 'll throttle you."  animal courage, but helped him to no
" What for?" said Dunsey, still in decision when the dangers to be braved
an artificial tone, but taking a whip were such as could neither be knocked
from the table and beating the butt- down nor throttled.  His natural
end of it on his palm. " You've a irresolution  and  moral cowardice
very good chance. I'd advise vou to were exagge   ted by a position in
creep up her sleeve again: it Yud be which dreaded consequences seemed
saving time, if Molly should happen to press equally on all sides, and his
to take a drop too much laudanum  irritation had no sooner provoked him
some day, and make a widower of to defy Dunstan and anticipate all
you. Miss Nancy wouldn't mind possible betrayals, than the miseries
being a second, if she did n't know it. he must bring on himself by such a
And you're got a good-natured step seemed more unendurable to him
-brother, who '1 keep your secret well, than the present evil. The results of
because you '11 be so very obliging confession were not contingent, they
to him."                          were certain; whereas betrayal wasm
" I '11 tell you what it i," said God- nort ertaim.From. the near visipon;
B




18


SILAS MARNER.


that certainty he fell back on suspense
and vacillation with a sense of repose,
The disinherited son of a small squire,
equally disinclined to dig and to beg,
was almost as helpless as an uprooted
tree, which, by the favor of earth
and sky, has grown to a handsome
bulk on the spot where it first shot
upward. Perhaps it would have been
possible to think of digging with some
cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were
to be won on those terms; but, since
he must irrevocably lose her as well as
the inheritance, and must break every
tie but the one that degraded him and
left him without motive for trying to
recover his better self, he could imagine no future for himself on the
other side of confession but that of
"'listing for a soldier,"- the most
desperate step, short of suicide, in
the eyes of respectable families. No!
he would rather trust to casualties
than to his own resolve, - rather go
on sitting at the feast and sipping the
wine he loved, though with the sword
hanging over him and terror in his
heart, than rush away into the cold
darkness where there was no pleasure
left. The utmost concession to Dunstan about the horse began to seem
easy, compared with the fulfilment of
his own threat. But his pride would
not let him recommence the conversation otherwise than by continuing
the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting
for this, and took his ale in shorter
draughts than usual.
"It 's just like you," Godfrey burst
out, in a bitter tone, "to talk about
my selling Wildfire in that cool way,
- the last thing I've got to call my
own, and the best bitlf horse-flesh I
ever had in my life. And if you 'd
got a spark of pride in you, you 'd be
ashamed to see the stables emptied,
and everybody sneering about it. But
it 's my belief you'd sell yourself if it
was only for the pleasure of making
Somebody feel he d got a bad bargain."
"Ay, ay," said Dunstan, very pla*   cably, "you do me justice, I see.
You know I'm a    jewel for 'ticing




people into bargains. For which
reason I advise you to let me sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt tomorrow for you, with pleasure. I
should n't look so handsome as you
in the saddle, but it's the horse they'11
bid for, and not the rider."
" Yes, I dare say, - trust my horse
to you!"
"As you please," said Dunstan,
rapping the window-seat again with
an air of great unconcern. " It 's you
have got to pay Fowler's money; it's
none of my business. You received
the money from him when you went
to Bramcote, and you told the Squire
it was n't paid. I'd nothing to do
with that; you chose to be so obliging as give it me, that was all. If
you don't want to pay the money, let
it alone; it 's all one to me. But I
was willing to accommodate you by
undertaking to sell the horse, seeing
it's not convenient to you to go so
far to-morrow."
Godfrey was silent for some moments.  He would have * liked to
spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip
from his hand, and flog him to within
an inch of his life; and no bodily
fear could have deterred him; but he
was mastered by another sort of fear,
which was fed by feelings stronger
even than his resentment. When he
spoke again, it was in a half-conciliatory tone.
"Nell, you mean no nonsense
about the horse, eh l You '11 sell him
all fair, and hand over the money?
If you don't, you know, everything
'ull go to smash, for I've got nothing
else to trust to. And you '11 have
less pleasure in pulling the house
over my head, when your own skull's
to be broken too."
"Ay, ay," said Dunstan, rising,
"all right. I thought you 'd come
round. I 'm the fellow to bring old
Bryce up to the scratch. I '11 get you
a hundred and twenty for him, if I
get you a penny."
"But it '11 perhaps rain cats and
dogs to-morrow, as it did yesterday,
and then you can't go," said Godfrey,




SILAS MARNER.


19


hardly knowing whether he wished
for that obstacle or not.
"Not it," said Dunstan.  "I 'm
always lucky in my weather.   It
might rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps, you
know, -I always do. You've got
the beauty, you see, and I 've got the
luck, so you must keep me by you for
your crooked sixpence; you '11 ne-ver
get along without me."
"Confound   you,   hold  your
tongue! " said Godfrey, impetuously.
" And take care to keep sober to-morrow, else you '11 get pitched on your
head coming home, and Wildfire
might be the worse for it."
"Make your tender heart easy,"
said Dunstan, opening the door.
"You never knew me see double when
I'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud
spoil the fun. Besides, whenever I
fall, I'm warranted to fall on my
legs."
With that, Dunstan slammed the
door behind him, and left Godfrey to
that bitter rumination on his personal
circumstances which was now unbroken from day to day save by the
excitement of sporting, drinking, cardplaying, or the rarer and less oblivious
pleasure of seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied pains
springing from the higher sensibility
that accompanies higher culture arc
perhaps less pitiable than that dreary
absence of impersonal enjoyment and
consolation which leaves ruder minds
to the perpetual urgent companionship of their own griefs and discontents. The lives of those rural forefathers, whom we are apt to think
very prosaic figures, - men whose
only work was to ride round their
land, getting heavier and heavier in
their saddles, and who passed the rest
of their days in the half-listless gratification of senses dulled by monotony,
-had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. Calamities came to them too,
and their early errors carried hard
consequences: perhaps the love of
some sweet maiden, the image of
purity) order, and calm, had opened


their eyes to the vision of a life in
which the days would not seem too
long, even without rioting; but the
maiden was lost, and the vision passed
away, and then what was left to them,
especially when they had become too
heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a
gun over the furrows, but to drink and
get merry, or to drink and get angry,
so that they might be independent of
variety, and say over again with eager
emphasis the things they had said
already any time that twelvemonth?
Assuredly, among these flushed and
dull-eyed men there were some whom
- thanks to their native human-kindness -even riot could never drive
into brutality; men who, when their
cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen
point of sorrow or remorse, had been
pierced by the reeds they leaned on,
or had lightly put their limbs in
fetters fiom which no struggle could
loose them; and under these sad circumstances, common to us all, their
thoughts could find no resting-place
outside the ever-trodden round of their
own petty history.
That, at least, was the condition of
Godfrey Cass in this six and twentieth year of his life. A movement of
compunction, helped by those small
indefinable influences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant nature, had urged him into a secret
marriage, which was a blight on his
life. It was an ugly story of low
passion, delusion, and waking from
delusion, which needs not to be
dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's
bitter memory. He had long known
that the delusion was partly due to a
trap laid for him by Dunstan, who
saw in his brother'&,degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once
his jealous hate and his cupidity.
And if Godfrey could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron bit that
destiny had put into his mouth would
have chafed him less intolerably. If
the curses he muttered half aloud
when he was alone had had no other
object than Dunstan's diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk less from




20


SILAS MARNER.


the consequences of avowal. But he continually triumphed  over every
had something else to curse, - his other was that of warding off the evil
own vicious folly, which now seemed day, when he would have to bear the
as mad and unaccountable to him as consequences of his father's violent
almost all our follies and vices do resentment for the wound inflicted on
when their promptings have long his family pride, -would have, perpassed away. For four years he had haps, to turn his back on that heredithought of Nancy Lammeter, and tary ease and dignity which, after all,
wooed her with tacit patient worship, was a sort of reason for living, and
as the woman who made him think would carry with him the certainty
of the future with joy: she would be that he was banished forever from tle
his wife, and would make home love- sight and esteem of Nancy Lammeter.
ly to him, as his father's home had The longer the interval, the more
never been; and it would be easy, chance there was of deliverance from
when she was always near, to shake some, at least, of the hateful conseoff those foolish habits that were no quences to which he had sold himself,
pleasures, but only a feverish way of - the more opportunities remained
annulling vacancy.  Godfrey's was for him to snatch the strange gratifian essentially domestic nature, bred cation of seeing Nancy, and gathering
up in a home where the hearth had some faint indications of her lingering
no smiles, and where the daily habits regard.  Towards this gratification
were not chastised by the presence of he was impelled, fitfully, every now
household order; his easy disposition and then, after having passed weeks
made him fall in unresistingly with the in which he had avoided her as the
family courses, but the need of some far-off, bright-winged prize, that only
tender permanent affection, the long- made him spring forward, and find
ing for some influence that would his chain all the more galling. One
make the good he preferred easy to of those fits of yearning, was on him
pursue, caused the neatness, purity, now, and it would have been strong
and liberal orderliness of the Lamme- enough to have persuaded him to trust
ter household, sunned by the smile Wildfire to Dunstan rather than disof Nancy, to seem like those fresh appoint the yearning, even if he had
bright hours of the morning, when not had another reason for his disintemptations go to sleep, and leave the clination towards the morrow's hunt.
ear open to the voice of the good That other reason was the fact that
angel, inviting to industry, sobriety, the morning's meet was near Batherand peace. And yet the hope of this ley, the market-town where the unparadise had not been enough to save happy woman lived, whose image behim from a course which shut him  came more odious to him every day;
out of it forever. Instead of keeping and to his thought the whole vicinage
fast hold of the strong silken rope by was haunted by her. The yoke a
which Nancy would have drawn him  man creates for himself by wrongsafe to the green banks, where it was doing will breed hate in the kindliest
easy to step firmly, he had let him- nature; and the good-humored, afself be dragged'back into mud and fectionate-hearted Godfrey Cass was
slime, in which it was useless to strug- fast becoming a bitter man, visited by
gle. He had made ties for himself cruel wishes, that seemed to enter,
which robbed him of all wholesome and depart, and enter again, like
motive, and were a constant exaspera- demons who had found in him a
tion.                             ready-garnished home.
Still, there was one position worse  What was he to do this evening to
than the present: it was the position pass the time? He might as well go
he would be in when the ugly secret to the Rainbow, and hear the talk
was disclosed; and the desire that about the cock-fighting; everybody




SILAS MARNER.


21


was there, and what else was there
to be done? Though, for his own
part, he did not care a button for
cock-fighting Snuff, the brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front
of him, and had been watching him
for some time, now jumped up in impatience for the expected caress. But
Godfrey thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room, followed
humbly by the unresenting Snuff, -
perhaps because she saw no other career open to her.
CHAPTER IV.
DUNSTAN CASS, setting off in the
raw morning, at the judiciously quiet
pace of a man who is obliged to ride
to cover on his hunter, had to take
his way along the lane, which, at its
farther extremity, passed by the piece
of unenclosed ground called the Stonepit, where stood the cottage, once a
stonecutter's shed, now for fifteen
years inhabited by Silas Marner.
The spot looked very dreary at this
season, with the moist trodden clay
about it, and the red, muddy water
high up in the deserted quarry.
That was Dunstan's first thought as
he approached it; the second was,
that the old fool of a weaver, whose
loom he heard rattling already, had a
great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it that he, I)unstan
Cass, who had often heard talk of
Marner's miserliness, had never
thought of suggesting to Godfrey
that he should frighten or persuade
the old fellow into lending the money
on the excellent security of the young
Squire's prospects? The resource occurred to him now as so easy and
agreeable, especially as Marner's
hoard was likely to be large enough
to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus
beyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful
brother, that he had almost turned the
horse's head towards home again.
Godfrey would be ready enough to ac

cept the suggestion: he would snatch
eagerly at a plan that might save him
from parting with Wildfire.  But
when l)unstan's meditation reached
this point, the inclination to go on
grew  strong  and prevailed.  He
did n't want to give Godfrey that
pleasure: he preferred that Master
Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover,
Dunstan enjoyed the self-important
consciousness of having a horse to
sell, and the opportunity of driving a
bargain, swaggering, and, possibly,
taking somebody in. He might have
all the satisfaction attendant on selling his brother's horse, and not the
less have the further satisfaction of
setting Godfrey to borrow Marner's
money. So he rode on to cover.
Bryce and Keating were there, as
Dunstan was quite sure they would
be, - he was such a lucky fellow.
"Hey-day," said Bryce, who had
long had his eye on Wildfire, "you 're
on your brother's horse to-day; how's
that?"
" 0, I 've swopped with him," said
Dunstan, whose delight in lying,
grandly independent of utility, was
not to be diminished by the likelihood
that his hearer would not believe
him, -" Wildfire's mine now."
" What! has he swopped with you
for that big-boned hack of yours?"
said Bryce, quite aware that he should
get another lie in answer.
" 0, there was a little account between us," said Dunsey, carelessly,
"and Wildfire made it even. I accommodated him by taking the horse,
though it was against my will, for I 'd
got an itch for a mare o' Jortin's, -
as rare a bit o' blood as ever you threw
your leg across. But I shall keep
Wildfire, now I've got him, though
I'd a bid of a hundred and fifty for
him the other day, from a man over
at Flitton, -he's buying for Lord
Cromleck, -a fellow with a cast in
his eye, and a green waistcoat. But
I mean to stick to Wildfire: I sha' n't
get a better at a fence in a hurry.
The mare 's got more blood, but she's
a bit too weak in the hind-quarters"




22


SILAS MARNER.


Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell the horse, and
Dunstan knew that he divined it
(horse-dealing is only one of many
human transactions carried on in this
ingenious manner); and they both
considered that the bargain Was in
its first stage, when Bryce replied
ironically: -
" I wonder at that now; I wonder
you mean to keep him; for I never
heard of a man who did n't want to
sell his horse getting a bid of half as
much again as the horse was worth.
You'11 be lucky if you get a hundred."
Keating rode up now, and the
transaction became more complicated.
It ended in the purchase of the horse
by Bryce for a hundred and twenty,
to be paid on the delivery of Wildtire,
safe and sound, at the Batherley
stables.  It did occur to Dunsey
that it might be wise for him to give
up the day's hunting, proceed at once
to Batherley, and, having waited for
Bryce's return, hire a horse to carry
him home with the money in his
pocket. But the inclination for a
run, encouraged by confidence in his
luck, and by a draught of brandy
from his pocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy
to overcome, especially with a horse
under him that would take the fences
to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, however, took one fence too
many, and "staked" his horse. His
own ill-favored person, which was
quite unmarketable, escaped without
injury, but poor Wildfire, unconscious
of his price turned on his flank, and
painfully-panted his last. It happened that Dunstan, a short time
before, having had to get down to
arrange his stirrup, had muttered a
good many curses at this interruption,
which had thrown him in the rear of
the hunt near the moment of glory,
and under this exasperation had taken the fences more blindly.  He
would soon have been up with the
hounds again, when the fatal accident
happened; and hence he was between


eager riders in advance, not troubling
themselves about what happened behind them, and far-off stragglers,
who were as likely as not to pass
quite aloof from the line of road in.which Wildfire had fallen. Dunstan,
whose nature it was to care more for
immediate annoyances than for remote
consequences, no sooner recovered his
legs, and saw that it was all over with
Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at
the absence of witnesses to a position
which no swaggering could make enviable.  Reinforcing himself, after
his shake, with a little brandy and
much swearing, he walked as fast as
he could to a coppice on his right
hand, through which it occurred to
him that he could make his way to
Batherley without danger of encountering any member of the hunt. His
first intention was to hire a horse
there and ride home forthwith, for to
walk many miles without a gun in
his hand, and along an ordinary road,
was as much out of the question to
him as to other spirited young men
of his kind. He did not much mind
about taking the bad news to Godfrey, for lie had to offer him at the
same time the resource of Marner's
money; and if Godfrey kicked, as he
always did, at the notion of making
a fresh debt, from which he himself
got the smallest share of advantage,
why, he would n't kick long; Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey
into anything. The idea of Marner's
money kept growing in vividness,
now the want of it had become immediate; the prospect of having to
make his appearance with the muddy
boots of a pedestrian at Batherley, and
encounter the grining queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way
of his impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his felicitous plan;
and a casual visitation of his waistcoat-pocket, as he was ruminating,
awakened his memory to the fact that
the two or three small coins his forefinger encountered there, were of too
pale color to cover that small debt,
without payment of which Jennings




SILAS MARNER.


23


had declared he would never do any
more business with Dunsey Cass.
After all, according to the direction
in which the run had brought him,
he was not so very much farther fromn
home than he was from Batherley;
but Dansey, not being remarkable
for clearness of head, was only led to
this conclusion by the gradual perception that there were other reasons
for choosing the unprecedented course
of walking home. It was now nearly
four o'clock, and a mist was gathering; the sooner he got into the road
the better. He remembered having
crossed the road and seen the fingerpost only a little while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his
coat, twisting the lash of his huntingwhip compactly round the handle,
and rapping the tops of his boots
with a self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he was not at all
taken by surprise, he set off with the
sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily exertion,
which somehow, and at some time, he
should be able to dress up and magnify to the admiration of a select circle
at the Rainbow.   When a young
gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to
so exceptional a mode of locomotion
as walking, a whip in his hand is a
desirable corrective to a too bewildering, dreamy sense of unwontedness in
his position; and Dunstan, as he
went along through the gathering
mist, was always rapping his whip
somewhere. It was Godfrey's whip,
which he had chosen to take without
leave because it had a gold handle;
of course no one could see, when Dunstan held it, that the name Godfrey
Cass was cut in deep letters on that
gold handle,- they could only see
that it was a very handsome whip.
Dunsey was not without fear that he
might meet some acquaintance in
whose eyes he would cut a pitiable
figure, for mist is no screen wherepeople get close to each other; but when
he at last found himself in the wellknown Raveloe lanes without having
met a soul, he iilently remarked that


that was part of his usual good-luck.
But now the mist, helped by the evening darkness, was more of, screen
than he desired, for it hid the ruts into
which his feet were liable to slip,hid everything, so that he had to
guide his steps by dragging his whip
along the low bushes in advance of
the hedgerow.  He must soon, he
Ithought, be getting near the opening
at the Stone-pits: he should find it
out by the break in the hedgerow.
He found it out, however, by another
circumstance which he had not expected, - namely, by certain gleams
of light, which he presently guessed
to proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. That cottage and the money
hidden within it had been in his mind
continually during his walk, and he
had been imagining ways of cajoling
and tempting the weaver to part with
the immediate possession of his money
forthe sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if there must be a little
frightening added to the cajolery, for
his own arithmetical convictions were,
not clear enough to afford him any
forcible demonstration as to the ad
vantages of interest; and as for security, he regarded it vaguely as
means of cheating a man, by making
him believe that he would be paid.
Altogether, the operation on the miser's mind was a task that Godfrey.
would be sure to hand over to his
more daring and cunning brother:
Dunstan had made up his mind to
that; and by the time he saw the
light gleaming through the chinks of
Marner's shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the weaver had become so
familiar to him that it occurred to
him as quite a natural thing to make
the acquaintance forthwith. There
might be several conveniences attending this course: the weaver had possibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was
tired of feeling his way. He was still
nearly three quarters of a mile. from
home, and the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was
passing into rain. He turned up the
bank, not without some fear lest he




24


SILAS MARNER.


might miss the right way, since he
was not certain whether the light
were in front or on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground before
him cautiously with his whip-handle,
and at last arrived safely at the door.
He knocked loudly, rather enjoying
the idea that the old fellow would be
frightened at the sudden noise. He
heard no movement in reply; all was
silence in the cottage.  Was the
weaver gone to bed, then? If so,
why had he left a light. That was
a strange forgetfulness in a miser.
Dunstan knocked still more loudly,
and, without pausing for a reply,
pushed his fingers through the latchhole, intending to shake the door and
pull the latch-string up and down, not
doubting that the door was fastened.
But, to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he found
himself in front of a bright fire, which
lit up every corner of the cottage,
- the bed, the loom, the three chairs,
and the table, - and showed him
that Marner was not there.
Nothing at that moment could be
much more inviting to Dunsey than
the bright fire on the brick hearth:
he walked in and seated himself by it
at once. There was something in
front of the fire, too, that would have
been inviting to a hungry man, if it
had been in a different stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspended from the kettle-hanger by a string
passed through a large door-key, in a
way known to primitive housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the
pork had been hung at the farthest
extremity of the hanger, apparently
to prevent the roasting from proceeding too rapidly during the owner's
absence. The old staring simpleton
had hot meat for his supper, then.
thought Dunstan. People had always said he lived on mouldy bread,
on purpose to check his appetite.
But where could he be at this time,
and on such an evening, leaving his
supper in thTi stage of preparation,
and his door unfastened? Dunstan's
own recent difficulty in making his


way suggested to him that the weaver  I
had perhaps gone outside his cottage 
to fetch in fuel, or for some such brief ti
purpose, and had slipped into the 
Stone-pit. That was an interesting 
idea to  Dunstan, carrying  conse-  I
quences of entire novelty.  If the
weaver was dead, who had a right to:
his money? Who would know where 
his money was hidden?   Who would I
know that anybody had come to take it!
away? He went no farther into the -I
subtleties of evidence; the pressing 
question, "Where is the money?": j
now took such entire possession of '
him. as to make him   quite forget 
that the weaver's death was not a 
certainty. A dull mind, once arriv- 
ing at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the im- 
pression that the notion from which
the inference started was purely problematic. And Dunstan's mind was i
as dull as the mind of a possible felon I
usually is. There were only three
hiding-places where he had ever heard
of cottagers' hoards being found; the
thatch, the bed, and a hole in the 
floor.  Marner's cottage had   no 
thatch; and l)unstan's first act, after 
a train of thought made rapid by the X
stimulus of cupidity, was to go up
to the bed; but while he did so, his
eyes travelled eagerly over the floor,;
where the bricks, distinct in the fire- i
light, were  discernible under the
sprinkling of sand. But not every-:
where; for there was one spot, and 
one only, which was quite covered 
with sand, and sand   showing the 
marks of fingers, which had apparent- i
ly been careful to spread it over a 
given space. It was near the treddles 
of the loom. In an instant Dunstan i
darted to that spot, swept away the;
sand with his whip, and, inserting 
the thin end of the hook between the:
bricks, found that they were loose. |
In haste he lifted up two bricks, and
saw what he had no doubt was the
object of his search; for what could I
there be but money in those. two t:i
leathern bags?   And, from   their i1
weight, they must be filled with  uina



SILAS MARNER.


25


eas.  Junstan felt round the hole,
to be certain that it held no more;
then hastily replaced the bricks, and
spread the sand over them.  Hardly
more than five minutes had passed
since he entered the cottage, but it
seemed to Dunstan like a long while;
and though he was without any distinct recognition of the possibility that
Marner might be alive, and might reenter the cottage at any moment, he
felt an undefinable dread laying hold
on him, as he rose to his feet with the
bags in his hand. He would hasten
out into the darkness, and then consider what he should do with the bags.
He closed the door behind him immediately, that he might shut in the
stream of light: a few steps would be
enough to carry him beyond betrayal
by the gleams from the shutter-chinks
and the latch-hole. The rain and
darkness had got thicker, and he was
glad of it; though it was awkward
walking with both hands filled, so
that it was as much as he could do to
grasp his whip along with one of the
bags. But when he had gone a yard
or two, he might take his time. So
he stepped forward into the darkness.
CHAPTER V.
WHEN Dunstan Cass turned his
back on the cottage, Silas Marner was
not more than a hundred yards away
from it, plodding along from the village with a sack thrown round his
shoulders as an overcoat, and with a
horn lantern in his hand. His legs
were weary, but his mind was at ease,
free from tfe presentiment of change.
The sense of security more frequently
springs from habit than from conviction, and for this reason it often subsists after such a change in the conditions as might have been expected to
suggest alarm..  The lapse of time
during which a given event has not
happened is, in this logic of habit,
constantly alleged as a reason why the
2


event should never happen, even when
the lapse of time is precisely the added condition which makes the event
imminent. A man will tell you that
he has worked in a mine for forty
years unhurt by an accident as a reason why he should apprehend no
danger, though the roof is beginning
to sink; and it is often observable,
that the older a man gets, the more -
difficult it is to him to retain a believing conception of his own death.
This influence of habit was neces- 
sarily strong in a man whose life
was so, monotonous as Marner's, -
who saw no new people and heard of
no new events to keep alive in him the
idea of the unexpected and the changeful; and it explains, simply enough,
why his mind could be at ease, though
he had left his house and his treasure
more defenceless than usual.  Silas
was thinking with double complacency of his supper: first, because it
would be hot and savory; and secondly, because it would cost him
nothing. For the little bit of pork
was a present from that excellent
housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter,
to whom he had this day carried
home a handsome piece of linen; and
it was only on occasion of a present
like this, that Silas indulged himself
with roast-meat. Supper was his favorite meal, because it came at his
time of revelry, when his heart
warmed over his gold; whenever he
had roast-meat, he always chose to
have it for supper. But this evening,
he had no sooner ingeniously knotted
his string fast round his bit of
pork, twisted the string according to
rule over his door-key, passed it
through the handle, and made it fast
on the hanger, than he remembered
that a piece of very fine twine was indispensable to his " setting up " a new
piece of work in his loom early in the
morning. It had slipped his memory,
because, in coming from  Mr. Lammeter's, he had not ha4 to pass through
the village; but to lose time by goitn
on errands in the morning was out of
the question. It was a nasty fog to.



SILAS MARNER.


turn out into, but there were things
Silas loved better than his own comfort; so, drawing his pork to the extremity of the hanger, and arming
himself with his lantern and his old
sack, he set out on what, in ordinary
weather, would have been a twenty
minutes' errand. He could not have
locked his door without undoing his
well-knotted string and retarding his
supper; it was not worth his while
to make that sacrifice.  What thief
would find his way to the Stone-pits
on such a night as this? and why
should he come on this particular
night, when he had never come
through all the fifteen years before?
These questions were not distinctly
present in Silas's mind; they merely
serve to represent the vaguely felt
foundation of his freedom from anxiety.
He reached his door in much satisfaction that his errand was done: he
opened it, and to his short-sighted
eyes everything remained as he had
left it, except that the fire sent out a
welcome increase of heat. He trod
about the floor while putting by his
lantern and throwing aside his hat
andrsack, so as to merge the marks
of Dunstan's feet on the sand in the
marks of his own nailed boots. Then
he moved his pork nearer to the fire,
and sat down to the agreeable business of tending the meat and warming himself at the same time.
Any one who had looked at him
as the red light shone upon his pale
face, strange straining eyes, and meagre form, would perhaps have understood the mixture of contemptuous
pity, dread, and suspicion with which
he was regarded by his neighbors in
Raveloe.- Yet few   men could be
more harmless than poor Marner. In
his truthful simple soul, not even the
growing greed and worship of gold
could beget any vice directly injurious to others. The light of his faith
quite put out, and his affections made
desolate, he had clung with all the
force of his nature to bis work and his
money; and like all objects to which


a man devotes himself, they had fashioned him into correspondence with
themselves. His loom, as he wrought
in it without ceasing, had in its turn
wrought on him, and confirmed more
and more the monotonous craving
for its monotonous response.  His
gold, as he hung over it and saw it
grow, gathered his power of loving
together into a hard isolation like its
own.
As soon as he was warm he began
to think it would be a long while to
wait till after supper before he drew
out his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them on the table before
him as he ate his unwonted feast.
For joy is the best of wine, and Silas's guineas were a golden wine of
that sort.
He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the floor near his
loom, swept away the sand without
noticing any change, and removed
the bricks. The sight of the empty
hole made his heart leap violently,
but the belief that his gold was gone
could not come at once, -only terror, and the eager effort to put an
end to the terror. He passed his
trembling hand all about the hole,
trying to think it possible that his
eyes had deceived him; then he held
the candle in the hole and examined
it curiously, trembling more and
more. At last he 'shook so violently
that he let fall the candle, and lifted
his hands to his head, trying to steady
himself, that he might think. Had
he put his gold somewhere else, by a
sudden resolution last night, and then
forgotten it  A man falling into
dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding stones; and Silas,
by acting as if he believed in false
hopes, warded off the moment of despair. He searched in every corner,
he turned his bed over, and shook it,
and kneaded it; he looked in his
brick oven where he laid his sticks.
When there was no other place to be
searched, he kneeled down again and
felt once more all round the hole.
There was no untried refuge left for




SILAS MARNER.


27


a moment's shelter from the terrible looked as if they had not been moved.
truth.                             Was it a thief who had taken the
Yes, there was a sort of refuge bags? or was it a cruel power that
which always comes with the prostra- no hands could reach, which had detion of thought under an overpower- lighted in making him a second time
ing passion; it was that expectation desolate?  He  shrank  from  this
of impossibilities, that belief in con- vaguer dread, and fixed his mind
tradictory images, which is still dis- with struggling effort on the robber
tinct from  madness, because it is with hands, who could be reached by
capable of being dissipated by the ex- hands. His thoughts glanced at all
ternal fact. Silas got up from his the neighbors who had made any reknees trembling, and looked round at marks, or asked any questions which
the table: did n't the gold lie there he might now regard as a ground of
after all? The table was bare. Then suspicion. There was Jem Rodney,
he turned and looked behind him, -  a known poacher, and otherwise dislooked all round his dwelling, seem- reputable: he had often met Marner
ing to strain his brown eyes after in his journeys across the fields, and
some possible appearance of the bags had said something jestingly about
where he had already sought them in the weaver's money; nay, he had
vain. He could see every object in once irritated Marner, by lingering
his cottage,- and his gold was not at the fire when he called to light
there.                            his pipe, instead  of going about
Again he put his trembling hands his business. Jem  Rodney was the
to his head, and gave a wild ringing man, - there was ease in the thought.
scream, the cry of desolation. For a Jem could be found and made to refew moments after, he stood motion- store the money: Marner did not
less; but the cry had relieved him  want to punish him, but only to get
from the first maddening pressure of back his gold which had gone from
the truth. He turned, and tottered him, and left his soul like a forlorn
towards his loom, and got into the traveller on an unknown desert. The
seat where he worked, instinctively robber must be laid hold of. Marner's
seeking this as the strongest assur- ideas of legal authority were conance of reality.                  fused, but he felt that he must go and
And now that all the false hopes proclaim his loss; and the great peohad vanished, and the first shock of pie in the village - the clergyman,
certainty was past, the idea of a thief the constable, and Squire Cass -
began to present itself, and he enter- would make Jem Rodney, or sometained it eagerly, because a thief body else, deliver up the stolen money.
might be caught and made to restore He rushed out in the rain, under the
the gold. The thought brought some stimulus of this hope, forgetting to
new strength with it, and he started cover his head, not caring to fasten
from his loom to the door.  As he his door; for he felt as if he had nothopened it the rain beat in upon him, ing left to lose. He ran swiftly, till
for it was falling more and more want of breath compelled him too
heavily. There were no footsteps to slacken his pace as he was entering
be tracked on such a night,- foot- the village at the turning close to the
steps? When had the thief come? Rainbow.
During Silas's absence in the day-  The Rainbow, in Marner's view,
time the door had been locked, and was a place of luxurious resort for
there had been no marks of any in- rich and stout husbands, whose wives
road on his return by daylight. And had superfluous stores of linen; it
in the evening, too, he said to himself, was the place where he was likely to
everything was the same as when he find the powers and dignities of Ravehad left it  The sand and bricks lee, and where he could most speedily




28


SILAS MARNER.


mnake his loss public. He lifted the
latch, and turned into the bright bar
or kitchen on the right hand, where
the less lofty customers of the house
were in the habit of assembling, the
parlor on the left being reserved for
the more select society in which
Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the
double pleasure of conviviality and
condescension. But the parlor was
dark 4-night, the chief personages
who ornamented its circle being all
at Mrs. Osgood's birthday dance, as
Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence of this, the party on the highscreened seats in the kitchen was more
numerous than usual; several personages, who would otherwise have been
admitted into the parlor and enlarged
the opportunity of hectoring and condescension for their betters, being
content this evening to vary their enjoyment by taking their spirits and
water where they could themselves
hector and condescend in company
that called for beer.
CHAPTER VI.
THE conversation, which was at a
high pitch of animation when Silas
approached the door of the Rainbow,
had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when the company first assembled. The pipes began to be
puffed in a silence which had an air
of severity; the more important customers, who drank spirits and sat
nearest the fire, staring at each other
as if a bet were depending on the first
man who winked; while the beerdrinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets
and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids
down and rubbed their hands across
their mouths, as if their draughts of
beer were a funereal duty attended
with embarrassing sadness. At last,
Mr. Snell, the landlord, a man of a
neutral disposition, accustomed to
stand aloof from human differences
as those of beings who were all alike
in need of liquor, broke silence, by


saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin
the butcher: -
"Some folks 'ud say that was a
fine beast you druv in yesterday,
Bob?"
The butcher, a jolly, smiling, redhaired man, was not disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs
before he spat and replied, "And
they would n't be fur wrong, John."
After this feeble delusive thaw, the
silence set in as severely as before.
" Was it a red Durham? " said the
farrier, taking up the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes.
The farrier looked at the landlord,
and the landlord looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the
responsibility of answering.
" Red it was," said the butcher, in
his good-humored husky treble," and a Durham it was."
"Then you need n't tell me who
you bought it of," said the farrier,
looking round with some triumph;
"I know who it is has got the red
Durhams o' this country-side. And
she 'd a white star on: her brow, I '11
bet a penny?"   The farrier leaned
forward with his hands on his knees
as he put this question, and his eyes
twinkled knowingly.
"Well; yes,-she might," said
the butcher, slowly, considering that
he was giving a decided affirmative.
"I don't say contrairy."
"I knew that very well," said the
farrier, throwing himself backward
again, and speaking defiantly; " if I
don't know Mr. Lammeter's cows, I
should like to know who does, -
that's all. And as for the cow you
've bought, bargain or no bargain,
I 've been at the drenching of her, -
contradick me who will."
The farrier looked fierce, and the
mild butcher's conversational spirit
was roused a little.
"I 'm not for contradicking no
man," he said; "I'm for peace and
quietness. Some are for cutting long
ribs, — I 'm for cutting 'em short myself; but I don't quarrel with 'em.




SILAS MARNEIR.


29


All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss, -
and anybody as was reasonable, it 'ud
bring tears into their eyes to look at
it."
" Well, it's the cow as I drenched,
whatever it is," pursued, the farrier,
angrily; "and it was Mr. Lammeter's cow, else you told a lie when you
said it was a red I)urham."
"I tell no lies," said the butcher,
with the same mild huskiness as before, " and I contradick none, - not
if a man was to swear himself black:
he's no meat o' mine, nor none o' my
bargains. All I say is, it's a lovely
carkiss. And what I say I'll stick
to; but I '11 quarrel wi' no man."
"No," saiid the farrier, with bitter
sarcasm, looking at the company generally; "and p'rhaps you are n't pigheaded; and p'rhaps you didn't say
the cow was a red Durham; and
p'rhaps you did n't say she'd got a
star on her brow, - stick to that, now
you 're at it."
" Come, come," said the landlord;
"let the cow alone. The truth lies
atween you: you 're both right and
both wrong, as I allays say. And as
for the cow's being Mr. Lammeter's,
I say nothing to that; but this I say,
as the Rainbow 's the Rainbow. And
for the matter o' that, if the talk is to
be o' the Lammeters, yon know the
most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey?
You remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come into these parts,
and took the Warrens? "
Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk,
the latter of which functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share
with a small-featured yo'lng man who
sat opposite hiln, held his white head
on one side, and twirled his thumbs
with an air of complacency, slightly
seasoned with criticism. He smiled
pityingly, in answer to the landlord's
appeal, and said: -
"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I
let other folks talk. I 'e laid by now,
anil gev up to the young uns. Ask
them as hsave been to school at Tarley:
th!y 've learnt pernouncing, that '
conic up since my day."


" If you 're pointing at me, Mr. Macey," said the deputy-clerk, with an
air of anxious propriety, "I 'm nowiso
a man to speak out of my place. As
the psalm says, -
'I know what 's right, nor only so,
But also practise what I know.' "
"Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold
o' the tune, when it's set for you; if
you're for practising, I wish you'd'
practTse that," said a large jocose-looking man, an excellent wheelwright in
his week-day capacity, but on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked,
as he spoke, at two of the company,
who were known officially as the " bassoon " and the " key-bugle," in the
confidence that he was expressing the
sense of the musical profession in
Raveloe.
Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who
shared the unpopularity common to
deputies, turned very red, but replied,
with careful moderation: "Mr. Winthrop, if you '11 bring me any proof as
I'm in the wrong, I 'n not the man
to say I won't alter. But there 's people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope."
" Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, who felt
very well satisfied with this attack on
youthful presumption; "you 're right
there, Tookey: there's allays two
'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man
has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion
other folks have on hini. There'd be
two 'pinions about a cracked bell if
the bell could hear itself."
" Welj, Mr. Macey," said poor
Tookey, serious amidst the general
laughter, "I undertook to partially
fill up the office of parish-clerk by Mr.
Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your
infirmities should make you unfitting;
and it's one of the rights thereof to
sing in the choir, - else why have you
done the same yourself "
" Ah! but the old gentleman and
you are two folks," said Ben Winthrop. "The old gentleman 's got a
gift. Why, the Squire used to invite




SILAS MARNER.


him to take a glass, only to hear him
sing the ' Red Rovier'; did n't he,
Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift.
There's my little lad Aaron, he's got
a gift,- he can sing a tune off straight,
like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you 'd better stick to your
' Amens': your voice is well enough
when you keep it up in your nose. It's
your inside as is n't right made for
music: it's no better nor a hollow
stalk."
This kind of unflinching frankness
was the most piquant form of joke to
the company at the Rainbow, and Ben
Winthrop's insult was felt by every.
body to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram.
"I see what it is plain enough,"
said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool
any longer. " There 's a conspcracy
to turn me out o' the choir, as I
should n't share the Christmas money,
that's where it is. But I shall
speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'11 not
be put upon by no man."
"Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben
Winthrop.   "We 'll pay you your
share to keep out of it, - that 's
what we '11 do. There's things folks
'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin.
"Come, come," said the landlord,
who felt that paving people for their
absence was a principle dangerous to
society; "a joke's a joke. We 're
all good friends here, I hope. We
must give and take. You re both
right and you 're both wrong, as I say.
I agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as there's
two opinions; and if mine was asked,
I should say they're both right.
Tookey's right and Winthrop's right,
and they've only got to split the
difference and make themselves even."
The farrier was puffing his pipe
rather fiercely, in some contempt at
this trivial discussion. He had no
ear for music himself, and never went
to church, as being of the medical
profession, and likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the
butcher, having music in his soul,
had listened with a divided desire for


Tookey's defeat, and for the preservation of the peace.
"To be sure," he said, following
up the landlord's conciliatory view,
we 're fond of our old clerk; it 's
nat'ral, and him used to be such a
singer, and got a brother as is known
for the first fiddler in this countryside. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon
lived in our village, and could give us
a tune when we liked; eh, Mr. Macey? I 'd keep him in liver and
lights for nothing, - that I would."
" A, av," said Mr. Macey, in the
height of complacency; "our family 's
been known for musicianers as far
back as anybody can tell. But them
things are dying out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round;
there's no voices like what there used
to be, and thebre's nobody remembers
what we remember, if it is n't the old
crows."
" Ay, you remember when first Mr.
Lammeter's father come into these
parts, don't you, Mr. Macey?" said
the landlord.
"I should think I did," said the
old man, who had now gone through
that complimentary process necessary
to bring him up to the point of narration; "and a fine old gentleman
he was, —as fine, and finer nor the
Mr. Lammeter as now is. He came
from a bit north'ard, so far as I could
ever make out. But there 's nobody
rightly knows about those parts;
only it could n't be far north'ard, nor
much different from this country, for
he brought a fine breed o' sheep with
him, so there must be pastures there,
and   everything  reasonable.  We
heared tell as he 'd sold his own land
to come and take the Warrens, and
that seemed odd for a man as had
land of his own, to come and rent a
farm in a strange place. But they
said it was along of his wife's dying;
though there 's reason in things as
nobody knows on, -that 's pretty
much what I 've made out; though
some folks are so wise, they '11 find
you fifty reasons straight off, and all
the while the real reason 's winking




SILAS MARNER.


31


at 'em in the corner, and they niver
see 't. Howsomever, it was soon
seen as we 'd got a new parish'ncr as
know'd the rights and customs o'
things, and kep a good house, and
was well looked on by everybody.
And the young man- that 's the
Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he 'd
niver a sister- soon begun to court
Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' the
Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine
handsome lass she was,-eh, you
can't think, - they pretend this young
lass is like her, but that 's the way
wi' people as don't know what come
before 'em. I should know, for I
helped the old rector, Mr. Drumlow
as was, I helped him marry 'em."
Here Mr, Macey paused; he always gave his narrative in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to precedent.
"Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, did n't it, Mr. Macey, so as
you were likely to remember that
marriage " said the landlord, in a
congratulatory tone.
"I should think there did, - a very
partic'lar thing," said Mr. Macey,
nodding sideways. '* For Mr. Drumlow, - poor old gentleman, I was
fond on him, though ie 'd got a bit
confused in his head, what wi' age
and wi' taking a drop o' summat
warm when the service come of a cold
morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, he 'd have no way but he must be
married in Janiwary, which, to be
sure, 's a unreasonable time to be
married in, for it is n't like a christening or a burying, as you can't help;
and so Mr. Drumlow - poor old
gentleman, I was fond on him - but
when he come to put the questions,
he put 'emn by the rule o' contrairy,
like, and he says, 'Wilt thou have
this man to thy wedded wife?' says
he, and then he says, 'Wilt thou
have this woman to thy wedded husband?' says he. But the partic'larest thing of all is, as nobody took any
notice on it but me, and they answered
straight off' Yes,' like as if it had been
me saying ' Amen' i' the right place,


without listening to what went before."
" But you knew what was going on
well enough, did n't you, Mr. Macey?
You were live enough, eh? " said the
butcher.
" Lor bless you!" said Mr. Macev,
pausing, and smiling in pity at the
impotence of his hearer's imagination,
-" why, I was all of a tremble: it
was as if I 'd been a coat pulled by
the two tails, like; for I could n t
stop the parson, I could n't take upon
me to do that; and yet I said to myself, I says, ' Suppose they should n't
be fast married, 'cause the words are
contrairy? ' and my head went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon for turning things over and
seeing all round 'era; and I says to
myself, ' Is 't the meanin' or the
words as makes folks fast i' wedlock? '
For the parson meant right, and the
bride and bridegoom  meant right.
But then, when I come to think on
it, meanin' goes but a little way i'
most things, for you may mean to
stick things together and your glue
may be bad, and then where are you?
And so I says to mysen, 'It is n t the
meanin', it's the glue.' And I was
worreted as if I 'd got three bells to
pull at once, when we got into the
vestry, and they begun to sign their
names. But where 's the use o' talking? - you can't think what goes on
in a 'cute man's inside."
"But you held in for all that,
did n't you, Mr. Macey?" said the
landlord.
"Ay, I held in tight till I was by
mysen wi' Mr. Drumlow, and then I
out wi' everything, but respectful, as
I allays did. And he made light on
it, and he says, 'Pooh, pooh, Macey,
make yourself easy,' he says; 'it's
neither the meaning nor the wordsit's the regester does it - that's the
glue.' So you see he settled it easy;
for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, like so as they are n't
worreted wi' thinking what's the
rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n
been many and many 's the time,




SILAS MARNER.


And sure enough the wedding turned
out all right, on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter - that's Miss Osgood as was -
died afore the lasses were growed up;
but for prosperity and everything respectable, there 's no family more
looked on."
Every one of Mr. Macey's audience
had heard this story many times, but
it was listened to as if it had been a
favorite tune, and at certain points
the puffing of the pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners
might give their whole minds to the
expected words. But there was more
to come; and Mr. Snell, the landlord,
duly put the leading question.
"Why, old Mr. Lammetcr had a
pretty forrin, didn't they say, when
he come into these parts? "
"Well, yes," said Mr. Macey;
"but I dare say it's as much as this
Mr. Lammeter's done to keep it
whole. For there was allays a talk
as nobody could get rich on the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for
it's what they call Charity Land."
"Ay, and there's few folks know
so well as you how it come to be
Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey? " said
the butcher.
" How should they? " said the old
clerk, with some contempt. " Why,
my grandfather made the grooms'
livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and
built the big stables at the Warrens.
Why, they're stables four times as
big as Squire Cass's, for he thought
o' nothing but hosses and hunting,
Cliff did n't, - a Lunnon tailor, some
folks said, as had gone mad wi'
cheating. For he could n't ride; lor
bless you! they said he 'd got no more
grip o' the hoss than if his legs had
been cross - sticks: my grandfather
heared old Squire Cass say so many
and many a time. But ride he would
as if Old Harry had been a driving
him; and he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen; and nothing would his father
have him do, but he must ride and
ride, - though the lad was frighted,
they said. And it was a common
saying as the father wanted to ride


the tailor out o' the lad, and make a
gentleman on him, -not but what
1 'm a tailor myself, but in respect as
God made me such, I'm proud on it,
for 'Macey, tailor,' 's been wrote up
over our door since afore the Queen's
heads went out on the shillings. But
Cliff, he was ashamed o' being called
a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his
riding was laughed at, and nobody
o' the gentlefolks hereabout could
abide him. Howsomever, the poor
lad got sickly and died, and the father did n't live long after him, for
he got queerer nor ever, and they
said he used to go out i' the dead o'
the night, wi' a lantern in his hand,
to the stables, and set a lot o' lights
burning, for he got as he couldn't
sleep; and there he'd stand, cracking
his whip and looking at his hosses;
and they said it was a mercy as the
stables did n't get burnt down wi' the
poor dumb creaturs in 'em. But at
last he died raving, and they found
as he'd left all his property, Warrens
and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and
that's how the Warrens come to be
Charity Land; though, as for the
stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em,
- they're out o' all charicter - lor
bless you! if you was to set the doors
a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like
thunder half o'er the parish."
" Ay, but there's more going on in
the stables than what folks see by
daylight, eh, Mr. Macey? " said the
landlord.
"Ay, ay; go that way of a dark
night, that's all," said Mr. Macey,
winking mysteriously, "and then
make believe, if you like, as you
did n't see lights i' the stables, nor
hear the stamping o' the hosses, nor
the cracking o the whips, and howling, too, if it's tow'rt daybreak.
'Cliff's Holiday'has been the name
of it ever sin' I were a boy; that's
to say, some said as it was the holiday
Old Harry gev him from roasting,
lke. That's what my father told
me, and he was a reasonable man,
though there's folks nowadays know,
what happened afore they were born




SILAS MARNER.


33


better nor they know their own busi- Dowlas, and see you do it? That's
ness."                            no fair bet," said the butcher.
" What do you say to that, eh,    " No fair bet? " replied Mr. DowDowlas? " said the landlord, turning las, angrily. " I should like to hear
to the farrier, who was swelling with any man stand up and say I want to
impatience for his cue. "There's a bet unfair. Come now, Master Lunnut for you to crack."            dy, I should like to hear you say it."
Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit  " Very like you would," said the
in the company, and was proud of butcher. "But it's no business o'
his position.                     mine. You're none o' my bargains,
"Say? I say what a man should and I are n't agoing to try and 'bate
say as does n't shut his eyes to look at your price. If anybody '11 bid for
a finger-post. I say, as I'm ready to you at your own vallying, let him.
wager any man ten pound, if he '11 I'm for peace and quietness, I am."
stand out wi' me any dry night in the  " Yes, that's what every yapping
pasture before the Warren stables, cur is, when you hold a stick up at
as we shall neither see lights nor hear him," said the farrier. "But. I'm
noises, if it is n't the blowing of our afraid o' neither man nor ghost, and
own noses. That's what I say, and I 'm ready to lay a fair bet, - I are n't
I 've said it many a time; but there's a turn-tail cur."
nobodv 'ull ventur a ten-pun' note  "Ay, but there's this in it, Dowon their ghos'cs as they make so sure las," said the landlord, speaking in a
of."                              tone of much candor and tolerance.
"Why, Dowlas, that's easy bet- "There 's folks, i' my opinion, they
ting, that is," said Ben Winthrop. can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as
"You might as well bet a man as ho plain as a pike-staff before 'em. And
would n't catch the rheumatise if he there's reason i' that. For there's
stood up to's neck in the pool of a my wife, now, can't smell, not if she'd
frosty night. It 'ud be fine fun for a the strongest o' cheese under her nose.
man to win his bet as he 'd catch I never see'd a ghost myself; but
the rheumatise. Folks as believe in then I says to myself, ' Very like I
Cliffs Holiday aren't agoing   to haven't got the smell for em.' I
venture near it for a matter o' ten mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or
pound."                           else contrairiways. And so I 'm for
" If Master Dowlas wants to know  holding with both sides; for, as I say,
the truth on it," said Mr. Macey, with the truth lies between 'em. And if
a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs Dowlas was to go and stand, and say
together, "he's no call to lay any bet, he 'd never seen a wink o' Cliff's Holi- let him go and stan' by himself, -  day all the night through, I'd back
there's nobody 'ull hinder him; and him; and if anybody saidas Cliff's Holthen he can let the parish'ners know  iday was certain sure for all that, I 'd
if they 're wrong."               back him too. For the smell 's what I
" Thank you! I 'm obliged to you," go by."
said the farrier, with a snort of scorn.  The landlord's analogical argument
" If folks are fools, it's no business o' was not well received by the farrier,
mine. Idon't want to make out the - a man intensely opposed to comtruth  about ghos'es: I  know  it promise.
a'ready, But I 'm not against a bet,  " Tut, tut," he said, setting down
- everything fair and open. Let any his glass with refreshed irritation;
man bet me ten pound as I shall see " what 's the smell got to do with it?
Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go and stand Did ever a ghost give a man a black
by myself. I want no company. I 'd eye? That's what I should like to
as lief do it as I 'd fill this pipe."  know. If ghos'es want me to believe
" Ah, but who's to watch you, in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i'




34


SILAS MARNER.


the dark and i' lone places, -let 'em
come where there's company and
candles."
" As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody so ignirant! "
said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the
farrier's crass incompetence to apprehend the conditions of ghostly phenomena.
CHAPTER VII.
YET the next moment there seemed
to be some evidence that ghosts had a
more condescending disposition than
Mr. Macey attributed to them; for the
pale thin figure of Silas Marner was
suddenly seen standing in the warm
light, uttering no word, but looking
round at the company with his strange
unearthly eyes. The lbng pipes gave
a simultaneous movement, like the
antennae of startled insects, and every
man present, not excepting even the
sceptical farrier, had an impression
that he saw, not Silas Marner in the
flesh, but an apparition; for the door
by which Silas had entered was hidden by the high-screened seats, and no
one had noticed his approach. Mr.
Macey, sitting a long way off the
ghost, might be supposed to have felt
an argumentative triumph, which
would tend to neutralize his share
of the general alarm. Had he not always said that when Silas Marner
was in that strange trance of his, his
soul went loose from his body? Here
was the demonstration: nevertheless,
on the whole, he would have been as
well contented without it. For a few
moments there was a dead silence,
Marner's want of breath and agitation
not allowing him to speak. The
landlord, under the habitual sense
that he was bound to keep his house
open to all company, and confident in
the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the
task of adjuring the ghost.
"Master Marner, he said, in a
conciliatory tone, "what 's lacking to
you. What 's your business here?"


"Robbed!" said Silas, gaspingly,
" I 've been robbed! I want the constable, - and  the  Justice, - and
Squire Cass, - and Mr. Crackenthorp."
"Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney,"
said the landlord, the idea of a ghost
subsiding; "he's off his head, I
doubt. He's wet through."
Jem Rodney was the outermost
man, and sat conveniently near
Marner's standing-place; but he declined to give his services.
"Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if you 've a mind, said
Jem, rather sullenly. "He's been
robbed, and murdered too, for what I
know," he added, in a muttering
tone.
"Jem Rodney!" said Silas, turning and fixing his strange eyes on the
suspected man.
"Ay, Master Marner, what do ye
want wi' me," said Jem, trembling a
little, and seizing his drinking-can as
a defensive weapon.
" If it was you stole my money,"
said Silas, clasping his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a
cry, "give it me back, - and I won't
meddle with you. I won't set the
constable on you. Give it me back,
and I'11 let you -1 '11 let you have a
guinea."
" Me stole your money! " said Jem,
angrily. " I '11 pitch this can at your
eye if you talk o' my stealing your
money.
"Come, come, Master Marner,"
said the landlord, now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the shoulder,
" if you 've got any information to lay,
speak it out sensible, and show as
you're in your right mind, if you expect anybody to listen to you. You 're
as wet as a drownded rat. Sit down
and dry yourself, and speak straight
forrard."
"Ah, to be sure, man," said the
farrier, who began to feel that he had
not been quite on a par with himself
and the occasion. "Let's have no
more staring and screaming, else
we 'l have you strapped for a mad



SILAS MARNER.


man. That was why I did n't speak
at the first, - thinks I, the man 's run
mad."
"Ay, ay, make him sit down," said
several voices at once, well pleased
that the reality of ghosts remained
still an open question.
The landlord forced Marner to take
off his coat, and then to sit down on a
chair aloof from every one else in the
centre of the circle, and in the direct
rays of the fire. The weaver, too
feeble to have any distinct purpose
beyond that of getting help to recover
his money, submitted unresistingly.
The transient fears of the company
were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and all faces were turned towards Silas, when the landlord, having seated himself again, said:" Now then, Master Marner, what's
this you 're got to say, as you 've been
robbed? Speak out."
"He'd better not say again as it
was me robbed him," cried Jem
Rodney, hastily. " What could I ha'
done with his money?    I could as
easy steal the parson's surplice, and
wear it."
"Hold your tongue, Jem, and let's
hear what lie's got to say," said the
landlord. "'Now then, Master Marner."
Silas now told his story under frequent questioning, as the mysterious
character of the robbery became evident.
This strangely novel situation of
opening his trouble to his Raveloe
neighbors, of sitting in the warmth
of a hearth not his own, and feeling
the presence of faces and voices which
were his nearest promise of help, had
doubtless its influence on Marner,
in spite of his passionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely registers the beginning of
a growth within us any more than
without us: there have been many
circulations of the sap before we detect
the smallest sign of the bud.
'rhe slight suspicion with which his
hearers at first listened to him gradually melted away before the convincing


simplicity of his distress: it was impossible for the neighbors to doubt
that Marner was telling the truth, not
because they were capable of arguing
at once from the nature of his statements to the absence of any motive
for making them falsely, but because,
as Mr. Macey observed, "Folks as
had the Devil to back 'em were not
likely to be so mushed " as poor Silas
was.. Rather, from the strange fact
that the robber had left no traces, and
had happened to know the nick of
time, utterly incalculable by mortal
agents, when Silas would go away
from home without locking his door,
the more probable conclusion seemed
to he, that his disreputable intimacy
in that quarter, if it ever existed, had
been broken up, and that, in consequence, this ill turn had been done to
Marner by somebody it was quite in
vain to set the constable after. Why
this preternatural felon should be
obliged to wait till the door was left
unlocked was a question which did
not present itself.
"It is n't Jem Rodney as has done
this work, Master Marner," said the
landlord. "You must n't be a casting your eve at poor Jem. There
may be a bit of a reckoning against
Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if
anybody was bound to keep their eyes
staring open, and niver to wink,but Jemr 's been a sitting here drink.
ing his can, like the decentest man i'
the parish, since before you left your
house, Master Marner, by your own
account."
" Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey; "let's
have no accusing o' the innicent.
That is n't the law. There must be
folks to swear again' a man before he
can be ta'en up. Let's have no accusing o' the innicent, Master Marner."
Memory was not so utterly torpid
in Silas that it could not be wakened
by these words. With a movement
of compunction as new and strange
to him as everything else within the
last hour, he started from his chair
and went close up to Jem, looking at




36


SILAS MARNER.


him as if he wanted to assure himself
of the expression in his face.
" I was wrong," he said, -"yes,
yes, - I ought to have thought.
There 's nothing to witness against
you, Jem. Only you'd been into my
house oftener than anybody else, and
so you came into my head. I don't
accuse you, —I won't accuse anybody,-only," he added, lifting up his
hands to his head, and turning away
with bewildered misery, "I try- I try
to think where my money can be."
" Ay, ay, they 're gone where it's
hot enough to melt 'em, I doubt,"
said Mr. Macey.
" Tchuh! " said the farrier. And
then he asked, with. a cross-examining air, "How much money might
there be in the bags, Master Marner? "
"Two hundred and seventy-two
pounds, twelve and sixpence, last
night when I counted it," said Silas,
seating himself again, with a groan.
" Pooh! why, they'd be none so
heavy to carry. Some tramp's been
in, that's all; and as for the no footmarks, and the bricks and the sand
being all right, —why, your eyes are
pretty much like a insect's, Master
Marner; they're obliged to look so
close, you can't see much at a time.
It's my opinion as, if I'd been you,
or you 'd been me, - for it comes to
the same thing, -you would n't have
thought you'd found everything as
you left it. But what I vote is, as
two of the sensiblest o' the company
should go with you to Master Kench,
the constable's, -he's ill i' bed, I
know that much,-and get him to
appoint one of us his deppity; for
that's the law, and I don't think anybody 'ull take upon him to contradick
me there. It is n't much of a walk
to Kench's; and then, if it's me as is
deppity, I '11 go back with you, Master Marner, and examine your primises; and if anybody's got any fault
to find with that, I '11 thank him to
stand up and say it out like a man."
By this pregnant speech the farrier
had re-established his self-complacena


cy, and waited with confidence to hear
himself named as one of the superlatively sensible men.
"Let us see how the night is,
though," said the landlord, who also
considered himself personally concerned in this proposition. "Why,
it rains heavy still," he said, returning from the door.
"Well, I'm   not the man to be
afraid o' the rain," said the farrier.
" For it '11 look bad when Justice
Malam hears as respectable men like
us had a information laid/before 'em
and took no steps."
The landlord agreed with this view,
and after taking the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small
ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the nolo episcopari, he consented to take on himself the chill dignity
of going to Kench's. But to the farrier's strong disgust, Mr. Macey now
started an objection to his proposing
himself as a deputy-constable; for
that oracular old gentleman, claiming
to know the law, stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no
doctor could be a constable.
"And you're a doctor, I reckon,
though you 're only a cow-doctor, -
for a fly's a fly, though it may be a
hoss-fly," concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own "'cuteness."
There was a hot debate upon this,
the farrier being of course indisposed
to renounce the quality of doctor, but
contending that a doctor could be a
constable if he liked, - the law meant,
he need n't be one if he did n't like.
Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the law was not likely to
be fonder of doctors than of other
folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more than of other men
not to like being constables, how came
Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in
that capacity?
"I don't want to act the constable," said the farrier, driven into a
corner by this merciless reasoning;
" and there's no man can say4t of me,
if he 'd tell the truth. But if there '
to be any jealousyoand envying about




SILAS MARNER.


87


going to Kench's in the rain, let them ing on his shelf; and the inference
go as like it,- you won't get me to generally accepted was, that the tingo I can tell you."               der-box in the ditch was somehow
By   the landlord's intervention, connected with the robbery. A small
however, the dispute was accommo- minority shook their heads and intidated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as mated their opinion that it was not a
a second person disinclined to act of- robbery to have much light thrown on
ficially; and so poor Silas, furnished it by tinder-boxes, that Master Marwith some old coverings, turned out ner's tale had a queer look with it, and
with his two companions into the that such things had been known as
rain again, thinking of the long night- a man's doing himself a mischief, and
hours before him, not as those do then setting the justice to look for the
who long to rest, but as those who ex- doer. But when questioned closely
pect to "watch for the morning."  as totheir groundsfor this opinion, and
what Master Marner had to gain by
such false pretences, they only shook
their heads as before, and observed
that there was no knowing what some
CHAPTER     VIII.         folks' counted gain; moreover, that
everybody had a right to their own
WHiEN Godfrey Cass returned from  opinions, grounds or no grounds, and
Mrs. Osgood's party at midnight, he that the weaver, as everybody knew,
was not much surprised to learn that was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, though
Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he joined in the defence of Marner
he had not sold Wildfire and was against all suspicions of deceit, also
waiting for another chance, - per- pooh-poohed the tinder-box; indeed,
haps on that foggy afternoon, he had repudiated it as a rather impious sugpreferred housing himself at the Red gestion, tending to imply that everyLion at Batherley for the night, if the thing must be done by human hands,
run had kept him in that neighbor- and that there was no power which
hood; for he was not likely to feel could make away with the guineas
much concern about leaving his broth- without moving the bricks. Neverer in suspense. Godfrey's mind was theless, he turned round rather sharptoo full of Nancy Lammeter's looks ly on Mr. Tookey when the zealous
and behavior, too full of the exaspera- deputy feeling that this was a view of
tion against himself and his lot, which the case peculiarly suited to a parishthe sight of her always produced clerk, carried it still further and doubtin him, for him to give much thought ed whether it was right to inquire into
to Wildfire, or to the probabilities a robbery at all when the circumof Dunstan's conduct.             stances were so mysterious.
The next morning the whole vil-   " As if," concluded Mr. Tookey, -
lage was excited by the story of the " as if there was nothing but what
robbery, and Godfrey, like every one could be made out by justices and
else, was occupied in gathering and constables."
discussing news about it, and in vis- " Now, don't you be for overshootiting the Stone-pits. The rain had ing the mark, Tookey," said Mr.
I  washed away all possibility of distin- Macey, nodding his head aside admonguishing footmarks, but a close in- ishingly.  "That's what you 're
vestigation of the spot had disclosed, allays at; if I throw a stone and hit,
in the direction opposite to the vil- you think there's summat better than
lage, a. inder-box, with a flint and hitting, and you try to throw a stone
steel, hfaf sunk in the mud. It was beyond. What I said was against
not Silas's tinder-box, for the only the tinder-box: I said nothing against
one ha, had ever had was still stand. justices and constables, for they 're o'




SILAS MARNER.


King George's making, and it 'ud be
ill becoming a man in a parish office
to fly out again' King George."
While these discussions were going
on amongst the group outside the
Rainbow, a higher consultation was
being carried on within, under the
presidency of Mr. Crackenthorp, the
rector, assisted by Squire Cass, and
other substantial parishioners. It had
just occurred to Mr. Snell, the landlord, - he being, as he observed, a
man accustomed to put two and two
together,-to connect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable,
he himself had had the honorable'distinction of finding, certain recollections of a pedler who had called to
drink at the house about a month before, and had actually stated that he
carried a tinder-box about with him
to light his pipe. Here, surely, was
a clew to be followed out. And as
memory when duly impregnated with
ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the effect produced on him by the pedler's
countenanceand conversation. Hehad
a " look with his eye " which fell unpleasantly on Mr. Snell's sensitive
organism. To be sure, he did n't say
anything particular, - no, except that
alout the tinder-box,-but it isn't
what a man says, it's the way he says
it. Moreover, he had a swarthy fbreignness of complexion, which boded
little honesty.
" Did he wear ear-rings " Mr.
Crackenthorp wished to know, having some acquaintance with foreign
customs.
" Well - stay - let me see," said
Mr. Snell, like a docile clairvoyante,
who would really not make a mistake
if she could help it. After stretching
the corners of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying to
see the ear-rings, he appeared to give
up the effort, and said: " Well, he 'd
got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it 's
nat'ral to suppose he might wear 'em.
But he called at every house, a'most,
in the village: there 's somebody


else, mayhap, saw 'em in his ears,
though I can't take upon me rightly
to say."
Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody else would remember the pedler's ear-rings. For,
on the spread of inquiry among the
villagers, it was stated with gathering
emphasis, that the parson had wanted
to know whether the pedler wore earrings in his ears, and an impression
was created that a great deal depended on the eliciting of this fact. Of
course, every one who heard the
question, not having any distinct image of the pedler as without ear-rings,
immediately had an image of him with
ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case
might be; and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, so
that the glazier's wife, a well-intentioned woman, not given to lying, and
whose house was among the cleanest
in the village, was ready to declare, as
sure as ever she meant to take the
sacrament, the very next Christmas
that was ever coming, that she had
seen big ear-rings, in the shape of
the young moon, in the pedler s two
ears; while Jinny Gates, the cobbler's
daughter, being a more imaginative
person, stated not only that she had
seen them too, but that they had made
her blood creep, as it did at that very
moment while there she stood.
Also, by way of throwing further
light on this clew of the tinder-box, a
collection was made of all the articles
purchased from the pedler at various
houses, and carried to the Rainbow to
he exhibited there. In fact, there was
a general feeling in the village, that
for the clearing up of this robbery there
must be a great deal done at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his
wife an excuse forgoing there while
it was the scene of severe public duties.
Some disappointment was felt, and
perhaps a little indignation also, when
it became known that SilasMarner,
on being questioned by the Sfire and
the parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedler than that ie




SILAS MARNER.


39


had called at his door, but had not
entered his house, having turned away
at once when Silas, holding the door
ajar, had said that he wanted nothing.
This had been Silas's testimony,
though he clutched strongly at the
idea of the pedler's being the culprit,
if only because it gave him a definite
image of a whereabout for his gold,
after it had been taken away from its
hiding-place: he could see it now in
the pedler's box. But it was observed
with some irritation in the village,
that anybody but a " blind creatur"
like Marner would have seen the man
prowling about, for how came he to
leave his tinder-box in the ditch close
by, if he had n't been lingering there?
Doubtless, he had made his observations when he saw Marner at the door.
Anybody might know —and only
look at him -that the weaver was a
half-crazy miser. It was a wonder
the pedler had n't murdered him;
men of that sort, with rings in their
ears, had been known for murderers
often and often; there had been one
tried at the 'sizes, not so long ago but
what there were people living who remembered it.
Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the
Rainbow during one of Mr. Snell's
frequently repeated recitals of his testimony, had treated it lightly, stating
that he himself had bought a penknife of the pedler, and thought him
a merry grinning fellow enough; it
was all nonsense, he said, about the
man's evil looks. But this was spoken of in the village as the random
talk of youth, " as if it was only Mr.
Snell who had seen something odd
about the pedler! "  On the contrary, there were at least half a dozen
who were ready to go before Justice
Malam, and give in much more striking testimony than any the landlord
could furnish. It was to be hoped
Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley
and throw cold water on what Mr.
Snell said there, and so prevent the
justice from drawing up a warrant.
lie was suspected of intending this,
when, after midday, he was seen set

ting off on horseback in the direction
of Tarley.
But by this time Godfrey's interest
in therobbery had fadedbeforehisgrowing anxiety about Dunstan and Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley,
but to Batherley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any longer. The
possibility that Dunstan had played
him the ugly trick of riding away with
Wildfire, to return at the end of a
month, when he had gambled away or
otherwise squandered the price of the
horse, was a fear that urged itself
upon him more, even, than the thought
of an accidental injury; and now
that the dance at Mrs. Osgood's was
past, he was irritated with himself
that he had trusted his horse to Dunstan. Instead of trying to still his
fears, he encouraged them, with that
superstitious impression which clings
to us all, that if we expect evil very
strongly it is the less likely to come;
and when he heard a horse approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising
above a hedge beyond an angle of the
lane, he felt as if his conjuration
had succeeded. But no sooner did
the horse come within sight, than his
heart sank again. It was not Wildfire; and in a few moments more he
discerned that the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to
speak, with a face that implied somethinr disagreeable.
" Well, Mr. Godfrey, that's a lucky
brother of yours, that Master Dunsey,
is 't he?"
" What do you mean? " said Godfrey, hastily.
" Why, has n't he been home yet "
said Bryce.
"Home? no. What has happened i
Be quick. What has he done with
my horse? "
"Ah, I thought it was yours,
though he pretended you had parted
with it to him."
"Has he thrown him down and
broken his knees?" said Godfrey,
flushed with exasperation.
" Worse than that," said Bryee,
"You see, I'd made a bargain with




40


SILAS MARNER.


him to buy the horse for a hundred
and twenty,-a swinging price, but
I always liked the horse. And what
does he do but go and stake him, -
fly at a hedge with stakes in it, atop
of a bank with a ditch before it. The
horse had been dead a pretty good
while when he was found. So he
has n't been home since, has he? "
"Home? no," said Godfrey, "and
he'd better keep away. Confound
me for a fool! i might have known
this would be the end of it."
" Well, to tell you the truth," said
Bryce, " after I'd bargained for the
horse, it did come into my head that
he might be riding and selling the
horse without your knowledge, for I
did n't believe it was his own. I knew
Master Dunsey was up to his tricks
sometimes.  But where can he be
gone? He's never been seen at Batherley. He could n't have been hurt,
for he must have walked off."
"Hurt?" said Godfrey, bitterly.
"He '11 never be hurt, - he's made to
hurt other people."
" And so you did give him leave to
sell the horse, eh? " said Brvce.
"Yes; I wanted to part with the
horse,- he was always a little too
hard in the mouth for me," said Godfrey; his pride making him wince under the idea that Bryce guessed the
sale to be a matter of necessity. " I
was going to see after him,- I thought
some mischief had happened. I '11 go
back now," he added, turning the
horse's Itead, and wishing he could
get rid of Bryce; for he felt that the
long-dreaded crisis in his life was close
upon him. "You're coming on to
Raveloe, are n't you "
"Well, no, not now," said Bryce.
" I was coming round there, for I had
to go to Flitton, and I thought I
might as well take you in my way,
and just let you know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose Master Dunsey did n't like to show himself tiH the ill news had blown over a
bit. He's perhaps gone to pay a visit at the Three Crowns by Whitbridge,
I know he 's fond of the house."


" Perhaps he is," said Godfrey, rather absently. Then rousing himself,
he said, with an effort at carelessness,
" We shall hear of him soon enough,
I'11 be bound."
" Well, here's my turning," said
Bryce, not surprised to perceive that
Godfrey was rather 'down'; " so I 'll
bid you good day, and wish I may
bring you better news another time.'
Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the scene of confession to his father from which he felt
that there was now no longer any escape. The revelation about the money must be made the very next morning; and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the
brunt of his father's anger, would tell
the whole story out of spite, even
though he had nothing to gain by it
There was one step, perhaps, by which
he might still win Dunstan's silence
and put off the evil day: he might tell
his father that he had himself spent
the money paid to him by Fowler;
and as he had never been guilty of
such an offence before, the affair would
blow over after a little storming. But
Godfrey could not bend himself to this.
He felt that in letting Dunstan have
the money, he had already been guilty
of a breach of trust hardly less culpable than that of spending the money
directly for his own behoof; and yet
there was a distinction between the
two acts which made him feel that the
one was so much more blackening
than the other as to be intolerable to
him.
" I don't pretend to be a good fellow," he said to himself; "but I'm
not a scoundrel, - at least, I '11 stop
short somewhere. I '11 bear the consequences of what I have done sooner
than make believe I 've done what I
never would have done. I 'd never
have spent the money for my own
pleasure, - I was tortured into it."
Through the remainder of this day
Godfrey, with only occasional fluctuations, kept his will bent in the direction of a complete avowal to his father,




SILAS MARNER.


41


and he withheld the story of Wildfire's that seemed to him natural enough.)
loss till the next morning, that it Still, there was just the chance, Godmight serve him as an introduction frey thought, that his father's pride
to heavier matter.  The old Squire might see this marriage in a light
was accustomed to his son's frequent that would induce him to hush it up,
absence from home, and thought nei- rather than turn his son out and make
ther I)unstan's nor Wildfire's non- the family the talk of the country for
appearance a matter calling for re- ten miles round.
mark. Godfrey said to himself again  This was the view of the case that
and again, that if he let slip this one Godfrey managed to keep before him
opportunity of confession, he might pretty closely till midnight, and he
never have another; the revelation went to sleep thinking that he had
might be made even in a more odious done with inward debating.  But
way than by Dunstan's malignity: when he awoke in the still morning
she might come as she had threatened dar4iess he found it impossible to reto do. And then he tried to make the awaken his evening thoughts; it was
scene easier to himself by rehearsal; as if they had been tired out and were
he made up his mind how he would not to be roused to further work. Inpass from the admission of his weak- stead of arguments for confession, he
ness in letting Dunstan have the mon- could now feel the presence of nothey to the fact that Dunstan had a ing but its evil consequences: the old
hold on him which he had been una- dread of disgrace came back,- the
ble to shake off, and how he would old shrinking from the thought of
work up his father to expect some- raising a hopeless barrier between
thing very bad before he told him the himself and Nancy, -the old disposifact. The old Squire was an impla- tion to rely on chances which might be
cable man: he made resolutions in vi- favorable to him, and save him from beolent anger, but he was not to be trayal. Why, after all, should he cut
moved from them after his anger had off the hope of them by his own act?
subsided,- as fiery volcanic matters Ice had seen the matter in a wrong
cool and harden into rock. Like many light yesterday. He had been in a
violent and implacable men, he al- rage with l)unstan, and had thought
lowed evils to grow under favor of of nothing but a thorough break-up
his own heedlessness, till they pressed of their mutual understanding; but
upon him with exasperating force, and what it would be really wisest for him
then he turned round with fierce to do, was to try and soften his faseverity and became unrelentingly ther's anger against Dunsey, and
hard. This was his system with his keep things as nearly as possible in
tenants: he allowed them to get into their old condition. If Dunsey did
arrears, neglect their fences, reduce not come back for a few days (and
their stock, sell their straw, and other- Godfrey did not know but that the
wise go the wrong way,- and then, rascal had enough money in his pockwhen he became short of money in et to enable him to keep away still
consequence of this indulgence, he longer), everything might blow over.
took the hardest measures and would
listen to no appeal. Godfrey knew
all this, and felt it with the greater
force because he had constantly suf-       CHAPTER IX.
fered annoyance from witnessing his
father's sudden fits of unrelentingness,  GODFREY rose and took his own
for which his own habitual irresolu- breakfast earlier than usual, but lintion deprived him of all sympathy. gered in the wainscoted parlor till his
(He was not critical on the faulty in- younger brothers had finished their
dulgence which preceded these fits; meal and gone out, awaiting his fa.




42


SILAS MARNER.


ther, who always went out and had a
walk with his managing-man before
breakfast. Every one breakfasted at
a different hour in the Red House,
and the Squire was always the latest,
giving a long chance to a rather feeble morning appetite before he tried it.
The table had been spread with substantial eatables nearly two hours before he presented himself, - a tall,
stoutman of sixty, with a facein which
the knit brow and rather hard glance
seemed contradicted by the slack and
feeble mouth.  His person showed
marks of habitual neglect, his dress
was slovenly; and' yet there was
something in the presence of the old
Squire distinguishable from that of
the ordinary farmers in the parish,
who were perhaps every whit as refined as he, but, having slouched their
way through life with a consciousness
of being in the vicinity of their " betters," wanted that self-possession and
authoritativeness of voice and carriage
which belonged to a man who thought
of superiors as remote existences, with
whom he had personally little more
to do than with America or the stars.
The Squire had been used to parish
homage all his life, used to the presupposition that his family, his tankards, and everything that was his,
were the oldest and best; and as he
never associated with any gentry
higher than himself, his opinion was
not disturbed by comparison.
He glanced at his son as he entered
the room, and said, "What, sir!
have n'tyou had your breakfast yet?"
but there was no pleasant morning
greeting between them; not because
of any unfriendliness, but because the
sweet flower of courtesy is not a
growth of such homes as the Red
House.
"Yes sir," said Godfrey, "I 've
had my breakfast, but I was waiting
to speak to you."
"Ah I well," said   the  Squire,
throwing himself indifferently into
his chair, and speaking in a ponderous coughing fashion, which was felt
in Raveloe to be a sort of privilege of


his rank, while he cut a piece of beef
and held it up before the deer-hound
that had come in with him. " Ring
the bell for my ale, will you? You
youngsters' business is your own
pleasure, mostly. There 's no hurry
about it for anybody but yourselves.
The Squire's life was quite as idle
as his sons', but it was a fiction kept
up by himself and his contemporaries
in Raveloe that youth was exclusively
the period of folly, and that their aged
wisdom was constantly in a state of
endurance mitigated  by sarcasm.
Godfrey waited, before he spoke again,
until the ale had been brought and
the door closed, - an interval during
which Fleet, the deer-hound, had consumed enough bits of beef to make a
poor man's holiday dinner.
"There 's been a cursed piece of
ill-luck with Wildfire," he began;
" happened the day before yesterday."
" What! broke his knees? " said
the Squire, after taking a draught of
ale. "I thought you knew how to
ride better than that, sir. I never
threw a horse down in my life. If I
had, I might ha' whistled for another,
for n.y father was n't quite so ready
to unstring as some other fathers I
know of. But they must turn over a
new leaf, -they must. What with
mortgages and arrears, I 'm as short
o' cash as a roadside pauper. And
that fool Kimble says the newspaper 's
talking about peace. Why, the country would n't have a leg to stand on.
Prices 'ud run down like a jack, and
I should never get my arrears, not if
I sold all the fellows up. And there
's that damned Fowler, I won't put
up with him any longer; I 've told
Winthrop to go to Cox this very day.
The lying scoundrel told me he 'd be
sure to pay me a hundred last month. 
He takes advantage because he's on 
that outlying farm, and thinks I shall j
forget him."
The Squire had delivered this
speech in a coughing and interrupted
manner, but with no pause long
enough for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the word again.




SILAS MARNER.


43


Ie felt that his father meant to ward
off any request for money on the
ground of the misfortune with Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had
thus been led to lay on his shortness
of cash and his arrears was likely to
produce an attitude of mind tle most
unfavorable for his own disclosure.
But he must go on, now he had begun.
"It 's worse than breaking the
horse's knees, - he 's been staked
and killed," he said, as soon as his
'father was silent, and had begun to
cut his meat. "But I was n't thinking of asking you to buy me another
horse; I was only thinking I 'd lost
the means of paying you with the
price of Wildfire, as I 'd meant to do.
Dunsey took him to the hunt to sell
him for me the other day, and after
he 'd made a bargain for a hundred
and twenty with Bryce, he went after
the hounds, and took some fool's leap
or other, that did for the horse at
once. If it had n't been for that, I
should have paid you a hundred
pounds this morning."
The Squire had laid down his
knife and fork, and was staring at his
son in amazement, not being sufficiently quick of brain to form a probable guess as to what could have
caused so strange an inversion of the
paternal and filial relations as this
proposition of his son to pay him a
hundred pounds.
"The truth is, sir,- I 'm  very
sorry,- I was quite to blame," said
Godfrey. "Fowler did pay that hundred pounds. He paid it to me, when
I was over there one day last month.
And Dunsey bothered me for the
money, and I let him have it, because
I hoped I should be able to pay it you
before this."
The Squire was purple with anger
before his son had done speaking, and
found utterance difficult. "Yon let
Dunsey have it, sir? And how long
have you been so thick with Dunsey
that you must collogue with him to
embezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp 1 I tell you I won't


have it. I '11 turn the whole pack of
you out of the house together, and
marry again. I 'd have you to remember, sir, my property 's got no
entail on it; - since my grandfather's
time the Casses can do as they like
with their land. Remember that, sir.
Let l)unsey have the money! Why
should you let Dunsey have the money? There's some lie at the bottom
of it."
"There 's no lie, sir," said Godfrey. "I would n't have spent the
money myself, but Dunsey bothered
me, and I was. a fool, and let him
have it. But I meant to pay it,
whether he did or not. That 's the
whole story. I never meant to embezzle money, and I 'm not the man
to do it. You never knew me do a
dishonest trick, sir."
"Where's Dunsey, then? What
do you stand talking there for? Go
and fetch Dunsey, as I tell yout and
let him give account of what he wanted the money for, and what he 's
done with it. He shall repent it.
I '11 turn him out. I said I would,
and I '11 do it. He'sha' n't brave me.
Go and fetch him."
" Dunsey is n't come back, sir."
"What! did he break his own
neck, then?" said the Squire, with
some disgust at the idea that, in that
case, he could not fulfil his threat.
" No, he was n't hurt, I believe, for
the horse was found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off.' I dare
say we shall see him again by and by.
I don't know where he is."
"And what must you be letting
him have my money for? Answer
me that," said the Squire, attacking
Godfrey again, since Dunsey was not
within reach.
"Well, sir, I don't know," said
Godfrey, hesitatingly. That was a
feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not
fond of lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of duplicity can
long flourish without the help of vocal falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented motives.
"You don't know?    I tell you




44


SILAS MARNER.


what it is, sir. You've been up to
some trick, and you 've been bribing
him not to tell," said the Squire, with a
sudden acuteness which startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently
at the nearness of his father's guess.
The sudden alarm pushed him on to
take the next step, -a very slight
impulse suffices for that on a downward road.
"Why, sir," he said, trying to
speak with careless ease, " it was a
little affair between me and Dunsey;
it 's no matter to anybody else. It's
hardly worth while to pry into young
men's fooleries: it wouldn't have
made any dlierence to you, sir, if
I 'd not had the bad luck to lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money."
"Fooleries!  Pshaw! it's time
you'd done with fooleries. And I 'd
have you know, sir, you must ha' done
with 'em," said the Squire, frowning
and casting an angry glance at his
son. " Your goings on are not what
I shall find money for any longer.
There's my grandfather had his stables full o' horses, and kept a good
house, too, and in worse times, by
what I can make out; and so might
I if I had n't four good-for-nothing
fellows to hang on me like horseleeches. I 've been too good a father
to you all, - that's what it is. But
I-shall pull up, sir."
Godfrey was silent. He was not
likely to.be very penetrating in his
judgments, but he had always had a
sense that his father's indulgence had
not been kindness, and had had a
vague looking for some discipline that
would have checked his own errant
weakness, and helped his better will.
The Squire ate his bread and meat
hastily, took a deep draught of ale,
then turned his chair from the table,
and began to speak again.
' It '11 be all the worse for you, you
know, -you 'd need try and help me
keep things together."
" Well, sir, I've often offered to
take the management of things, but
you know you 'e taken it ill always,


you. out of'your place.'
11 I know nothin  o' 7our offering
or o'mv taking it ilil said the Squire,
whose memory consisted in certain
strong impressions unmodified by detail; "but I know one wbile you
seemed to be thinking o' marrying,
and I did n't offer to put any obstacles
in 'your Way, as some fathers would.
I'd as fieve vou married Lammeter's
daughter as anybody. I suppose, if
I'd said you nay, you'lia' kept on
with it; but, for want o' contradiction, you 've changed your mind.
You,re a shilly-shally fellow: you
take after your poor mother. Iie
never had a will of her own; a woman has no call for one, if she 's got
a proper man for her husband. But
your wife had need have one, for you,
bardlyknow your own mind enough to
make both your legs walk one way.
The lass has n't said downright sfie
won't have you, has she? "
No," said Godfrey, feeling ver
hot and uncomfortable; "but I don t
think -he iNill.`
11 Think! why have n't you the
courage to ask her? D you stick to
it, you want to have her, -that's
the thing? "
11 There's no other woman I want
to marry," said Godfrey, evasively.
11 Well, then, let me make the of.
fer for you, that's all, if you haven't
the pluck to do it yourself. Lamme.
ter is n't likely to be loath for his
daughter to marry into my family, I
should think. And as for the pre'tty
lass, she would n't have her cousin, -
and there 's nobody else, as 1 see, could
ha' stood in your way.,,
I 'd rather let it be, please, sir, at
present," said Godfrey, in alarm.
I think she 's a little offended with
me just now, and I should like to
speak for myself. A man must manage these things for himself."
Well, Speak, then, and manage it,
and see if you -can't turn over a new
leaf. That's what a man must do
when be thinks o' marrying.,,
I don't see how I can    of it


and seemed to think I wanted to push
you out of your place." 
"I know nothing o' your offering
or o' my taking it ill," said the Squire,
whose memory consisted in certain
strong impressions unmodified by detail; "but I know one while you
seemed to be thinking o' marrying,
and I did n't offer to put any obstacles
in your way, as some fathers would.
I'd as lieve you married Lammeter's
daughter as anybody. I suppose, if
I'd said you nay, you' ha' kept on
with it; but, for want o' contradiction, you 've changed your mind.
You 're a shilly-shally fellow: you
take after your poor mother. She
never had a will of her own; a woman has no call for one, if she 's got
a proper man for her husband. But
your wife had need have one, for you
hardlyknow your own mind enough to
make both your legs walk one way.
The lass has n't said downright she
won't have you, has she "
"No," said Godfrey, feeling very
hot and uncomfortable; "but I don t
think she will."
"Think! why haven't you the
courage to ask her? Do you stick to
it, you want to have her, - that's
the thing? "
" There's no other woman I want
to marry," said Godfrey, evasively.
" Well, then, let me make the of.
fer for you, that's all, if you have n't
the pluck to do it yourself. Lamme.
ter is n't likely to be loath for his
daughter to marry into my family, I
should think. And as for the pretty
lass, she would n't have her cousin, -
and there 's nobody else, as I see, could
ha' stood in your way."
"I 'd rather let it be, please, sir, at
present," said Godfrey, in alarm. 
"I think she 's a little offended with;
me just now, and I should like to 
speak for myself. A man must man- 
age these things for himself."     l
"Well, speak, then, and manage it,
and see if you can't turn over a new
leaf. That's what a man must do 
when he thinks o' marrying."
" I don't see how I can hi  of it




SILAS MARNER.


45.


at present, sir. You wouldn't like
to settle me on one of the flums, I
suppose, and I don't think she 'd come
to live in this house with all my
brothers. It's a different sort of life
to what she's been used to,"
"Not come to live in this house?
Don't tell me. You ask her, that's
all," said the Squire, with a short,
scornful laugh.
"I'd rather let the thing be, at
present, sir," said Godfrey. "I hope
you won't try to hurry it on by saying anything." 
"I shall do what I choose," said
the Squire, "and I shall let you
know  I'm   master; else you may
turn out, and find an estate to drop
into somewhere else. Go out and tell
Wintlrop not to go to Cox's, 'but
wait for me.  And tell 'em to get
my horse saddled. And stop. look
out and get that hack o' Dunsey's
sold, and hand me the money, will
you? He '11 keep no more hacks at
my expense. And if you know where
he's sneaking, -I dare say you do, -
you may tell him to spare himself the
journey o' coming back home. Let
him turn ostler, and keep himself.
He sha' n't hang on me any more."
"I don't know where he is, sir;
and if I did, it is n't my place to tell
him to keep away," said Godfrey,
moving towards the door.
" Confound it, sir, don't stay arguing, hut go and order my horse,"
said the Squire, taking up a pipe.
Godfrey  left the  room, hardly
knowing whether he were     more
relieved by the sense that the interview was ended without having made
any change in his position, or more
uneasy that he had entangled himself still further in prevarication and
deceit. What had passed about his
proposing to Nancy lad raised a new
alarm, lest by some after-dinner words
of his father's to Mr. Lammeter he
should he thrown into the embarrassment of being obliged absolutely to
i decline her when she seemed to be
within his reach.  He fled to his
usual refuse, that of hoping for some!!t
)1




unforeseen turn of fortune, some favorable chance which would save him
from unpleasant consequences, - perhaps even justify his insincerity by
manifesting its prudence. And in
this point of trusting to some throw
of fortune's dice, Godfrey can hardly
be called specially old-fashioned.
Favorable Chance, I fancy, is the
god of all men who follow their own
devices instead of obeying a law they
believe in. Let even a polished man
of these days get into a position he is
ashamed to avow, and his mind will
be bent on all the possible issues that
may deliver him from the calculable
results of that position. Let him live
outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work that brings wages,
and he will presently find himself
dreaming of a possible simpleton who
may be cajoled into using his interest, a possible state of mind in some
possible person not yet forthcoming.
Let him neglect the responsibilities
of his office, and he will inevitably
anchor himself on the chance, that
the thing left undone may turn out
not to be of the supposed importance.
Let him betray his friend's confidence,
and he will adore that same cunning
complexity called Chance, which
gives him the hope that his friend
will never know. Let him forsake a
decent craft that he may pursue the
gentilities of a profession to which
nature never called him, and his
religion will infallibly be the worship
of blessed Chance, which he.will believe in as the mighty creator of
success. The evil principle deprecated in that religion is the orderly
sequence by which the seed brings
forth a crop after its kind.
CHAPTER X.
JUSTICE MALAM was naturally rem
garded in Tarley and Raveloe as a
man of capacious mind, seeing that
he could draw much wider conclusions without evidence than could be




46                       SILAS MARNER.
expected of his neighbors who were in Raveloe had put the said two facts
not on the Commission of the Peace. together, I doubt whether a combiSuch a man was not likely to neglect nation so injurious to the prescriptive
the clew of the tinder-box, and an in- respectability of a family with a mural
quiry was set on foot concerning a monument and venerable tankards
pedler, name unknown, with curly would not have been suppressed as of
black hair and a foreign complexion, unsound tendency. But Christmas
carrying a box of cutlery and jewel- puddings, brawn, and abundance of
ry, and wearing large rings in his spirituous  liquors, throwing  the
ears. But either because inquiry was mental originality into the channel
too slow-footed to overtake him, or of nightmare, are great preservatives
because the description applied to so against a dangerous spontaneity of
many pedlers that inquiry did not waking thought.
know how to choose among them,      When the robbery was talked of at
weeks passed away, and there was the Rainbow and elsewhere, in good
no other result concerning the rob- company, the balance continued to
bery than a gradual cessation of the waver between the rational explanaexcitement it had caused in Raveloe. tion founded on the tinder-box, and
Dunstan Cass's absence was hardly a the theory of an impenetrable myssubject of remark; he had once be- tery that mocked investigation. The
fore had a quarrel with his father, and advocates of the tinder-box and pedler
had gone off, nobody knew whither, to view considered the other side a mudreturn at the end of six weeks, take die-headed and credulous set, who,
up his old quarters unforbidden, and because they themselves were wallswagger as usual. His own family, eyed, supposed everybody else to
who equally expected this issue, with have the same blank outlook; and
the sole difference that the Squire was the adherents of the inexplicable
determined this time to forbid him  more than hinted that their antagthe old quarters, never mentioned his onlsts were animals inclined to crow
absence; and when his uncle Kimble before they had found any corn, -
or Mr. Oscood noticed it, the story mere skimming - dishes in point of
of his having killed Wildfire, and depth,- whose clear-sightedness concommitted some offence against his sisted in supposing there was nothing
father, was enough to prevent sur- behind a barn-door because they
prise. To connect the fact of Dun- could n't see through it; so that,
sey's disappearance with that of the though their controversy did not
robbery occurring on the same day, serve to elicit the fact concerning the
lay quite away from  the track of robbery, it elicited some true opinions
every  one's thought,- even God- of collateral importance.
frey's, who had better reason than  But while poor Silas's loss served
any one else to know what his brother thus to brush the slow current of
was capable of. IIe remembered no Raveloe conversation, Silas himself
mention of the weaver between them  was feeling the withering desolation
since the time, twelve years ago, when of that bereavement, about which his
it was their boyish sport to deride neighbors were arguing at their ease.
him; and, besides, his imagination To any one who had observed him  i
constantly created an alibi for Dun- before he lost his gold, it might have
stan: he saw him continually in some seemed that so withered and shrunken
congenial haunt, to which he had a life as his could hardly be suscept-;
walked off on leaving Wildfire, —saw  ible of a bruise, could hardly endure
him sponging on chance acquaint- any subtraction but such as would 
ances, and meditating a return home put an end to it altogether. But in
to the old amusement of tormenting reality it had been an eager life, filled
his elder brother. Even if any brain with immediate purpose, which fenced 4




SILAS MARNER.


47


him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It had been a clinging life;
and though the object round which
its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, it satisfied the need for
clinging. But now the fence was
broken down, —the support was
snatched away. Marner's thoughts
could no longer move in their old
round, and were baffled by a blank
like that which meets a plodding ant
when the earth has broken away on
its homeward path. The loom was
there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern in the cloth; but the
bright treasure in the hole under his
feet was gone; the prospect of handling and counting it was gone: the
evening had no phantasm of delight
to still the poor soul's craving. 'The
thought of the money he would get
by his actual work could bring no
joy, for its meagre image was only a
fresh reminder of his loss; an:l hope
was too heavily crushed by the sudden
blow, for his imagination to dwell on
the growth of a new hoard from that
small beginning.
He filled up the blank with grief.
As he sat weaving, he every now and
then moaned low, like one in pain:
it was the sign that his thoughts had
come round again to the sudden
chasm, - to the empty evening time.
And all the evening, as he sat in his
loneliness by his dull fire, he leaned
his elbows on his knees, and clasped
his head with his hands, and moaned
very low, - not as one who seeks to
be heard.
And yet he was not utterly forsaken
in his trouble. The repulsion Marner
had always created in his neighbors
was partly dissipated by the new
light in which this misfortune had
shown him. Instead of a man who
had more cunning than honest folks
could come by, and, what was worse,
had not the inclination to use that
cunning in a neighborly way, it was
now apparent that Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He
was generally spoken of as a " poor
mushed creatur '; and that avoidance


of his neighbors, which had before
been referred to his ill-will, and to a
probable addiction to worse compa-.
ny, was now considered mere craziness.
This change to a kindlier feeling
was shown in various ways.   The
odor of Christmas cooking being on
the wind, it was the season when
superfluous pork and black puddings
are suggestive of charity in well-to-do
families; and Silas's misfortune had
brought him uppermost in the memory
of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood.
Mr. Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his money had
probably been taken from him because he thought too much of it, and
never came to church, enforced the
doctrine by a present of pigs' pettitoes,
well calculated to dissipate unfounded
prejudices against the clerical character. Neighbors, who had nothing
but verbal consolation to give, showed
a disposition not only to greet Silas,
and discuss his misfortune at some
length when they encountered him in
the village, but also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage, and getting him to repeat all the details on
the very spot; and then they would
try to cheer him by saying: " Well,
Master Marner, you 're no worse off
nor other poor folks, after all; and
if you was to be crippled, the parish
'ud give you a 'lowance."
I suppose one reason why we are
seldom able to comfort our neighbors
with our words is, that our good-will
gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves,
before it can pass our lips. We can
send black puddings and pettitoes
without giving them a flavor of our
own egoism; but language is a stream
that is almost sure to smack of a mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness in Raveloe; but it was
often of a beery and bungling sort,
and took the shape least allied to the
complimentary and hypocritical.
Mr. Macey, for example, coming
one evening expressly to let Silas
know that recent events had given him
the advantage of standing more favor





48                       SILAS MARNER.
ably in the opinion of a man whose Master V
judgment was not formed lightly, why, it'
opened the conversation by saying, as take a 'cu
soon as he had seated himself and ad- that; anm
justed his thumbs: -             as a rabb
"Come, Master Marner, why, you   During
've no call to sit a-moaning. You 're had conti
a deal better off to ha' lost your mon- vious atti
ey, nor to ha' kep' it by foul means. his knee
I used to think, when you first come against I
into these parts, as you were no bet- doubting
ter nor you should be; you were paused, i
younger a deal than what you are preciator
now; but you were allays a staring, silent. J
white-faced creatur, partly like a bald- man mei
faced calf, as I may say. But there 's neighbor]
no knowing; it is n't every queer-look- him as st
sed thing as Old Harry 's had the -he ha(
making of, - I mean, speaking o' that it wl
toads and such; for they 're often  "Comr
harmless, and useful against varmin. got noth
And it 's pretty much the same wi' Mr. Mac,
you, as fur as 1 can see. Though as. cent of ir
to the yarbs and stuff to cure the  "0," i
breathing, if you brought that sort o' his head
knowledge from  distant parts, you you -t
might ha' been a bit freer of it. And  "Ay,
if the knowledge was n't well come you wou]
by, why, you might ha' made up for my advic
it by coming to church reg'lar; for, as day suit
for the children as the Wise Woman  "No,"
charmed, I 'ye been at the christening  "I do
of 'em again and again, and they took Macey.
the water just as well. And that's get a Su
reasonable; for if Old Harry 's a mind he 's a p.
to do a bit o' kindness for a holiday, tailoring
like, who 's got anything against it? money it
That 's my thinking; and I 've been at a low
clerk o' this parish forty year, and I then you
know, when the parson and me does a bit neig
the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, heared I
there's no cussing o' folks as have a come inl
mind to be cured without a doctor, mend yo
let Kimble say what he will. And poorwor
so, Master Marner, as I was saying, himself, 
- for there 's windings i' things as i' the dec
they may carry you to the fur end o' ter." H
the prayer-book afore you get back to haps exp
'em, —my advice is, as you keep up in his he
your sperrits; for as for thinking you he went 
're a deep tn, and ha' got more inside for the si
you nor ull bear daylight, I 'm not o' matter c
that opinion at all, and so I tell the weaving,
neighbors. For, says I, you talk o' a young


farner making out a tale, -
s nonsense, that is: it 'ud
ite man to make a tale like
d, says I, he looked as scared
it."
this discursive address Silas
inued motionless in his preitude, leaning his elbows on
s, and pressing his hands
his head. Mr. Macey, not
that he had been listened to,
n the expectation of some apy reply, but Marner remained
He had a sense that the old
ant to be good-natured and
ly; but the kindness fell on
inshine falls on the wretched,
I no heart to taste it, and felt
as very far off him.
e, Master Marner, have you
ing to say to that?" said
ey at last, with a slight acnpatience.
said Marner, slowly shaking
between his hands, " I thank
lank you - kindly."
ay, to be sure: I thought
Id," said Mr. Macey; "and:e is - have you got a Sun-.'"
said Marner.
rubted it was so," said Mr.
',Now, let me advise you to
nday suit: there 's Tookey,
oor creatur, but he 's got my
business, and some o' my
i it, and he shall make a suit
price, and give you trust, and
can come to church, and be,hborly. Why, you 're never
ne say 'Amen' since you
to these parts, and I recom- 
u to lose no time, for it '11 be
~k when Tookey has it all to 
forI may n't be equil to stand 
sk at all, come another win- 
ere Mr. Macey paused, per- ||
iecting some sign of emotion  j
arer; but not observing any,
on. "And as for the money
nit o' clothes, why, you get a
of a pound a week at your
Master Marner, and you 'ro
man, eh, for all you look so






SILAS MARNER.


49


mushed.   Why, you couldn't ha'
been five and-twenty when you come
into these parts, eh? "
Silas started a little at the change
to a questioning tone, and answered
mildly  "I don't know; I can't
rightly say, - it's a long  while
since.
After receiving such an answer as
this, it is not surprising that Mr.
Macey observed, later on in the evening at the Rainbow, that Marner's
head was " all of a muddle," and that
it was to be doubted if he ever knew
when Sunday came round, which
showed him a worse heathen than
many a dog.
Another of Silas's comforters, besides Mr. Macey. came to him with a
mind highly charged on the same
topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the
wheelwright's wife. The inhabitants
of Raveloe were not severely regular
in their church-going, and perhaps
there was hardly a person in the parish
who would not have held that to go
to church every Sunday in the calendar would have shown a greedy desire
to stand well with Heaven, and get an
undue advantage over their neighbors,
a wish to be better than the " common run," that would have implied
a reflection on those who had had godfathers and godmothers as well as
themselves, and had an equal right to
the burying-service.  At the same
time, it was understood to be requisite
for all who were not household servants, or young men, to take the
sacrament at one of the great festivals: Squire Cass himself took it on
Christmas day; while those who were
held to be "good livers" went to
church with greater, though still with
moderate, frequency.
Mrs. Winthrop was one of these:
she was in all respects a woman of
scrupulous conscience, so eager for
duties, that life seemed to offer them
too scantily unless she rose at half
past four, though this threw a scarcity of work over the more advanced
hours of the morning, which it was a
constant problem with her to remove.
8


Yet she had not the vixenish temper
which is sometimes supposed to be a
necessary condition of such habits:
she was a very mild, patient woman,
whose nature it was to seek out all the
sadder and more serious elements of
life, and pasture her mind upon them.
She was the person always first
thought of in Raveloe when there
was illness or death in a family,
when leeches were to be applied, orthere was a sudden disappointment in
a monthly nurse. She was a "comfortable  woman," -good - looking,
fresh-complexioned, having her lips
always slightly screwed, as if she felt
herself in a sick-room with the doctor
or the clergyman present. But she was
never whimpering; no one had seen
her shed tears; she was simply grave
and inclined to shake her head and
sigh, almost imperceptibly, like a funereal mourner who is not a relation.
It seemed surprising that Ben Winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and
his joke, got along so well with Dolly; but she took her husband's jckes
and joviality as patiently as everything else, considering that "men
would be so," and viewing the stronger sex in the light of animals whom
it had pleased Heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks.
This good wholesome woman could
hardly fail to have her mind drawn
strongly towards Silas Marner, now
that he appeared in the light of a sufferer; and one Sunday afternoon she
took her little boy Aaron with her,
and went to call on Silas, carrying in
her hand some small lard-cakes, fiat
paste-like articles, much esteemed in
Raveloe.  Aaron, an apple-cheeked
youngster of seven, with a clean
starched frill, which looked like a plate
for the apples, needed all his adventurous curiosity to embolden him
against the possibility that the bigeyed weaver might do him some
bodily injury; and his dubiety was
much increased when, on arriving at
the Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the looxm 
D




SILAS MARNER.


"Ah, it is as I thought," said Mrs. pulpit-cloth at church.  What are
Winthrop, sadly.                  they, Aaron, my dear "
They had to knock loudly before   Aaron retreated completely behind
Silas heard them; but when he did his outwork.
come to the door, he showed no im-  " 0 go, that's naughty," said his
patience, as he would once have done, mother, mildly.  "Well, whativer
at a visit that had been unasked for the letters are, they 've a good meanand unexpected. Formerly, his heart ing; and it's a stamp as has been in
had been as a locked casket with its our house, Ben says, ever since he
treasure inside; but now the casket was a little un, and his mother used
was empty, and the lock was broken. to put it on the cakes, and I 'ye allays
Left. groping in darkness, with his put it on too; for if there's any good,
prop utterly gone, Silas had inevi- we've need of it i' this world.
tably a sense, though a dull and half-  "It's I. H. S.," said Silas, at
despairing one, that if any help which proof of learning Aaron peeped
came to him it must come from with- round the chair again.
out; and there was a slight stirring of  "Well, to be sure, you can read
expectation at the sight of his fellow- 'em off," said Dolly. " Ben 's read
men, a faint consciousness of depend- 'em to me many and many a time, but
ence on their good-will. He opened they slip out o' my mind again; the
the door wide to admit Dolly, but more's the pity, for they 're good letwithout otherwise  returning  her ters, else they would n't be in the
greeting than by moving the arm- church; and so I prick 'em on all the
chair a few inches as a sign that she loaves and all the cakes, though somewas to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon times they waon't hold, because o' the
as she was seated, removed the white rising, - for, as I said, if there 's any
cloth that covered her lard-cakes, and good to be got, we 've need on it i'
said in her gravest way: -        this world, -that we have; and I
"I'd a baking yisterday, Master hope they'1l bring good to you, MasMarner, and the Yard-cakes turned out ter Marner, for it 's wi' that will I
better nor common, and I'd ha~ asked brought you the cakes; and you see
you to accept some, if you 'd thought the letters have held better nor comwell. I don't eat such things myself, mon."
for a bit o' bread's what I like from  Silas was as unable to interpret the
one yea;'s end to the other; but letters as Dolly, but there was no posmen's stomichs are made so comical, sibility of misunderstanding the desire
they want a change, - they do, I to give comfort that made itself heard
know, God help 'em."              in her quiet tones.  He said, with
Dolly sighed gently as she held out more feeling than before, -" Thank
the cakes to Silas, who thanked her you,- thank you kindly."  But he
kindly, and looked very close at them  laid down the cakes and seated himabsently, being accustomed to look so self absently, - drearily unconscious
at everything he took into his hand, of any distinct benefit towards which
- eyed all the while by the wonder- the cakes and the letters, or even
ing bright orbs of the small Aaron, Dolly's kindness, could tend for him.
who had made an outwork of his      "Ah, if there 's good anywhere,
mother's chair, and was peeping round we 've need of it," repeated Dolly, who
from behind it.                   did not lightly forsake a serviceable
"There's letters pricked on 'em," phrase. She looked at Silas pityingsaid Dolly. " I can't read 'em my- ly as she went on. " But you did nt 
self, and there's nobody, not Mr. hear the church-bells this morning,
Macey himself, rightly knows what Master Marner? I doubt you did n't
they mean; but they 've a good mean- know it was Sunday. Living so lone
ing, for they 're the some as is on the here, you lose your count, I dare say;




SILAS MARNER.


51


and then, when your loom makes a
noise, you can't hear the bells, more
partic'lar now the frost kills the
sound."
"Yes, I did; I heard 'em," said
Silas, to whom Sunday bells were a
mere accident of the day, and not
part of its sacredness.  There had
been no bells in Lantern Yard.
"Dear heart!" said Dolly, pausing
before she spoke again. "But what
a pity it is you should work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself, - if you
did n't go to church; for if you'd a
roasting bit, it might be as you
could n't leave it, being a lone man.
But there's the bakehus, if you could
make up your mind to spend a twopence on the oven now and then, -
not every week, in course, - I should
n't like to do that myself, - you
rmight carry your bit o' dinner there,
for it 's nothing but right to have a
bit o' summat hot of a Sunday, and
not to make it as you can't know your
dinner from  Saturday.  But now,
upo' Christmas day, this blessed
Christmas as is ever coming, if you
was to take your dinner to the bakehus, and go to church, and see the
holly and the yew, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen'
you 'd be a deal the better, and you 'd
know which end you stood on, and
you could put your trust i' Them as
knows better nor we do, seein' you'd
ha' done what it lies on us all to
do."
Dolly's exhortation, which was an
unusually long effort of speech for her,
was uttered in the soothing persuasive
tone with which she would have tried
to prevail on a sick man to take his
medicine, or a basin of gruel for
which he had no appetite. Silas had
never before been closely urged on the
point of his absence from church,
which had only been thought of as a
part of his general queerness; and he
was too direct and simple to evade
Dolly's appeal.
"Nay, nay," he said: "I know
nothing o' church. I 've never been
to church."


"No! " said Dolly, in a low tone
of wonderment.   Then bethinking
herself of Silas's advent from an unknown country, she said: "Could it
ha' been as they 'd no church where
you was born?"
"0 yes," said Silas, meditatively,
sitting in his usual posture of leaning
on his knees, and supporting his head.
"There was churches, -a many, -
it was a big town. But I knew nothing of 'em, - I went to chapels"
Dolly was much puzzled at this
new word, but she was rather afraid
of inquiring further, lest "chapel"
might mean some haunt of wickedness.  After a little thought, she
said:" Well, Master Marner, it's niver
too late to turn over a new leaf, and
if you've niver had no church, there's
no telling the good it '11 do you.
For I feel so set up and comfortable
as niver was, when I've been and
heard the prayers, and the singing to
the praise and glory o' God, as Mr.
Macey gives out,- and Mr. Crackenthorp saying good words, and more
partic'lar on Sacramen' day; and if
a bit o' trouble comes, I feel as I can
put up wi' it, for I 've looked for help
i' the right quarter, and gev myself
up to them as we must all give ourselves up to at the last; and if we'n
done our part, it is n't to be believed as
Them as are above us 'ull be worse
nor we are, and come short o'
Theirn."
Poor Dolly's exposition of her
simple Raveloe theology fell rather
unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there
was no word in it that could rouse a
memory of what he had known as religion, and his comprehension was
quite baffled by the plural pronoun,
which was no heresy of Dolly's, but
only her way of avoiding a presumptuous  familiarity.  He  remained
silent, not feeling inclined to assent
to the part of Dolly's speech which
he fully understood, -her recommendation that he should go to
church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the brief




SILAS MARNER.


questions and answers necessary for chiefly in rubbing the backs of his
the transaction of his simple business, hands over his eyes, and then peepthat words did not easily come to him ing between them at Master Marner,
without theurgency of a distinct pur- to see if he looked anxious for the
pose.                             "carril," he at length allowed his
But now, little Aaron, having be- head to be duly adjusted, and standcome used to the weaver's awful pres- ing behind the table, which let him
ence,had advanced to his mother's appear above it only as far as his
side, and Silas, seeming to notice him  broad frill so that he looked like a
for the first time, tried to return Dol- cherubic head untroubled with a body,
ly's signs of good-will by offering the he began with a clear chirp, and in a
lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank melody that had the rhythm of an inback a little, and rubbed his head dustrious hammer:against his mother's shoulder, but,"God rest you, merry gentlemen,
still thought the piece of cake worth    Let nothing you dismay,
the risk of putting his hand out       For Jesus Christ our Saviour
for it.                                 Was born on Christmas day."
" 0, for shame, Aaron," said his  Dolly listened with a devout look,
mother, taking him on her lap, how- glancing at Marner in some confidence
ever; "why, you don't want cake that this strain would help to allure
again yet awhile. He's wonderful him to church.
hearty,' she went on, with a little  "That's Christmas music," shbt
sigh, -" that he is, God  knows. said, when Aaron had ended, and had
He's my youngest, and we spoil him  secured his piece of cake again.
sadly, for either me or the father must "There's no other music equil to
allays hev him in our sight,- that the Christmas music, -' Hark the
we must."                         erol angils sing.'  And you may
She stroked Aaron's brown head, judge what it is at church, Master
and thought it must do Master Mar- Marner, with the bassoon and the
ner good to see such a " pictur of a voices, as you can't help thinking
child."  But Marner on the other you 've got to a better place a'ready, -
side of the hearth saw the neat-fea- for I would n't speak ill o' this world
tured rosy face as a mere dim round, seeing as Them put us in it as knows
with two dark spots in it.        best; but what wi' the drink, and
"And' he's got a voice like a bird, the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses,
-you would n't think," Dolly went and the hard dying, as I 've seen times
on; " he can sing a Christmas carril and times, one's thankful to hear of a
as his father's taught him; and I take better. The boy sings pretty, don't
it for a token as he '11 cbme to good, he, Master Marner? 
as he can learn the good tunes so   "Yes," said Silas, absently, " very
quick. Come, Aaron, stan' up and pretty."
sing the carril to Master Marner,   The Christmas carol, with its hamcome."                            mer-like rhythm, had fallen on his
Aaron  replied  by  rubbing his ears as strange music, quite unlike a
forehead against his mother's shoul- hymn, and could have none of the
der.                              effect Dolly contemplated. But he  '
"0, that's naughty," said Dolly, wanted to show her that he was s
gently.  "Stan' up, when mother grateful, and the only mode that octells you, and let me hold the cake curred to him was to offer Aaron a
till you 'ye done."               bit more cake.                     |
Aaron was not indisposed to display  "0 no, thank you Master Marhis talents, even to an ogre, under ner," said  Dolly, holding  down
protecting circumstances; and aftera Aaron's willing hands. "We must
few more signs of coyness, consisting be going home now. And so I wish




SILAS MARNER.


you good by, Master Marner; and if
you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, as you can't fend for yourself,
I'11 come and clean up for you and
get you a bit o' victual and willing.
But I beg and pray of you to leave
off weaving of a Sunday, for it's
bad for soul and body, -and the
money as comes i' that way 'ull be a
bad bed to lie down on at the last,
if it does n't fly away, nobody knows
where like the white frost.  And
you '11 excuse me being that free with
you, Master Marner, for I wish vou
well, - I do.   Make your bow,
Aaron."
Silas said "Good by, and thank
you kindly," as he opened the door
for Dolly, but he couldn't help
feeling relieved when she was gone,
- relieved that he might weave again
and moan at his ease. Her simple
view of life and its comforts, by which
she had tried to cheer him, was only
like a report of unknown objects
which his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of human love
and divine faith had not yet been unlocked, and his soul was still the
shrunken rivulet, with only this difference, that its little groove of sand
was blocked up, and it wandered
confusedly against dark obstruction.
And so, notwithstanding the honest
persuasions of Mr. Macey and Dolly
Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas
day in loneliness, eating his meat in
sadness of heart though the meat had
come to him as a neighborly present.
In the morning he looked out on the
black fiost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the
half-icy red pool shivered under the
bitter wind; but towards evening the
snow began to fall, and curtained from
him even that dreary outlook shutting him close up with his narrow
grief. And he sat in his robbed home
through the livelong evening, not
caring to close his shutters or lock
his door, pressing his head between
his hands and moaning, till the cold
grasped him and told him that his fire
was gray.


Nobody in this world but himself
knew that he was the same Silas
Marner who had once loved his fellow with tender love, and trusted in
an unseen goodness. Even to himself that past experience had become
dim.
But in Raveloe village the bells
rang merrily, and the church was
fuller than all through the rest of the
year, with red faces among the abun:
dant dark-green boughs, - faces prepared for a longer service than usual
by an odorous breakfast of toast and
ale. Those green boughs, the hymn
and anthem never heard but at Christmas,-even the Athanasian Creed,
which was discriminated from  the
others only as being longer and of
exceptional virtue, since it was only
read on rare occasions, - brought a
vague, exulting sense, for which the
grown men could as little have found
words as the children, that something
great and mysterious had been done
for them in heaven above, and in
earth below, which they were appropriating by their presence. And then
the red faces made their way through
the black biting frost to their own
homes, feeling themselves free for the
rest of the day to eat, drink, and be
merry, and using that Christian freedom without diffidence.
At Squire Cass's family party that
day nobody mentioned Dunstan,nobody was sorry for his absence, or
feared it would be too long. The
doctor and his wife, Uncle and Aunt
Kimble, were there, and the annual
Christmas talk was carried through
without any omissions, rising to the
climax of Mr. Kimble's experience
when he walked the London hospitals
thirty years back, together with striking professional anecdotes then gathered. Whereupon cards followed,
with Aunt Kimble's annual failure to
follow suit, and Uncle Kimble's irascibility concerning the odd trick which
was rarely explicable to him, when it
was not on his side, without a general
visitation of tricks to see that they
were formed on sound principles; the




SILAS MARNER.


whole being accompanied by a strong
steaming odor of spirits-and-water.
But the party on Christmas day,
being a strictly family party, was not
the pre-eminently brilliant celebration
of the season at the Red House. It
was the great dance on New Year's
Eve that made the glory of Squire
Cass's hospitality, as of his forefathers', time out of mind. This was the
occasion when all the society of Raveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances separated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway calves, or acquaintances
founded on intermittent condescension, counted on meeting and on
comporting themselves with mutual
appropriateness. This was the occasion on which fair dames who came
on pillions sent their bandboxes before them, supplied with more than
their evening costume; for the feast
was not to end with a single evening,
like a paltry town entertainment,
where the whole supply of eatables is
put on the table at once, and bedding
is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as if for a siege; and as for
the spare feather-beds ready to be laid
on floors, they were as plentiful as
might naturally be expected in a
family that had killed its own geese
for many generations.
Godfrey Cass was looking forward
to this New Year's Eve with a foolish,
reckless longing, that made him half
deaf to his importunate companion,
Anxiety.
"Dunsey will be coming home
soon: there will be a great blow-up,
and how will you bribe his spite to
silence? " said Anxiety.
"0, he won't come home before
New Year's Eve, perhaps," said Godfrey; " and I shall sit by Nancy then,
and dance with her, and get a kind
look from her in spite of herself."
" But money is wanted in another
quarter," said Anxiety, in a louder
voice, " and how will you get it without selling your mother's diamond
pin? And if you don't get it... "


" Well, but something may happen
to make things easier. At any rate,
there 's one pleasure for me close at
hand: Nancy is coming."
"Yes, and suppose your father
should bring matters to a pass that
will oblige you to decline marrying
her, - and to give your reasons? "
" Hold your tongue, and don't worry me. I can see Nancy's eyes, just
as they will look at me, and feel her
hand in mine already."
But Anxiety went on, though in
noisy Christmas company; refusing
to be utterly quieted even by much
drinking.
CHAPTER XI.
SOME women, I grant, would not
appear to advantage seated on a pillion, and attired in a drab joseph and
a drab beaver-bonnet, with a crown
resembling a small stewpan; for a
garment suggesting a coachman's
great-coat, cut out under an exiguity
of cloth that would only allow of
miniature capes, is not well adapted
to conceal deficiencies of contour, nor
is drab a color that will throw sallow
cheeks into lively contrast. It was
all the greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammetcr's beauty that she looked thoroughly bewitching in that
costume, as, seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she held
one arm round him, and looked down,
with open-eyed anxiety, at the treacherous snow-covered pools and puddles, which sent up formidable splashings of mud under the stamp of
Dobbin's foot. A painter would,
perhaps, have preferred her in those
moments when she was free from
self-consciousness; but certainly the
bloom on her cheeks was at its highest point of contrast with the surrounding drab when she arrived at
the door of the Red House, and saw
Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to lift her
from the pillion. She wished her
sister Priscilla had come up at the
same time with the servant, for then




SILAS MARNER.


55


she would have contrived that Mr.
Godfrey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the mean time, she
would have persuaded her father to
go round to the horse-block instead of
alighting at the door-steps. It was
very painful, when you had made it
quite clear to a young man that you
were determined not to marry him,
however much he might wish it, that
he would still continue to pay you
marked  attentions; besides, why
didn't he always show the same attentions, if he meant them sincerely,
instead of being so strange as Mr.
Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he did n't want to speak to
'her, and taking no notice of her for
weeks and weeks, and then, all on a
sudden, almost making love again?
Moreover, it was quite plain he had
no real love for her, else he would
not let people have that to say of him
which they did say. Did he suppose
that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be
won by any man, squire or no squire,
who led a bad life? That was not
what she had been used to see in her
own father, who was the soberest and
best man in that country-side, only a
little hot and hasty now and then,
if things were not done to the minute.
All these thoughts rushed through
Miss Nancy's mind, in their habitual
succession, in the moments between
her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass
standing at the door and her own arrival there.  Happily, the Squire
came out too, and gave a loud greeting to her father, so that, somehow,
under cover of this noise, she seemed
to find concealment for her confusion
and neglect of any suitably formal
behavior, while she was being lifted
from the pillion by strong arms,
which seemed to find her ridiculously
small and light. And there was the
best reason for hastening into the
house at once, since the snow was beginning to fall again, threatening an
unpleasant journey for such guests as
were still on the road. These were a
small minority; for already the after

noon was beginning to decline, and
there would not be too much time
for the ladies who came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness
for the early tea which was to inspirit
them for the dance.
There was a buzz of voices through
the house, as Miss Nancy entered,
mingled with the scrape of a fiddle
preluding in the kitchen; but the
Lammeters were guests whose arrival
had evidently been thought of so
much that it had been watched for
from the windows, for Mrs. Kimble,
who did the honors at the Red House
on these great occasions, came forward to meet Miss Nancy in the hall,
and conduct her up stairs.   Mrs.
Kimble was the Squire's sister, as
well as the doctor's wife, - a double
dignity, with which her diameter was
in direct proportion; so that, a journey up stairs being rather fatiguing
to her, she did not oppose Miss Nancy's request to be allowed to find her
way alone to the Blue Room, where
the Miss Lammeters' bandboxes had
been deposited on their arrival in the
morning.
There was hardly a bedroom in the
house where feminine compliments
were not passing and feminine toilets
going forward, in various stages, in
space made scanty by extra beds
spread upon the floor; and Miss
Nancy, as she entered the Blue
Room, had to make her little formal
courtesy to a group of six. On the
one hand, there were ladies no less
important than the two Miss Gunns,
the wine-merchant's daughters from
Lytherly, dressed in the height of
fashion, with the tightest skirts and
shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss
Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) with
a shyness not unsustained by inward
criticism.  Partly, Miss Ladbrook
felt that her own skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the Miss
Gunns, and partly, that it was a pity
the Miss Gunns did not show that
judgment which she herself would
show if she were in their place, by
stopping a little on this side of the




SILAS MARNER.


fashion. On the other hand, Mrs.
Ladbrook was standing in skullcap
and front, with her turban in her
hand, courtesying and smiling blandly
and saying, "After you, ma'am," to
another lady in similar circumstances, who had politely offered the precedence at the looking-glass.
But Miss Nancy had no sooner
made her courtesy than an elderly
lady came forward, whose full white
muslin kerchief, and mob-cap round
her curls of smooth gray hair, were
in daring contrast with the puffed
yellow satins and top-knotted caps
of her neighbors. She approached
Miss Nancy with much primness,
and said, with a slow, treble suavity:"Niece, I hope I see you well in
health."  Miss Nancy kissed her
aunt's cheek dutifully, and answered,
with the same sort of amiable primness, "Quite well, I thank you,
aunt; and I hope I see you the
same."
"Thank you, niece; I keep my
health for the present. And how is
my brother-in-law? "
'These dutiful questions and answers were continued until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters were all as well as usual, and the
Osgoods likewise, also that Niece
Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, and that travelling on pillions
in snowy weather was unpleasant,
though a joseph was a great protection. Then Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt's visitors, the
Miss Gunns, as being the daughters
of a mother known to their mother,
though now for the first time induced
to make a journey into these parts;
and these ladies were so taken by
surprise at finding such a lovely face
and figure in an out-of-the-way country-place, that they began to feel
some curiosity about the dress she
would put on when she took off her
Joseph. Miss Nancy, whose thoughts
were always conducted with the propriety and moderation conspicuous in
her manners, remarked to herself that


the Miss Gunns were rather hard-featured than otherwise, and that such
very low dresses as they wore might
have been attributed to vanity if their
shoulders had been pretty, but that,
being as they were, it was not reasonable to suppose that they showed
their necks from a love of display,
but rather from some obligation not
inconsistent with sense and modesty. She felt convinced, as she opened
her box, that this must be her aunt
Osgood's opinion, for Miss Nancy's
mind resembled her aunt's to a degree that everybody said was surprising, considering the kinship was on
Mr. Osgood's side; and though you
might not have supposed it from the
formality of their greeting, there was
a devoted attachment and mutual admiration between aunt and niece.
Even Miss Nancy's refusal of her
cousin  Gilbert Osgood   (on  the
ground solely that he was her
cousin), though it had grieved her
aunt greatly, had not in the least
cooled the preference which had determined her to leave Nancy several
of her hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert's future wife be whom she
might.
Three of the ladies quickly retired,
but the Miss Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood's inclination
to remain with her niece gave them
also' a reason for staying to see the
rustic beauty's toilet. And it was
really a pleasure,- from the first
opening of the bandbox, where everything smelt of lavender and roseleaves, to the clasping of the small
coral necklace that fitted closely
round her little white neck. Everything belonging to Miss Nancy was
of delicate purity and nattiness: not
a crease was where it had no business
to be, not a bit of her linen professed
whiteness without fulfilling its profession; the very pins on her pincushion were stuck in after a pattern
from which she was careful to allo*
no aberration; and as for her own
person, it gave the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the bodly




SILAS MARNER.


57


of a little bird. It is true that her
light-brown hair was cropped behind
like a boy's, and was dressed in front
in a number of flat rings, that lay
quite away from her face; but there
was no sort of coiffure that could
make Miss Nancy's cheek and neck
look otherwise than pretty; and
when at last she stood complete in
her silvery twilled silk, her lace tucker, her coral necklace, and coral eardrops, the Miss Gunns could see
nothing to criticise except her hands,
which bore the traces of butter-making, cheese-crushing, and even still
coarser work. But Miss Nancy was
not ashamed of that, for while she
was dressing she narrated to her aunt
how she and Priscilla had packed
their boxes yesterday, because this
morning was baking morning, and
since' they were leaving home, it was
desirable to make a good supply of
meat-pies for the kitchen; and as
she concluded this judicious remark,
she turned to the Miss Gunns that
she might not commit the rudeness
of not including them in the conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled stiffly, and thought what a pity it was
that these.rich country people, who
could afford to buy such good clothes
(really Miss Nancy's lace and silk
were very costly), should be brought
up in utter ignorance and vulgarity.
She   actually  said  "mate"  for
"meat," "' appen" for "perhaps,"
and "oss" for "horse," which, to
young ladies living in good Lytherly
society, who habitually said 'orse,
even in domestic privacy, and only
said 'appcn on the right occasions,
was necessarily shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, had never been to any
school higher than Dame Tedman's:
her acquaintance with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes
she had worked in her large sampler
under the lamb and the shepherdess;
and in order to balance an account,
she was obliged to effect her subtraction by removing visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a visible
metallE total.  There is hardly. a
3*              *




servant-maid in these days who is
not better informed than Miss Nancy; yet she had the essential attributes of a lady,- high veracity, delicate honor in her dealings, deference
to others, and refined personal habits,
-and lest these should not suffice to
convince grammatical fair ones that
her feelings can at all resemble theirs,
I will add that she was.slightly
proud and exacting, and as constant
in her affection towards a baseless
opinion as towards an erring lover.
The anxiety about Sister Priscilla,
which had grown rather active by
the time the coral necklace was clasped, was happily ended by the entrance
of that cheerful-looking lady herself,
with a face made blowzy by cold and
damp. After the first questions and
greetings, she turned to Nancy, and
surveyed her from head to foot, -
then wheeled her round, to ascertain
that the back view was equally faultless.
" What do you think o' these
gowns, Aunt Osgood?" said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe.
"Very handsome indeed, niece,"
said Mrs. Osgood, with a slight increase of formality.  She always
thought Niece Priscilla too rough.
" I'm obliged to have the same as
Nancy, you know, for all I'm five
years older, and it makes me look
yallow; for she never will have anything without I have mine just like
it, because she wants us to look like
sisters. And I tell her, folks 'ull
think it's my weakness makes me
fancy as I shall look pretty in what
she looks pretty in. For I am ugly,
- there's no denying that: I feature
my father's family. But, law! I
don't mind, do you?"    Priscilla
here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in too much preoccupation
with the delight of talking, to notice
that her candor was not appreciated.
"The pretty uns do for fly-catchers,
- they keep the men off us. I 've
no opinion o' the men, Miss Gunn,I don't know what you have. And as




58


SILAS MARNER.


for fretting and stewing about what
they'll think of you from morning
till night, and making your life uneasy about what they 'le doing when
they're out o' your sight, - as I tell
Nancy, it's a folly no woman need be
guilty of, if she's got a good father
and a good home; let her leave it to
them as have got no fortin, and can't
help themselves.  As I say, Mr.
Have-your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I'd ever
promise to obey. I know it isn't
pleasant, when you've been used to
living in a big way, and managing
hogsheads and all that, to go and
put your nose in by somebody else's
fireside, or to sit down by yourself
to a scrag or a knuckle; but, thank
God! my father's a sober man and
likely to live; and if you've got a
man by the chimney-corner, it
does n't matter if he's childish, - the
business need n't be broke up."
The delicate process of getting her
narrow gown over her head without
injury to her smooth curls obliged
Miss Priscilla to pause in this rapid
survey of life, and  Mrs. Osgood
seized the opportunity of rising and
sayinfg —
"  ell, niece, you '11 follow us.
The Miss Gunns will like to go
down."
" Sister," said Nancy, when they
were alone, "i*ou've offended the
Miss Gunns, I'm sure."
"What have I done, child?" said
Priscilla, in some alarm.
"Why, you asked them if they
minded about being ugly, - you're
so very blunt."
"Law, did I?   Well, it popped
out: it's a mercy I said no more, for
I 'm a bad un to live with folks when
they don't like the truth. But, as
for being ugly, look at me, child, in
this silver-colored silk, —I told you
how it 'ud be, — I look as yallow as
a daffadil.  Anybody 'ud say you
wanted to make a mawkin of me."
"No, Priscy, don't say so. I begged and prayed of you not to let us
have this silk if you'd like another


better. I was willing to have your
choice, you know I was," said Nancy,
in anxious self-vindication.
"Nonsense, child, you know you'd
set your heart on this; and reason
good, for you 're the color o' cream.
It 'ud be fine doings for you to dress
yourself to suit my skin. What I
find fault with, is that notion o' yours
as I must dress myself just like you.
But you do as you like with me, -
you always did, from when first you
begun to walk. If you wanted to go
the field's length, the field's length
you'd go; and there was no whipping you, for you looked as prim and
innicent as a daisy all the while."
"Priscy," said Nancy, gently, as
she fastened a coral necklace, exactly
like her own, round Priscilla's neck,
which was very far from being like
her own, "I 'm sure I'm willing to
give way as far as is right, but who
should n't dress alike if it is n't sisters? Would you have us go about
looking as if we were no kin to one
another, - us that have got no mother and not another sister in the
world? I'd do what was right, if I
dressed in a gown dyed with cheesecoloring; and I'd rather you'd
choose, and let me wear what pleases
you."
" There you go again! You'd come
round to the same thing if one talked
to you from Saturday night till Saturday morning. It'll be fine fun to
see how you '11 master your husband
and never raise your voice above the
singing o' the kettle all the while. I
like to see the men mastered!"
"Don't talk so, Priscy," said Nancy, blushing. "You know I don't
mean ever to be married."
" O, you never mean a fiddlestick's
end!" said Priscilla, as she arranged
her discarded dress, and closed hr
bandbox. " Who shall 1 have to work.
for when father's gone, if you are to
go and take notions in your head and
be an old maid, because some folks are
no better than they should be? I
have n't a bit o' patience with you, -
sitting on an addled egg forir, s




SILAS MARNER.


59


if there was never a fresh un in the
world. One old maid's enough out
o' two sisters; and I shall do credit
to a single life, for God A'mighty
meant me for it. Come, we can go
down now. I'm as ready as a mawkin can be, - there's nothing awanting to frighten the crows, now I've
got my ear-droppers in."
As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large parlor together, any
one who did not know the character
of both might certainly have supposed that the reason why the squareshouldered, clumsy, high-featured
Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of
her pretty sister's, was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the malicious contrivance of the other in order to set off her own rare beauty.
But the good-natured  self-forgetful
cheeriness and common sense of Priscilla would soon have dissipated the
one suspicion; and the modest calm
of Nancy's speech and manners told
clearly of a mind free from all disavowed devices.
Places of honor had been kept for
the Miss Lammeters near the head
of the principal tea-table in the wainscoted parlor, now looking fresh and
pleasant with handsome branches of
holly, yew, and laurel, from the abundant growths of the old garden; and
Nancy felt an inward flutter, that no
firmness of purpose could prevent,
when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead her to a seat between
himself and Mr. Crackenthorp, while
Priscilla was called to the opposite
side between her father and the
Squire. It certainly did make some
difference to Nancy that the lover she
had given up was the young man of
quite the highest consequence in the
parish, - at home in a venerable and
unique parlor, which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, a
parlor where she might one day have
been mistress, with the consciousness
that she was spoken of as " Madam
Cass," the Squire's wife. These circumstalces exalted her inward drama
in her own eyes, and deepened the em

phasis with which she declared to
herself that not the most dazzling
rank should induce her to marry a
man whose conduct showed him careless of his character, but that, "love
once, love always," was the motto of
a true and pure woman, and no
man should ever have any right over
her which would be a call on her to
destroy the dried flowers that she
treasured, and always would treasure,
for Godfrey Cass's sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping her word
to herself under very trying conditions. Nothing but a becoming blush
betrayed the moving thoughts that
urged themselves upon her as she accepted the seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp; for she was so instinctively
neat and adroit in all her actions, and
her pretty lips met each other with
such quiet firmness, that it would
have been difficult for her to appear
agitated.
It was not the rector's practice to
let a charming blush pass without
an appropriate compliment. He was
not in the least lofty or aristocratic,
but simply a merry-eyed, small-featured, gray-haired man, with his chin
propped by an ample, many-creased
white neckcloth, which seemed to
predominate over every other point in
his person, and somehow to impress
its peculiar character on his remarks;
so that to have considered his amenities apart from his cravat would have
been a severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction.
"Ha, Miss Nancy," he said, turning his head within his cravat, and
smiling down pleasantly upon her,
" when anybody pretends this has
been a severe winter, I shall tell them
I saw the roses blooming on New
Year's Eve, -eh, Godfrey, what do
you say?"
Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy very markedly;
for though these complimentary personalities were held to be in excellent
taste in old-fashioned Raveloe society,
reverent love has a politeness of its
own which it teaches to men other'




SILAS MARNER.


wise of small schooling. But the
Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey's showing himself a dull spark
in this way. By this advanced hour
of the day, the Squire was always in
higher spirits than we have seen him
in at the breakfast-table, and felt it
quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary
duty of being noisily jovial and patronizing: the large silver snuff-box
was in active service, and was offered
without fail to all neighbors from
time to time, however often they
might have declined the favor. At
present, the Squire had only given an
express welcome to the heads of families as they appeared; but always as
the evening deepened, his hospitality
rayed out more widely, till he had
tapped the youngest guests on the
back, and shown a peculiar fondness
for their presence, in the full belief
that they must feel their lives made
happy by their belonging to a parish
where there was such a hearty man
as Squire Cass to invite them and
wish them well. Even in this early
stage of the jovial mood, it was natural that he should wish to supply his
son's deficiencies by looking and
speaking for him.
"Ay, ay," he began, offering his
snuff-box to Mr. Lammeter, who for
the second time bowed his head and
waved his hand in stiff rejection of the
offer, "us old fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see
the mistletoe-bough in the White
Parlor.  It's true, most things are
gone back'ard in these last thirty
years,- the country's going down
since the old king fell ill. But when
I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin
to think the lasses keep up their
quality;-ding me if I remember a
sample to match her, not when I was
a fine young fellow, and thought a
deal about my pigtail. No offence to
you, madam," he added, bending to
Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him,
"I did n't know you when you were
as young as Miss Nancy hero."
Mi's. Crackenthorp-a small blinklag woman, who fidgeted incessantly


with her lace, ribbons, and gold chain,
turning her head about and making
subdued noises, very much like a
guinea-pig, that twitches its nose and
soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately, -now blinked and fidgeted
towards the Squire, and said: "0
no, -no offence."
This emphatic compliment of the
Squire's to Nancy was felt by others
besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic
significance; and her father gave a
slight additional erectness to his back,
as he looked across the table at her
with complacent gravity. That grave
and orderly senior was not going to
bate a jot of his dignity by seeming
elated at the notion of a match between his family and the Squire's: he
was gratified by any honor paid to
his daughter; but he must see an
alteration in several ways before his
consent would be vouchsafed. His
spare but healthy person, and highfeatured firm face, that looked as if it
had never been flushed by excess, was
in strong contrast, not only with the
Squire's, but with the appearance of
the Raveloe farmers generally,-in
accordance with a favorite saying of
his own, that "breed was stronger
than pasture."
" Miss Nancy's wonderful like what
her mother was, though; is n't
she, Kimble? " said the stout lady of
that name, looking round for her
husband.
But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days enjoyed that
title without authority of diploma),
being a thin and agile man, was
flitting about the room  with his
hands in his pockets, making himself
agreeable to his feminine patients,
with medical impartiality, and being
welcomed everywhere as a doctor by
hereditary right, - not one of those
miserable apothecaries who canvass
for practice in  strange  neighborhoods, and spend all their income in
starving their one horse, but a man of
substance, able to keep an extravagant
table like the best of his  atients.
Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor


A
i
II
ii
II
I
i 


I
j




SILAS MARNER.


61


had been a Kimble; Kimble was
inherently a doctor's name; and it
was difficult to contemplate firmly the
melancholy fact that the actual
Kimble had no son, so that his practice might one day be handed over to
a successor, with the incongruous
name of Taylor or Johnson. But in
that case the wiser people in Raveloe
would employ Dr. Blick of Flitton,
- as less unnatural.
" Did you speak to me, my dear "
said the authentic doctor, coming
quickly to his wife's side; but, as if
foreseeing that she would be too
much out of breath to repeat her remark, he went on     immediately:
" Ha, Miss Priscilla, the sight of you
revives the taste of that super-excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn't
near an end."
" Yes, indeed, it is, doctor," said
Priscilla; "but I '11 answer for it the
next shall be as good. My pork-pies
don't turn out well by chance."
"Not as your doctoring does, eh,
Kimble? -because folks forget to
take your physic, eh " said the
Squire, who regarded physic and
doctors as many loyal churchmen
regard the church altd the clergy, -
tasting a joke against them when he
was in health, but impatiently eager
for their aid when anything was the
matter with him. He tapped his box,
and looked round with a triumphant
laugh.
"Ah, she has a quick wit, my
friend Priscilla has," said the doctor,
choosing to attribute the epigram to
a lady rather than allow a brother-inlaw that advantage over him. " She
saves a little pepper to sprinkle over
her talk, -that's the reason why
she never puts too much into her
pies.  There's my wife, now, she
never has an answer at her tongue's
end; but if I offend her, she's sure
to scarify my throat with black pepper
the next day, or else give me the colic
with watery greens. That's an awful
tit-for-tat.' Here the vivacious doctor
made apathetic grimace.
"Did you ever hear the like?"


said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her
double chin with much good-humor,
aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who
blinked and nodded, and seemed to
intend a smile, which, by, the correla.
tion of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises.
" I suppose that 's the sort of titfor-tat adopted in your profession,
Kiml)le, if you 've a grudge against
a patient, said the rector.
" Never do have a grudge against
our patients," said Mr. Kimble, 11 except when they leave us: and then,
you see, we have n't the chance of
prescribing for 'em. Ha, Miss Nancy," he continued, suddenly skipping
to Nancy's side, " you won't forget
your promise? You 're to save a
dance for me, you know."
11 Come, come, Kimble, don't you
be too for'ard," said the Squire.
"Give the young uns fair play.
There's my son Godfrey 'II be wanting to have a round with you if yott
run off with Miss Nancy. He 'a bespoke her for the first dance, I 11 be
bound. Eh, sir! what do you say? "
he continued, throwing himself back.
ward, and looking at Godfrey.
Have n't you asked Miss Nancy to
open the dance with yon 1 "
Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insistence about
Nancy, and afraid to think where it
would end by the time his father had
set his usual hospitable example of
drinking before and after supper, saw
no course open but to turn to Nancy
and say, with as little awkwardness
as possible: -
II No; L've not asked her yet, but
I ho e she 'R consent, - if somebody
else tas n't been before me."
" No, I 've not engaged myself,"
said Nancy, quietly, thoti4,h blushingly. (If Mr. Godfi-ey founded any,
liopes on her consenting to' dance'
with him, he would soon be undeceived; but there was no need for her
to be unciv'il.)
" Then I hope you've no ob
to dancing with me," said
beginning to'-lose the sense


said Mrs. Kimble, laughing above her
double chin with much good-humor,
aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who
blinked and nodded, and seemed to
intend a smile, which, by the correlation of forces, went off in small twitchings and noises.
" I suppose that 's the sort of titfor-tat adopted in your profession,
Kimlle, if you 've a grudge against
a patient," said the rector.
"Never do have a grudge against
our patients," said Mr. Kimble, "except when they leave us: and then,
you see, we have n't the chance of
prescribing for 'em. Ha, Miss Nancy," he continued, suddenly skipping
to Nancy's side, "you won't forget
your promise? You 're to save a
dance for me, you know."
"Come, come, Kimble, don't you
be too for'ard," said the Squire.
"Give the young uns fair play.
There's my son Godfrey '11 be wanting to have a round with you if you
run off with Miss Nancy. He 's bespoke her for the first dance, I 11 be
bound. Eh, sir! what do you say "
he continued, throwing himself backward, and looking at Godfrey.
"Have n't you asked Miss Nancy to
open the dance with you "
Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant insistance about
Nancy, and afraid to think where it
would end by the time his father had
set his usual hospitable example of
drinking before and after supper, saw
no course open but to turn to Nancy
and say, with as little awkwardness
as possible: -
"No; I.'ve not asked her yet, but
I hope she 'll consent, - if somebody
else has n't been before me."
"No, I 've not engaged myself,"
said Nancy, quietly, though blushiugly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any
hopes on her consenting to dance
with him, he would soon be undeceived; but there was no need for her
to be uncivil.)
" Then I hope you've no objections
to dancing with me," said Godfrey,
beginning to lose the sense that there




SILAS MARNER.


was anything uncomfortable in this
arrangement.
"No, no objections," said Nancy,
in a cold tone.
" Ah, well, you 're a lucky fellow,
Godfrey," said Uncle Kimble; "but
you 're my godson, so I won't stand
in your way. Else I 'm not so very
old, eh, my dear? " he went on, skipping to his wife's side again. " You
would n't mind my having a second
after you were gone, - not if I cried
a good deal first? "
"Come, come, take a cup o' tea
and stop your tongue, do," said goodhumored Mrs. Kimble, feeling some
pride in a husband who must be regarded as so clever and amusing by
the company generally. If he had
only not been irritable at cards!
While safe, well-tested personalities
were enlivening the tea in this way,
the sound of the fiddle approaching
within a distance at which it could be
heard distinctly, made the young people look at each other with sympathetic impatience for the end of the
meal.
"Why, there 's Solomon in the
hall," said the Squire, " and playing
my fav'rite tune, I believe, -'The
flaxen-headed ploughboy,' - he's for
giving us a hint as we are n't enough
in a hurry to hear him play. Bob,"
he called out to his third long-legged
son, who was at the other end of the
room, "open the door, and tell Solomon to come in. He shall give us a
tune here."
Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked
in, fiddling as he walked, for he
would on no account break.off in the
middle of a tune.
"Here, Solomon," said the Squire,
with loud patronage. "Round here,
my man. Ah, I knew it was 'The
flaxen-headed ploughboy'; there 's
no finer tune.'
Solomon Macey, a small, hale old
man with an abundant crop of long
white hair reaching nearly to his
shoulders, advanced to the indicated
otbowing reverently while he fidded, as much as to say that he re.


spected the company, though he respected the key-note more. As soon
as he had repeated the tune and lowered his fiddle, he bowed again to the
Squire and the rector, and said: "I
hope I see your honor and your reverence well, and wishing you health
and long life and a happy New Year.
And wishing the same to you, Mr.
Lammeter, sir; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, and the
young lasses."
As Solomon uttered the last words,
he bowed in all directions solicitously,
lest he should be wanting in due respect. But thereupon he immediately
began to prelude, and fell into the
tune which he knew would be taken
as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter.
"Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,"
said Mr. Lammeter when the fiddle
paused again. "That's ' Over the
hills and far away,' that is. My father used to say to me, whenever we
heard that tune, 'Ah, lad, 1 come
from over the hills and far away.'
There 's a many tunes I don't make
head or tail of; but that speaks to
me like the blackbird's whistle. I
suppose it 's the name: there 's a
deal in the name of a tune."
But Solomon was already impatient
to prelude again, and presently broke
with much spirit into "Sir Roger de
Coverley," at which there was a sound
of chairs pushed back, and laughing
voices.
"Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what
that means," said the Squire, rising.
" It 's time to begin the dance, eh?
Lead the way, then, and we '11 all follow you."
So Solomon, holding his white i
head on one side, and playing vigor- 
ously, marched forward at the head
of the gay procession into the White 
Parlor, where the mistletoe-bough was
hung, and multitudinous tallow candles made rather a brilliant effect,
gleaming from  among the berried
bolly-boughs, and reflected in the oldfashioned oval mirrors fastened in the
panels of the white wainscot. A


i
f..
i
I},.
I;
's..
i 
I 
I.1
Ir




SILAS MARNER.


63


quaint procession! Old Solomon, in
his seedy clothes and long white locks,
seemed to be luring that decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle, - luring discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. Crackenthorp herself, the summit of whose
perpendicular feather was on a level
with the Squire's shoulder,- luring
fair lasses complacently conscious of
very short waists and skirts blameless
of front folds,- luring burly fathers
in large variegated waistcoats, and
ruddy sons, for the most part syw and
sheepish, in short nether garments
and very long coat-tails.
Already Mr. Macey and a few
other privileged villagers, who were
allowed to be spectators on these
great occasions, were  seated on
benches placed for them near the
door; and great was the admiration
and satisfaction in that quarter when
the couples had formed themselves
for the dance, and the Squire led off
with Mrs.   Crackenthorp, joining
hands with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That was as it should be -
that was what everybody had been
used to - and the charter of Raveloe seemed to be renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an
unbecoming levity for the old and
middle-aged people to dance a little
before sitting down to cards, but
rather as part of their social duties.
For what were these if not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits and poultry with due frequency, paving each other old-established compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing well-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to eat
and drink too much out of hospitality, and eating and drinking too much
in your neighbor's house to show
that you like your cheer? And the
parson naturally set an example in
these social duties. For it would not
have been possible for the Raveloe
mind, without a peculiar revelation,
to know that a clergyman should be
a pale-faeed memento of solemnities,
instead of  reawonably faulty man,


whose exclusive authority to read
prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, necessarily coexisted
with the right to sell you the ground
to be buried in, and to take tithe in
kind; on which last point, of course,
there was a little grumbling, but not
to the extent of irreligion —not of
deeper significance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by no
means accompanied with a spirit of
impious defiance, but with a desire
that the prayer for fine weather
might be read forthwith.
There was no reason, then, why
the rector's dancing should not be received as part of the fitness of things
quite as much as the Squire's, or
why, on the other hand, Mr. Macey's.
official respect should restrain him
from subjecting the parson's performance to that criticism with which
minds of extraordinary acuteness
must necessarily contemplate the
doings of their fallible fellow-men.
" The Squire's pretty springe, considering his weight," said Mr. Macey, " and he stamps uncommon well.
But Mr. Lammeter beats 'em all for
shapes: you see he holds his head
like a sodger, and he is n't so cushiony as most o' the oldish gentlefolks,
- they run fat in general; and ihe '
got a fine leg. The parson's nimble
enough, but he hasn't got much of
a leg: it's a bit too thick down'ard,
and his knees might be a bit a nearer
wi'out damage; but he might do
worse, he might do worse. Though
he has n't that grand way o' waving
his hand as the Squire has."
" Talk o' nimbleness, look at Mrs.
Osgood," said Ben Winthrop, who
was holding his son Aaron between
his knees. "She trips along with
her little steps, so as nobody can see
how she goes, -it's like as if she
had little wheels 'to her feet. She
doesn't look a day older nor last
year: she's the finest-made woman as
is, let the next be where she will."
" I don't heed how the women are
made," said Mr. Macey, with some
contempt. " They wear nayther coat




64


SILAS MARNER.


nor breeches: you can't make much
out o' their shapes."
"Fayder," said Aaron, whose feet
were busy beating out the tune,
"how does that big cock's-feather
stick in Mrs. Crackenthorp's yead?
Is there a little hole for it, like in my
shuttlecock? "
"Hush, lad, hush; that's the way
the ladies dress theirselves, that is,
said the father, adding, however, in
an undertone to Mr. Macey, "It does
make her look funny, though, - partly like a short-necked bottle wi' a
long quill in it. Hey, by jingo,
there's the young Squire leading off
now, wi' Miss Nancy for partners.
There's a lass for you! — like a
pink-and-white posy, -there's nobody 'ud think as anybody could be
so pritty. I shouldn't wonder if
she s Madam Cass some day, arter all,
- and nobody more rightfuller, for
they'd make a fine match. You can
find nothing against Master Godfrey's
shapes, Maccy, I'll bet a penny."
Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth,
leaned his head further on one side,
and twirled his thumbs with a presto
movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the dance. At last he sum.
med up his opinion.
"Pretty well down'ard, but a bit
too round i' the shoulderblades. And
as for them coats as he gets from the
Flitton tailor, they're a poor cut to
pay double money for."
" Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are
two folks," said Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. "When I've
got a pot of good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my inside good, i'stead
o' smelling and staring at it to see if
I can't find faut wi' the brewing. I
should like you to pick me out a finerlimbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey, -one as 'ud knock you down
easier, or's more pleasanter looksed
when he's piert and merrv."
"Tchuhl" said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased severity, "he
isn't come to his right color yet;
he's partly like a slack-baked pie.
And I doubt he's got a soft place in


his head, else why should he be turned round the finger by that offal
Dunsey as nobody's seen o' late, and
let him kill that fine hunting boss as
was the talk o' the country? And
one while he was allays after Miss
Nancy, and then it all went off again,
like a smell o' hot porridge, as I
may say. That was n't my way
when I went a coorting."
"Ah, but mayhap, Miss Nancy
hung off, like, and your lass did n't,
said Ben.
" I4hould say she did n't," said Mr.
Macey, significantly. " Before I said
'sniff,' I took care to know as she'd
say 'snaff,' and pretty quick too. I
wasn't a going to open my mouth,
like a dog at a fly, and snap it to
again, wi' nothing to swaller."
"Well, I think Miss Nancy's a
coming round again," said Ben, " for
Master Godfrey does n't look so
down-hearted to-night. And I see
he's for taking her away to sit down,
now they 're at the end o' the dance:
that looks like sweethearting, that
does."
The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close
press of couples a slight accident had
happened to Nancy's dress, which,
while it was short enough to show
her neat ankle in front, was long
enough behind to be caught under the
stately stamp of the Squire's foot, so
as to rend certain stitches at the
waist, and cause much sisterly agitation in Priscilla's mind, as well as
serious concern in Nancy's. One's
thoughts may be much occupied with
love-struggles, but hardly so as to be
insensible to a disorder in the gene- 
ral framework of things. Nancy had
no sooner completed her duty in the i
figure they were dancing than she |
said to Godfrey, with a deep blush
that she must go and sit down till
Priscilla could come to her; for the
sisters had already exchanged a short
whisper and an open-eyed glance full
of meaning. No reason less urgent
than this could have prevailed on




SILAS MARNER.


65


Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of sitting apart with her. As
for Godfrey, he was feeling so happy
and oblivious under the long charm
of the country-dance with Nancy,
that he got rather bold on the
strength of her confusion, and was
capable of leading her straight away,
without leave asked, into the adjoining
small parlor, where the card-tables
were set.
"O no, thank you," said Nancy,
coldly, as soon as she perceived where
he was going, "not in there. I '11 wait
here till Priscilla's ready to come to
Ine. I'm sorry to bring you out of
the dance and make myself troublesome."
"Why, you '11 be more comfortable
here by yourself," said the artful Godfrey: "I'll leave you here till your
sister can come." He spoke in an indifferent tone.
That was an agreeable proposition,
and just what Nancy desired; why,
then, was she a little hurt that Mr.
Godfrey should make it?  They entered, and she seated herself on a
chair against one of the card-tables,
as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she could choose.
" Thank you, sir," she said immediately. "I need n't give you any
more trouble. I'm sorry you've had
such an unlucky partner."
" That's very ill-natured of you,"
said Godfrey, standing by her without any sign of intended departure,
" to be sorry you've danced with
me."
"0 no, sir, I don't mean to say
what's ill-natured at all," said Nancy, looking distractingly prim  and
pretty. "When gentlemen have so
many pleasures, one dance can matter
but very little."
" You know that is n't true. You
know one dance with you matters
more to me than all the other pleasures in the world."
It was a long, long while since
Godfrey had said anything so direct
as that, and Nancy was startled.
But her instinctive dignity and re

pugnance to any show of emotion
made her sit perfectly still, and only
throw a little more decision into her
voice as she said:"No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that's
not known to me, and I have very
good reasons for thinking different.
But if it's true, I don't wish to hear
it."
"Would you never forgive me,
then, Nancy, - never think well of
me, let what would happen, - would
you never think the present made
amends for the past? Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you did n't like? "
Godfrey was half conscious that
this sudden opportunity of speaking
to Nancy alone had driven him beside himself; but blind feeling had
got the mastery of his tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the
possibility Godfrey's words suggested,
but this very pressure of emotion
that she was in danger of finding too
strong for her roused all her power
of self-command.
"I should be glad to see a good
change in anybody, Mr. Godfrey,"
she answered, with the slightest
discernible difference of tone, " but it
'ud be better if no change was wanted."
"You 're very hard-hearted, Nancy," said Godfrey, pettishly. "You
might encourage me to be a better
fellow.  I'm  very miserable, - but
you 've no feeling."
" I think those have the least feeling that act wrong to begin with,"
said Nancy, sending out a flash in
spite of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, and would
have liked to go on and make her
quarrel with him; Nancy was so
exasperatingly quiet and firm. But
she was not indifferent to him yet.
The entrance of Priscilla, bustling
forward and saying, "Dear heart
alive, child, let us look at this gown,"
cut off Godfrey's hopes of a quarrel.
"I suppose I must go now," he
said to Priscilla.
"It's no matter to me whether you
E




SILAS MARNER.


go or stay," said that frank lady,
searching for something in her pocket,
with a preoccupied brow.
"Do you want me to go?" said
Godfrey, looking at Nancy, who was
now standing up by Priscilla's order.
"As you like," said Nancy, trying
to recover all her former coldness,
and looking down carefully at the
hem of her gown.
"Then I like to stay," said Godfrey, with a reckless determination to
get as much of this joy as he could
to-night, and think nothing of the
morrow.
CHAPTER XII.
WHILE Godfrey Cass was taking
draughts of forgetfulness from the
sweet presence of Nancy, willingly
losing all sense of that hidden bond
which at other moments galled and
fretted him so as to mingle irritation
with the very sunshine, Godfrey's
wife was walking with slow uncertain
steps through the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her
arms.
This journey on New Year's Eve
was a premeditated act of vengeance
which she had kept in her heart ever
since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had
told her he would sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There
would be a great party at the Red
House on New Year's Eve, she knew:
her husband would be smiling and
smiled upon, hiding her existence in
the darkest corner of his heart. But
she would mar his pleasure: she
would go in her dingy rags, with her
faded face, once as handsome as the
best, with her little child that had its
father's hair and eyes, and disclose
herself to the Squire as his eldest
son's wife.  It is seldom that the
miserable can help regarding their
misery as a wrong inflicted by those
who are less miserable: Molly knew
that the cause of her dingy rags was
not her husband's neglect, but the


demon Opium to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, except in the
lingering mother's tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child,
She knew this well; and yet, in the
moments of wretched unbenumbed
consciousness, the sense of her want
and degradation transformed itself
continually into bitterness towards
Godfrey. He was well off; and if she
had her rights she would be well off
too. The belief that he repented his
marriage, and suffered from it, only
aggravated her vindictiveness. Just
and self-reproving thoughts do not
come to us too thickly, even in the
purest air, and with the best lessons
of heaven and earth; how should
those white-winged delicate messengers make their way to Molly's poisoned chamber, inhabited by no higher
memories than those of a bar-maid's
paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen's jokes?
She had set out at an early hour,
but had lingered on the road, inclined
by her indolence to believe that if she
waited under a warm shed the snow
would cease to fall. She had waited
longer than she knew, and now that
she found herself belated in the snowhidden ruggedness of the long lanes,
even the animation of a vindictive
purpose could not keep her spirit from
failing. It was seven o'clock, and by
this time she was not very far from
Raveloe, but she was not familiar
enough with those monotonous lanes
to know how near she was to her
journey's end. She needed comfort,
and she knew but one comforter, -
the familiar demon in her bosom; but
she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black remnant, before she
raised it to her lips. In that moment
the mother's love pleaded for painful
consciousness rather than oblivion,pleaded to be left in aching weariness,
rather than to have the encircling
arms benumbed so that they could
not feel the dear burden. In another
moment Molly had flung something:
away, but it was not the black rem- 
nant, - it was an empty phial. And;




SILAS MARNER.


67


she'walked on again under the breakinig cloud, from which there came now
and then the light of a quickly veiled
stir, for a freezing- wind had sprung
up since the snowing had ceased. But
she walked always more and more
doiwsily, and clutched more and
niore automatically the sleeping child
at her bosom.:Slowly the demon was working his
will, and cold and weariness were his
helpers. Soon she felt nothing but a
supreme immediate longing that curiined off all fiturity, - the longing
tO lie down and sleep. She had arried at a spot where her footsteps
iawte no longer checked by a hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely,
iftable to distinguish any objects, notwithstanding  the wide whiteness
around her, and the growing starlight. She sank down against a
st'aggling furze bush, an easy pillow
enough; and the bed of snow, too,:  is soft. She did not feel that the bed
ii s cold, and did not heed whether? te child would wake and cry for her.
-:i'' her arms had not yet relaxed
tMr instinctive clutch; and the little
ie slumbered on as gently as if it
1ai been rocked in a lace-trimmed
ci adle.
- But the complete torpor came at
lit; the fingers lost their tension,
the arms unbent; then the little head
fel away from  the bosom, and the
Ijte eyes opened wide on the cold
starlight. At first there was a little
pteevish cry of "mammy," and an effort to regain the pillowing arm
and bosom; but mammy's ear was
deaf, and the pillow seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, as
te child rolled downward on its
Iother's knees, all wet with snow, its
eyes were caught by a bright glancing
light on the white ground, and, with
thi ready transition of infancy, it was
immediately absorbed in watching
the bright living thing running towards it, yet never arriving. That
bright living thing must be caught;
and in an instant the child had
slipped on all fours, and held out one




little hand to catch the gleam. But
the gleam would not be caught in
that way, and now the head was held
up to see where the cunning gleam
came from. It came from a very
bright place; and the little one, rising on its legs, toddled through the
snow, the old grimy shawl in which
it was wrapped trailing behind it, and
the queer little bonnet dangling at its
back, -toddled on to the open door
of Silas Marner's cottage, and right
up to the warm hearth, where there
was a bright fire of logs and sticks,
which had thoroughly warmed the
old sack (Silas's great-coat) spread
out on the bricks to dry. The little
one, accustomed to be left to itself
for long hours without notice from its
mother, squatted down on the sack,
and spread its tiny hands towards the
blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and making many inarticulate
communications to the cheerful fire,
like a new-hatched gosling beginning
to find itself comfbrtable. But presently the warmth had a lulling effect,
and the little golden head sank down
on the old sack, and the blue eyes
were veiled by their delicate half-transparent lids.
But where was Silas Marner while
this strange visitor had come to his
hearth? He was in the cottage, but
he did not see the child. During the
last few weeks, since he had lost his
money, he had contracted the habit of
opening his door and looking out
from time to time, as if he thought
that his money might be somehow
coming back to him, or that some
trace, some news of it, might be mysteriously on the road, and be caught
by the listening ear or the straining
eye. It was chiefly at night, when he
was not occupied with his loom, that
he fell into this repetition of an act
for which he could have assigned no
definite purpose, and which can hardly be understood except by those who
have undergone a bewildering separation from a supremely loved object.
In the evening twilight, and later
whenever the night was not dark, Si



SILAS MARNER.


las looked out on that narrow prospect round the Stone-pits, listening
and gazing, not with hope, but with
mere yearning and unrest.
This morning he had been told by
some of his neighbors that it was New
Year's Eve, and that he must sit up
and hear the old year rung out and
the new rung in, because that was
good-luck, and might bring his money back again.  This was only a
friendly Raveloe way of jesting with
the half-crazy oddities of a miser, but
it had perhaps helped to throw Silas
into a more than usually excited state.
Since the oncoming of twilight he
had opened his door again and again,
though only to shut it immediately at
seeing all distance veiled by the fall.
ing snow. But the last time he
opened it the snow had ceased, and
the clouds were parting here and
there. He stood and listened, and
gazed for a long while,- there was
really something on the road coming
towards him then, but he caught no
sign of it; and the stillness and the
wide trackless snow seemed to narrow
his solitude, and touched his yearning
with the chill of despair. He went in
again, and put his right hand on the
latch of the door to close it, - but he
did not close it; he was arrested, as
he had been already since his loss, by
the invisible wand of catalepsy, and
stood like a graven image, with wide
but sightless eyes, holding open his
door, powerless to resist either the
good or evil that might enter there.
When Marner's sensibility returned
he continued the action which had
been arrested, and closed his door, unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of any intermediate
change, except that the light had
grown dim, and that he was chilled
and faint. He thought he had been
too long standing at the door and
looking out. Turning towards the
hearth, where the two logs had fallen
apart, and sent forth only a red uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his
fireside chair, and was stooping to
push his logs together, when, to his


blurred vision, it seemed as if there
were gold on the floor in front of the
hearth.  Gold! - his own goldLbrought back to him as mysteriously
as it had been taken away! ie felt
his heart begin to beat violently, an.d
for a few moments he was unable tQ
stretch out his hand and grasp the restored treasure. The heap of gold
seemed to glow and get larger beri
neath his agitated gaze. He leaned
forward at last, and stretched forth
his hand; but instead of the hard coin
with the familiar resisting outline, his
fingers encountered soft warm cuils.
In utter amazement, Silas fell on his
knees and bent his head low to examine the man-el; it was a sleeping
child, -  round, fair thing, with soft
yellow rings all over its head. Could
this be his little sister, come back to
him in a dream,- his little sister,
whom he had carried about in his
arms for a year before she died, when
he was a small boy without shoes or
stockings?  That  was   the  first
thought that darted across Silas's
blank wonderment. Was it a dream?
He rose to his feet again, pushed his
logs together, and, throwing on some
dried leaves and sticks, raised a flame;
but the flame did not disperse the vision, —it only lit up more distinctly
the little round form of the child, and
its shabby clothing. It was very much
like his little sister. Silas sank into
his chair powerless, under the double
presence of an inexplicable surprise
and a hurrying influx of memories.
How and when had the child come in
without his knowledge  He had never
been beyond the door. But along with
that question, and almost thrusting it
away, there was a vision of the old
home and theold streets leadingto Lan-,
tern Yard,-and within that vision
another,of the thoughts which had
been present with him in those far-off
scenes. The thoughts were strange
to him now, like old friendships impossible to revive; and yet he had a
dreamy feeling that this child w0a
somehow a message come to him fromn
that far-off life; it stirred fibres that




SILAS MARNER.


69


had never been moved in Raveloe, -
old quiverings of tenderness, - old
impressions of awe at the presentiment of some Power presiding over
his life; for his imagination had not
yet extricated itself from the sense of
mystery in the child's sudden presence, and had formed no conjectures
of ordinary natural means by which
the event could have been brought
about.
'But there was a cry on the hearth:
the child had awaked, and Marner
stooped to lift it on his knee. It
clang round his neck, and burst louder and louder into that mingling of
inarticulate cries with "mammy" by
which little children express the be^ wildermelit of waking. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he bethought himself that
some of his porridge, which had got
cool by the dying fire, would do to
feed the child with if it were only
warmed up a little.
-He had plenty to do through the
- next hour. The porridge, sweetened
Iwith some dry brown sugar from an
jold store which he had refrained: from using for himself, stopped the
cries of the little one, and made her
' lift her blue eyes with a wide, quiet
gaze at Silas, as he put the spoon
into her mouth. Presently she slipped from his knee and began to toddle about, but with a pretty stagger
that made Silas jump up and follow
herlest she should fall against anything that would hurt her. But she
only fell in a sitting posture on the
ground, and began to pull at her
boots, looking up at him with a crying face as if the boots hurt her. He
took her on his knee again, but it
was some time before it occurred to
Silas's dull bachelor mind that the
wet boots were the grievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got
them off with difficulty, and Baby
was at once happily occupied with
the primary mystery of her own toes,
inviting Silas, with much chuckling,
to consider the mystery too. But the




wet boots had at last suggested to
Silas that the child had been walking
on the snow, and this roused him
from his entire oblivion of any ordinary means by which it could have
entered or been brought into his
house. Under the prompting of this
new idea, and without waiting to
form conjectures, he raised the child
in his arms, and went to the door.
As soon as he had opened it, there
was the cry of "mammy" again,
which Silas had not heard since the
child's first hungry waking. Bending forward, he could just discern the
marks made by the little feet on the
virgin snow, and he followed their
track to the furze bushes. "Mammy!" the little one cried again and
again, stretching itself forward so as
almost to escape from Silas's arms,
before he himself was aware that
there was something more than the
bush before him,-that there was
a human body, with the head sunk
low in the furze, and half covered
with the shaken snow.
CHAPTER XIII.
IT was after the early supper-time
at the Red House, and the entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into easy jollity,
when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at length
be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe,
and when the Squire preferred talking
loudly, scattering snuff, and patting
his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at
the whist-table, -a choice exasperating to Uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober business hours,
became intense and bitter over cards
and brandy, shuffled before his adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion,
and turned up a mean trump-card with
an air of inexpressible disgust, as if in
a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a course
of reckless profligacy. When the evening had advanced to this pitch of free



SILAS MARNER.


dom and enjoyment, it was usual for
the servants, the heavy duties of supper
being well over, to get their share of
amusement by coming to look on at
the dancing; so that the back regions
of the house were left in solitude.
There were two doors by which the
White Parlor was entered from the
hall, and they were both standing open
for the sake of air; but the lower one
was crowded with the servants and villagers, and only the upper door-way
was left free. Bob Cass was figuring
in a hornpipe, and his father, very
proud of this lithe son, whom he repeatedly declared to be just like himself' in his young days, in a tone that
implied this to be the very highest
stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre
of a group who had placed themselves
opposite the performer, not far from
the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way off, not to admire his
brother's dancing, but to keep sight
of Nancy, who was seated in the group,
near her father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid suggesting
himself as a subject for the Squire's
fatherly jokes in connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy Lammeter's
beauty, which were likely to become
more and more explicit. But he had
the prospect of dancing with her again
when the hornpipe was concluded, and
in the mean while it was very pleasant
to get long glances at her quite unobserved.
But when Godfrey was lifting his
eyes from one of those long glances,
they encountered an object as startling to him at that moment as if it
had been an apparition from the dead.
It was an apparition from that hidden
life which lies, like a dark by-street,
behind the goodly ornamented facade
that meets the sunlight and the gaze
of respectable admirers. It was his
own child carried in Silas Marner's
arms. That was his instantaneous
impression, unaccompanied by doubt,
though he had not seen the child for
months past; and when the hope was
rising that he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Crackenthorp and Mr.


Lammeter had already advanced to
Silas, in astonishment at this strange
advent. Godfi-ey joined them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every word, - trying to control
himself, but conscious that if any one
noticed him, they must see that he was
white-lipped and trembling.
But now all eyes at that end of the
room were bent on Silas Marner; the
Squire himself had risen, and asked
angrily, " How 's this? - what's this?
- what do you do coming in here in
this way?"
" I'm come for the doctor, -I want
the doctor," Silas had said, in the first
moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp.
"Why, what's the matter, Marner?" said the rector. "The doctor's here; but say quietly what you
want him for."
" It's a woman," said Silas, speak,
ing low, and half breathlessly, just as
Godfrey came up. "She's dead, I
think,-dead in the snow at' the
Stone-pits, - not far from my door."
Godfrey felt a great throb: there
was one terror in his mind at that moment: it was, that the woman might
not be dead. That was an evil terror,
an ugly inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey's kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security
from evil wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on duplicity.
"Hush, hush! " said Mr. Crackenthorp. " Go out into the hall there
I '11 fetch the doctor to you. Found
a woman in the snow, - and thinks
she 's dead," he added, speaking low,
to the Squire. "Better say as little
about it as possible: it will shock the
ladies. Just tell them a poor wonan
is ill from cold and hunger. I 'l1 go
and fetch Kimble."
By this time, however, the ladies
had pressed forward, curious to know
what could have brought the solitary
linen-weaver there under such strange
circumstances, and interested in the
pretty child, who, half alarmed and
alf attracted, by the brightness and
the numerous company, now frowned
and hid her face, now lifted up her




SILAS MARNER.


71


head again and looked round placably, until a touch or a coaxing word
brought back the frown, and made
her bury her face with new determination.
" What child is it " said several
ladies at once, and, among the rest,
Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey.
"I don't know, — some poor woman's who has been found in the snow,
I believe," was the answer Godfrey
wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (" After all, amn I certain? " he
hastened to add, silently, in anticipation of his own conscience.)
"Why, you 'd better leave the child
here, then, Master Marner," said
good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating,
however, to take those dingy clothes
into contact with her own ornamented
satin bodice. " I '11 tell one o' the
girls to fetch it."
"No - no - I can't part with it,
I can't let it go," said Silas, abruptly.
"It 's come to me, - I 'e a right to
keep it."
The proposition to take the child
from him had come to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered
under a strong sudden impulse, was
almost like a revelation to himself: a
minute before, he had no distinct intention about the child.
"Did you ever hear the like? " said
Mrs. Kimble, in mild surprise, to her
neighbor.
"Now, ladies, I must trouble you
to stand aside," said Mr. Kimble,
coming from the card-room, in some
bitterness at the interruption, but
drilled by the long habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant
calls, even when he was hardly sober.
" It 's a nasty business turning out
now, eh, Kimble?" said the Squire.
" He might ha' gone for your young
fellow - the 'prentice, there — what
's his name? "
" Might? ay, - what 's the use of
talking about might? " growled Uncle
Kimble, hastening out with Mnrner,
and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp
and Godfrey. " Get me a pair of


thick boots, Godfrey, will you? And
stay, let somebody run to Winthrop's
and fetch Dolly, - she 's the best
woman to get. Ben was here himself
before supper; is he gone? "
" Yes, sir, I met him," said Marner; "but I could n't stop to tell him
anything, only I said I was going for
the doctor, and he said the doctor was
at the Squire's. And I made haste
and ran, and there was nobody to be
seen at the back o' the house, and so
I went in to where the company was."
The child, no longer distracted by
the bright light and the smiling women's faces, began to cry and call for
"mammy," though always clinging
to Marner, who had apparently won
her thorough confidence. Godfrey
had come back with the boots, and
felt the cry as if some fibre were
drawn tight within him.
"I '11 go," he said, hastily, eager
for some movement; "I '11 go and
fetch the woman, - Mrs. Winthrop."
" 0, pooh, - send somebody else,"
said Uncle Kimble, hurrying away
with Marner.
" You '11 let me know if I can he of
any use, Kimble," said Mr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of
hearing.
Godfrey, too, had disappeared; he
was gone to snatch his hat and coat,
having just reflection enough to remember that he must not look like a
madman; but he rushed out of the
house into the snow without heeding
his thin shoes.
In a few minutes he was on his
rapid way to the Stone-pits by the
side of Dolly, who, though feeling
that she was entirely in her place in
encountering cold and snow on an
errand of mercy, was much concerned
at a young gentleman's getting his
feet wet under a like impulse.
"You 'd a deal better go back, sir,"
said Dolly, with respectful compassion. "You've no call to catch cold;
and I 'd ask you if you 'd be so good
as tell my husband to come, on your
way back- he 's at the Rainbow, I
doubt —if you found him anyway




72


SILAS MARNER.


sober enough to be o' use. Or else,
there 's Mrs. Snell 'ud happen send
the boy up to fetch and carry, for
there may be things wanted from the
doctor's."
" No, I '11 stay, now I'm once out,
- I '11 stay outside here," said Godfrey, when they came opposite Marner's cottage. "You can come and
tell me if I can do anything."
"Well, sir, you 're very good: you
've a tender heart," said Dolly, going
to the door.
Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge of self-reproach
at this undeserved praise. He walked
up and down, unconscious that he
was plunging ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but trembling
suspense about what was going on in
the cottage, and the effect of each
alternative on his future lot. No,
not quite unconscious of everything
else. Deeper down, and half smothered by passionate desire and dread,
there was the sense that he ought not
to be waiting on these alternatives;
that he ought to accept the consequences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil the claims of the
helpless child. But he had not moral
courage enough to contemplate that
active renunciation of Nancy as possible for him: he had only conscience
and heart enough to make him forever uneasy under the weakness that
forbade the renunciation. And at
this moment his mind leaped away
from all restraint toward the sudden
prospect of deliverance from his long
bondage.
" Is she dead?" said the voice that
predominated over every other within
him. "If she is, I may marry Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow
in future, and have no secrets, and
the child- shall be taken care of
somehow." But across that vision
came the other possibility, -" She
may live, and then it's all up with
me."
Godfrey never knew how long it
was before the door of the cottage
opened and Mr. Kimble came out.


He went forward to meet his uncle,
prepared to suppress the agitation: h
must feel, whatever news he was to
hear.
" I waited for you, as I 'd come so
far," he said, speaking first.
"Pooh, it was nonsense for you. to
come out: why did n't you send one
of the men? -There's nothing to be
done. She's dead, - has been dead
for hours, I should say."
"What sort of woman is sbeQ"
said Godfrey, feeling the blood rush
to his face.
"A young woman, but emaciated,
with long black hair. Some vagrant
-quite in rags. She's got a wedding-ring on, however. They must
fetch her away to the workhouse tomorrow. Come, come along."
"I want to look at her," said Godfrey. " I think I saw such a woman
yesterday. I'11 overtake you in a
minute or two."
Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey
turned back to the cottage. He east
only one glance at the dead face on
the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent care; but he remembered that last look at his unhappy
hated wife so well, that at the end of
sixteen years every line in the worn
face was present to him when he told
the full story of this night.
He turned immediately towards the
hearth, where Silas Marner sat lulling the child.  She was perfectly
quiet now, but not asleep,  only
soothed  by   sweet porridge and
warmth into that wide-gazing calm
which makes us older human beings,
with our inward turmoil, feel a tertain awe in the presence of a little
child, such as we feel before some
quiet majesty or beauty in the earth
or sky, - before a steady glowing
planet, or a fill-flowered eglantinej or
the bending trees over a silent pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey s without any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the
child could make no visible audible
claim on its father; and the father
felt a strange mixture of feelings, a




SILAS MARNER.


73


conflict of regret and joy, that the
pulse of that little heart had no response for the half-jealous yearning in
his own, when the blue eyes turned
away from him slowly, and fixed
themselves on the weaver's queer
face, which was bent low down to look
at them, while the small hand began to
pull Marner's withered cheek with
loving disfiguration.
"You '11 take the child to the
parish to-morrow?" asked Godfrey,
speaking as indifferently as he could.
"Who says so?" said Marner,
sharply. " Will they make me take
her? 
" Why, you would n't like to keep
her, should you, —an old bachelor
like you?"
"Till anybody shows they've a
right to take her away from me,"
said Marner. "The mother's dead,
and I reckon it's got no father: it's
a lone thing, - and I 'm a lone thing.
My money's gone, I don't know
where, - and this is come from I
don't know where. I know nothing,
- I'm partly mazed."
" Poor little thing!" said Godfrey.
"Let me give something towards finding it clothes."
He had put his hand in his pocket
and found half a guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas's hand, he hurried
out of the cottage to overtake Mr.
Kimble.
"Ah, I see it's not the same woman I saw," he said, as he came up.
"It's a pretty little child: the old
fellow seems to want to keep it;
that's strange for a miser like him.
But I gave him a trifle to help him
out: the parish isn't likely to quarrel with him for the right to keep the
child."
" No; but I 've seen the time when
I might have quarrelled with him for
it myself. It's too late now, though.
If the child ran into the fire, your
aunt's too fat to overtake it: she
could only sit and grunt like an
alarmed sow. But what a fool you
are, Godfrey, to come out in your
dancing shoes and stockings in this
4




way, - and you one of the beaux of
the evening, and at your own house!
What do you mean by such freaks,
young fellow?   Has Miss Nancy
been cruel, and do you want to spite
her by spoiling your pumps "
" 0, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was tired to death
of jigging and gallanting, and that
bother about the hornpipes.  And
I'd got to dance with the other Miss
Gunn," said Godfrey, glad of the
subterfuge his uncle had suggested to
him.
The prevarication and white lies
which a mind that keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a
great artist under the false touches
that no eye detects but his own are
worn as lightly as mere trimmings
when once the actions have become a
lie.
Godfrey reappeared in the White
Parlor with dry feet, and, since the
truth must be told, with a sense of
relief and gladness that was too
strong for painful thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture
now, whenever opportunity offered,
to say the tenderest things to Nancy
Lammeter, - to   promise her and
himself that he would always be just
what she would desire to see him?
There was no danger that his dead
wife would be recognized: those were
not days of active inquiry and wide
report; and as for the registry of
their marriage, that was a long way
off, buried in unturned pages, away
from every one's interest but his own.
Dunsey might betray him if he came
back; but Dunsey might be won to
silence.
And when events turn out so much
better for a man than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that his
conduct has been less foolish and
blameworthy than it might otherwise
have appeared?   When   we   are
treated well, we naturally begin to
think that we are not altogether unmeritorious, and that it is only just
we should treat ourselves well, and
not mar our own good fortune.




SILAS IARNER.


Where, after all, would be the use of
his confessing the past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happiness? - nay, hers? for he felt some
confidence that she loved him. As
for the child, he would see that it was
cared for: he would never forsake it;
he would do everything but own it.
Perhaps it would be just as happy in
life without being owned by its father,
seeing that nobody could tell how
things would turn out, and that —
is there any other reason wanted? 
well, then, that the father would be
much happier without owning the
child.
CHAPTER XIV.
THERE was a pauper's burial that
week in Raveloe, and up Kench Yard
at Batherley it was known that the
dark-haired woman with the fair
child, who had lately come to lodge
there, was gone away again. That
was all the express note taken that
Molly had disappeared from the eyes
of men.    But the unwept death
which, to the general lot, seemed as
trivial as the summer-shed leaf, was
charged with the force of destiny to
certain human lives that we know of,
shaping theirjoys and sorrows even to
the end.
Silas Marner's determination to
keep the " tramp's child" was matter
of hardly less surprise and iterated
talk in the village than the robbery
of his money.   That softening of
feeling towards him which dated from
his misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and
crazy, was now accompanied with a
more active sympathy, especially
amongst the women. Notable mothers, who knew what it was to keep
children " whole and sweet"; lazy
mothers, who knew what it was to be
interrupted in folding their arms and
scratching their elbows by the mischievous propensities of children just
firm on their legs, were equally inter

ested in conjecturing how a lone man
would manage with a two-year-old
child on his hands, and were equally
ready with their suggestions: the
notable chiefly telling him what he
had better do, and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he
would never be able to do.
Among the notable mothers, Dolly
Winthrop was the one whose neighborlyoffices were themost acceptable to
Marner, for they were rendered without any show of bustling instruction.
Silas had shown her the half-guinea
given to him by Godfrey, and had
asked her what he should do about
getting some clothes for the child.
"Eh, Master Marner," said Dolly,
"there's no call to buy, no more nor
a pair o' shoes; for I 've got the little
petticoats as Aaron wore five years
ago, and it's ill spending the money
on them baby-clothes, for the child
'ull grow like grass i' May, bless it,
-that it will."
And the same day Dolly brought her
bundle, and displayed to Marneri one
by one, the tiny garments in their dOi
order of succession, most of them
patched and darned, but clean and
neat as fresh-sprung herbs. This was
the introduction to a great ceremony
with soap and water, from which baby
came out in new beauty, and sat on
Dolly's knee, handling her toes and
chuckling and patting her palms together with an air of having made
several discoveries about herself, which
she communicated by alternate sounxds
of " gug-gug-gug," and "mammy."
The "mammy" was not a cry it
need or uneasiness: Baby had been
used to utter it without expecting
either tender sound or touch to folp
low.                           o
"Anybody 'ud think the angils in
heaven could n't be prettier," said
Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and
kissing them. "And to think of its
being covered wi' them dirty rags, -
and the poor mother,- froze to
death; but there's Them  as took
care of it, and brought it to your
door, Master Marner. The door was




SILAS MARNER.


75


open, and it walked in over the snow,
like as if it had been a little starved
robin. Did n't you say the door was
open?"
"Yes," said Silas, meditatively.
"Yes, - the door was open.   The
money's gone I don't know where,
and this is come from I don't know
where."
He had not mentioned to any one
his unconsciousness of the child 's entrance, shrinking from questions
which might lead to the fact he himself suspected, - namely, that he had
been in one of his trances.
"Ah," said Dolly, with soothing
gravity, " it's like the night and the
morning, and the sleeping and the
waking, and the rain and the harvest,
-one goes and the other comes, and
we know nothing how nor where.
We may strive and scrat and fend,.but it's little we can do arter all, -
the big things come and go wi' no
striving o' our 'n, - they do, that they
do; and I think you're in the right
on it to keep the little un, Master
Marner, seeing as it's been sent to
you, though there's folks as thinks
different. You 'll happen be a bit
inoithered with it while it's so little;
but I'll come, and welcome, and see
to it for you: I've a bit o' time to
spare most days, for when one gets
up betimes i' the morning, the clock
seems to stan' still tow'rt ten, afore
it's time to go about the victual. So,
as I say, I 11 come and see to the
child for you, and welcome."
"Thank you... kindly," said
Silas, hesitating a little. "I '11 be
glad if you'll tell me things. But,"
he added, uneasily, leaning forward
to look at Baby with some jealousy,
as she was resting her head backward against Dolly's arm, and eying
him contentedly from a distance," but I want to do things for it myself, else it may get fond o' somebody else, and not fond o' me.  I
've been used to fending for myself
in the house,- I can learn, I can
learn." 
" Eh, to be sure," said Dolly, gen

tly. "I've seen men as are wonderful handy wi' children. The men are
awk'ard and contrairy mostly, God
help 'em, - but when the drink's out
of 'em, they are n't unsensible, though
they 're bad for leeching and bandaging,-so fiery and unpatient. You
see this goes first, next the skin,"
proceeded Dolly, taking up the little
shirt, and putting it on.
" Yes," said Marner, docilely,
bringing his eyes very close, that they
might be initiated in the mysteries;
whereupon Baby seized his head with
both her small arms, and put her
lips against his face with purring
noises.
"See there," said Dolly, with a
woman's tender tact, "she's fondest
o' you. She wants to go o' your lap,
I'11 be bound. Go, tlen: take her,
Master Marner; you can put the
things on, and then you can say as
you 've done for her from the first of
her coming to you."
Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emotion mysterious to
himself, at something unknown dawning on his life. Thought and feeling
were so confused within him that if
he had tried to give them utterance,
he could only have said that the child
was come instead of the gold, - that
the gold had turned into the child.
He took the garments from Dolly,
and put them on under her teaching;
interrupted, of course, by Baby's
gymnastics.
" There, then! why, you take to it
quite easy, Master Marner," said
Dolly; "but what shall you do when
you're forced to sit in your loom?
For she '11 get busier and mischievouser every day, - she will, bless her.
It's lucky as you've got that high
hearth i'stead of a grate, for that
keeps the fire more out of her reach:
but if you 've got anything as can be
split or broke, or as is fit to cut her
fingers off, she '11 be at it,- and it is
but right you should know."
Silas meditated a little while in
some perplexity.  "I '11 tie her to
the leg o' the loom," he said at last,




76


SILAS MARNER.


— " tie her with a good long strip
o' something."
"Well, mayhap that '11 do, as it's
a little gell, for they're easier persuaded to sit i' one place, nor the
lads. I know what the lads are;
for I've had four,-four I've had,
God knows,- and if you was to take
and tie 'em up, they'd make a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing the pigs. But I'11 bring you my
little chair, and some bits o' red rag
and things for her to play wi'; an'
she'll sit and chatter to 'em as if
they were alive.  Eh, if it was n't
a sin to the lads to wish 'em made
different, bless 'em, I should ha' been
glad for one of 'em to be a little gell;
and to think as I could ha' taught
her to scour, and mend, and the knitting, and everything.  But I can
teach 'em this little un, Master Marner, when she gets old enough.". "But she '11 be my little 'un," said
Marner, rather hastily. "She'll be
nobody else's,"
"No, to be sure; you '11 have a
right to her, if you 're a father to her,
and bring her up according. But,"
added Dolly, coming to a point which
she had determined beforehand to
touch upon, "you must bring her up
like christened folks's children, and take
her to church, and let her learn her
catechise, as my little Aaron can say
off- the ' I believe,' and everything,
and 'hurt nobody by word or deed,'
-as well as if he was the clerk.
That's what you must do, Master
Marner, if you 'd do the right thing
by the orphin child."
Marner's pale face flushed suddenly
under a new anxiety. His mind was
too busy trying to give some definite
bearing to Dolly's words for him to
think of answering her.
" And it's my belief," she went on,
"as the poor little creature has never
been christened, and it's nothing but
right as the parson should be spoke
to; and if you was noways unwilling,
I 'd talk to Mr. Macey about it this
very day. For if the child ever went
anyways wrong, and you had n't


done your part by it, Master Martiei,
- 'noculation, and everything to save
it from harm, -it 'ud be a thorn i'
your bed forever o' this side the
grave; and I can't think as it 'ud be
easy lying down for anybody when
they 'd got to another world, if tley
had n't done their part by the helpless children as come wi'out their
own asking."
Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time now, for she had 
spoken from the depths of her own
simple belief, and was much concerned
to know whether her words would
produce the desired effect on Silas.
He was puzzled and anxious, for
Dolly's word " christened " conveyed
no distinct meaning to him. He had
only heard of baptism, and had only
seen the baptism of grown-up men
and women.
" What is it as you mean by ' christened'?" he said at last, timidly.
"Won't folks be good to her without
it? "
"Dear, dear!   Master Marnet,"
said Dolly, with gentle distress and
compassion.  "Had you never no
father nor mother as taught you' fo
say your prayers, and  as there's
good words and good things to keep
us from harm? "
" Yes," said Silas, in a low voice;
"I know a deal about that, -- ed
to, used to. But your ways are different; my country was a good way.
off." He paused a few moments,
and then added, more decidedly,
"But I want to do everything as can
be done for the child. And whatever 's right for it i' this country, and
you think 'ull do it good, I '11 at
according, if you '11 tell me."
" Well, then, Master Marner," said
Dolly, inwardly rejoiced, "I '11 ask
Mr. Macey to speak to the parson
about it; and you must fix on a name
for it, because it must have a name
giv' it when it's christened."
"My mother's name was Hephzibah," said Silas, "and my little sister
was named after her."
"Eh, that's a hard name," said




SILAS MARNER.


77


Dolly. "I partly think it is n't a
christened name."
"It's a Bible name," said Silas,
old ideas recurring.
"Then I 've no call to speak again'
it," said Dolly, rather startled by
Silas's knowledge on this head;
"but you see I'm no scholard, and
I'm slow at catching the words.
My husband says I'm allays like as
if I was putting the haft for the handle,-that's what he says, —for
he's very sharp, God help him. But
it's awk'ard calling your little sister by
fuch a hard name, when you 'd got
nothing big to say, like, - was n't it,
Master Marner? "
"We called her Eppie," said Silas.
" Well, if it was noways wrong to
shorten the name, it 'ud be a deal
handier. And so I'll go now, Master Marner, and I'll speak about the
christening afore dark; and I wish
you the best o' luck, and it's my belief as it '11 come to you, if you do
what's right by the orphin child; -
and there 's the 'noculation to be seen
to; and as to washing its bits o'
things, you need look to nobody but
me, for I can do 'em wi' one hand
when I've got my suds about. Eh,
the blessed angil!  You '1 let me
bring my Aaron one o' these days, and
he'll show her his little cart as his
father's made for him and the blackand-white pup as lhe's got a rearing."
Baby was christened, the rector
deciding that a double baptism was
the lesser risk to incur; and on this
occasion Silas, making himself as
clean and tidy as he could, appeared
for the first time within the church,
and shared in the observances held
sacred by his neighbors.  lie was
quite unable, by means of anything
he heard or saw, to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he
could at any time in his previous life
have done so, it must have been by
the aid of a strong feeling ready to
vibrate with sympathy, rather than
by a comparison of phrases and ideas;
and now for long years that feeling
had been dormant. He had no dis



tinct idea about the baptism and the
church-going, except that Dolly had
said it was for the good of the child;
and in this way, as the weeks grew to
months, the child created fresh and
fresh links between his life and the
lives from which he had hitherto
shrunk continually into narrower isolation. Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and must be worshipped
in close-locked solitude,- which was
hidden away from the daylight, was
deaf to the song of birds, and started
to no human tones,- Eppie was a
creature of endless claims and evergrowing desires, seeking and loving
sunshine, and living sounds, and living movements; making    trial of
everything, with trust in new joy, and
stirring the human kindness in all
eyes that looked on her. The gold
had kept his thoughts in an everrepeated circle, leading to nothing
beyond itself; but. Eppie was an object compacted of changes and hopes
that forced his thoughts onward, and
carried them far away from their old
eager pacing towards the same blank
limit, - carried them  away to the
new things that would come with the
coming years, when Eppie would
have learned to understand how her
father Silas cared for her; and made
him look for images of that time in
the ties and charities that bound together the families of his neighbors.
The gold had asked that he should
sit weaving longer and longer, deafened and blinded more and more to
all things except the monotony of his
loom and the repetition of his web;
but Eppie called him away from his
weaving, and made him think all its
pauses a holiday, reawakening his
senses with her fresh life, even to the
old winter-flies that came crawling
forth in the early spring sunshine,
and warming hilm into joy because
she had joy.
And when the sunshine grew strong
and lasting, so that the buttercups
were thick in the meadows, Silas
might be seen in the sunny middayv
or in the late afternoon when tlie




78


SILAS MARNER.


shadows were lengthening under the
hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry Eppie beyond the
Stone-pits to where the flowers grew,
till they reached some favorite bank
Where he could sit down, while Eppie
toddled to pluck the flowers, and
make remarks to the winged things
that murmured happily above the
bright petals, calling "Dad-dad's"
attention continually by bringing him
the flowers. Then she would turn
her ear to some sudden bird-note, and
Silas learned to please her by making signs of hushed stillness, that
they might listen for the note to come
again: so that when it came, she set
up her small back and laughed with
gurgling triumph.  Sitting on the
banks in this way, Silas began to
look for the once familiar herbs again;
and as the leaves, with their unchanged outline and markings, lay on his
palm, there was a sense of crowding
remembrances from which he turned
away timidly, taking refuge in Eppie's
little world, that lay lightly on his
enfeebled spirit.
As the child's mind was growing
into knowledge, his mind was growing into memory: as her life unfolded, his soul, long stupefied in a cold
narrow prison, was unfolding too,
and trembling gradually into full
consciousness.
It was an influence which must gather force with every new year: the tones
that stirred Silas's heart grew articulate, and called for more distinct answers; shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie's eyes and ears, and there
was more that " Dad-dad " was imperatively required to notice and account for. Also, by the time Eppie
was three years old, she developed a
fine capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways of being troublesome, which found much exercise,
not only for Silas's patience, but for
his watchfulness and penetration.
Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on
such occasions by the incompatible
demands of love. Dolly Winthrop
told him punishment was good for


Eppie, and that, as for rearing'&a
child without making it tingle a littl
in soft and safe places now and then,
it was not to be done.
" To be sure, there 's another thing
you might do, Master Marner," added
Dolly, meditatively:  "you mighit
shut her up once i' the coal-hote.
That was what I did wi' Aaron; for
I was that silly wi' the youngest lad,
as I could never bear to smack hini.
Not as I could find i' my heart to let
him stay i' the coal-hole more nor a
minute, but it was enough to colly
him all over, so as he must be new
washed and dressed, and it was as
good as a rod to him, - that was.
But I put it upo' your conscience,
Master Marner, as there's one of 'enm
you must choose, - ayther smacking
or the coal-hole, - else she'll get so
masterful, there'll be no holding
her."
Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this last remark;
but his force of mind failed before thb
only two penal methods open to hitn,
not only because it was painful to
him to hurt Eppie, but because he
trembled at a moment's contention
with her, lest she should love him the
less for it. Leteven an affectionate Goliath get himself tied to a small tender thing, dreading to hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more to snap
the cord, and which of the two, pray,
will be master? It was clear that
Eppie, with her short toddling steps
must lead Father Silas a pretty dance
on any fine morning when circumstances favored mischief.
For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of linen as a means
of fastening her to his loom when
he was busy: it made a broad belt
round her waist, and was long enough
to allow of her reaching the trucklebed and sitting down on it, but not
long enough for her to attempt any
dangerous climbing.   One   bright
summer's morning Silas had been
more engrossed than usual in "seiting up " a new piece of work, an occasion on which his scissors were in




SILAS MARNER.


79


requisition. These scissors, owing to
an especial warning of Dolly's, had
been kept carefully out of Eppie's
reach; but the click of them had had
a peculiar attraction for her ear, and,
watching the results of that click, she
had derived the philosophic lesson
that the same cause would produce
the same effect.  Silas had seated
himself in his loom, and the noise of
weaving had begun  but he had left
his scissors on a ledge which Eppie's
arm was long enough to reach; and
now, like a small mouse, watching
her opportunity, she stole quietly
from her corner, secured the scissors,
and toddled to the bed again, setting
up her back as a mode of concealing
the fact. She had a distinct intention
as to the use of the scissors; and
having cut the linen strip in a jagged
but effectual manner, in two moments
she had run out at the open door
where the sunshine was inviting her,
while poor Silas believed her to be a
better child than usual. It was not
until he happened to need his scissors
that the terrible fact burst upon him:
Eppie had run out by herself, - had
perhaps fallen into the Stone-pit.
Silas, shaken by the worst fear that
could have befallen him, rushed out,
calling "Eppie! " and ran eagerly
about the unenclosed space, exploring the dry cavities into which she
might have fallen, and then gazing
with questioning dread at the smooth
red surface of the water. The cold
drops stood on his brow. How long
had she been out? There was one
hope, —that she had crept through
the stile and got into the fields, where
he habitually took her to stroll. But
the grass was high in the meadow,
and there was no descrying her, if she
were there, except by a close search
that would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood's crop. Still, that misdemeanor
must be committed; and poor Silas,
after peering all round the hedgerows,
traversed the grass, beginning with
perturbed vision to see Eppie behind
every group of red sorrel, and to see
her moving always farther off as he


approached.   The   meadow      was
searched in vain; and he got over the
stile into the next field, looking with
dying hope towards a small pond
mlich was now reduced to its summer
shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin of good adhesive mud. Here,
however, sat Eppie, discoursin - cheerfully to her own small boot, which she
was using as a bucket to convey the
water into a deep hoof-mark, while
her little naked foot was planted comfortably on a cushion of olive-green
mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with alarmed doubt through
the opposite hedge.
Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas,
overcome with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her
with half-sobbinc, kisses. It was not
until he had carried her home, and
bad beoun to think of the necessary
washing, that he recollected the need
that he should punish Eppie, and
C'make her remember."    The idea
that she mi-ht run away Ltgain and
come to harm gave him unusual resolution, and for the first time he determined to try the coal-hole, - a small
closet near the hearth.
" Naughty, naughty Eppie," he suddenly began, holding her on his knee,
and pointing to her muddy feet and
clothes,   naughty to cut with the
scissors and run away. Eppie must
go into the coal-hole for being naughty. Daddy must put her in the coalhole."
He half expected that this would be
shock enon(rh, and that Eppie would
begin to cry. But instead of that,
she began to shake herself on his
knee, as if the proposition opened a
pleasing novelty.  Seeing that he
must proceed to extremities, he put
her into the coal-hole, and held the
door closed, with a trembling sense
that he was using a strong measure.
For a moment there was silence, but
then came a little cry, 11 Opy, opy! "
and Silas lot her out againi, saying,


approached.   The   meadow   was
searched in vain; and he got over the
stile into the next field, looking with
dying hope towards a small pond
which was now reduced to its summer
shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin of good adhesive mud. Here,
however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own small boot, which she
was using as a bucket to convey the
water into a deep hoof-mark, while
her little naked foot was planted comfortably on a cushion of olive-green
mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with alarmed doubt through
the opposite hedge.
Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas,
overcome with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her
with half-sobbing kisses. It was not
until he had carried her home, and
had begun to think of the necessary
washing, that he recollected the need
that he should punish Eppie, and
"make her remember."    The idea
that she might run away again and
come to harm gave him unusual resolution, and for the first time he determined to try the coal-hole, - a small
closet near the hearth.
" Naughty, naughty Eppie," he suddenly began, holding her on his knee,
and pointing to her muddy feet and
clothes, -" naughty to cut with the
scissors and run away. Eppie must
go into the coal-hole for being naughty. Daddy must put her in the coalhole."
He half expected that this would be
shock enough, and that Eppie would
begin to cry. But instead of that,
she began to shake herself on his
knee, as if the proposition opened a
pleasing novelty.  Seeing that he
must proceed to extremities, he put
her into the coal-hole, and held the
door closed, with a trembling sense
that he was using a strong measure.
For a moment there was silence, but
then came a little cry, " Opy, opy! "
and Silas let her out again, saying,




SILAS MARNER.


"Now Eppie 'ull never be naughty
again, else she must go in the coalhole, -a black, naughty place."
The weaving must stand still a long
while this morning, for now Eppie
must be washed, and have clean
clothes on; but it was to be hoped
that this punishment would have a
lasting effect, and save time in future,
though, perhaps, it would have been
better if Eppie had cried more.
In half an hour she was clean again,
and Silas, having turned his back to
see what he could do with the linen
band, threw it down again, with the
reflection that Eppie would be good
without fastening for the rest of the
morning. He turned round again,
and was going to place her in her little chair near the loom, when she
peeped out at him with black face and
ands again, and said, " Eppie in te
toal-hole!"
This total failure of the coal-hole
discipline shook Silas's belief in the efficacy of punishment. "She 'd take
it all for fun," he observed to Dolly,
" if I did n't hurt her, and that I can't
do, Mrs. Winthrop. 'If she makes me
a bit o' trouble, I can bear it. And
she 's got no tricks but what she '11
grow out of"
"Well, that's partly true, Master
Marner,"said Dolly, sympathetically;
" and if you can't bring your mind to
frighten her off touching things, you
must do what you can to keep 'em
out of her way. That's what I do
wi' the pups as the lads are allays
a-rearing. They will worry and gnaw,
- worry and gnaw they will, if it was
one's Sunday cap as hung anywhere
so as they could drag it. They know
no difference, God help 'em; it's the
pushing o' the teeth as sets 'em on,
that 's what it is."
So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden of her misdeeds
being borne vicariously by Father Silas. The stone hut was made a soft
nest for her, lined with downy patience: and also in the world that lay
beyond the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials.


Notwithstanding the difficulty tof:
carrying her and his yarn or linen at
the same time, Silas took her withI
him in most of his journeys to the
farm-houses, unwilling to leave her
behind at Dolly Winthrop's, who was
always ready to take care of her; and 
little curly-headed Eppie, the weaver's
child, became an object of interest at
several outlying homesteads, as well
as in the village. Hitherto he had
been treated very much as if he had
been a useful gnome or brownie, -a
queer and unaccountable creature,
who must necessarily be looked at
with wondering curiosity and repulsion, and with whom one would be
glad to make all greetings and bargains as brief as possible, but who
must be dealt with in a propitiatory
way, and occasionally have a present
of pork or garden-stuff to carry home
with him, seeing that without him
there was no getting the yarn woven.
But now Silas met with open smiling
faces and cheerful questioning, as a
person whose satisfactions and difficulties could be understood. Every-,
where he must sit a little and talk'
about the child, and words of interest
were always ready for him: "Ah,
Master Marner, you '11 be lucky if
she takes the measles soon and easy!I "
or, " Why, there is n't many lone men
'ud ha' been wishing to take up with
a little un like that; but I reckon the
weaving makes you handier than men 
as do out-door work, - you 're partly
as handy as a woman, for weaving
comes next to spinning."   Elderly
masters and mistresses, seated obseifvantly in large kitchen arm-chairs,
shook their heads over the difficulties'
attendant on rearing children, felt:
Eppie's round arms and legs, and pro-'
nounced them remarkably firm, and
told Silas that, if she turned out well:
(which, however, there was no telling),
it would be a fine thing for him to
have a steady lass to do for hipi}
when he got helpless. Servant-maidens were fond of carrying her out toW
look at the hens and chickens, or to
see if any cherries could be shakey




SILAS MARNER.


81


down in the orchard; and the small
boys and girls approached her slowly,
with cautious movement and steady
gaze, like little dogs face to face with
one of their own kind, till attraction
had reached the point at which the
soft lips were put out for a kiss. No
child was afraid of approaching Silas
when Eppie was near him: there was
no repulsion around him now, either
for young or old; for thelittle child had
come to link him once more with the
whole world. There was love between
him and the child that blent them into one, and there was love between
the child and the world, - from men
and women with parental looks and
tones, to the red lady-birds and the
rounded pebbles.
Silas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in relation to Eppie:
she must have everything that was
good in Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he might come to understand better what this life was, from
which, for fifteen years, he had stood
aloof as from a strange thing, wherewith he could have no communion:
as some man who has a precious
plant to which he would give a nurturing home in a new soil thinks of
the rain, and the sunshine, and all
influences, in relation to his nursling,
and asks industriously for all knowledge that will help him to satisfy the
wants of the searching roots, or to
guard leaf and bud from invading
harm. The disposition to hoard had
been utterly crushed at the very first
by the loss of his long-stored gold:
the coins he earned afterwards seemed as irrelevant as stones brought to
complete a house suddenly buried by
an earthquake; the sense of bereavement was too heavy upon him for the
old thrill of satisfaction to arise again
at the touch of the newly earned
coin. And now something had come
to replace his hoard which gave a
growing purpose to 'the earnings,
drawing his hope and joy continually onward beyond the money.
In old days there were angels who
came and took men by the hand and
4*


led them away from the city of destruction. We see no white-winged
angels now. But yet men are led
away from threatening destruction:
a hand is put into theirs, which leads
them forth gently towards a calm
and bright land, so that they look no
more backward; and the hand may
be a little child's.
CHAPTER XV.
THERE was one person, as you
wil believe, who watched, with keener though more hidden interest than
any other, the prosperous growth of
Eppie under the weaver's care. He
dared not do anything that would
imply a stronger interest in a poor
man s adopted child than could be
expected from the kindliness of the
young Squire, when a chance meeting suggested a little present to a
simple old fellow whom others noticed
with good-will; but he told himself
that the time would come when he
might do something towards furthering the welfare of his daughter without incurring suspicions. Was he
very uneasy in the mean time at his
inability to give his daughter her
birthright?  I cannot say that he
was.  The child was being taken
care of, and would very likely be happy, as people in humble stations often
were, -happier, perhaps, than those
who are brought up in luxury.
That famous ring that pricked its
owner when he forgot duty and followed desire, - I wonder if it pricked
very hard when he set out on the
chase, or whether it pricked but
lightly then, and only pierced to the
quick when the chase had long been
ended, and hope, folding her wings,
looked backward and became regret?
Godfrey Cass's cheek and eye were
brighter than ever now. He was so
undivided in his aims that he seemed like a man of firmness. No Dunsey had come back: people had made
F




SILAS MARNER.


up their minds that he was gone for
a soldier, or gone " out of the country," and no one cared to be specific
in their inquiries on a subject delicate
to a respectable family.  Godfrey
had ceased to see the shadow of Dunsey across his path; and the path
now lay straight forward to the accomplishment of his best, longestcherished wishes.  Everybody said
Mr. Godfrey had taken the right
turn; and it was pretty clear what
would be the end of things, for there
were not many days in the week that
he was not seen riding to the Warrens. Godfrey himself, when he was


asked jocosely if the day had been
fixed, smiled with the pleasant consciousness of a lover who could say
" Yes," if he liked. He felt a reformed man, delivered from temptation;
and the vision of his future life seemed to him as a promised land for
which he had no cause to fight. He
saw himself with all his happiness
centred on his own hearth, while
Nancy would smile on him as he
played with the children.
And that other child, not on the
hearth, - he would not forget it; he
would see that it was well provided
for. That was a father's duty.


PART II.


CHAPTER XVI.
IT was a bright autumn Sunday,
sixteen years after Silas Marner had
found his new treasure on the hearth.
The bells of the old Raveloe church
were ringing the cheerful peal which
told that the morning service was
ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower came slowly, retarded by friendly greetings and questions,
the richer parishioners who had chosen
this bright Sunday morning as eligible
for church-going. It was the rural
fashion of that time for the more important members of the congregation
to depart first, while their humbler
neighbors waited and looked on,
stroking their bent heads or dropping
their courtesies to any large rate-payer
who turned to notice them.
Foremost among these advancing
groups of well-clad people, there are
some whom we shall recognize in
spite of Time, who has laid his hand
on them all. The tall blond man of
forty is not much changed in feature
from the Godfrey Cass of six-andtwenty: he is only fuller in flesh, and


has only lost the indefinable look of
youth, - a loss which is marked even
when the eye is undulled and the
wrinkles are not yet come. Perhaps
the pretty woman, not much younger
than he, who is leaning on his arm,
is more changed than her husband:
the lovely bloom that used to be always on her cheek now comes but fitfully, with the fresh morning air or
with some strong surprise; yet to all
who love human faces best for what
they tell of human experience, Nancy's beauty has a heightened interest.
Often the soul is ripened into fuller
goodness while age has spread -an
ugly film, so that mere glances can
never divine the preciousness of the
fruit. But the years have not been
so cruel to Nancy. The firm   yet
placid mouth, the clear veracious
glance of the brown eyes, speak now
of a nature that has been tested and
has kept its highest qualities; and
even the costume, with its dainty
neatness and purity, has more significance now the coquetries of youth
can have nothing to do with it.
Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any




SILAS IMARNER.


83


higher title has died away from Raveloe lips since the old Squire was gathered to his fathers and his inheritance
was divided) have turned round to look
for the tall aged man and the plainly
dressed woman who are a little behind,
- Nancy having observed that they
must wait for " father and Priscilla "
-and now they all turn into a narrower path leading across the churchyard to a small gate opposite the Red
House. We will not follow them
now; for may there not be some others in this departing congregation
whom we should like to see again, 
some of those who are not likely to
be handsomely clad, and whom we
may not recognize so easily as the
master and mistress of the Red House?
But it is impossible to mistake Silas
Marner. His large brown eyes seem
to have gathered a longer vision, as is
the way with eyes that have been
short-sighted in early life, and they
have a less vague, a more answering
look; but in everything else one sees
signs of a frame much enfeebled by
the lapse of the sixteen years.  The
weaver's bent shoulders and white
hair give him almost the look of advanced age, though he is not more
than five-and-fifty; but there is the
freshest blossom of youth close by his
side,- a bloni dimpled girl of eighteen, who has vainly tried to chastise
her curly auburn hair into smoothness
under her brown bonnet: the hair
ripples as obstinately as a brooklet
under the March breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the restraining comb behind and show
themselves below the bonnet-crown.
Eppie cannot help being rather vexed
about her hair, for there is no other
girl in Raveloe who has hair at all
like it, and she thinks hair ought to
be smooth. She does not like to be
blameworthy even in small things:
you see how neatly her prayer-book
is folded in her spotted handkerchief.
That good-looking young fellow, in
a new fustian suit, who walks behind
her, is not quite sure upon the question of hair in the abstract when Ep

pie puts it to him,, and thinks that
perhaps straight hair is the best in
general, but he does n't want Eppie's
hair to be different. She surely divines that there is some one behind
her who is thinking about her very
particularly, and mustering courage
to come to her side as soon as they
are out in the lane, else why should
she look rather shy, and take care
not to turn away her head from her
father Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring little sentences as to who was
at church, and who was not at church,
and how pretty the red mountain-ash
is over the Rectory wall.
" I wish we had a little garden, father, with double daisies in, like Mrs.
Winthrop's," said Eppie, when they
were out in the lane; "only they say
it 'ud take a deal of digging and
bringing fresh soil, - and you could
n't do that, could you, father2  Anyhow, I should n't like you to do it,
for it 'ud be too hard work for you."
"Yes, I could do it, child, if you
want a bit o' garden: these long
evenings, I could work at taking in a
little bit o' the waste, just enough for
a root or two o' flowers for you; and
again, i' the morning, I could have a
turn wi' the spade before I sat down
to the loom. Why did n't you tell
me before as you wanted a bit o' garden '?"
" I can dig it for you, Master Marner," said the young man in fustian,
who was now by Eppie's side, entering into the conversation without
the trouble of formalities.  "It '11
be play to me after I've done my
day's work, or any odd bits o' time
when the work's slack. And I'll
bring you some soil from Mr. Cass's
garden, - ho '11 let me, and willing."
"Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you
there? " said Silas; " I was n't aware
of you; for when Eppie 's talking o'
things, I see nothing but what she 's
a saying. Well, if you could help
me with the digging, we might get
her a bit o' garden all the sooner."
"Then, if you think well and
good," said Aaron, " I '11 come to the




SILAS -MARNER.


Stone-pits.this afternoon, and we '11
settle what land 's to be taken in, and
I '11 get up an hour earlier i' the morning, and begin on it."
"But not if you don't promise me
not to work at the hard digging, father," said Eppie. "For I should n't
ha' said anything about it," she added, halfbasllfully, halfroguishly, " only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron 'ud
be so good, and - "
" And you might ha' known it without mother telling you," said Aaron.
"And Master Mamer knows too, I
hope, as I 'm able and willing to do a
turn o' work for him, and he won't do
me the unkindness to anyways take
it out o' my hands."
"There, now, father, you won't
work in it till it's all easy," said Eppie, " and you and me can mark out
the beds, and make holes and plant
the roots. It '11 be a deal livelier at the
Stone-pits when we 've got some flowers, for I always think the flowers
can see us and know what we 're talking about. And I '11 have a bit o'
rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme,
because they 're so sweet smelling;
but there 's no lavender only in the
gentlefolks' gardens, I think."
" That's no reason why you should
n't have some," said Aaron, " for I
can bring you slips of anything; I 'm
forced to cut no end of 'em when I'm
gardening, and throw 'em away mostly. There 's a big bed o' lavender
at the Red House: the missis is very
fond of it."
" Well," said Silas, gravely, " so
as you don't make free for us, or ask
for anything as is worth much at the
Red House; for Mr. Cass's been so
good to us, and built us up the new
end o' the cottage, and given us beds
and things, as I could n't abide to be
imposin' for garden-stuff or anything
else."
" No, no, there 's no imposin'," said
Aaron; " there's never a garden in
all the parish but what there 's endless
waste in it for want o' somebody as
could use everything up. It's what
I think to myself sometimes, as there


need nobody run short o' victuals i? '
the land was made the most on, and-J?
there was neyer a morsel but whatcould find its way to a mouth. It sets '
one thinking o' that,-gardeningdoes. But I must go back now, elso:
mother 'ull be in trouble as I aren't; —
there."
" Bring her with you this afternoon,:
Aaron," said Eppie; "I should n't
like to fix about the garden, and her
not know everything from the first,should you, father?"
"Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron,"
said Silas; " she 's sure to have a word
to say as'11 help us to set things on
their right end.'
Aaron turned back up the village,
while Silas and Eppie went on up the
lonely sheltered lane.
"   daddy! "she began, when they
were in privacy, clasping and squeezing Silas's arm, and skipping round
to give him an energetic kiss. "My
little old daddy! I'm so glad. I
don't think I shall want anything else
when we 've got a little garden; and;
I kneiw Aaron would dig it for us,"
she went on with roguish triumph,"I knew that very well."
"You 're a deep little puss, you are,"
said Silas, with the mild passive happiness of love-crowned age in his face;
" but you '11 make yourself fine and -
beholden to Aaron."
" O no, Isha' n't," said Eppie, laughing and frisking; " he likes it."
"Come, come, let me carry your
prayer-book, else you '11 be dropping
it, jumping i' that way."
Eppie was now aware that her behavior was under observation, but it
was only the observation of a friendly
donkey, browsing with a log fastened
to his foot, -a meek donkey, not
scornfully critical of human trivialities, but thankful to share in them, if
possible, by getting his nose scratched;
and Eppie did not fail to gratify him
with her usual notice, though it was.
attended with the inconvenience of his
following them, painfully, up to theo -
very door of their home.      - 
But the sound of a sharp bark itzr:;




SILAS MARNER.


85


side, -as Eppie put the key in the
door, modified the donkey's views,
arid he limped away again without
bidding. The sharp bark was the sign
of an excited welcome that was awaiting them from a knowing brown terrier, who, afcer dancing at their legs in
a hysterical manner, rushed with a
worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and then rushed
back with a sharp bark again, as much
as to say, " I have done my duty by
this feeble creature, you perceive ";
while the lady-mother of the kitten sat
sunning her white bosom in the win-'
dbw, and looked round with a sleepy
air of expecting caresses, though she
was not going to take any trouble for
them.
The presence of this happy animal
life was not the only change which had
come over the interior of the stone
cottage. There was no bed now in
the living-room, and the small space
was well filled with decent furniture,
all bright and clean enough to satisfy
Dolly Winthrop's eye. The oaken
table and three-cornered oaken chair
were hardly what was likely to be seen
in so poor a cottage: they had come,
with the beds and other things, from
the Red House;for Mr. Godfrey Cass,
as every one said in the village, did
very kindly by the weaver; and it was
nothing but right a man should be
looked on and helped by those who
could afford it, when he had brought
up an orphan child, and been father
and mother to her, - and had lost
his money too, so as he had nothing
but what he worked for week by week,
and when the weaving was going
down too, - for there was less and less
flax spun, - and Master Marner was
none so young. Nobody was jealous of
the weaver, for he was regarded as an
exceptional person, whose claims on
neighborly help were not to be matched
in Iaveloe. Any superstition that
remained concerning him had taken
an entirely new color; and Mr. Macey, now a very feeble old man of
fourscore and six, never seen except
in his chimney-corner or sitting in the


sunshine at his door-sill, was of opinion that when a man had done what
Silas had done by an orphan child, it
was a sign that his money would
come to light again, or leastwise that
the robber would be made to answer
for it, - for, as Mr. Macey observed
of himself, his faculties were as strong
as ever.
Silas sat down now and watched
Eppie with a satisfied gaze as she
spread the clean cloth, and set on it
the potato-pie, warmed up slowly in a
safe Sunday fashion, by being put into a dry pot over a slowly dying fire,
as the best substitute for an oven.
For Silas would not consent to have
a grate and oven added to his conveniences: he loved the old brick hearth
as he had loved his brown pot, - and
was it not there when he had found
Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist
for us still; and let all new faith be
tolerant of that fetichism, lest it bruise
its own roots.
Silas ate his dinner more silently
than usual, soon laying down his
knife and fork, and watching halfabstractedly Eppie's play with Snap
and the cat, by which her own dining
was made rather a lengthy business.
Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wandering thoughts: Eppie, with
the rippling radiance of her hair and
the whiteness of her rounded chin and
throat set off by the dark-blue cotton
gown, laughing merrily as the kitten
held on with her four claws to one
shoulder, like a design for a jug-handle, while Snap on the right hand and
Puss on the other put up their paws
towards a morsel which she held out
of the reach of both, - Snap occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate
with the cat by a cogent worrying
growl on the greediness and futility
of her conduct; till Eppie relented,
caressed them both, and divided the
morsel between them.
But at last Eppie, glancing at the
clock, checked the play, and said,
" 0 daddy, you're wanting to go into
the sunshine to smoke your pipe.
But I must clear away first, so as the




SILAS MARNER..house may be tidy when godmother
comes. I '11 make haste, -I won't
be long."
Silas had taken to smoking a pipe
daily during the last two years, having been strongly urged to it by the
sages of Baveloe, as a practice " good
for the fits "; and this advice was
sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the
ground that it was as well to try
what could do no harm, - a principle which was made to answer for a
great deal of work in that gentleman's
medical practice. Silas did not highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered
how his neighbors could be so fond of
it; but a humble sort of acquiescence
in what was held to be good had become a strong habit of that new self
which had been developed in him
since he had found Eppie on his
hearth: it had been the only clew his
bewildered mind could hold by in cherishing this young life that had been
sent to him out of the darkness into
-which his gold had departed. By
seeking what was needful for Eppie,
by sharing the effect that everything
produced on her, he had himself come
to appropriate the forms of custom
and belief which were the mould of
Raveloe life; and as, with reawakening sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he had begun to ponder
over the elements of his old faith, and
blend them with his new impressions,
till he recovered a consciousness of
unity between his past and present..The sense of presiding goodness and
the human trust which come with
all pure peace and joy had given him
a dim impression that there had been
some error, some mistake, which had
thrown that dark shadow over the
days of his best years; and as it grew
more and more easy to him to open
his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he
gradually communicated to her all
he could describe of his early life.
The communication was necessarily
a slow and difficult process, for Silas's
meagre power of explanation was not
aided by any readiness of interpretation
in Dolly, whPsn anrrQw outwar4 e.pe



rience gave her no key to strange customs, and made every novelty a source
of wonder that arrested them at every
step of the narrative. It was only by
fragments, and at intervals which
left Dolly time to revolve what she
had heard till it acquired some familiaritj for her, that Silas at last arrived
at the climax of the sad story,- the
drawing of lots, and its false testimony concerning him; and this had to
be repeated in several interviews,
under new questions on her part as
to the nature of this plan for detecting
the guilty and clearing the innocent.
"And yourn 's the same Bible,
you're sure o' that, Master Marner,
- the Bible as you brought wi' you
from  that country, -it's the same
as what they 've got at church, and
what Eppie's a learning to read
in?"
" Yes," said Silas, " every bit the
same; and there's drawing o' lots in
the Bible, mind you," he added in a
lower tone.
"0 dear, dear," said Dolly, in a
grieved voice, as if she were hearing
an unfavorable report of a sick man's
case. She was silent for some minutes; at last she said:"There's wise folks, happen, as
know how it all is; the parson knows,
I '11 be bound; but it takes big words
to tell them things, and such as poor
folks can't make much out on. I can
never rightly know the meaning o'
what I hear at church, only a bit here
and there, but I know it's good
words, —I do. But what lies upo'
your mind, -it's this, Master Marner: as, if Them above had done the
right thing by you, They'd never ha'
let you be turned out for a wicked
thief when you was innicent."
"Ah!" said Silas, who had now
come to understand Dolly's phraseology, "that was what fell on me like
as if it had been red-hot iron; because,
you see, there was nobody as cared
for me or clave to me above nor
below. And him as I'd gone out
and in wi' for ten year and more, since
when we was Ja Al aji wog lalves, -




SILAS MARNER.


87


mine own famil'ar friend, in whom I
trusted, had lifted up his heel again'
me, and worked to ruin me."
" Eh, but he was a bad un, -I
can't think as there 's another such,"
said Dolly. "But I 'm o'ercome,
Master Marner; I 'm like as if I 'd
waked and did n't know whether it
was night or morning. I feel somehow as sure as I do when I 've laid
something up though I can't justly
put my hand on it, as there was a
rights in what happened to you, if one
could but make it out; and you 'd no
call to lose heart as you did. But we
'1I talk on it again; for sometimes
things come into my head when I 'm
leeching or poulticing, or such, as I
could never think on when I was sitting still."
Dolly was too useful a woman not
to have many opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded to,
and she was not long before she recurred to the subject.
"Master Marner," she said, one
day that she came to bring home
Eppie's washing, "I 've been sore
puzzled for a good bit wi' that trouble
o' yourn and the drawing o' lots;
and it got twisted back'ards and for'ards, as I did n't know which end to
lay hold on. But it come to me all
clear like, that night when I was sitting up wi' poor Bessy Fawkes, as is
dead and left her children behind, God
help 'em, - it come to me as clear as
daylight; but whether I 've got hold
on it now, or can anyways bring it to
my tongue's end, that I don't know.
For I 've often a deal inside me as '11
niver come out; and for what you
talk o' your folks in your old country
niver saying prayers by heart nor saying 'em out of a book, they must be
wonderful diver; for if I did n't know
' Our Father,' and little bits o' good
words as I can carry out o' church
wi' me, I might down o' my knees
every night, but nothing could I
say." 
" But you can mostly say something as I can make sense on, Mrs.
Winthrop," said Silas.




"Well, then, Master Marner, it
come to me summat like this: I can
make nothing o' the drawing o' lots
and the answer coming wrong; it 'ud
mayhap take the parson to tell that,
and he could only tell us i' big words.
But what come to me as clear as the
daylight, it was when I was troubling
over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays
comes into my head when I 'm sorry
for folks, and feel as I can't do a
power to help 'em, not if I was to get
up i' the middle o' the night, -it
comes into my head as Them above
has got a deal tenderer heart nor
what I 've got, - for I can't be anyways better nor Them as made me;
and if anything looks hard to me, it '
because there 's things I don't know
on; and for the matter o' that, there
may be plenty o' things I don't know
on, for it's little as I know,- that it
is. And so, while I was thinking o'
that, you come into my mind, Master
Marner, and it all come pouring in:
- if I felt i' my inside what was the
right and just thing by you, and them
as prayed and drawed the lots, all but
that wicked un, if they 'd ha' done the
right thing by you if they could, is
n't there Them as was at the making
on us, and knows better and has a
better will? And that's all as ever
I can be sure on, and everything else
is a big puzzle to me when I think on
it. For there was the fever come and
took off them as were full-growed, and
left the helpless children; and there
's the breaking o' limbs; and them
as 'ud do right and be sober have to
suffer by them as are contrairy, - eh,
there 's trouble i' this world, and
there 's things as we can niver make
out the rights on. And all as we 've
got to do is to trusten, Master Marner, - to do the right thing as fur as
we know, and to trusten. For if us
as knows so little can see a bit o'
good and rights, we may be sure as
there 's a good and a rights bigger
nor what we can know, - I feel it i'
my own inside as it must be so. And
if you could but ha' gone on trusten-.ing, Master Marner, you would n't




88


SILAS MARNER.


ha' run away from your fellow-creaturs and been so lone."
" Ah, but that 'ud ha' been hard,"
said Silas, in an undertone; "it 'ud
ha' been hard to trusten then."
"And so it would," said Dolly,
almost with compunction; "them
things are easier said nor done; and
I 'm partly ashamed o' talking."
"Nay, nay," said Silas, " you 're i'
the right, Mrs. Winthrop, -you 're
i' the right. There 's good i' this
world, - I 've a feeling o' that now;
and it makes a man feel as there 's a
good more nor he can see, i' spite o'
the trouble'and the wickedness. That
drawing o' the lots is dark; but the
child was sent to me; there 's dealings with us, - there 's dealings."
This dialogue took place in Eppie's
earlier years, when Silas had to part
with her for two hours every day, that
she might learn to read at the dame
school, after he had vainly tried himself to guide her in that first step to
learning. Now that she was grown
up, Silas had often been led, in those
moments of quiet outpouring which
come to people who live together in
perfect love, to talk with her too of
the past, and how and why he had
lived a lonely man until she had been
sent to him. For it would have been
impossible for him to hide from Eppie that she was not his own child:
even if the most delicate reticence on
the point could have been expected
from Raveloe gossips in her presence,
her own questions about her mother
could not have been parried, as she
grew  up, without that complete
shrouding of the past which would
have m:.de a painful barrier between
their minds. So Eppie had long
known how her mother had died on
the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found on the hearth by
Father Silas, who had taken her golden curls for his lost guineas brought
back to him. The tender and peculiar love with which Silas had reared
her in almost inseparable companionship with himself, aided by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved


her from the lowering influences of
the village talk and habits, and had
kept her mind in that freshness which
is sometimes falsely supposed to be
an invariable attribute of rusticity.
Perfect love has a breath of poetry
which can exalt the relations of the
least-instructed human beings; and
this breath of poetry had surrounded
Eppie from the time when she had
followed the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas's hearth; so that it
is not surprising if, in other things
besides her delicate prettiness, she was
not quite a common village maiden,
but had a touch of refinement and
fervor which came from no other
teaching than that of tenderly nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was
too childish and simple for her imagination to rove into questions about
her unknown father; for a long while
it did not even occur to her that she
must have had a father; and the first
time that the idea of her mother having had a husband presented itself to
her was when Silas showed her the
wedding-ring which had been taken
from the wasted finger, and had been
carefully preserved by him in a little
lackered box shaped like a shoe. He
delivered this box into Eppie's charge
when sho had grown up, and she
often opened it to look at the ring;
but still she thought hardly at all
about the father of whom it was the
symbol. Had she not a father very
close to her, who loved her better than
any real fathers in the village seemed
to love their daughters? On the contrary, who her mother was, and how
she came to die in that forlornness,
were questions that often pressed on
Eppie's mind. Her knowledge of
Mrs. Winthrop, who was her nearest
friend next to Silas, made her feel
that a mother must be very precious;
and she had again and again asked
Silas to tell her how her mother
looked, whom she was like, and how
he had found her against the furze
bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and the outstretched arms. The
furze bush was there still; and this




SILAS MIARNER.


89


afternoon, when Eppie came out with
Silas into the sunshine, it was the
first object that arrested her eyes and
thoughts.
"Father," she said, in a tone of
gentle gravity, which sometimes came
like a sadder, slower cadence across
her playfulness, " wve shall take the
furze bush into the garden; it '11
come into the corner, and just against
it I'll put snowdrops and crocuses,
'cause Aaron says they won't die out,
but '11 always get more and more."
" Ah, child," said Silas, always
ready to talk when he had his pipe in
his hand, apparently enjoying the
pauses more than the puffs, "it
would n't do to leave out the furze
bush; and there's nothing prettier to
my thinking, when it's yallow with
flowers. But it's just come into my
head what we're to do for a fence,
-mayhap Aaron can help us to a
thought; but a fence we must have,
else the donkeys and things 'ull come
and trample everything down. And
fencing's hard to be got at, by what
I can make out."
" 0, I '11 tell you, daddy," said Eppie, clasping her hands suddenly
after a minute's thought. "There's
lots o' loose stones about, some of'em
not big, and we might lay 'em atop
of one another, and make a wall.
You and me could carry the smallest,
and Aaron 'ud carry the rest, -I
know he would."
"Eh, my precious un," said Silas,
" there is n't enough stones to go all
round; and as for you carrying, why,
wi' your little arms you could n't carry a stone no bigger than a turnip.
You're dillicate made, my' dear," he
added, with a tender intonation, -
"that's what Mrs. Winthrop says."
"0, I'm stronger than you think,
daddy," said Eppie; "and if there
was n't stones enough to go all round,
why they '11 go part o' the way, and
then it'll be easier to get sticks and
things for the rest. See here, round
the big pit, what a many stones! "
She skipped forward to the pit,
meaning to lift one of the stones and


exhibit her strength, but she started
back in surprise.
"0   father, just come and look
here," she exclaimed, - "come and
see how the water's gone down since
yesterday. Why, yesterday, the pit
was ever so full!"
"Well, to be sure," said Silas,
coming to her side. "Why, that's
the draining they've begun on, since
harvest, i' Mr. Osgood's fields, I reckon. The foreman said to me the other day, when I passed by 'em, 'Master Marner,' he said, 'I should n't
wonder if we lay your bit o' waste
as dry as a bone.' It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had gone into
the draining: he'd been taking these
fields o' Mr. Osgood."
"How odd it '11 seem to have the
old pit dried up!" said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather
a large stone. "See, daddy, I can
carry this quite well," she said, going
along with much energy for a few
steps, but presently letting it fall.
" Ah, you're fine and strong, arn't
you?" said Silas, while Eppie shook
her aching  arms   and  laughed.
" Come, come, let us go and sit down
on the bank against the stile there,
and have no more lifting.    You
might hurt yourself, child. You'd
need have somebody to work for you,
- and my arm is n't over-strong."
Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied more than met the
ear; and Eppie, when they sat down
on the bank, nestled close to his side,
and, taking hold caressingly of the
arm that was not over-strong, held it
on her lap, while Silas puffed again
dutifully at the pipe, which occupied
his other arm. An ash in the hedgerow behind made a fretted screen
from the sun, and threw happy playful shadows all about them.
"Father," said Eppie, very gently,
after they had been sitting in silence
a little while, " if I was to be married, ought I to be married with my
mother's ring? "
Silas gave an almost imperceptible
start, though the question fll -in with




-31
90.


SILAS MARNER.




the undercurrent of thought in his
own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, " Why, Eppie, have you
been a thninking on it "
"Only this last week, father," said
Eppie, ingenuously, "since Aaron
talked to me about it."
' And what did he say?" said
Silas, still in the same subdued way,
as if he were anxious lest he should
fall into the slightest tone that was
not for Eppie's good.
"He said he should like to be married, because he was a going in fourand-twenty, and had got a deal of
gardening work, now Mr. Mott 's
given up; and he goes twice a week
regular to Mr. Cass's, and once to
Mr. Osgood's, and they 're going to
take him on at the Rectory."
" And who is it as he's wanting to
marry?" said Silas, with rather a
sad smile.
"Why, me, to be sure, daddy,"
said Eppie, with dimpling laughter,
kissing her father's cheek; "as if
he'd want to marry anybody else!"
"And you mean to have him, do
you?" said Silas.
"Yes, some time," said Eppie, "I
don't know   when.   Everybody's
married  some time, Aaron   says.
But I told him that was n't true: for,
I said, look at father,- he 's never
been married."
"No, child," said Silas, "your father was a lone man till you was sent
to him."
" But you '11 never be lone again,
father," said Eppie, tenderly. " That
was what Aaron said, —'I could
never think o' taking you away from
Master Marner, Eppie.' And I said,
'It 'ud be no use if you did, Aaron.'
And he wants us all to live together,
so as you need n't work a bit, father,
only what's for your own pleasure;
and lie 'd be as good as a son to you,
-that was what he said."
"And should you like that, Eppie? " said Silas, looking at her.
"I should n't mind it, father," said
Eppie, quite simply. "And I should
like things to be so as you need n't


work much. But if it wasn't —fol*
that, I'd sooner things did n't changer
I'm very happy: I like Aaron to be
fond of me, and come and see us
often, and behave pretty to you, - he
always does behave pretty to you,
does n't he, father? "
"Yes, child, nobody could behave
better," said  Silas, emphatically.
"He 's his mother's lad."
"But I don't want any change,"
said Eppie. " I should like to go on
a long, long while, just as we are.
Only Aaron does want a change; and
he made me cry a bit - only a bit —
because he said I did n't care for hinm
for if I cared for him I should want
us to be married, as he did."
"Eh, my blessed child," said Silas,
laying down his pipe as if it werw
useless to pretend to smoke any longer, " you 're o'er young to be married.
We'll ask Mrs. Winthrop, - we'll
ask Aaron's mother what she thinks::
if there's a right thing to do, she'll
come at it. But there's this to be
thought on, Eppie: things wil;
change, whether we like it or no;
things won't go on for a long while
just as they are and no difference. I
shall get older and helplesser, and bo
a burden on you, belike, if I don't go
away from you altogether. Not as I
mean you'd think me a burden, - I
know you would n't,- but it 'ud be
hard upon you; and when I look
for'ard to that I like to think as you 'd
have somebody else besides me,somebody young and strong, as '11 outlast your own life, and take care on
you to the end." Silas paused, and,
resting his wrists on his knees, lifted
his hands up and down meditatively
as he looked on the ground.
"Then, would you like me to be
married, father? " said Eppie, with a
little trembling in her voice.
" I '11 not be the man to say no,
Eppie," said Silas, emphatically;
" but we '11 ask your godmother.
She'll wish the right thing by you
and her son too."
" There they come then," said Eppie. "Let us go and meet 'em. 0




SILAS MARNER.


91


the pipe! won't you have it lit again,
father '" said Eppie, lifting  that
nedicinal appliance from the ground.:"Nay, child," said Silas, "I've
done enough for to-day.   I think,
mayhap, a little of it does me more
good than so much at once."
CHAPTER XVII.
WHILE Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank discoursing in the
fleckered shade of the ash-tree, Miss
Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her
sister's arguments, that it would be
better to stay tea at the Red House,
and let her father have a long nap,
than drive home to the Warrens so
soon after dinner. The family party
(offour only) were seated round the
table in the dark wainscoted parlor,
with the Sunday dessert before them,
of fresh filberts, apples, and pears,
duly ornamented   with leaves by
Nancy's own hand before the bells
had rung for church.
A great change has come over the
dark wainscoted parlor since we saw
it in Godfrey's bachelor days, and
under the witeless reign of the old
Squire. Now all is polish, on which
no yesterday's dust is ever allowed to
rest, from the yard's width of oaken
boards round the carpet, to the old
Squire's gun and whips and walkingsticks, ranged on the stag's antlers
above the mantel-piece. All other
signs of sporting and out-door occupation Nancy has removed to another
room; but she has brought into the
Red House the habit of filial reverence, and preserves sacredly in a place
of honor these relics of her husband's
departed father.  The tankards are
on the side-table still, but the bossed
silver is undimmed by handling, and
there are no dregs to send forth unpleasant suggestions: the only prevailing scent is of the lavender and
rose-leaves that fill the vases of Derbyshire spar. All is purity and order
in' this once dreary room, for, fifteen


years ago, it was entered by a new
presiding spirit.
"Now, father," said Nancy, "is
there any call for you to go home to
tea? May n't you just as well stay
with us? - such a beautiful evening
as it's likely to be."
The old gentleman had been talking with Godfiey about the increasing
poor-rate and the ruinous times, and
had not heard the dialogue between
his daughters.
" My dear, you must ask Priscilla,"
he said, in the once firm voice, now
become rather broken. "She manages me and the farm too."
"And reason good as I should
manage you, father," said Priscilla,
" else you 'd be giving yourself your
death with rheumatism. And as for
the farm, if anything turns out wrong,
as it can't but do in these times,
there's nothing kills a man so soon
as having nobody to find tault with
but himself. It's a deal the best
way o' being master, to let somebody
else (lo the ordering, and keep the
blaming in your own hands. It 'ud
save many a man a stroke, I believe."
" Well, well, my dear," said her
father, with a quiet laufrh, " I did n't
say you don't manage for everybody's
good."
" Then manage so as you may stay
tea, Priscilla," said Nancy, putting
her hand on her sister's arm affectionately. "Come now; and we'11 go
round the garden while father has his
nap."
" My dear child, he'll have a beautiful nap in the gig, for I shall drive.
And as for staying tea, I can't hear
of it; for there's this dairymaid, now
she knows she's to be married, turned
Michaelmas, she'd as lief pour the
new milk into the pig-trough as into
the pans. That's the way with 'em
all: it's as if they thought the world
'ud be new made because they 're to
be married. So come and let me put
my bonnet on, and there'll be time
for us to walk round the garden whtle
the horse is being put in.




92


SILAS MARNER.


When the sisters were treading the
neatly swept garden-walks, between
the bright turf that contrasted pleasantly with the dark cones and arches
and wall-like hedges of yew, Priscilla
said:" I'm as glad as anything at your
husband 's making that exchange o'
land with Cousin Osgood, and beginning the dairying. It's a thousand
pities you did n't do it before; for
it '[1 give you something to fill your
mind. Th'llere 's nothing like a dairy
if folks want a bit o' worrit to make
the days pass. For as for rubbing
furniture, when you can once see
your face in a table there's nothing
else to look for; but there's always
something fresh with the dairy; for
even in the depths o' winter there's
some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it come whether or
no. My dear," added Priscilla, pressing her sister's hand affectionately as
they walked side by side, "you '11
never be low when you 've got a
dairy."
"Ah, Priscilla," said Nancy, returning the pressure with a grateful
glance of her clear eyes, "but it
won't make up to Godfrey: a dairy's
not so much to a man. And it's
only what he cares for that ever makes
me low.   I'm  contented with the
blessings we have, if he could be
contented."
" It drives me past patience," said
Priscilla, impetuously, " that way o'
the men, - always wanting and wanting, and never easy with what they 've
got: they can't sit comfortable in
their chairs when they 've neither ache
nor pain, but either they must stick
a pipe in their mouths, to make 'em
better than well, or else they must be
swallowing something strong, though
they're forced to make haste before
the next meal comes in. But joyful
be it spoken, our father was never that
sort o' man. And if it had pleased
God to make you ugly, like me, so as
the men would n't ha' run after you,
we might have kept to our own family, and had nothing to do with folks


as have got uneasy blood in their
veins."
"    O don't say so, Priscilla," said
Nancy, repenting that she had called
forth this outburst; " nobody has any
occasion to find fault with Godfrey,
It's natural he should be disappoint*
ed at not having any children; every
man likes to have somebody to work:
for and lay by for, and he always
counted so on making a fuss with 'em
when theywere little. There*'s many
another man 'ud hanker more than
he does.  He 's the best of husbands."
" 0, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, "I know the way o&
wives; they set one on to abuse their
husbands, and then they turn round on
'em and praise 'em as if they wanted
to sell 'cm. But father '11 be waiting
for me; we must turn now."
The large gig with the steady old
gray was at the front door, and Mr.
Lanmmcter was already on the stone:
steps, passing the time in recalling to
Godfrey what very fine points Speckle
had when his master used to ride
him.
"I always would have a good horse,
you know," said the old gentleman,
not liking that spirited time to be
quite effaced from the memory of his
juniors.
"Mind you bring Nancy to the
Warrens before the week's out, Mr.
Cass," was Priscilla's parting injunction, as she took the reins, and
shook them gently, by way of friendly
incitement to Speckle.
" I shall just take a turn to the
fields against the Stone-pits, Nancy,
and look at the draining," said Godfrev.
"You '11 be in again by tea-time,
dear?"
"0 yes, I shall be back in an
hour."
It was Godfrey's custom on a Sun,
day afternoon to do a little contciti
plative farming in a leisurely walk.
Nancy seldom accompanied him; for
the women of her generation -unless, like Priscilla, they took to out.




SILAS MARNERN


door management -were not given
to much walking beyond their own
house and garden, finding sufficient
exercise in domestic duties.   So,
when Priscilla was not with her, she
usually sat with Mant's Bible before
her, and after following the text with
her eyes for a little while, she would
gradually permit them to wander as
her thoughts had already insisted on
wandering.
But Nancy's Sunday thoughts were
rarely quite out of keeping with the
devout and reverential intention implied by the book spread open before
her. She was not theologically instructed enough to discern very
clearly the relation between the sacred
documents of the past which she
opened without method, and her own
obscure, simple life; but the spirit of
rectitude, and the sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct on
others, which were strong elements in
Nancy's character, had made it a
habit with her to scrutinize her past
feelings and actions with self-questioning solicitude. Her mind not being
courted by a great variety of subjects,
she filled the vacant moments by
living inwardly, again and again,
through all her remembered experience, especially through the fifteen
years of her married time, in which
her life and its significance had been
doubled. She recalled the small details, the words, tones, and looks, in
the critical scenes which had opened
a new epoch for her, by giving her a
deeper insight into the relations and
trials of life, or which had called on
her for some little effort of forbearance,
or of painful adherence to an imagined or real duty, —asking herself
continually whether she had been in
any respect blamable. This excessive
rumination and self-questioning is
perhaps a morbid habit inevitable to
a mind of much moral sensibility
when shut out from its due share of
outward activity and of practical
claims on its affections, - inevitable
to a noble-hearted, childless woman,
when her lot is narrow. "I can do


so little, - have I done it all well?"
is the perpetually recurring thought;
and there are no voices calling her
away from that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to divert energy from
vain regret or superfluous scruple
There was one main thread of painful experience in Nancy's married
life, and on it hung certain deeply felt
scenes, which were the oftenest revived  in retrospect.  The  short
dialogue with Priscilla in the garden
had determined the current of retrospect in that frequent direction this
particular Sunday afternoon. The
first wandering of her thought from
the text, which she still attempted
dutifully to follow with her eyes and
silent lips, was into an imaginary
enlargement of the defence she had set
up for her husband against Priscilla's
implied blame. The vindication of
the loved object is the best balm affection can find for its wounds: "A
man must have so much on his mind,"
is the belief by which a wife often
supports a cheerful face under rough
answers and unfeeling words. And
Nancy's deepest wounds had all come
from the perception that the absence
of children from their hearth was
dwelt on in her husband's mind as a
privation to which he could not reconcile himself.
Yet sweet Nancy might have been
expected to feel still more keenly the
denial of a blessing to which she had
looked forward with all the varied
expectations and preparations, solemn
and prettily trivial, which fill the
mind of a loving woman when she
expects to become a mother. Was
there not a drawer filled with the neat
work of her hands, all unworn and
untouched, just as she had arranged
it there fourteen years ago, -just, but
for one little dress, which had been
made the burial-dress? But under
this immediate personal trial Nancy
was so firmly unmurmuring that
years ago she had suddenly renounced
the habit of visiting this drawer, lest
she should in this way be cherishing
a longing for what was not g*in.




SILAS MARNER.


Perhaps it was this very severity
towards any indulgence of what she
held to be sinful regret in herself, that
made her shrihk from applying her
own standard to her husband. "It
was very different, - it was much
worse for a man to be disappointed in
that way: a woman could always be
satisfied with devoting herself to her
husband, but a man wanted something that would make him look forward more, -and sitting by the fire
was so much duller to him than to a
woman."   And always, when Nancy
reached this point in her meditations,
-trying, with predetermined sympathy, to see everything as Godfrey saw
it, - there came a renewal of selfquestioning. Had she done everything in her power to lighten Godfrey's privation?  Had she really
been right in the resistance which
had cost her so much pain six years
ago, and again four years ago,the resistance to her husband's
wish that they should adopt a child?
Adoption was more remote from the
ideas and habits of that time than of
our own; still, Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary to her
mind to have an opinion on all topics, not exclusively masculine, that
had come under her notice, as for her
to have a precisely marked place for
every article of her personal property:
and her opinions were always principles to be unwaveringly acted on.
They were firm, not because of their
basis, but because she held them with
a tenacity inseparable from her mental
action. On all the duties and proprieties of life, from filial behavior to the
arrangements of the evening toilet,
pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time
she was three-and-twenty, had her
unalterable little 9ode, and had formed
every one of her habits in strict accordance with that code. She carried these decided judgments within
her in the most unobtrusive way:
they rooted themselves in her mind,
and grew there as quietly as grass.
Years ago, we know, she insisted on
dressing like Priscilla, because "it


was right for.sisters to dress, alrke —.,
and because 11 she would do what w&A
righ t if she wore a gown dyed with
cheese-coloi-ing." That was a trivial
but typical instance of the mode ia
which Nancy's life was revulated.  I.
It was one of those rigid principles,
and no petty egoistic feeling, which
had been the ground of Nancy's di&cult resistance to her husband's wish,
To adopt a child, because children
vour own had been denied you, was
to try and choose your lot in spite of
Providence: the adopted child, she
was convinced, would never turn out
well, and would be a curse to tho,-,t
who bad wilfully and rebelliously,
sought what it vas clear that,.1 t;Dr
some high reason, they were better
without. When you saw a thing was
not meant to be, said Nancy, it was a
bounden duty to leave off so much as
wishing for it. And so, far, perbaps-i
the wisest of men could scarcely m, 'ake
more than a verbal improvement ifi
her principle.  But the conditiQng
under which she held it apparent that
a thing was not meant to be depen(.!;,
ed on a more peculiar niode of thinkin-. She would have given up makin -
a purchase at a particular place if,
-on three successive times, rain, or
some other cause of Heaven's sending#
bad formed an obstacle; and she,
would have anticipated a broken
limb or other heavy misfortune to
any one who persisted in spite of such
indications.
But why should you think the
child would turn out ill  said God+
frey, in his remonstrances.  " She
has thriven as well as child can do
with the weaver; and he adopted her;
There is n't such a pretty little Orl
anywhere else in the parish, or ono
fitter for the station we could give
her. Where can be the likelihood of
her being a curse to anybody? "  -
" Yes, my dear Godfrey," said Nanr
cy, who was sitting with her hands
tightly clasped together, and with
yearning, regretful affection in her
eves. "Thechildmaynotturnoutill
withtheweaver. Butthenhedid:n't


was right for sisters to dress alike"'.
and because "she would do what was
right if she wore a gown dyed with
cheese-coloring."  That was a trivial
but typical instance of the mode in
which Nancy's life was regulated.
It was one of those rigid principles,
and no petty egoistic feeling, which
had been the ground of Nancy's dii;cult resistance to her husband's wish,
To adopt a child, because children oyour own had been denied you, was
to try and choose your lot in spite of
Providence: the adopted child, she
was convinced, would never turn out
well, and would be a curse to those
who had wilfully and rebelliously
sought what it was clear that, tor
some high reason, they were better
without. When you saw a thing was
not meant to be, said Nancy, it was a
bounden duty to leave off so much as
wishing for it. And so far, perhaps,
the wisest of men could scarcely mnake
more than a verbal improvement itn
her principle.  But the conditions
under which she held it apparent that
a thing was not meant to be depend:
ed on a more peculiar mode of thinking. She would have given up making
a purchase at a particular place if,
on three successive times, rain, or
some other cause of Heaven's sending,
had formed an obstacle; and she
would have anticipated a broken
limb or other heavy misfortune to
any one who persisted in spite of such
indications.
"But why should you think the
child would turn out ill?" said Godt
frey, in his remonstrances.  " She
has thriven as well as child can do
with the weaver; and he adopted her.
There is n't such a pretty little girl
anywhere else in the parish, or one
fitter for the station we could give
her. Where can be the likelihood of
her being a curse to anybody? "
" Yes, my dear Godfrey," said Nancy, who was sitting with her hands
tightly clasped together, and with
yearning, regretful affection in her
eves. "The child may not turn out ill
with the weaver. But, then, he did:'t




SILAS MARNER.


95


to seek her, as we should be doing.
It will be wrong: I feel sure it will.
Don't you remember what that lady we
met at the Royston Baths told us about
the child her sister adopted? That
was the only adopting I ever heard
of; and the child was transported
when it was twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don't ask me to do what I know
is wrong: I should never be happy
again. I know it's very hard for you,
-it's easier for me, —but it's the
will of Providence."
It might seem singular that Nancy
- with her religious theory pieced together out of narrow social traditions,
fragments of church doctrine imperfectly understood, and girlish reasonings on her small experienceshould have arrived by herself at a
way of thinking so nearly akin to that
of many devout people, whose beliefs
are held in the shape of a system
quite remote from her knowledge, -
singular if we did not know that human beliefs, like all other natural
growths, elude the barriers of system.
Godfrey had from the first specified Epple, then about twelve years
old, as a child suitable for them to
adopt. It had never occurred to him
that Silas would rather part with his
life than with Eppie.  Surely the
weaver would wish the best to the
child he had taken so much trouble
with, and would be glad that such
good fortune should happen to her;
she would always be very grateful to
him, and he would be well provided
for to the end of his life, -provided
for as the excellent part he had done
by the child deserved. Was it not
an appropriate thing for people in a
higher station to take a charge off
the hands of a man in a lower? It
seemed an eminently appropriate
thing to Godfrey, for reasons that
were known only to himself; and by
a common fallacy, he imagined the
measure would be easy because he
had private motives for desiring it.
This was rather a coarse mode of
estimating Silas's relation to Eppie;


but we must remember that many of
the impressions which Godfrey was
likely to gather concerning the laboring people around him would favor
the idea that deep affections can hardly go along with callous palms and
scant means; and he had not had the
opportunity, even if he had had the
power, of entering intimately into all
that was exceptional in the weaver's
experience. It was only the want of
adequate knowledge that could have
made it possible for Godfrey deliberately to entertain an unfeeling project; his natural kindness had outlived
that blighting time of cruel wishes,
and Nancy's praise of him as a husband was not founded entirely on a
wilful illusion.
"I was right," she said to herself,
when she had recalled all their scenes
of discussion, — "I feel I was right
to say him nay, though it hurt me
more than anything; but how good
Godfrey has been about it! Many
men would have been very angry with
me for standing out against their
wishes; and they might have thrown
out that they 'd had ill-luck in marrying me; but Godfrey has never been
the man to say me an unkind word.
It's only what he can't hide: everything seems so blank to him, I know;
and the land, -what a difference it
'nd make to him, when he goes to see
after things, if he 'd children growing
up that he was doing it all for! But
I won't murmur; and perhaps if he 'd
married a woman who'd have had
children, she'd have vexed him in
other ways."
This possibility was Nancy's chief
comfort; and to give it greater
strength, she labored to make it impossible that any other wife should
have had more perfect tenderness.
She had been forced to vex him by
that one denial. Godfrey was not
insensible to her loving effort, and
did Nancy no injustice as to the motives of her obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her fifteen
years and not be aware that an unselfish clinging to the right, and a




96


SILAS MARNER.


sincerity clear as the flower-born dew,
were her main characteristics; indeed,
Godfrey felt this so strongly that his
own more wavering nature, too averse
to facing difficulty to be unvaryingly
simple and truthful, was kept in a
certain awe of this gentle wife who
watched his looks with a yearning to
obey them. It seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess to
her the truth about Eppie; she would
never recover from the repulsion the
story of his earlier marriage would
create, told to her now, after that
long concealment. And the child,
too, he thought, must become an object of repulsion; the very sight of
her would be painfuL The shock to
Nancy's mingled pride and ignorance
of the world's evil might even be too
much for her delicate fiame. Since
he had married her with that secret
on his heart, he must keep it there
to the last. Whatever else he did,
he could not make an irreparable
breach between himself and this longloved wife.
Meanwhile, why could he not make
up his mind to the absence of children
from a hearth brightened by such a
wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily
to that void, as if it were the sole
reason why life was not thoroughly
joyous to him? I suppose it is the
way with all men and women who
reach middle age without the clear
perception that life never can be thoroughly joyous; under the vague dulness of the gray hours, dissatisfaction
seeks a definite object, and finds it in
the privation of an untried good.
Dissatisfaction, seated musingly on
a childless hearth, thinks with envy
of the father whose return is greeted
by young voices, - seated at the meal
where the little heads rise one above
another like nursery plants, it sees a
black care hovering behind every one
of them, and thinks the impulses by
which men abandon freedom, and
seek for ties, are surely nothing but a
brief madness. In Godfrey s case
there were further reasons why his
thoughts should be continually solicit

ed by this one point in his lot; his
conscience, never thoroughly easy
about Eppie, now gave his childle4s
home the aspect of a retribution;
and as the time passed on, under
Nancy's refusal to adopt her, any
retrieval of his error became more
and more difficult.
On this Sunday afternoon it was
already four years since there had
been any allusion to the subject between them, and Nancy supposed
that it was forever buried.
" I wonder if he '11 mind it less or
more as he gets older," she thought;
"I 'm afraid more. Aged people feel
the miss of children: what would
father do without Priscilla? And if
I die, Godfrey will be very lonely,not holding together with his brothers
mueh. But I won't be over-anxious,
and trying to make things out beforehand: I must do my best for the
present."
With that last thought Nancy
roused herself from her revery, and
turned her eyes again towards the
forsaken page. It had been forsaken
longer than she imagined, for she was
presently surprised by the appearance
of the servant with the tea things. It
was, in fact, a little before the usual
time for tea; but Jane had her reasons.
"Is your master come into the
yard, Jane? "
" No 'm, he is n't," said Jane, with
a slight emphasis, of which, however,
her mistress took no notice.
"I don't know whether you 've seen
'em, 'm," continued Jane, after a
pause, "but there 's folks making
haste all one way, afore the fiont window. I doubt something's happened.
There 's niver a man to be seen i' the
yard, else I 'd send and see. I 've
been up into the top attic, but there 's
no seeing anything for trees. I hope
nobody's hurt, that 's all."
"0 no, I dare say there 's nothing
much the matter," said Nancy. "It
's perhaps Mr. Snell's bull got out
again, as he did before."
"I wish he may n't gore anybody,




SILAS MARNER.


97


then, that's all," said Jane, not altogether despising a hypothesis which
covered a few imaginary calamities.
"That girl is always terrifying
me," thought Nancy; "I wish Godfrey would come in."
She went to the front window and
looked as far as she could see along
the road, with an uneasiness which
she felt to be childish, for there were
now no such signs of excitement as
Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey
would not be likely to return by the
village road, but by the fields. She
continued to stand, however, looking
at the placid churchyard with the long
shadows of the gravestones across the
bright green hillocks, and at the
glowing autumn colors of the Rectory
trees beyond. Before such calm external beauty the presence of a vague
fear is more distinctly felt, - like a
raven flapping its slow wing across
the sunny air. Nancy wished more
and more that Godfrey would come in.
CHAPTER XVIII.
SOME one opened the door at the
other end of the room, and Nancy felt
that it was her husband. She turned
from the window with gladness in her
eyes, for the wife's chief dread was
stilled.
"Dear, I 'm so thankful you 're
come," she said, going towards him.
" I began to get..."
She paused abruptly, for Godfrey
was laying down his hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her
with a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as if he saw her indeed, but saw her as a part of a scene
invisible to herself. She laid her hand
on his arm, not daring to speak again;
but he left the touch unnoticed, and
threw himself into his chair.
Jane was already at the door with
the hissing urn. "Tell her to keep
away, will you?" said Godfrey; and
when the door was closed again he
5


exerted himself to speak more distinctly.
" Sit down, Nancy - there," he
said, pointing to a chair opposite him.
" I came back as soon as I could, to
hinder anybody's telling you but me.
I 've had a great shock, - but I care
most about the shock it '11 be to
you."
"It is n't father and Priscilla?"
said Nancy, with quivering lips, clasping her hands together tightly on her
lap.
" No, it's nobody living," said Godfrey, unequal to the considerate skill
with which he would have wished to
make his revelation. " It's Dunstan,
- my brother Dunstan, that we lost
sight of sixteen years ago. We've
found him,-found his body,-his
skeleton."
The deep dread Godfrey's look had
created in Nancy made her feel these
words a relief. She sat in conparative calmness to hear what else he had
to tell. He went on -
" The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly, - from the draining, I suppose;
and therehe lies, -has lain for sixteen
years, wedged between two great
stones. There's his watch and seals,
and there 's my gold-handled huntingwhip, with my name on: he took it
away, without my knowing, the day
he went hunting on Wildfire, the last
time he was seen."
Godfrey paused: it was not so easy
to say what came next. "Do you
think he drowned himself? " said
Nancy, almost wondering that her
husband should be so deeply shaken
by what had happened all those years
ago to an unloved brother, of whom
worse things had been augured.
"No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in
a low but distinct voice, as if he felt
some deep meaning in the fact.
Presently he added: "Dunstan was
the man'that robbed Silas Marner."
The blood rushed to Nancy's face
and neck at this surprise and shame,
for she had been bred up to regard
even a distant kinship with crime as
a dishonor.
G




SILAS MARNER.


" 0 Godfrey I" she said, with compassion in her tone, for she had immediately reflected that the dishonor
must be felt still more keenly by her
husband.
" There was money in the pit," he
continued, -" all the weaver's money. Everything's been gathered up,
and they're taking the skeleton to
the "Rainbow." But I came back to
tell you; there was no hindering it;
you must know."
He was silent, looking on the
ground for two long minutes. Nancy would have said some words of
comfort under this disgrace, but she
refrained, from an instinctive sense
that there was something behind, -
that Godfrey had something else to
tell her. Presently he lifted his eyes
to her face, and kept them fixed on
her, as he said: -
"Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found
out. I've lived with a secret on my
mind, but I'll keep it from you no
longer. I wouldn't have you know
it by somebody else, and not by me,
— I would n't have you find it out
after I'm dead. I'll tell you now.
It's been 'I will' and 'I won't' with
me all my life, —I'll make sure of
myself now."
Nancy's utmost dread had returned.
The eyes of the husband and wife
met with awe in them, as at a crisis
which suspended affection.
"Nancy," said Godfrey, slowly,
"when I married you, I hid something from you,- something I ought
to have told you. That woman
Marner found dead in the snow
- Eppie's mother - that wretched
woman-was my wife: Eppie is
my child."
He paused, dreading the effect of
his confession. But Nancy sat quite
still, only that her eyes dropped and
ceased to meet his.  She was pale
and quiet as a meditative statue, clasping her hands on her lap.
"You '11 never think the same of
me again," said Godfirey, after a




little while, with some tremor in his
voice.
She was silent.
" I ought n't to have left the child
unowned: I ought n't to have kept it
from you. But I couldn't bear to
give you up, Nancy. I was led away
into marrying her, - I suffered for it.
Still Nancy was silent, looking
down; and he almost expected that
she would presently get up and say
she would go to her father's. How
could she have any mercy for faults
that must seem so black to her, with
her simple, severe notions?
But at last she lifted up her eyes
to his again and spoke. There was
no indignation in her voice, - only
deep regret.
" Godfrey, if you had but told me
this six years ago, we could have done
some of our duty by the child. Do
you think I'd have refused to take
her in, if I'd known she was
yours? "
At that moment Godfrey felt all
the bitterness.of an error that wns not
simply futile, but had defeated its
own end. He had not measured this
wife with whom he had lived so long.
But she spoke again, with more agitation.
"And-0 Godfrey-if we'd had
her from the first, if you'd taken to
her as you ought, she'd have loved
me for her mother, - and you'd have
been happier with me: I could better
have bore my little baby dying, and
our life might have been more like
what we used to think it 'ud be."
The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to
speak.
"But you would n't have married
me then, Nancy, if I'd told you,"
said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness
of his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct had not been utter folly.  "You may think you
would now, but you would n't then.
With your pride and your father's,
you 'd have hated having anything
to do with me after the talk there 'd
have been."
"I can't say what I should have




SILAS MAPRNER.


99


done about that, Godfrey. I should under which sleep is an impossibility.
neverhave married anybodyelse. But Any one who has watched such moI was n't worth doing wrong for, -  ments in other men remembers the
nothing is in this world. Nothing is brightness of the eyes and the strange
so good as it seems beforehand, - not definiteness that comes over coarse
even our marrying was n't, you see." features from that transient influence.
There was a faint, sad smile on It is as if a new fineness of ear for all
Nancy's face as she said the last spiritual voices had sent wonderwords.                            working vibrations through the heavy
"I'm  a worse man than     you mortal frame, —as if "beauty born
thought I was, Nancy," said Godfrey, of murmuring sound" had passed
rather tremulously. "Can you for- into the face of the listener.
give me ever? "                     Silas's face showed that sort of
"The wrong to me is but little, transfiguration, as he sat in his armGodfrey: you've made it up to me, chair and looked at Eppie. She had
-you've been good to me for fif- drawn her own chair towards his
teen years. It's another you did the knees, and leaned forward, holding
wrong to; and I doubt it can never be both his hands, while she looked up
all made up for."                 at him. On the table near them, lit
"But we can take Eppie now," by a candle, lay the recovered gold,
said Godfrey.  "I won't mind the - the old long-loved gold, ranged in
world knowing at last. I 'll be plain orderly heaps, as Silas used to range
and open for the rest o' my life.'  it in the days when it was his only
"It'll be different coming to us, joy. He had been telling her how he
now she's grown up," said Nancy, used to count it every night, and how
shaking her head sadly. "But it's his soul was utterly desolate till she
your duty to acknowledge her and was sent to him.
provide for her; and I'11 do my part  "At first, I'd a sort o' feeling
by her, and pray to God Almighty to come across me now and then," he
make her love me."                was saying in a subdued tone, " as if
"Then we'll go together to Silas you might have changed into the
Marner's this very night, as soon as gold again; for sometimes, turn my
everything's quiet at the Stone-pits." head which way I would, I seemed to
see the gold; and I thought I should
--.     be glad if I could feel it, and find it
was come back.   But that didn't
CHAPTER XIX.              last long. After a bit, I should have
thought it was a curse come again,
BETWEEN eight and nine o'clock if it had drove you from me, for I'd
that evening, Eppie and Silas were got to feel the need o' your looks and
seated alone in the cottage. After your voice and the touch o' your little
the great excitement the weaver had fingers. You did n't know then, Epundergone from the events of the pie, when you were such a little un,
afternoon, he had felt a longing for - you did n't know what your old
this quietude, and had even begged father Silas felt for you."
Mrs. Winthrop and Aaron, who had    "But I know now, father," said
naturally lingered behind every one Eppie. "If it hadn't been for you,
else, to leave him alone with his child. they 'd have taken me to the workThe excitement had not passed away: house, and there 'd have been nobody
it had only reached that stage when to love me."
the keenness of the susceptibility  "Eh, my precious child, the blessmakes external stimulus intolerable, ing was mine. If you had n't been
- when there is no sense of weariness, sent to save me, I should ha' gone to
but rather an intensity of inward life, the grave in my misery. The money




100


SILAS MARNER.


was taken away from me in time;
and you see it's been kept,-kept
till it was wanted for you. It's wonderful, - our life is wonderful."
Silas sat in silence a few minutes,
looking at the money. "It takes no
hold of me now," he said, ponderingly, - "the money does u't. I wonder if it ever could again, - I doubt
it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I
might come to think I was forsaken
again, and lose the feeling that God
was good to me."
At that moment there was a knocking at the door; and Eppie was
obliged to rise without answering
Silas. Beautiful she looked, with the
tenderness of gathering tears in her
eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks,
as she stepped to open the door. The
flush deepened when she saw Mr. and
Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made her
little rustic courtesy, and held the
door wide for them to enter.
"We're disturbing you very late,
my dear," said Mrs. Cass, taking
Eppie's hand, and looking in her face
with an expression of anxious interest and admiration.  Nancy herself
was pale and tremulous.
Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr.
and Mrs. Cass, went to stand against
Sila.s, opposite to them.
" Well, Marner," said Godfrey, trying to speak with perfect firmness,
" it's a great comfort to me to see
you with your money again, that
you 've been deprived of so many
years. It was one of my family did
you the wrong, - the more grief to
me,- and I feel bound to make up
to you for it in every way. Whatever I can do for you will be nothing
but paying a debt, even if I looked
no farther than the robbery. But
there are other things I'm beholden,
- shall be beholden to you for, Marner."
Godfrey checked himself. It had
been agreed between him and his
wife that the subject of his fatherhood
should be approached very carefully,
and that, if possible, the disclosure
should be reserved for the future, so


that it might be made to Eppie gradually.  Nancy had urged this, because she felt strongly the painful
light in which Eppie must inevitably
see the relation between her father
and mother.
Silas, always ill at ease when he
was being spoken to by "betters,"
such as Mr. Cass, - tall, powerful,
florid men, seen chiefly on horseback, - answered with some constraint:
" Sir, I 've a deal to thank you for
a'ready. As for the robbery, I count
it no loss to me. And if I did, you
could n't help it: you are n't answerable for it."
" You may look at it in that way,
Marner, but I never can; and I hope
you '11 let me act according to my own
feeling of what's just. I know you
're easily contented: you 'vc been a
hard-working man all your life."
"Yes, sir, yes," said Marner, meditatively. "1 should ha' been bad off
without my work: it was what I held
by when everything else was gone
from me."
"Ah," said   Godfrey, applying
Marner's words simply to his bodily
wants, " it was a good trade for you
in this country, b cause there 's been
a great deal of linen-weaving to be
done. But you 're getting rather past
such close work, Marner; it 's time
you laid by and had some rest. You
look a good deal pulled dowr, though
you 're not an old man, are you? "
"Fifty-five, as near as I can say,
sir," said Silas.
" 0, why, you may live thirty years
longer, - look at old Maccy! And
that money on the table, after all, is
but little. It won't go far either way,
-whether it 's put out to interest, or
you were to live on it as long as it
would last. it would n't go far if
you 'd nobody to keep but yourself,
and you 've had two to keep for a
good many years now."
'EBh, sir," said Silas, unaffected by
anything Godfrey was saying, "I 'm
in no fear o' want. We shall do very
well, - Eppie and me 'ull do well




SILAS MARNER.


101


enough. There's few working-folks
have got so much laid by as that. I
don't know what it is to gentlefolks,
but I look upon it as a deal, - almost
too much. And as for us, it's little
we want."
"Only the garden, father," said
Eppie, blushing up to the ears the moment after.
"You love a garden, do you, my
dear l" said Nancy, thinking that
this turn in the point of view might
help her husband. " We should agree
in that: I give a deal of time to the
garden."
"Ah, there's plenty of gardening
at the Red House," said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he found in approaching a proposition which seemed
so easy to him in the distance.
"You 've done a good part by Eppie,
Marner, for sixteen years. It 'ud be
a great comfort to you to see her well
provided for, would n't it? She looks
blooming and healthy, but not fit for
any hardships: she does n't look like
a strapping girl come of working parents. You 'd like to see her taken
care of by those who can leave her
well off, and make a lady of her;
she's more fit for it than for a rough
life, such as she might come to have
in a few years' time."
A slight flush came over Marner's
face, and disappeared, like a passing
gleam. Eppie was simply wondering
Mr. Cass should talk so about things
that seemed to have nothing to do
with reality; but Silas was hurt and
uneasy.
" I don't take your meaning, sir,"
he answered, not having words at
command to express the mingled feelings with which he had heard Mr.
Cass's words.
"Well, my meaning is this, Marner," said Godfrey, determined to
come to the point. " Mrs. Cass and
I, you know, have no children, - nobody to benefit by our good home and
everything else we have, - more than
enough for ourselves. And we should
like to have somebody in the place of
a daughter to us, - we should like to


have Eppie, and treat her in every way
as our own child. It would be a
great comfort to you in your old age,
I hope, to see her fortune made in that
way, after you have been at the trouble of bringin o, her tip so well. And
it 's right you should have every reward for that. And Eppie, I'm sure,
will always love yon and be grateful to
you: she 'd come and see you very
often, and we should all be on the
lookout to do everything we could
towards making you comfortable."
A plain man like Godfrey Cass,
speaking under some embarrassment,
necessarily blunders on words that are
coarser than his intentions, and that
are likely to fall gratingly on susceptible feelings.  While he had been
speaking, Eppie had quietly passed
her arm behind Silas's head, and let
her hand rest a-ainst it caressina1v
she felt him trembling violently. He
was silent for some moments when
Mr. Cass had ended, -powerless under the conflict of emotions, all alike
painful. Eppie's heart was swelling
at the sense that her father was in distress; and she was just going to lean
down and speak to him, when one
struo-g-ling dread at last gained the
mastery over every other in Silas, and
he said, faintly:
" Eppic, my child, speak. I won't
stand in your way. Thank Mr. and
Mrs. Cass."
Epphie took her hand from her father eid, and came forward a step.
Her cheeks were flushed, but not with
shyness this time: the sense that her
father was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of self-consciousness.
She dropped a low courtesy, first to
Mrs. Cass and then to Mr. Cass, and
said: -
" Thank you, ma'am, - thank you,
sir. But I can't leave my father, nor
own anybody nearer than him. And
I don't vant to be a lady, — thank you
all the same " (here Eppie dropped
another courtesy). CC I could n't give
up the folks I 've been used to."
Eppie's lip began to tremble a little at the last words. She retreated


have Eppie, and treat her in every way
as our own child. It would be a
great comfort to you in your old age,
I hope, to see her fortune made in that
way, after you have been at the trouble of bringing her up so well. And
it 's right you should have every reward for that. And Eppie, I'm sure,
will always love you and be grateful to
you: she 'd come and see you very
often, and we should all be on the
lookout to do everything we could
towards making you comfortable."
A plain man like Godfrey Cass,
speaking under some embarrassment,
necessarily blunders on words that are
coarser than his intentions, and that
are likely to fall gratingly on susceptible feelings.  While he had been
speaking, Eppie had quietly passed
her arm behind Silas's head, and let
her hand rest against it caressingly
she felt him trembling violently. He
was silent for some moments when
Mr. Cass had ended,- powerless under the conflict of emotions, all alike
painful. Eppie's heart was swelling
at the sense that her father was in distress; and she was just going to lean
down and speak to him, when one
struggling dread at last gained the
mastery over every other in Silas, and
he said, faintly: -
"Eppie, my child, speak. I won't
stand in your way. Thank Mr. and
Mrs. Cass."
Eppie took her hand from her father's head, and came forward a step.
Her cheeks were flushed, but not with
shyness this time.: the sense that her
father was in doubt and suffering banished that sort of self-consciousness.
She dropped a low courtesy, first to
Mrs. Cass and then to Mr. Cass, and
said: -
" Thank you, ma'am, - thank you,
sir. But I can't leave my father, nor
own anybody nearer than him. And
I don't want to be a lady, — thank you
all the same" (here Eppie dropped
another courtesy). "I could n't give
up the folks I 've been used to."
Eppie's lip began to tremble a little at the last words. She retreated




SILAS MARNER.


to her father's chair again, and held
him round the neck: while Silas, with
a subdued sob, put up his hand to
grasp hers.
The tears were in Nancy's eyes,
but her sympathy with Eppie was,
naturally, divided with distress on
her husband's account. She dared
not speak, wondering what was going
on in her husband's mind.
Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable
to almost all of us when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had
been full of his own penitence and
resolution to retrieve his error as far
as the time was left to him; he was
possessed with all-important feelings,
that were to lead to a predetermined
course of action which he had fixed on
as the right, and he was not prepared
to enter with lively appreciation into
other people's feelings counteracting
his virtuous resolves. The agitation
with which he spoke again was not
quite unmixed with anger.
"But I have a claim on you, Eppie,- the strongest of all claims. It
is my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as
my child, and provide for her. She
is my own child, -her mother was
my wife. I have a natural claim on
her that must stand before every
other."
Eppie had given a violent start,
and turned quite pale. Silas, on the
contrary, who had been relieved, by
Eppie's answer, from the dread lest
his mind should be in opposition to
hers, felt the spirit of resistance in
him set free, not without a touch of
parental fierceness. "Then, sir," he
answered, with an accent of bitterness that had been silent in him since
the memorable day when his youthful hope had perished, - " then, sir,
why did n't you say so sixteen year
ago, and claim her before I'd come
to love her, i'stead o' coming to take
her from me now, when you might as
well take the heart out o' my body?
God gave her to me because you
turned your back upon her, and he
looks upon her as mine: you've no
right to her! When a man turns a


blessing from  his door, it falls to
them as take it in."
"I know that, Marner.    I was
wrong. I've repented of my conduct in that matter," said Godfrey,
who could not help feeling the edge
of Silas's words.
"I'm  glad to hear it, sir," said
Marner, with gathering excitement;
"but repentance does n't alter what's
been going on for sixteen year.
Your coming now and saying'I'm
her father' does n't alter the feelings
inside us. It's me she 's been calling
her father ever since she could say
the word."
"But I think you might look at
the thing more reasonably, Marner,"
said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed by
the weaver's direct truth-speaking.
" It is n't as if she was to be taken
quite away from you, so that you 'd
never see her again. She '11 be very
near you, and come to see you very
often. She '11 feel just the same towards you."
"Just the same?" said Marner,
more bitterly than ever. "How '1
she feel just the same for me as she
does now, when we eat o' the same
bit, and drink o' the same cup, and
think o' the same things from one
day's end to another?   Just the
same? that's idle talk. You'd cut
us i' two."
Godfrey, unqualified by experience
to discern the pregnancy of Marner's
simple words, felt rather angry again.
It seemed to him that the weaver was
very  selfish (a  judgment readily
passed by those who have never tested their own power of sacrifice) to
oppose what was undoubtedly for Ep
pie's welfare; and he felt himself called upon, for her sake, to assert his
authority.
"I should have thought, Marner,"
he said, severely, -"I should have
thought your affection for Eppie
would have made you rejoice in what
was for her good, even if it did call
upon you to give up something You
ought to remember that your own
life is uncertain, and that she's at an




SILAS MARNER.


103


age now when her lot may soon be
fixed in a way very different from
what it would be in her father's
home: she may marry some low
working-man, and then, whatever I
might do for her, I couldn't make
her well-off. You're putting yourself in the way of her welfare; and
though I'm sorry to hurt you after
what you've done, and what I've
left undone, I feel now it's my duty
to insist on taking care of my own
daughter. I want to do my duty."
It would be difficult to say whether
it were Silas or Eppie that was most
deeply stirred by this last speech of
Godfrey's. Thought had been very
busy in Eppie as she listened to the
contest between her old long-loved
father and this new unfamiliar father
who had suddenly come to fill
the place of that black featureless
shadow which had held the ring and
placed it on her mother's finger. Her
imagination had darted backward in
conjectures, and forward in previsions, of what this revealed fatherhood implied; and there were words
in Godfrey's last speech which helped
to make the previsions especially definite. Not that these thoughts, either
of past or future, determined her resolution, - that was determined by the
feelings which vibrated to every word
Silas had uttered; but they raised,
even apart from these feelings, a repulsion towards the offered lot and
the newly revealed father.
Silas, on the other hand, was
again stricken in conscience, and
alarmed lest Godfrey's accusation
should be true, —lest he should be
raising his own will as an obstacle to
Eppie's good. For many moments
he was mute, struggling for the selfconquest necessary to the uttering of
the difficult words. They came out
tremulously.
"I '11 say no more. Let it be as
you will. Speak to the child. I '11
hinder nothing."
Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own affections, shared
her husband's view that Marner was


not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real father had avowed
himself. She felt that it was a very
hard trial for the poor weaver, but her
code allowed no question that a father
by blood must have a claim above
that of any foster-father.  Besides,
Nancy, used all her life to plenteous
circumstances and the privileges of
" respectability," could not enter into
the pleasures which early nurture and
habit connect with all the little aims
and efforts of the poor who are born
poor: to her mind, Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering
on a too long withheld but unquestionable good. Hence she heard Silas's last words with relief, and
thought, as Godfrey did, that their
wish was achieved.
"Eppie, my dear," said Godfrey,
looking at his daughter, not without
some embarrassment, under the sense
that she was old enough to judge
him, "it '11 always be our wish that
you should show your love and gratitude to one who has been a father to
you so many years, and we shall want
to help you to make him comfortable
in every way. But we hope you 'll
come to love us as well; and though
I have n't been what a father should
have been to you all these years, I
wish to do the utmost in my power
for you for the rest of my life, and
provide for you as my only child.
And you '11 have the best of mothers
in my wife, - that '11 be a blessing
you have n't known since you were
old enough to know it."
" My dear, you '11 be a treasure to
me," said Nancy, in her gentle voice.
" We shall want for nothing when we
have our daughter."
Eppie did not come forward and
courtesy, as she had done before.
She held Silas's hand in hers, and
grasped it firmly, - it was a weaver's
hand, with a palm and finger-tips that
were sensitive to such pressure, -
while she spoke with colder decision
than before.
" Thank you, ma'am, - thank you,
sir, for your offers, - they 're very




104.


SILAS MARNER.


great, and far above my wish. For I
should have no delight i' life any more
if I was forced to go away from my
father, and knew he was sitting at
home, a-thinking of me and feeling
lone. We 've been used to be happy
together every day, and I can't think
o' no happiness without him. And
he says he 'd nobody i' the world till
I was sent to him, and he 'd have
nothing when I was gone. And he's
took care of me and loved me from
the first, and I'll cleave to him as
long as he lives, and nobody shall ever
come between him and me."
"But you must make sure, Eppie,"
said Silas, in a low voice, - "you
must make sure as you won't ever be
sorry, because you 've made your
choice to stay among poor folks, and
with poor clothes and things, when
you might ha' had everything o' the
best."
His sensitiveness on this point had
increased as he listened to Eppie's
words of faithful affection.
" I can never be sorry, father," said
Eppie. "I should n't know what to
think on or to wish for with fine things
about me, as I have n't been used to.
And it 'ud be poor work for me to put
on things, and ride in a gig, and sit
in a place at church, as 'ud make them
as I 'm fond of think me unfitting
company for 'em. What could I care
for then?"
Nancy looked at Godfrey with a
pained questioning glance. But his
eyes were fixed on the floor, where he
was moving the end of his stick, as if
he were pondering on something absently. She thought there was a word
which might perhaps come better from
her lips than from his.
" What you say is natural, my dear
child, - it's natural you should cling
to those who 've brought you up," she
said, mildly; " but there 's a duty you
owe to your lawful father. There 's
perhaps something to be given up on
more sides than one. When your
father opens his home to you, I think
it 's right you should n't turn your
back on it."




"I can't feel as I 've got any father but one," said Eppie, impetuously, while the tears gathered. " f
've always thought of a little home
where he 'd sit i' the corner, and I
should fend and do everything for
him: I can't think o' no other home.
I was n't brought up to be a lady, and
I can't turn my mind to it. I like
the working-folks, and their victuals,
and their ways. And," she ended
passionately, while the tears fell, "I
m promised to marry a working-man,
as '11 live with father, and help me to
take care of him."
Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a
flushed face and a smarting dilation
of the eyes. This frustration of a
purpose towards which he had set out
under the exalted consciousness that
he was about to compensate in some
degree for the greatest demerit of his
life made him feel the air of the room
stifling.
" Let us go," he said, in an undertone.
" We won't talk of this any longer
now," said Nancy, rising. " We're
your well-wishers, my dear,-and
yours too, Marner. We shall come
and see you again. It's getting late
now."
In this way she covered her husband's abrupt departure, for Godfrey
had gone straight to the door, unable
to say more.
CHAPTER XX.
NANCY and Godfrey walked home
under the starlight in silence. When
they entered the oaken parlor, Godfrey threw himself into his chair,
while Nancy laid down her bonnet
and shawl, and stood on the hearth
near her husband, unwilling to leave
him even for a few minutes, and yet
fearing to utter any word lest it
might jar on his feeling. At last
Godfrey turned his head towards her,
and their eyes met, dwelling in that
meeting without any movement Ott
either side. That quiet mutual gaze




9


SILAS MARNER


of a trusting husband and wife is like
the first moment of rest or refuge
from a great weariness or a great
danger, -not to be interfered with
by speech or action which would distract the sensations from the fresh enjoyment of repose.
But presently he put out his hand,
and as Nancy placed hers within it,
he drew her towards him, and
said: -
"That's ended!"
She bent to kiss him, and then
said, as she stood by his side, " Yes,
I'm afraid we must give up the hope
of having her for a daughter. It
would n't be right to want to force
her to come to us against her will.
We can't alter her bringing up and
what's come of it."
"No," said Godfrey, with a keen
decisiveness of tone, in contrast with
his usually careless and unemphatic
speech, - "there 's debts we can't
pay like money debts, by paying extra for the years that have slipped by.
While I 've been putting off and putting off, the trees have been growing,
- it's too late now. Marner was in
the right in what he said about a
man's turning away a blessing from
his door: it falls to somebody else.
I wanted to pass for childless once,
Nancy, - I shall pass for childless
now against my wish."
Nancy did not speak immediately,
but after a little while she asked:
"You won't make it known, then,
about Eppie's being your daughter? "
"No, -where would be the good
to anybody? - only harm. I must
do what I can for her in the state of
life she chooses. I must see who it
is she's thinking of marrying."
"If it won't do any good to make
the thing known," said Nancy, who
thought she might now allow herself
the relief of entertaining a feeling
which she had tried to silence before, "I should be very thankful
for father and Priscilla never to be
troubled with knowing what was
done in the past, more than about
5*


Dunsey: it can't be helped, their
knowing that."
" I shall put it in my will, - I think
I shall put it in my will. I should n't
like to leave anything to be found
out, like this of Dunsey," said Godfrey, meditatively. "But I can't see
anything but difficulties that 'ud
come from telling it now. I must do
what I can to make her happy in her
own way. I 've a notion," he added,
after a moment's pause, " it 's Aaron
Winthrop she meant she was engaged
to. I remember seeing him with her
and Marner going away from church."
"Well, he's very sober and industrious," said Nancy, trying to view
the matter as cheerfully as possible.
Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness
again.  Presently he looked up at
Nancy sorrowfully, and said: -
"She's a very pretty, nice girl,
is n't she, Nancy? "
"Yes, dear; and with just your
hair and eyes: I wondered it had
never struck me before."
" I think she took a dislike to me
at the thought of my being her father:
I could see a change in her manner
after that."
" She could n't bear to think of not
looking on Marner as her father,"
said Nancy, not wishing to confirm
her husband's painful impression.
" She thinks I did wrong by her
mother as well as by her. She thinks
me worse than I am. But she must
think it: she can never know all.
It's part of my punishment, Nancy,
for my daughter to dislike me. I
should never have got into that
trouble if I 'd been true to you, - if I
had n't been a fool. I'd no right to
expect anything but evil could come
of that marriage, - and when I shirked doing a father's part too."
Nancy was silent: her spirit of
rectitude would not let her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a
just compunction. He spoke again
after a little while, but the tone was
rather changed: there was tenderness
mingled with the previous self-reproach.




106 1


SILAS MARNER.


"And I got you, Nancy, in spite
of all; and yet I've been grumbling
and uneasy because I hadn't something else, - as if I deserved it."
" You 'e never been wanting to
me, Godfrey," said Nancy, with quiet
sincerity. "My only trouble would
be gone if you resigned yourself to
the lot that's been given us."
" Well, perhaps it is n't too late to
mend a bit there. Though it is too
late to mend some things, say what
they will."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE next morning, when Silas
and Eppie were seated at their breakfast, he said to her:"Eppie, there's a thing I 've had
on my mind to do this two year, and
now the money's been brought back
to us, we can do it. I 've been turning it over and over in the night, and
I think we '11 set out to-morrow, while
the fine days last. We'11 leave the
house and everything for your godmother to take care on, and we'll
make a little bundle o' things and
set out."
" Where to go, daddy?" said Eppie, in much surprise.
" To my old country, - to the town
where I was born, - up Lantern Yard.
I want to see Mr. Paston, the minister; something may ha' come out to
make 'em know I was innicent o'
the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a
man with a deal o' light, - I want to
speak to him about the drawing o'
the lots. And I should like to talk
to him about the religion o' this
country-side, for I partly think he
does n t know on it."
Eppie was very joyful, for there
was the prospect not only of wonder
and delight at seeing a strange country, but also of coming back to tell
Aaron all about it. Aaron was so
much wiser than she was about most
things, -it would be rather pleasant
to have this little advantage over
him. Mrs. Winthrop, though pos

sessed with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a journey, and
requiring many assurances that it
would not takc them out of the region
of carriers' carts and slow wagons,,
was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his own country,
and find out if he bad been cleared
from that false accusation.
11 You'd be easier in your mind for
the rest o' your life, Master Marner,`
said Dolly, - 11 that you would. And
if there's any light to be got up the
vard as you talk on, we 've need of
it V this world, and I'd be glad on
it myself, if you could bring it back."
so on the fourth day from that
time, Silas and Eppie, in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied
in a blue linen handkerchief, were
making their way through the streets
of a great manufacturing town. Silas, bewildered bv the changes thirty
years had brought over his native
place, bad stopped several persons in
succession to ask them the name of
this town, tbftt he might be sure he
was not under a mistake about it.
"Ask for Lantern Yard, father,
ask this gentleman with the tassels
on his sboulders'a-standing at the
shop door; be is n't in a burry like
the rest," said Eppie, in some distress
at 'her father's bewilderment, and ill
at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the
movement, and the multitude of
strange, indifferent faces.. 11 Eh, my child, he won't kn9w
anything about it," said Silas; " gentlefolks did n't ever go up the Yard.
But happen somebody can tell me
which is the wa 'y to Prison Street,
where the jail is., I know the way,
out o' that as if I 'd seen it yesterday."
With some difficulty, after -many
turnings and new inquiries, they
reached Prison Street;- and the grim
walls of the jail, the first object that
answered to any image in Silas's
memory, cheered him with the certitude, which no assurance of the
town's name had hitherto given him,
that he was in his native -Dlace.


sessed with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a journey, and
requiring many assurances that it
would not take them out of the region
of carriers' carts and slow wagons,
was nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his own country,
and find out if he had been cleared
from that false accusation.
" You'd be easier in your mind for
the rest o' your life, Master Marner,"
said Dolly,- " that you would. And
if there 's any light to be got up the
yard as you talk on, we 've need of
it i' this world, and I'd be glad on
it myself, if you could bring it back."
So on the fourth day from that
time, Silas and Eppie, in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied
in a blue linen handkerchief, were
making their way through the streets
of a great manufacturing town. Silas, bewildered by the changes thirty
years had brought over his native
place, had stopped several persons in
succession to ask them the name of
this town, that he might be sure he
was not under a mistake about it.
"Ask for Lantern Yard, father,ask this gentleman with the tassels
on his shoulders a-standing at the
shop door; he is n't in a hurry like
the rest," said Eppie, in some distress
at her father's bewilderment, and ill
at ease, besides, amidst the noise, the
movement, and   the multitude of
strange, indifferent faces.
"Eh, my child, he won't know
anything about it," said Silas; "gentlefolks did n't ever go up the Yard.
But happen somebody can tell me
which is the way to Prison Street,
where the jail is. I know the way
out o' that as if I 'd seen it yesterday."
With some difficulty, after many
turnings and new inquiries, they
reached Prison Street; and the grim
walls of the jail, the first object that
answered to any image in Silas's
memory, cheered him with the certitude, which no assurance of the
town's name had hitherto given him,
that he was in his native place.




SILAS MARNER.


107


"Ah," he said, drawing a long
breath, " there's the jail, Eppie;
that's just the same; I are n't afraid
now. It's the third turning on the
left hand from the jail doors, that's
the way we riust go."
"0, what a dark ugly place!"
said Eppie. " How it hides the sky!
It's worse than the Workhouse. I'm
glad you don't live in this town now,
father. Is Lantern Yard like this
street?"
"My precious child," said Silas,
smiling, " it is n't a big street like
this. I never was easy i' this street
myself, but I was fond o' Lantern
Yard. The shops here are all altered,
I think, - I can't make 'em out;
but I shall know the turning, because
it 's the third."
"Here it is," he said, in a tone of
satisfaction, as they came to a narrow
alley. " And then we must go to the
left again, and then straight for'ard
for a bit, up Shoe Lane; and then we
shall be at the entry next to the o'erhanging window, where there's the
nick in the road for the water to run.
*Eh, I can see it all."
"0 father, I'm like as if I was
stifled," said Eppie.  " I could n't
ha' thought as any folks lived i' this
way, so close together. How pretty
the Stone-pits 'ull look when we get
back! "
"It looks comical to me, child,
now, — and smells bad. I can't think
as it usened to smell so."
Here and there a sallow, begrimed
face looked out from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased
Eppie's uneasiness, so that it was a
longed-for relief when they issued from
the alleys into Shoe Lane, where there
was a broader strip of sky.
"Dear heart! " said Silas, "why,
there 's people coming out o' the Yard
as if they 'd been to chapel at this time
o' day, - a week-day noon!"
Suddenly he started and stood still
with a look of distressed amazement
that alarmed Eppie. They were before an opning in front of a large
factory, from which men and wo

men were streaming for their midday
meal.
"Father," said Eppie, clasping his
arm, "what's the matter?"
But she had to speak again and
again before Silas could answer her.
"It's gone, child," he said, at
last, in strong agitation, — " Lantern
Yard's gone. It must ha' been here,
because here's the house with the o'erhanging window, -I know that,it's just the same; but they've made
this new opening; and see that big factory! It's all gone, -chapel and all."
" Come into that little brush-shop
and sit down, father, - they '11 let you
sit down," said Eppie, always on the
watch lest one of her father's strange
attacks should come on. "Perhaps
the people can tell you all about it."
But neither froln the brush-maker,
who had come to Shoe Lane only ten
years ago, when the factory was already built, nor from an v other source
within his reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern Yard friends,
or of Mr. Paston, the minister.
" The old place is all swep' away,"
Silas said to Dolly Winthrop on the
night of his return, - " the little
graveyard and everything. The old
home 's gone; I've no home but this
now. I shall never know whether
they got at the truth o' the robbery,
nor whether Mr. Paston could ha'
given me any light about the drawing
o' the lots. It's dark to me, Mrs.
Winthrop, that is; I doubt it'll be
dark to the last."
"' Well, yes, Master Marner," said
Dolly, who sat with a placid listening
face, now bordered by gray hairs;" I
doubt it may. It's the will o' Them
above as a many things should be dark
to us; but there's some things as I 've
never felt i' the dark about, and they're
mbstly what comes i' the day's work.
You were hard done by that once,
Master Marner, and it seems as you '11
never know the rights of it; but that
does n't hinder there being a rights,
Master Marner, for all it's dark to
you and me."
"No," said Silas, "no; that doe n't




SILAS MARNER.


hinder. Since the time the child was
sent to me and I've come to love her
as myself, I've had light enough to
trusten by; and now she says she'll
never leave me, I think I shall trusten
till I die."
CONCLUSION.
THERE was one time of the year
which was held in Raveloe to be especially suitable for a wedding. It
was when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fashioned gardens
showed their golden and purple wealth
above the lichen-tinted walls, and
when there were calves still young
enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant
milk. People were not so busy then
as they must become when the full
cheese-making and the mowing had
set in; and besides, it was a time when
a light bridal dress could be worn with
comfort and seen to advantage.
Happily the sunshine fell more
warmly than usual on the lilac tufts
the morning that Eppie was married,
for her dress was a very light one. She
had often thought, though with a feeling of renunciation, that the perfection
of a wedding dress would be a white
cotton, with the tiniest pink sprig at
wide intervals; so that when Mrs.
Godfrey Cass begged to provide one,
and asked Eppie to choose what it
should be, previous meditation had
enabled her to give a decided answer
at once.
Seen at a little distance as she
walked across the churchyard and
down the village, she seemed to be attired in pure white, and her hair
looked like the dash of gold on a lily.
One hand was on her husband's arm,
and with the other she clasped the
hand of her father Silas.
"You won't be giving me away,
father," she had said before they went
to church; " you'll only be taking
Aaron to be a son to you."
Dolly Winthrop walked behind
with her husband; and there ended the
little bridal procession.


There were many eyes to look ad
it, and Miss Priscilla Lainmeter was!
glad that she and her father had hap4
pened to drive up to the door of the
Red House just in time to see this
pretty sight. They had come to keep
Nancy company to-day, because Mr.
Cass had had to go away to Lytherly, for special reasons. That seemed
to be a pity, for otherwise he might
have gone, as Mr. Crackenthorp and
Mr. Osgood certainly would, to look
on at the wedding feast which he had
ordered at the Rainbow, naturally
feeling a great interest in the weaver
who had been wronged by one of his
own family.
"I could ha' wished Nancy had
had the luck to find a child like that
and bring her up," said Priscilla to
her father, as they sat in the gig; "I
should ha' had something young to
think of then, besides the lambs and
the calves."
"Yes, my dear, yes," said Mr.
Lammeter; " one feels that as one gets
older. Things look dim to old folks:
they'd need have some young eyes
about 'em, to let 'em know the world 's
the same as it used to be."
Nancy came out now to welcome
her father and sister; and the wedding
group had passed on beyond the Red
House to the humbler part of the
village.
Dolly Winthrop was the first to
divine that old Mr. Macey, who had
been set in his arm-chair outside his
own door, would expect some special
notice as they passed, since he was too
old to be at the wedding-feast.
"Mr. Macey's looking for a word
from us," said Dolly; "he '11 be hurt if
we pass him and say nothing, -and
him so racked with rheumatiz."
So they turned aside to shake
hands with the old man. He had
looked forward to the occasion, and
had his premeditated speech.
"Well, Master Marner," he said,
in a voice that quavered a good deal,
"I've lived to see my words come
true. I was the first to say there was
no harm in you, though your looks




SILAS MARNER.


109


might be again' you; and I was the
first to say you'd get your money
back. And it 's nothing but rightful
as you should. And I'd ha said
the 'Amens,' and willing, at the holy
matrimony; but Tookey's done it a
good while now, and I hope you'll
have none the worse luck."
In the open yard before the Rainbow the party of guests were already
assembled, though it was still nearly
an hour before the appointed feasttime.  But by this means they
could not only enjoy the slow advent
of their pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas Marner's
strange history, and arrive by due
degrees at the conclusion that he had
brought a blessing on himself by acting like a father to a lone motherless
child. Even the farrier did not negative this sentiment: on the contrary,
he took it up as peculiarly his own,
and invited any hardy person present
to contradict him. But he met with
no contradiction; and all differences
among the company were merged
in a general agreement with Mr.
Snell's sentiment, that where a man


bad deserved his good-luck, it was
the part of his neighbors to wish him
jo.yAs the bridal group approached,
a hearty cheer was raised in the
Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop,
whose jokes bad retained their acceptable flavor, found it agreeable. to
turn in there and receive congratulations; not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the Stone-pits before joining the company.
Eppie had a larger garden than she
had ever expected there now; and in
other ways there had been alterations
at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas's larger family.
For he and Eppie had declared that
they would rather stay at the Stonepits than go to any new home. The
garden was fenced with stones on two
sides, but in front there was an open
fence, through which the flowers shone
with answering gladness, as the four
united people came within sight of
them.
" 0 father," said Eppie, "what a
pretty hoine ours is! I think nobody could be happier than we are."


had deserved his good-luck, it was
the part of his neighbors to wish him
joy.
As the bridal group approached,
a hearty cheer was raised in the
Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop,
whose jokes had retained their acceptable flavor, found it agreeable. to
turn in there and receive congratulations; not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the Stone-pits before joining the company.
Eppie had a larger garden than she
had ever expected there now; and in
other ways there had been alterations
at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas's larger family.
For he and Eppie had declared that
they would rather stay at the Stonepits than go to any new home. The
garden was fenced with stones on two
sides, but in front there was an open
fence, through which the flowers shone
with answering gladness, as the four
united people came within sight of
them.
"0 father," said Eppie, "what a
pretty home ours is! I think nobody could be happier than we are."








SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.




I




THE SAD FORTUNES
OF THB
REV. AMOS BARTON.


CHAPTER I.
SHEPPERTON Church was a
very different looking building
five-and-twenty years ago. To be
sure, its substantial stone tower looks
at you through its intelligent eye, the
clock, with the friendly expression
of former days; but in everything
else what changes! Now there is a
wide span of slated roof flanking the
old steeple; the windows are tall and
symmetrical; the outer doors are resplendent with oak graining, the inner doors reverentially noiseless with
a garment of red baize; and the
walls you are convinced no lichen will
ever again effect a settlement on, -
they are smooth and innutrient as the
summit of the Rev. Amos Barton's
head, after ten years of baldness and
supererogatory soap. Pass through
the baize doors and you will see the
nave filled with well-shaped bnches,
understood to be free seats; while in
certain eligible corners less directly
under the fire of the clergyman's eye,
there are pews reserved for the Shepperton gentility. Ample galleries are
supported on iron pillars, and in one
of them stands the crowning glory,
the very clasp or aigrette of Shepperton church-adornment, - namely, an
organ, not very much out of repair,
on which a collector of small rents,
differentiated by the force of circumstances into an organist, will accompany the alacrity of your departure


after the blessing, by a sacred minuet
or an easy " Gloria.
Immense improvement! says the
well-regulated mind, which unintermittingly rejoices in the New Police,
the Tithe Commutation Act, the penny-post, and all guaranties of human
advancement, and has no moments
when conservative reforming intellect
takes a nap, while imagination does
a little Toryism by the sly, revelling
in regret that dear, old, brown,
crumbling, picturesque inefficiency is
everywhere giving place to spick-andspan, new-painted, new-varnished efficiency, which will yield endless diagrams, plans, elevations, and sections,
but alas! no picture. Mine, I fear,
is not a well-regulated mind: it has
an occasional tenderness for old
abuses; it lingers with a certain
fondness over the days of nasal clerks
and top-booted parsons, and has a
sigh for the departed shades of vulgar errors. So it is not surprising
that I recall with a fond sadness
Shepperton Church as it was in the
old days with its outer coat of rough
stucco, its red-tiled roof, its heterogeneous windows patched with desultory bits of painted glass, and its little flight of steps with their wooden
rail running up the outer wall, and
leading to the school-children's gal-'
lery.
Then inside, what dear old quaintnesses! which I began to look at with
delight, even when I Was so crude a
H




114               SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
member of the congregation that my Shepperton as one of distinguished atnurse found it necessary to provide traction, occasionally known to draw
for the reinforcement of my devotion- hearers from the next parish. The inal patience by smuggling bread-and- novation of hymn-books was as yet
butter into the sacred edifice. There undreamed of; even the New Version
was the chancel, guarded by two lit- was regarded with a sort of melantie cherubims looking uncomfortably choly tolerance, as part of the comsqueezed between arch and wall, and mon degeneracy in a time when prices
adorned with the escutcheons of the had dwindled, and a cotton gown was
Oldinport family, which showed me no longer stout enough to last a lifeinexhaustible possibilities of meaning time; for the lyrical taste of the best
in their blood-red hands, their death's- heads in Shepperton had been formed
heads and cross-bones, their leopards' on Sternhold and Hopkins. But the
paws, and Maltese crosses.  There greatest triumphs of the Shepperton
were inscriptions on the panels of the choir were reserved for the Sundays
singing-gallery, telling of benefactions when the slate announced an ANto the poor of Shepperton, with an in- THEM, with a dignified abstinence
voluted elegance ot capitals and final from  particularization, both words
flourishes, which my alphabetic erudi- and music lying far beyond the reach
tion traced with ever-new delight. of the most ambitious amateur in the
No benches in those days; but huge congregation - an anthem in which
roomy pews, round which devout the key-bugles always ran away at a
church-goers sat during " lessons," great pace, while the bassoon every
trying to look anywhere else than in- now and then boomed a flying shot
to each other's eyes. No low parti- after them.
tions allowing you with a dreary ab-  As for the clergyman, Mr. Gilfil,
sence of contrast and mystery to see an excellent old gentleman, who
everything at all moments; but tall smoked very long pipes and preached
dark panels, under whose shadow I very short sermons, I must not speak
sank with a sense of retirement of him, or I might be tempted to tell
through the Litany, only to feel with the story of his life, which had its
more intensity my burst into the con- little romance, as most lives have bespicuousness of public life when I was tween the ages of teetotum and tomade to stand up on the seat during bacco. And at present I am concernthe psalms or the singing.        ed with quite another sort of clergyAnd the singing was no mechanical man, - the Rev. Amos Barton, who
affair of official routine': it had a dra- did not come to Shepperton until long
ma.   As the moment of psalmody after Mr. Gilfil had departed this life,
approached, by some process to me as - until after an interval in which
mysterious and untraceable as the Evangelicalism  and  the Catholic
opening of the flowers or the break- Question had begun to agitate the
ing out of the stars, a slate appeared rustic mind with controversial dein front of the gallery, advertising in bates.  A  Popish blacksmith had
bold characters the psalm about to be produced a strong Protestant reaction
sung, lest the sonorous announcement by declaring that, as soon as the
of the clerk should still leave the bu- Emancipation Bill was passed, he
colic mind in doubt on that head. should do a great stroke of business
Then followed the migration of the in gridirons; and the disinclination
clerk to the gallery, where, in compa- of the Shepperton parishioners geneny with a bassoon, two key-bugles, a rally to dim the unique glory of St.
carpenter understood to have an Lawrence, rendered the Church and
amazing power of singing " counter," Constitution an affair of their busincss
and two lesser musical stars, he formed and bosoms. A zealous Evangelical
the complement of a choir regarded in preacher had made the old sounding



AMOS BARTON.


board vibrate with quite a different
sort of elocution from Mr. Gilfil's;
the hymn-book had almost superseded the Old and New Versions; and
the great square pews were crowded
with new faces from distant corners
of the parish, - perhaps from Dissenting chapels.
You are not imagining, I hope, that
Amos Barton was the incumbent of
Shepperton. Hie was no such thing.
Those were days when a man could
hold three small livings, starve a
curate apiece on two of them, and
live badly himself on the third.  It
was so with the Vicar of Shepperton;
a vicar given to bricks and mortar,
and thereby running into debt far
away in a northern county, -who
executed his vicarial functions towards
Shepperton by pocketing the sum of
thirty-five pounds ten per annum, the
net surplus remaining to him from
the proceeds of that living, after the
disbursement of eighty pounds as the
annual stipend of his curate. And
now, pray, cal you solve me the
following problem?  Given a man
with a wife and six children: let him
be obliged always to exhibit himself
when outside his own door in a suit
of black broadcloth, such as will not
undermine the foundations of the
Establishment by a paltry plebeian
glossiness or an unseemly whiteness
at the edges; in a snowy cravat,
which is a serious investment of labor
in the hemming, starching, and ironing departments; and in a hat which
shows no symptom of taking to the
hideous doctrine of expediency, and
shaping itself according to circumstances; let him have a parish large
enough to create an external necessity
for abundant shoe-leather, and an internal necessity for abundant beef and
mutton, as well as poor enough to
require frequent priestly consolation
in the shape of shillings and sixpences; and, lastly, let him be compelled, by his own pride and other
people's, to dress his wife and children
with gentility from bonnet-strings to
shoe-strings.  By what process of


division can the sum of eighty pounds
per annum be made to yield a quotient which will cover that man's
weekly expenses     This was the
problem presented by the position of
the Rev. Amos Barton, as curate of
Shepperton, rather more than twenty
years ago.
What was thought of this problem,
and of the man who had to work it
out, by some of the well-to-do inhabitants of Shepperton, two years or
more after Mr. Barton's arrival among
them, you shall hear, if you will accompany me to Cross Farm, and to
the fireside of Mrs. Patten, a childless
old lady, who had got rich chiefly by
the negative process of spending nothing. Mrs. Patten's passive accumulation of wealth, through all sorts of
"bad times," on the farm of which
she had been sole tenant since her
husband's death, her epigrammatic
neighbor, Mrs. Hackit, sarcastically
accounted for by supposing that " sixpences grew on the bents of Cross
Farm "; while Mr. IHackit, expressing
his views more literally, reminded his
wife that " money breeds money."
Mr. and Mrs. Hackit, from the neighboring farm, are Mrs. Patten's guests
this evening; so is Mr. Pilgrim, the
doctor from the nearest market-town,
who, though occasionally affecting
aristocratic airs, and giving late dinners with enigmatic side-dishes and
poisonous port, is never so comfortable as when he is relaxing his professional legs in one of those excellent
farm-houses where the mice are sleek
and the mistress sickly. And he is
at this moment in clover.
For the flickering of Mrs. Patten's
bright fire is reflected in her bright copper teakettle, the home-made muffins
glisten with an inviting succulence,
and Mrs. Patten's niece, a single lady
of fifty, who has refused the most ineligible offers out of devotion to her
aged aunt, is pouring the rich cream
into the fragrant tea with a discreet
liberality.
Reader! did you ever taste isch a
cup of tea as Miss Gibbs is this mo



SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


ment handing to Mr. Pilgrim? Do was never known to spoil a stockyou know the dulcet strength, the ing.
animating blandness, of tea sufficient-  Mrs. Patten does not admire this
ly blendedwithreal farm-housecream? excessive  click- clicking  activity.
No, - most likely you are a miserable Quiescence in an easy-chair, under
town-bred reader, who think of cream  the sense of compound interest peras a thinnish white fluid, delivered in petually  accumuiating,  has long
infinitesimal pennyworths down area I seemed an ample function to her, and
steps; or perhaps, from a presenti- shedoesher malevolence gently. She
ment of calves' brains, you refrain j is a pretty, little old woman of eighty,
fiom any lacteal addition, and rasp with a close cap and tiny flat white
your tongue with unmitigated bohea. curls round her face, as natty and unYou have a vague idea of a milch cow  soiled and invariable as the waxen
as probably a white-plaster animal image of a little old lady under a
standing in a butterman's window, glass case; once a lady's-maid, and
and you know nothing of the sweet married for her beauty. She used to
history of genuine cream, such as adore her husband, and now she
Miss Gibbs's: how it was this morn- adores her money, cherishing a quiet
ing in the udders of the large sleek blood-relation's hatred for her niece,
beasts, as they stood lowing a patient Janet Gibbs, who, she knows, expects
entreaty under the milking-shed; a large legacy, and whom she is dehow it fell with a pleasant rhythni in- termined to disappoint. Her money
to Betty's pail, sending a delicious in- shall all go in a lump to a distant recense into the cool air; how it was lation of her husband's, and Janet
carried into that temple of moist clean- shall be saved the trouble of pretendliness, the dairy, where it quietly sep- ing to cry, by finding that she is left
arated itself from the meaner elements with a miserable pittance.
of milk, and lay in mellowed white-  Mrs. Patten has more respect for
ness, ready for the skimming-dish her neighbor Mr. Hackit than for
which transferred it to Miss Gibbs's most people. Mr. Ilackit is a shrewd,
glass cream-jug. If I am right in substantial man, whose advice about
my conjecture, you are unacquainted crops is always worth listening to, and
with the highest possibilities of tea; who is too well off to want to borrow
and Mr. Pilgrim, who is holding that money.
cup in his hand, has an idea beyond  And now that we are snug and
you.                               warm with this little tea party, while
Mrs. Hackit declines cream; she it is freezing with February bitterness
has so long abstained from it with an outside, we will listen to what they
eye to the weekly butter-money, that are talking about.
abstinence, wedded to habit, has be-  " So," said Mr. Pilgrim, with his
gotten aversion. She is a thin wo- mouth only half empty of muffin,
man with a chronic liver-complaint, "you  had a row   in Shepperton
which would have secured her Mr. Church last Sunday. I was at Jim
Pilgrim's entire regard and unreserved Hood's, the bassoon-nian's, this morngood word, even if he had not been j ing, attending his,wife, and he swears
in awe of her tongue, which was as he 'll be revenged on the parson,sharp as his own lancet. She has a confounded, methodistical, meddlebrought her knitting-no frivolous some chap, who must be putting his
fancy knitting, but a substantial wool- finger in every pie. What was it all
len stocking; the click-click of her about?"
knitting-needles is the running ac-  "0, a passill o' nonsense," said
companiment to all her conversation, Mr. Hackit, sticking one thumb beand in her utmost enjoyment of spoil- tween the buttons of his capacious
ing  a friend's self-satisfaction, she waistcoat, and retaining a pinch of




AMOS BARTON.


snuff with the other, - for he was but
moderately given to "the cups that
cheer but not inebriate," and had already finished his tea; " they began
to sing the wedding psalm for a newmarried couple, as pretty a psalm an'
as pretty a tune as any in the prayerbook. It's been sung for every newmarried couple since I was a boy.
And what can be better?"    Here
Mr. Hackit stretched out his left arm,
threw back his head, and broke into
melody -
"'0, what a happy thing it is,
And j;~yful for to see,
Brethren to dwell together in
Friendship and unity!'
But Mr. Barton is all for the hymns,
and a sort o' music as I can't join in
at all."
"And so," said Mr. Pilgrim, recalling Mr. Hackit from lyrical reminiscences to narrative, "he called out
Silence! did he? when he got into
the pulpit; and gave a hymn out
himself to some meeting-house tune? "
"Yes," said Mrs. Hackit, stooping
towards the candle to pick up a stitch,
" and turned as red as a turkey-cock.
I often say, when he preaches about
meekness, he gives himself a slap in
the face. He's like me,- he's got
a temper of his own."
" Rather a low-bred fellow, I think,
Barton," said Mr. Pilgrim, who hated
the Reverend Amos for two reasons,
-because he had called in a new
doctor, recently settled in Shepperton; and because, being himself a
dabbler in drugs, he had the credit
of having cured a patient of Mr. Pilgrim's. " They say his father was a
Dissenting shoemaker; and he's half
a Dissenter himself. Why, does n't
he preach extempore in that cottage
up here, of a Sunday evening? "
" Tchuh! "- this was Mr. Hackit's favorite  interjection, - " that
preaching without book 's no good,
only when a man has a gift, and has
the Bible at his fingers' ends. It was
all very well for Parry, —he'd a
gift; and in my youth I '   heard
the Ranters out o' doors in Yorkshire


go on for an hour or two on end,
without ever sticking fast a minute.
There was one clever chap, I remember, as used to say, ' You 're like the
wood-pigeon; it says Do, do, do all
day, and never sets about any work
itself.' That 's bringing it home to
people. But our parson 's no gift at
all that way; he can preach as good
a sermon as need be heard when he
writes it down. But when he tries to
preach wi'out book, he rambles about,
and does n't stick to his text; and
every now and then he flounders
about like a sheep as has cast itself,
and can't get on its legs again. You
wouldn't like that, Mrs. Patten, if
you was to go to church now? "
"Eh, dear," said Mrs. Patten,
falling back in her chair, and lifting
up her little withered hands, "what
'ud Mr. Gilfil say, if he was worthy
to know the changes as have come
about i' the Church these last ten
years? I don't understand these new
sort o' doctrines. When Mr. Barton
comes to see me, he talks about nothing but my sins and my needo' marcy.
Now, Mr. Hackit, I 've never been a
sinner. From the fust beginning,
when I went into service, I al'ys did
my duty by my emplyers. I was a
good wife as any in the county, -
never aggravated my husband. The
cheese-factor used to say my cheese
was al'ys to be depended on. I 've
known women, as their cheeses swelled
a shame to be seen, when their husbands had counted on the cheesemoney to make up their rent; and
yet they 'd three gowns to my one.
If I'm not to be saved, I know a
many as are in a bad way. But it's
well for me as I can't go to church
any longer, for if th' old singers are
to be done away with, there'll be
nothing left as it was in Mr. Patten's
time; and what's more, I hear you 've
settled to pull the church down and.
build it up new? "
Now the fact was that the Rev.
Amos Barton, on his last visit to
Mrs. Patten, had urged her to enlarge
her promised subscription of twenty




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


pounds, representing to her that she
was only a steward of her riches, and
that she could not spend them more
for the glory of God than by giving a
heavy subscription towards the rebuilding of Shepperton Church,- a
practical precept which was not likely
to smooth the way to her acceptance
of his theological doctrine. Mr. Hackit, who had more doctrinal enlightenment than Mrs. Patten, had been a
little shocked by the heathenism of
her speech, and was glad of the new
turn given to the subject by this
question, addressed to him as churchwarden and an authority in all parochial matters.
"Ah," he answered, " the parson's
bothered us into it at last, and we 're
to begin pulling down this spring.
But we haven't got money enough
yet.  I was for waiting till we 'd
made up the sum, and, for my part,
I think the congregation 's fell offo'
late; though Mr. Barton says that's
because there's been no room for the
people when they 've come. You see,
the congregation got so large in Parry's time, the people stood in the
aisles; but there's never any crowd
now, as I can see."
"Well," said Mrs. Hackit, whose
good-nature began to act now that
it was a little in contradiction with
the dominant tone of the conversation,
"I like Mr. Barton. I think he's a
good sort o' man, for all he's not
overburthen'd i' th' upper storey; and
his wife's as nice a ladylike woman
as I'd wish to see. How nice she
keeps her children! and little enough
money to do 't with; and a delicate
creatur,'- six children, and another
a coming. I don't know how they
make both ends meet, I'm sure, now
her aunt has left 'em. But I sent
'em a cheese and a sack o' potatoes
last week; that 's something towards
filling the little mouths."
"Ah!" said Mr. Hackit, "and
my wife makes Mr. Barton a good
stiff glass o' brandy-and-water, when
he comes into supper after his cottage
preaching. The parson likes it; it


puts a bit o' color into his face, and
makes him look a deal handsomer."
This allusion to brandy-and-water
suggested to Miss Gibbs the introduction of the liquor decanters, now that
the tea was cleared away; for in bucolic society five-and-twenty years ago,
the human animal of the male sex
was understood to be perpetually
athirst, and "something to drink"
was as necessary a "condition of
thought" as Time and Space.
" Now, that cottage preaching,"
said Mr. Pilgrim, mixing himself a
strong glass of "cold without," "I
was talking about it to our Parson
Ely the other day, and he does n't approve of it at all. He said it did as
much harm as good to give a too
familiar aspect to religious teaching.
That was what Ely said, -it does as
much harm as good to give a too familiar aspect to religious teaching."
Mr. Pilgrim generally spoke with
an intermittent kind of splutter; indeed, one of his patients had observed
that it was a pity such a clever man
had a "'pediment" in his speech.
But when he came to what he conceived the pith of his argument or the
point of his joke, he mouthed out his
words with slow emphasis; as a hen,
when advertising her accouchement,
passes at irregular intervals from pianissimo semiquavers to fortissimo
crotchets. He thought this speech of
Mr. Ely's particularly metaphysical
and profound, and the more decisive
of the question because it was a generality which represented no particulars to his mind.
"Well, I don't know about that,"
said Mrs. Hackit, who had always the
courage of her opinion, "but I know
some of our laborers and stockingers
as used never to come to church
come to the cottage, and that 's better
than never hearing anything good
from week's end to week's end. And
there 's that Track Society as Mr.
Barton has begun, - I 've seen more
o' the poor people with going tracking, than all the time I 've lived in
the parish before. And there 'd need




AMOS BARTON.


119


be something done among 'em; for
the drinking at them Benefit Clubs is
shameful. There 's hardly a steady
man or steady woman either, but
what 's a Dissenter."
During this speech of Mrs. Hackit's,
Mr. Pilgrim had emitted a succession
of little snorts, something like the
treble grunts of a guinea-pig, which
were always with him the sign of
suppressed disapproval. But he never
contradicted Mrs. Hackit, - a woman whose "pot-luck" was always
to be relied on, and who on her side
had unlimited reliance on bleeding,
blistering, and draughts.
Mrs. Patten, however, felt equal
disapprobation, and had no reasons
for suppressing it.
"Well," she remarked, "I 've
heared of no good from interfering
with one's neighbors, poor or rich.
And I hate the sight o' women going
about trapesing from house to house
in all weathers, wet or dry, and coming in with their petticoats dagged
and their shoes all over mud. Janet
wanted to join in the tracking, but I
told her I'd have nobody tracking
out o' my house; when I 'm gone,
she may do as she likes. I never
dagged my petticoats in my life, and
I 've no opinion o' that sort o' religion."
"No," said Mr. Hackit, who was
fond of soothing the acerbities of the
feminine mind with a jocose compliment, " you held your petticoats so
high to show your tight ankles: it
is n't everybody as likes to show her
ankles."
This joke met with general acceptance, even from the snubbed Janet,
whose ankles were only tight in the
sense of looking extremely squeezed
by her boots. But Janet seemed always to identify herself with her
aunt's personality, holding her own
under protest.
Under cover of the general laughter
the gentlemen replenished their glasses, Mr. Pilgrim attempting to give
his the character of a stirrup-cup by
observing that he " must be going.'




Miss Gibbs seized this opportunity
of telling Mrs. Hackit that she suspected Betty, the dairymaid, of frying
the best bacon for the shepherd, when
he sat up with her to " help brew";
whereupon Mrs. Hackit replied that
she had always thought Betty false;
and Mrs. Patten said there was no
bacon stolen when she was able to
manage. Mr. Hackit, whooften cornplained that he "never saw the like
to women with their maids, - he
never had any trouble with his men,"
avoided listening to this discussion,
by raising the question of vetches
with Mr. Pilgrim. The stream  of
conversation had thus diverged: and
no more was said about the Rev.
Amos Barton, who is the main object
of interest to us just now. So we
may leave Cross Farm without waiting till Mrs. Hackit, resolutely donning her clogs and wrappings, renders
it incumbent on Mr. Pilgrim also to
fulfil his frequent threat of going.
CHAPTER II.
IT was happy for the Rev. Amos
Barton that he did not, like us, overhear the conversation recorded in the
last chapter. Indeed, what mortal is
there of us, who would find his satisfaction enhanced by an opportunity
of comparing the picture he presents
to himself of his own doings, with
the picture they make on the mental
retina of his neighbors?  We are
poor plants buoyed up by the airvessels of our own conceit: alas for
us, if we get a few pinches that empty
us of that windy self-subsistence!
The very capacity for good would go
out of us. For, tell the most impassioned orator, suddenly, that his wig
is awry, or his shirt-lap hanging out,
and that he is tickling people by the
oddity of his person, instead of thrilling them by the energy of his periods, and you would infallibly dry
up the spring of his eloquence. That
is a deep and wide saying, that no




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


miracle can be wrought without faith,
- without the worker's faith in himself, as well as the recipient's faith in
him. And the greater part of the
worker's faith in himself is made up
of the faith that others believe in
him.
Let me be persuaded that my neighbor Jenkins considers me a blockhead, and I shall never shine in conversation with him any more. Let
me discover that the lovely Phoebe
thinks my squint intolerable, and I
shall never be able to fix her blandly
with my disengaged eye again.
Thank Heaven, then, that a little
illusion is left to us, to enable us to
be useful and agreeable, - that we
don't know exactly what our friends
think of us,- that the world is not
made of looking-glass, to show us
just the figure we are making, and
just what is going on behind our
backs! By the help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that
we are charming, -and our faces
wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able to dream that
other men admire our talents, - and
our benignity is undisturbed; we are
able to dream that we arc doing much
good,-and we do a little.
Thus it was with Amos Barton on
that very Thursday evening, when he
was the subject of the conversation
at Cross Farm. He had been dining
at Mr. Farquhar's, the secondary
squire of the parish, and, stimulated
by unwonted gravies and port-wine,
had been delivering his opinion on
affairs parochial and extra-parochial
with considerable animation. And
he was now returning home in the
moonlight, -a little chill, it is true,
for he had just now no great-coat
compatible with clerical dignity, and
a fur boa round one's neck, with a
waterproof cape over one's shoulders,
does 'n't frighten away the cold from
one's legs; but entirely unsuspicious,
not only of Mr. Hackit's estimate of
his oratorical powers, but also of the
critical remarks passed on him by
the Misses Farquhar as soon as the


drawing-room  door had closed behind him. Miss Julia had observed
that she never heard any one sniff so
frightfully as Mr. Barton did, -she
had a great mind to offer him her
pocket-handkerchief; and Miss Arabella wondered why he always said
he was going for to do a thing. He,
excellent man! was meditating fresh
pastoral exertions on the morrow;
he would set on foot his lending library; in which he had introduced soile
books that would be a pretty sharp
blow to the Dissenters,-one especially, purporting to be written by a
working-man, who, out of pure zeal
for the welfare of his class, took the
trouble to warn them in this way
against those hypocritical thieves, the
Dissenting  preachers.  The  Rev.
Amos Barton profoundly believed in
the existence of that working-man,
and had thoughts of writing to him.
Dissent, he considered, would have
its head bruised in Shepperton, for
did he not attack it in two ways?
He preached Low-Church doctrine,
- as evangelical as any thing to be
heard in the Independent Chapel;
and he made a Iligh-Church assertion of ecclesiastical powers and functions. Clearly, the Dissenters would
feel that "the parson" was too many
for them. Nothing like a man who
combines shrewdness with energy.
The wisdom of the serpent, Mr. Barton considered, was one of his strong
points.
Look at him as he winds through
the little churchyard!  The silver
light that falls aslant on church and
tomb enables you to see his slim
black figure, made all the slimmer by tight pantaloons, as it flits
past the pale gravestones. He walks
with a quick step, and is now rapping with sharp decision at the vicarage door. It is opened without delay by the nurse, cook, and housemaid, all at once, -that is to say,
by the robust maid-of-all-work, Nanny; and as Mr. Barton hangs up his
hat in the passage, you see that a
narrow face of no particular comn



i.121      1


AMOS BARTON.,plexion, — even the small-pox that
has attacked it seems to have been
of a mongrel, indefinite kind, - with
features of no particular shape, and
an eye of no particular expression, is
surmounted by a slope of baldness
gently rising from brow to crown.
You judge him, rightly, to be about
forty. The house is quiet, for it is
half past ten, and the children have
long been gone to bed.   He opens
the sitting-room door, but instead of
~seeing his wife, as he expected, stitching with the nimblest of fingers by
the light of one candle, he finds her
dispensing with the light of a candle
altogether. She is softly pacing up
and down by the red firelight, hold-.ing in her arms little Walter, the
year-old baby, who looks over her
shoulder with large wide-open eyes,.while the patient mother pats his
back with her soft hand, and glances
~with a sigh at the heap of large and
small stockings lying unmended on
the/table.
She was a lovely woman, -Mrs.
Amos Barton; a large, fair, gentle
Madonna, with thick, close, chestnut
curls beside her well-rounded cheeks,
and with large, tender, short-sighted
eyes. The flowing lines of her tall
figure made the limpest dress look
graceful, and her old frayed black
silk seemed to repose on her bust and
limbs with a placid elegance and
sense of distinction, in strong contrast with the uneasy sense of being
no fit, that seemed to express itself in
the rustling of Mrs. Farquhar'sgros
de Naples. The caps she wore would
have been pronounced, when off her
head, utterly heavy and hideous,for in those days even fashionable
caps were large and floppy: but surmounting her long arched neck, and
mingling their borders of cheap lace
and ribbon with her chestnut curls,
they seemed miracles of successful
millinery. Among strangers she was
shy and tremulous as a girl of fifteen; she blushed crimson if any one
appealed to her opinion; yet that tall,
graceful, substantial presence was so.6


imposing in its mildness, that men
spoke to her with arr agreeable sensation of timidity.
Soothing, unspeakable charm of
gentle womanhood! which supersedes
all acquisitions, all accomplishments.
You would never have asked, at any
period of Mrs. Amos Barton's life, if
she sketched or played the piano.
You would even perhaps have been
rather scandalized if she had descended from the serene dignity of being tothe assiduous unrest of doing. Happy the man, you would have thought,
whose eye will rest on her in the
pauses of his fireside reading, - whose
hot, aching forehead will be soothed
by the contact of her cool, soft hand,
-who will recover himself from dejection at his mistakes and failures inu
the loving light of her unreproaching
eyes! You would not, perhaps, have
anticipated that this bliss would fall
to the share of precisely such a man
as Amos Barton, whom you have already surmised not to have the refined
sensibilities for which  you might
have imagined Mrs. Barton's qualities to be destined by pre-established
harmony. But I, for one, do not
grudge Amos Barton his sweet wife.
I have all my life had a sympathy for
mongrel ungainly dogs, who are nobody's pets; and I would rather surprise one of them by a pat and a
pleasant morsel, than meet the condescending advances of the loveliest
Skye terrier who has his cushion by
my lady's chair. That, to be sure, is
not the way of the world: if it happens to see a fellow of fine proportions and aristocratic mien, who
makes no faux pas, and wins golden
opinions from all sorts of men, it
straightway picks out for him the
loveliest of unmarried women, and
says, There would be a proper match!
Not at all, say I: let that successful,
well-shapen, discreet, and able gentleman put up with something less than
the best in the matrimonial department: and let the sweet woman go to
make sunshine and a soft pillow for the
poor devil whose legs are not models,


I




122               SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
'those efforts are often blunders, and him here, by bringing home his bride
who in general 'gets more kicks than one of these days. Ely's a sly dog;
halfpence. She —the sweet woman he '11 like that."
- will like it as well; for her sublime  " Did the Farquhars say anything
capacity of loving will have all the about the singing last Sunday?"
more scope; and I venture to say,  "Yes; Farquhar said he thought
Mrs. Barton's nature would never it was time there was some improvehave grown half so angelic if she had ment in the choir. But he was rathmarried the man you would perhaps er scandalized at my setting the tune
have had in your eye for her, -a of 'Lydia.' He says he's always
man with sufficient income and abun- hearing it as he passes the Independant personal eclat. Besides, Amos dent meeting."  Here Mr. Barton
was an affectionate husband, and, in laughed,- he had a way of laughing
his way, valued his wife as his best at criticisms that other people thought
treasure.                        damaging, - and thereby showed the
But now he has shut the door be- remainder of a set of teeth which, like
hind him, and said, " Well, Milly? "  the remnants of the Old Guard, were
"Well, dear!" was the correspond- few in number, and very much the
ing greeting, made eloquent by a worse for wear. "But," he continsmile.                           ned, " Mrs. Farquhar talked the
" So that young rascal won't go to most about Mr. Bridmain and tihe
sleep! Can't you give him to Nan- Countess. She has taken up all the
ny?"                            gossip about them, and wanted to con"Why, Nanny has been busy iron- vert me to her opinion, but I told hi
ing this evening; but I think I '11 pretty strongly what I thought." 
take him to her now." And Mrs.     "Dear me! why will people take
Barton glided towards the kitchen so much pains to find out evil about
while her husband ran up stairs to others? I have had a note from the
put on his maize-colored dressing- Countess since you went, asking us to
gown, in which costume he was quiet- dine with them on Friday.",
ly filling his long pipe when his wife  Here Mrs. Barton reached the note
returned to the sitting-room. Maize from the mantel-piece, and gave it to
is a color that decidedly did not suit her husband. We will look over his
his complexion, and it is one that soon shoulder while he reads it: -
soils; why, then, did Mr. Barton se-. 
lect it for domestic wear? Perhaps  SWEETET MILLY,Brin         r 
lovely face with your husband to dine
because he had a knack of hitting on vey fe with yo  husband t dine 
the wrong thing in garb as well as in wis, on Friday at seven, -do. If
~grammar.  nowlihtednot, I will be sulky with you till Sun8Mrs. Barton now lighted her can- day, when I shall be obliged to see
die, and seated herself before her heap yo  and shall long to kiss yo  that
of stockings. She had something dis- very moment.-Yours, according fo 
agreeable to tell her husband, but your answer,
she would not enter on it at once.        CAROLINE CZERLASKI.        2
"Have you had a nice evening,    "Just like her, is n't it?" said 
dear?"                          Mrs. Barton. " I suppose we ein
"Yes, pretty well. Ely was there go "
to dinner, but went away rather    "Yes; I have no engagement. The
early. Miss Arabella is setting her Clerical Meeting is to-morrow, you
cap at him with a vengeance. But I know."
don't think he's much smitten. I've  "And, dear, Woods the butcher
a notion Ely's engaged to some one called, to say he must have some
at a distance, and will astonish all money next week. He has.a naythe ladies who are languishing for ment to make up."


fI
I




AMOS I


This announcement made Mr. Barton thoughtful. He puffed more rapidly, and looked at the fire.
" I think I must ask Hackit to lend
me twenty pounds, for it is nearly two
months till Lady-day, and we can't
give Woods our last shilling."
"I hardly like you to ask Mr.
Hackit, dear, - he and Mrs. Hackit
have been so very kind to us; they
have sent us so many things lately."
"Then I must ask Oldinport. I'm
going to write to him to - morrow
morning, for to tell him the arrangement I've been thinking of about
having service in the workhouse while
the church is being enlarged. If he
agrees to attend service there once or
twice, the other people will come.
Net the large fish, and you 're sure to
have the small fry."
"I wish we could do without borrowing money, and yet I don't see
how we can. Poor Fred must have
some new shoes; I could n't let him
go to Mrs. Bond's yesterday because
his toes were peeping out, dear child!
and I can't let him walk anywhere
except in the garden. He must have
a pair before Sunday. Really, boots
and shoes are the greatest trouble of
my life. Everything else one can
turn and turn about, and make old
look like new; but there 's no coaxing boots and shoes to look better
than they are."
Mrs. Barton was playfully undervaluing her skill in metamorphosing
boots and shoes. She had at that
moment on her feet a pair of slippers
which had long ago lived through the
prunella phase of their existence, and
were now running a respectable career
as black silk slippers, having been
neatly covered with that material by
Mrs. Barton's own neat fingers.
Wonderful fingers those! they were
never empty; for if she went to spend
a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece
of calico or muslin, which, before she
left, had become a mysterious little
garment with all sorts of hemmed ins
and outs. She was even trying to


IARTON.                       123
persuade her husband to leave off
tight pantaloons, because if he would
wear the ordinary gun-cases, she
knew she could make them so well
that no one would suspect the sex of
the tailor.
But by this time Mr. Barton has
finished his pipe, the candle begins to
burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to
see if Nanny has succeeded in lulling
Walter to sleep. Nanny is that moment
putting him in the little cot by his'
mother's bedside; the head, with its
thin wavelets of brown hair, indents
the little pillow; and a tiny, waxen,
dimpled fist hides the rosy lips, for
baby is given to the infantine peccadillo of thumb-sucking.
So Nancy could now join in the
short evening prayer, and all could go
to bed.
Mrs. Barton carried up stairs the
remainder of her heap of stockings,
and laid them on a table close to her
bedside, where also she placed a warm
shawl, removing her candle, before
she put it out, to a tin socket fixed at
the head of her bed. Her body was
very weary, but her heart was not
heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the
butcher, and the transitory nature of
shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed with love, she felt sure she was
near a fountain of love that would
care for husband and babes better
than she could foresee; so she was
soon asleep. But about half past five
o'clock in the morning, if there were
any angels watching round her bed, -
and angels might be glad of such an
office,  they saw Mrs. Barton rise
up quietly, careful not to disturb the
slumbering Amos, who was snoring
the snore of the just, light her candle,
prop herself upright with the pillows,
throw the warm shawl round her
shoulders, and renew her attack on
the heap of undarned stockings. She
darned away until she heard Nanny
stirring, and then drowsiness came
with the dawn; the candle was put
out, and she sank into a doze. But
at nine o'clock she was at the breakfast-table, busy cutting bread-and



SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


butter for five hungry mouths, while
Nanny, baby on one arm, in rosy
cheeks, fat neck, and nightgown,
brought in a jug of hot milk-andwater. Nearest her mother sits the
nine-year-old Patty, the eldest child,
whose sweet fair face is already rather
grave sometimes, and who always
wants to run up stairs to save mamma's legs, which get so tired of an
evening. Then there are four other
blond heads, -two  boys and two
girls, gradually decreasing in size
down to Chubby, who is making a
round 0 of her mouth to receive a
bit of papa's "baton."  Papa's attention was divided between  petting
Chubby, rebuking the noisy Fred,
which he did with a somewhat excessive sharpness, and eating his own
breakfast. He had not yet looked at
mamma, and did not know that her
cheek was paler than usual.  But
Patty whispered, "Mamma, have you
the headache?"
Happily coal was cheap in the
neighborhood of Shepperton, and
Mr. Hackit would any time let his
horses draw a load for " the parson "
without charge; so there was a blazing fire in the sitting-room, and not
without need, for the vicarage garden,
as they looked out on it from the
bow-window, was hard with black
frost, and the sky had the white
woolly look that portends snow.
Breakfast over, Mr. Barton mounted to his study, and occupied himself
in the first place with his letter to
Mr. Oldinport. It was very much
the same sort of letter as most clergymen would have written under the
same circumstances, except that instead of perambulate, the Rev. Amos
wrote preambulate, and instead of
"if haply," " if happily," the contingency indicated being the reverse of
happy. Mr. Barton had not the gift
of perfect accuracy in English orthography and.syntax, which was unfortunate, as he was known not to be a
Hebrew scholar, and not in the least
suspected of being an accomplished
Grecian. These lapses, in a man


who had gone through the Eleusinan
mysteries of a university education,
surprised the young ladies of his
parish  extremely;  especially the
Misses Farquhar, whom he had once
addressed in a letter as Dear Mads.,
apparently an abbreviation for Maddams.   The persons least surprised
at the Rev. Amos's deficiencies were
his clerical brethren, who had gone
through the mysteries themselves.
At eleven   o'clock, Mr. Barton
walked forth in cape and boa, with
the sleet driving in his face, to read
prayers at the workhouse, euphuistically called the " College." The College was a huge square stone building, standing on the best apology for
an elevation of ground that could be
seen for about ten miles round Shepperton. A flat ugly district this;
depressing enough to look at even on
the brightest days. The roads are
black with coal-dust, the brick houses
dingy with smoke; and at that time,
- the time of hand-loom weavers,
every other cottage had a loom at its
window, where you might see a pale,
sickly-looking man or woman pressing
a narrow chest against a board, and'
doing a sort of treadmill work with
legs and arms. A troublesome district for a clergyman; at least to one
who, like Amos Barton, understood
the "cure of souls" in something
more than an official sense; for over
and above the rustic stupidity furnished by the farm-laborers, the miners,
brought obstreperous animalism, and
the weavers an acrid Radicalism atld
Dissent. Indeed, Mrs. Hackit often
observed that the colliers, who many
of them earned better wages than
Mr. Barton, "passed their time in
doing nothing but swilling ale and
smoking, like the beasts that perish"
(speaking, we may presume, in a remotely analogical sense); and in
some of the ale-house corners the
drink was flavored by a dingy kind
of infidelity, something like rinsings
of Tom Paine in ditch-water. A certain amount of religious excitement
created by the popular preaching of




AMOS BARTON.


71


Mr. Parry, Amos's predecessor, had
nearly died out, and the religious life
of Shepperton was falling back towards low-water mark. Here, you
perceive, was a terrible stronghold of
Satan; and you may well pity the
Rev. Amos Barton, who had to stand
single-handed and summon it to surrender. We read, indeed, that the
walls.of Jericho fell down before the
sound of trumpets; but we nowhere
hear that those trumpets were hoarse
and feeble.  Doubtless they  were
trumpets that gave forth clear ringing tones, and sent a mighty vibration through brick and mortar. But
the oratory of the Rev. Amos resembled rather a Belgian railway-horn,
which shows praiseworthy intentions
inadequately fulfilled. He often missed
the right note both in public and
private exhortation, and got a little
angry in consequence. For though
Amos thought himself strong, he did
not feel himself strong. Nature had
given him the opinion, but not the
sensation. Without that opinion he
would probably never have worn
cambric bands, but would have been
an excellent cabinet-maker and deacon of an Independent church, as his
father was before him (he was not a
shoemaker, as Mr. Pilgrim had reported). Hi might then have sniffed
long and loud in the corner of his
pew in Gun Street Chapel; he might
have indulged in halting rhetoric at
prayer-meetings, and have spoken
faulty English in private life; and
these little infirmities would not have
prevented him, honest, faithful man
that he was, from being a shining
light in the Dissenting  circle of
Bridgeport.  A tallow dip, of the
longeight description, is an excellent
thing in the kitchsn candlestick, and
Betty's nose and eye are not sensitive
to the difference between it and the
finest wax; it is only when you stick
it in the silver candlestick, and introduce it into the drawing-room, that
it seems plebeian, dim, and ineffectual.
Alas for the worthy tian who, like
that candle, gets himself into the


wrong place! It is only the very
largest souls who will be able to appreciate and pity him, - who will discern and love sincerity of purpose
amid all the bungling feebleness of
achievement.
But now Amos Barton has made
his way through the sleet as far as the
College, has thrown off his hat, cape,
and boa, and is reading, in the dreary
stone-floored dining-room, a portion
of the morning service to the inmates
seated on the benches before him.
Reemember, the New Poor-law had
not yet come into operation, and Mr.
Barton was not acting as paid chaplain of the Union, but as the pastor
who had the cure of all souls in his
parish, pauper as well as other. After
the prayers he always addressed to
them a short discourse on some subject suggested by the lesson for the
day, striving if by this means some
edifying matter might find its way
into the pauper mind and conscience,
- perhaps a task as trying as you
could well imagine to the faith and
patience of any honest clergyman.
For, on the very first bench, these
were the faces on which his eye had
to rest, watching whether there was
any stirring under the stagnant surface.
Right in fiont of him, - probably
because he was stone-deaf, and it was
deemed more edifying to hear nothing at a short distance than at a long
one, -sat " Old Maxum," as he was
familiarly called, his real patronymic
remaining a mystery to most persons.
A fine philological sense discerns in
this cognomen an indication that the
pauper patriarch had once been considered pithy and sententious in his
speech; but now the weight of ninetyfive years lay heavy on his tongue as
well as in his ears, and he sat before
the clergyman with protruded chin,
and munching mouth, and eyes that
seemed to look at emptiness.
Next to him   sat Poll Fodge. —
known to the magistracy of her
county as Mary Higgins, - a one-eyed
woman, with a scarred and seamy


I




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


face, the most notorious rebel in the
workhouse, said to have once thrown
her broth over the master's coat-tails,
and who, in spite of nature's apparent
safeguards against that contingency,
had contributed to the perpetuation
of the Fodge characteristics in the
person of a small boy, who was behaving naughtily on one of the back
benches. Miss Fodge fixed her one
sore eye on Mr. Barton with a sort
of hardy defiance.
Beyond this member of the softer
sex, at the end of the bench, sat
" Silly Jim," a young man afflicted
with hydrocephalus, who rolled his
head from side to side, and gazed at
the point of his nose. These were
the supporters of Old Maxum on his
right.
On his left sat Mr. Fitchett, a tall
fellow, who had once been a footman
in the Oldinport family, and in that
giddy elevation had enunciated a contemptuous opinion of boiled beef,
which had been traditionally handed
down in Shepperton as the direct
cause of his ultimate reduction to pauper commons. His calves were now
shrunken, and his hair was gray without the aid of powder; but he still
-carried his chin as if he were conscious of a stiff cravat; he set his dilapid.ited hat on with a knowing inclination towards the left ear; and
when he was on field-work, he carted
and uncarted the manure with a sort
of flunkey grace, the ghost of that
jaunty demeanor with which he
used to usher in my lady's morning
visitors. The flunkey nature was
nowhere completely subdued but in
his stomach, and he still divided society into gentry, gentry's flunkeys,
and the people who provided for them.
A clergyman without a flunkey was
an anomaly, belonging to neither of
these classes. Mr. Fitchett had an
irrepressible tendency to drowsiness
under spiritual instruction, and in
the recurrent regularity with which
he dozed off until he nodded and
awaked himself, he looked not unlike
a piece of mechanism, ingeniously


contrived for measuring the length
of Mr. Barton's discourse.
Perfectly wide-awake, on the contrary, was his left-hand neighbor,
Mrs. Brick, one of those hard undying old women, to whom age seems
to have given a network of wrinkles,
as a coat of magic armor against the
attacks of winters, warm or cold. The
point on which Mrs. Brick was still
sensitive —the theme on which you
might possibly excite her hope and
fear -was snuff. It seemed to be
an embalming powder, helping her
soul to do the office of salt.
And now, eke out an audience, of
which this front benchful was a sample, with a certain number of refractory children, over whom Mr. Spratt,
the master of the workhouse, exercised
an irate surveillance, and I think you
will admit that the university-taught
clergyman, whose office it is to bring
home the gospel to a handful of such
souls, has a sufficiently hard task.
For, to have any chance of success,
short of miraculous intervention, he
must bring his geographical, chronological, exegetical mind pretty nearly to the pauper point of view, or of
no view; he must have some approximate conception of the mode in which
the doctrines that have so much vitality in the plenum of his own brain
will comport themselves in vacuo, -
that is to say, in a brain that is
neither geographical, chronological,
nor exegetical. It is a flexible imagination that can take such a leap
as that, and an adroit tongue that can
adapt its speech to so unfamiliar a
position.  The Rev. Amos Barton
had neither that flexible imagination,
nor that adroit tongue. lie talked of
Israel and its sins, of chosen vessels,
of the Paschal lamb, of blood as a
medium of reconciliation; and he
strove in this way to convey religious
truth within reach of the Fodge and
Fitchett mind. This very morning,
the first lesson was the twelfth chapter
of Exodus, and Mr. Barton's exposition turned on unleavened bread.
Nothing in the world more suited to




AMOS BARTON.


127


the simple understanding than instruction through familiar types and symols! But there is always this danger attending it, that the 'interest or
comprehension of your hearers may
stop short precisely at the point where
your spiritual interpretation begins.
And Mr. Barton this morning succeeded in carrying the pauper imagination to the dough-tub, but unfortunately was not able to carry it
upwards from that well-known object
to the unknown truths which it was
intended to shadow forth.
Alas! a natural incapacity for
teaching, finished by keeping" terms"
at Cambridge, where there are able
mathematicians, and butter is sold by
the yard, is not apparently the medium through which Christian doctrine
will distil as welcome dew on withered
souls.
And so, while the sleet outside was
turning to unquestionable snow, and
the stony dining-room looked darker
and drearier, and Mr. Fitchett was nodding his lowest, and Mr. Spratt was
boxing the boys' ears with a constant
rinforzando, as he felt more keenly the
approach of dinner-time, Mr. Barton
wound up his exhortation with something of the February chill at his heart
as well as his feet. Mr. Fitchett,
thoroughly roused now the instruction
was at an end, obsequiously and gracefully advanced to help Mr. Barton in
putting on his cape, while Mrs. Brick
rubbed her withered forefinger round
and round her little shoe-shaped snuffbox, vainly seeking for the fraction of
a pinch. I can't help thinking that
if Mr. Barton had shaken into that
little box a small portion of Scotch
high-dried, he might have produced
something more like an amiable emotion in Mrs. Brick's mind than anything she had felt under his morning's
exposition of the unleavened bread.
But our good Amos labored under a
deficiency of small tact as well as of
small cash; and when he observed the
action of the old woman's forefinger,
he said, in his brusque way, "So
your snuff is all gone, eh? "


Mrs. Brick's eyes twinkled with the
visionary hope that the parson might
be intending to replenish her box, at
least mediately, through the present
of a small copper.
"Ah, well! you 'll soon be going
where there is no more snuff. You '11
be in need of mercy then. You must
remember that you may have to seek
for mercy and not find it, just as you
're seeking for snuff."
At the first sentence of this admonition, the twinkle subsided from Mrs.
Brick's eyes. The lid of her box went
" click! " and her heart was shut up
at the same moment.
But now Mr. Barton's attention was
called for by Mr. Spratt, who was
dragging a small and unwilling boy
from the rear. Mr. Spratt was a smallfeatured, small-statured man, with a
remarkable power of language, mitigated by hesitation, who piqued himself on expressing unexceptionable
sentiments in unexceptionable language on all occasions.
" Mr. Barton, sir - aw - aw - excuse my trespassing on your time -
aw -to beg that you will administer
a rebuke to this boy; he is- aw - aw
- most inveterate in ill behavior during service-time."
The inveterate culprit was a boy of
seven, vainly contending against
"candles " at his nose by feeble sniffing.  But no sooner had Mr. Spratt
uttered his impeachment, than Miss
Fodge rushed forward and placed herself between Mr. Barton and the accused.
"That's my child, Muster Barton,"
she exclaimed, further manifesting
her maternal instincts by applying her
apron to her offspring's nose. " He
's al'ys a findin' faut wi' him, and a
poundin' him for nothin'. Let him
goo an' eat his roost goose as is asmellin' up in our noses while we're
a-swallering them greasy broth, an'
let my boy alooan."
Mr. Spratt's small eyes flashed,
and he was in danger of uttering sentiments not unexceptionable before
the clergyman; but Mr. Barton, fore



SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


seeing that a prolongation of this episode would not be to edification, said
"Silence " in his severest tones.
"Let me hear no abuse. Your boy
is not likely to behave well, if you set
him the example of being saucy."
Then stooping down to Master Fodge,
and taking him by the shoulder, " Do
you like being beaten? "
" No-a."
" Then what a silly boy you are to
be naughty. If you were not naughty,
you would n't be beaten. But if you
are naughty, God will be angry, as
well as Mr. Spratt; and God can
burn you forever. That will be worse
than being beaten."
Master Fodge's countenance was
neither affirmative nor negative of
this proposition.
" But," continued Mr. Barton, "if
you will be a good boy, God will love
you, and you will grow up to be a
good man. Now, let me hear next
Thursday that you have been a good
bov."
Master Fodge had no distinct vision
of the benefit that would accrue to
him from this change of courses.
But Mr. Barton, being aware that
Miss Fodge had touched on a delicate
subject in alluding to the roast goose,
was determined to witness no more
polemics between her and Mr. Spratt,
so, saying good morning to the latter,
he hastily left the College.
The snow was falling in thicker and
thicker flakes; and already the vicarage garden was cloaked in white as
he passed through the gate. Mrs.
Barton heard him open the door, and
ran out of the sitting-room to meet him.
" I 'm afraid your feet are very wet,
dear. What a terrible morning! Let
me take your hat. Your slippers are
at the fire."
Mr. Barton was feeling a little cold
and cross. It is difficult, when you
have been doing disagreeable duties,
without praise, on a snowy day, to
attend to the very minor morals. So
he showed no recognition of Milly's
attentions, but simply said: "Fetch
me my dressing-gown, will you?"


"It is down, dear. I thought you
wouldn't go into the study, because
you said you would letter and number
the books for the Lending Libraryl
Patty and I have been covering them,
and they are all ready in the sittingroom."
" 0, I can't do those this morning,"
said Mr. Barton, as he took off his
boots and put his feet into the slippers Milly had brought him; "you
must put them away into the parlor."
The sitting-room was also the day
nursery and school-room; and while
mamnma's back was turned, Dickey,
the second boy, had insisted on superseding Chubby in the guidance of a
headless horse, of the red-wafcred
species, which she was drawing round
the room, so that when papa opened
the door Chubby was giving tongue
energetically.
" Milly, some of these children
must go away. I want to be quiet."
"Yes, dear. Hush, Chubby; go
with Patty, and see what Nanny is
getting for our dinner. Now, ired
and Sophy and Dickey, help me to
carry these books into the parlor.
There are three for Dickey. Carry
them steadily."
Papa meanwhile settled himself in
his easy-chair, and took up a work oi
Episcopacy, which he had from the
Clerical Book Society; thinking h6
would finish it and return it this after+
noon, as he was going to the Clerical
Meeting at Milby Vicarage, where the
Book Society had its head-quarters.
The Clerical Meetings and Book
Society, which had been founded
some eight or ten months, had had a
noticeable effect on the Rev. Amos
Barton. When he first came to
Shepperton he was simply an evangel,
ical clergyman, whose Christian experiences had commenced under the
teaching of the Rev. Mr. Johns, of
Gun Street Chapel, and had been
consolidated at Cambridge under the
influence of Mr. Simeon.   John
Newton and Thomas Scott were his.
doctrinal ideals; he would have taken




AMOS BARTON..-129


in the " Christian Observer" and the
"Record," if he could have afforded it;
his anecdotes were chiefly of the piousjocose kind, current in Dissenting
circles; and he thought an Episcopalian Establishment unobjectionable.
But by this time the effect of the
Tractarian agitation was beginning to
befelt in backward provincial regions,
and the Tractarian satire on the LowChurch party was beginning to tell
even on those who disavowed or resisted Tractarian  doctrines.  The
vibration of an intellectual movement
was felt from the golden head to the
miry toes of the Establishment; and
so it came to pass that, in the district
round Milby, the market-town close
to Shepperton, the clergy had agreed
to have a clerical meeting every month,
wherein they would exercise their
intellects by discussing theological
and ecclesiastical questions, and cement their brotherly love by discussing a good dinner. A Book Society
naturally suggested itself as an adjunct of this agreeable plan; and thus,
you perceive, there was provision
made for ample friction of the clerical
mind.
Now, the Rev. Amos Barton was
one of those men who have a decided
will and opinion of their own; he
held himself bolt upright, and had no
self-distrust. He would march very
determinedly along the road he thought
best; but then it was wonderfully easy
to convince him which was the best
road. And so a very little unwonted
reading and  unwonted  discussion
made him see that an Episcopalian
Establishment was much more than
unobjectionable, and on many other
points he began to feel that he held
opinions a little too far-sighted and
profound to be crudely and suddenly
communicated to ordinary  minds.
He was like an onion that has been
rubbed with spices; the strong original
odor was blended with something
new and foreign. The Low-Church
onion still offended refined HighChurch nostrils, and the new spice
6*


was unwelcome to the palate, of. the
genuine onion-eater.
We wil I not accompany him to tho
Clerical Meeting to-day, because we
shall probably want to go thither
some day when he will be absent.
And just now I am bent on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the
Countess Czerl.ttski, with whom Mr.
and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine
to-morrow.
CHAPTER III.
OUTSIDE, the moon is shedding its
cold light on the cold snow, and the
white-bearded fir-trees round Camp
Villa are casting a blue shadow across
the white ground, while the Rev.
Amos Barton and his wife are audibly
crushing the crisp snow beneath their
feet, as, about seven o'clock on Friday evening, they approach the door
of the above-named desirable country
residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, &c., situated
only half a mile from the markettown of Milby.
Inside there is a bright fire in the
drawin —room, casting a pleasant but
uncertain light on the delicate silk
dress of a lady who is reclining behind
a screen in the corner of the sofa, and
allowing You to discern that the hair
of the gentleman who is seated in the
arm-ebair opposite, with a newspaper
over his knees, is becoming decidedly
gray. A little " King Charles," with
a crimson ribbon round his neck, who
has been lying curled up in the very
middle of the hearth-rug, has just discovered that that zone is too hot for
him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accom-
modating his person on the silk gown.
On the table there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as
the expected knock is heard at the.
door.
The knock is heard, the candles are
lighted, and presently Mr. and Mrs.
Barton are ushered in, - Mr. Barton
erect and clerical, in a faultless tid


was unwelcome to the palate of the
genuine onion-eater.
We will not accompany him to the
Clerical Meeting to-day, because we
shall probably want to go thither
some day when he will be absent.
And just now I am bent on introducing you to Mr. Bridmain and the
Countess Czerlaski, with whom Mr.
and Mrs. Barton are invited to dine
to-morrow.
CHAPTER III.
OUTSIDE, the moon is shedding its
cold light on the cold snow, and the
white-bearded fir-trees round Camp
Villa are casting a blue shadow across
the white ground, while the Rev.
Amos Barton and his wife are audibly
crushing the crisp snow beneath their
feet, as, about seven o'clock on Friday evening, they approach the door
of the above-named desirable country
residence, containing dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, &c., situated
only half a mile from the markettown of Milby.
Inside, there is a bright fire in the
drawing-room, casting a pleasant but
uncertain light on the delicate silk
dress of a lady who is reclining behind
a screen in the corner of the sofa, and
allowing you to discern that the hair
of the gentleman who is seated in the
arm-chair opposite, with a newspaper
over his knees, is becoming decidedly
gray. A little " King Charles," with
a crimson ribbon round his neck, who
has been lying curled up in the very
middle of the hearth-rug, has just discovered that that zone is too hot for
him, and is jumping on the sofa, evidently with the intention of accommodating his person on the silk gown.
On the table there are two wax-candles, which will be lighted as soon as
the expected knock is heard at the
door.
The knock is heard, the candles are
lighted, and presently Mr. and Mrs.
Barton are ushered in, - Mr. Barton
erect and clerical, in a faultless tie
I




- SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


and shining cranium; Mrs. Barton
graceful in a newly turned black silk.
"Now this is charming of you,"
said the Countess Czerlaski, advancing to meet them, and embracing
Millv with careful elegance. "I am
'really ashamed of my selfishness in
asking my friends to come and see
me in this frightful weather." Then,
giving her hand to Amos, " And you,
Mr. Barton, whose time is so precious!
But I am doing a good deed in drawing you away from your labors. I
have a plot to prevent you from martyrizing yourself."
While this greeting was going forward, Mr. Bridmain, and Jet the
spaniel, looked on with the air of
actors who had no idea of by-play.
Mr. Bridmain, a stiff, and rather
thick-set man, gave his welcome with
a labored cordiality. It was astonishing how very little he resembled
his beautiful sister.
For the Countess Czerlaski was
undeniably beautiful. As she seated
herself by Mrs. Barton on the sofa,
Milly's eyes, indeed, rested- must it
be confessed? - chiefly on the details
of the tasteful dress, the rich silk of a
pinkish lilac hue (the Countess always wore delicate colors in an evening), the black lace pelerine, and the
black lace veil falling at the back of
the small closely braided head. For
Milly had one weakness - don't love
her any the less for it, it was a pretty
woman's weakness -, she was fond of
dress; and often when she was making up her own economical millinery,
she had romantic visions how nice it
would be to put on really handsome
stylish things, - to have very stiff
balloon sleeves, for example, without
which a woman's dress was naught
in those days. You and I, too, reader, have our weakness, have we not?
which makes us think foolish things
now and then. Perhaps it may lie in
an excessive admiration for small
hands and feet, a tall lithe figure,
large dark eyes, and dark silken
braided hair. All these the Countess
possessed, and she had, moreover, a..


delicately formed nose, the least btt
curved, and a clear brunette complexion. Her mouth, it must be admitted, receded too much from her ndte
and chin, and to a prophetic eye
threatened  " nut-crackers" ini advanced age. But by the light of fire
and wax candles that age seemed
very far off indeed, and you would
have said that the Countess was not
more than thirty.
Look at the two women on the
sofa together! The large, fair, mildeyed Milly is timid even in friendship: it is not easy to her to speak 6f
the affection of which her heart is full.
The lithe, dark, thin-lipped Countess
is racking her small brain for caressing words and charming exaggerations.
" And how are all the cherubs at
home?" said the Countess, stooping
to pick up Jet, and without waiting
for an answer. "I have been kept
in-doors by a cold ever since Sunday,
or I should not have rested without
seeing you.  What have you do'ne
with those wretched singers, Mr
Barton?"
" 0, we have got a new choir together, which will go on very well
with a little practice. I was quite letermined that the old set of singers
should be dismissed. I had given orders that they should not sing the
wedding psalm, as they call it, again,
to make a new-married couple look
ridiculous, and they sang it in defiance of me. I could put them into
the Ecclesiastical Court, if I chose
for to do so, for lifting up their voices
in church in opposition to the clergyman."
"And a most wholesome discipline
that would be," said the Countess;
"indeed, you are too patient and fotbearing, Mr. Barton. For my part,
I lose my temper when I see how far
you are fron being appreciated in
that miserable Shepperton."
If, as is probable, Mr. Barton felt
at a loss what to say in reply to the
insinuated compliment, it was a relief
to him that dinner was annotnced




AMOS BARTON.


131


J j ust then, and that he had to offer his affects me, not the cold in the pew. I
arm to the Countess.               was writing to my friend Lady PorAs Mr. Bridmain was leading Mrs. ter this morning, and telling her all
Barton to the dining-room, he ob- about my feelings. She and I think
served, " The weather is very severe." alike on such matters. She is most
"Very, indeed," said Milly.      anxious that when Sir William has
Mr. Bridmain studied conversation an opportunity of giving away the
as an art. To ladies he spoke of the living at their place, Dippley, they
weather, and was accustomed to con- should have a thoroughly  zealous
sider it under three points of view: clever man there.  I have been deas a question of climate in general, scribing a certain friend of mine to
comparing England with other coun- her, who, I think, would be just to
tries in this respect; as a personal her mind. And there is such a pretquestion, inquiring how it affected his ty rectory, Milly; should n't I like
lady interlocutor in particular; and to see you the mistress of it? "
as a question of probabilities, discuss-  Milly smiled and blushed slightly.
ing whether there would be a change The Rev. Amos blushed very red,
or a continuance of the present atmo- and gave a little embarrassed laugh,
spheric conditions.  To gentlemen -he could rarely keep his muscles
he talked politics, and he read two within the limits of a smile.
daily papers expressly to qualify    At this moment John, the manhimself for this function. Mr. Bar- servant, approached  Mrs. Barton
ton thought him a man of consider- with a gravy-tureen, and also with a
able political information, but not slight odor of the stable, which usualof lively parts.                  ly adhered to him throughout his in"And so you are always to hold door functions.   John   was rather
your  Clerical  Meetings  at Mr. nervous; and the Countess happenEly's?" said the Countess, between ing to speak to him at this inopporher spoonfuls of soup. (The soup tune moment, the tureen slipped and
was a little over-spiced. Mrs. Short emptied itself on Mrs. Barton's newof Camp Villa, who was in the habit ly turned black silk.
of letting her best apartments, gave  "0 horror!  Tell Alice to come
only moderate wages to her cook.)  directly  and  rub  Mrs.  Barton's
"Yes," said Mr. Barton; " Milby dress,"' said the Countess to the tremis a central place, and there are many bling John, carefully abstaining from
conveniences in having  only  one approaching the gravy-sprinkled spot
'point of meeting."                on the floor with her own lilac silk.
" Well," continued the Countess, But Mr. Bridmain, who had a strict"every one seems to agree in giving ly private interest in silks, good-nathe precedence to Mr. Ely. For my turedly jumped up and applied his
part, I cannot admire him.    His napkin at once to Mrs. Barton's
preaching is too cold for me. It has gown.
no fervor, - no heart. I often say to  Milly felt a little inward anguish,
my brother, it is a great comfort to but no ill-temper, and tried to make
me that Shepperton Church is not light of the matter for the sake of
too far off for us to go to; don't I, John as well as others. The CountEdmund? "                          ess felt inwardly thankful that her
"Yes," answered Mr. Bridmain; own delicate silk had escaped, but
"they show -us into such a bad pew  threw out lavish interjections of disat Milby, -just where there is a tress and indignation.
draught from that door. I caught     " Dear saint that you are," she said,
a stiff neck the first time I went when Milly laughed, and suggested
there."                           that, as her silk was not very glossy
" 0, it is the cold in the pulpit that to.begin with, the dim patch would




132


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


not be much seen; "you don't mind
about these things, I know. Just
the same sort of thing happened to
me at the Princess Wengstein's one
day, on a pink satin. I was in an
agony. But you are so indifferent to
dress; and well you may be. It is
you who make dress pretty, and not
dress that makes you pretty."
Alice, the buxom lady's-maid, wearing a much better dress than Mrs.
Barton's, now appeared to take Mr.
Bridmain's place in retrieving the
mischief, and after a great amount of
supplementary rubbing, composure
was restored, and the business of dining was continued.
When John was recounting his accident to the cook in the kitchen, he
observed: " Mrs. Barton's a hamable
woman; I 'd a deal sooner ha'
throwed the gravy o'er the Countess's
fine gownd. But laws! what tantrums she 'd ha' been in arter the visitors was gone."
"You'd a deal sooner not ha'
throwed it down at all, I should
think," responded the unsympathetic
cook, to whom John did not make
love. " Who d' you think's to make
gravy anuff, if you 're to baste people's gownds wi' it? "
"Well," suggested John, humbly,
"you.should wet the bottom of the
duree a bit, to hold it from slippin'."
" Wet your granny! " returned the
cook; a retort which she probably regarded in the light of a reductio ad absurdum, and which in fact reduced
John to silence.
Later on in the evening, while John
was removing the tea-things from the
drawing - room, and brushing the
crumbs from the table-cloth with an
accompanying hiss, such as he was
wont to encourage himself with in
rubbing down Mr. Bridmain's horse,
the Rev. Amos Barton drew from his
pocket a thin green-covered pamphlet,
and, presenting it to the Countess,
said: -
"You were pleased, I think, with
my sermon on Christmas Day. It
has been printed in 'The Pulpit,'


and I thought you might like;
copy."
"That indeed I shall.   I shall
quite value the opportunity of reading that sermon. There was such
depth in it! - such argument! It
was not a sermon to be heard only
once. I am delighted that it should
become generally known, as it will be,
now it is printed in ' The Pulpit.' "
"Yes," said Milly, innocently, "I
was so pleased with the editor's letter." And she drew out her little
pocket-book, where she carefully
treasured the editorial autograph,
while Mr. Barton laughed and blushed, and said, " Nonsense, Milly!"
"You see," she said, giving the
letter to the Countess, "I am very
proud of the praise my husband
gets."
The sermon in question, by the by,
was an extremely argumentative one
on the Incarnation; which, as it was
preached to a congregation not one
of whom had any doubt of that doctrine, and to whom the Socinians
therein confuted were as unknown s
the Arimaspians, was exceedingly
well adapted to trouble and confuse
the Sheppertonian mind.
"Ah," said the Countess, returning the editor's letter, "he may well
say he will be glad of other sermons
from the same source. But I would
rather you should publish your ser'
mons in an independent volume, Ml.
Barton; it would be so desirable to
have them  in that shape. For in.
stance, I could send a copy to the
Dean of Radborough. And there i9
Lord Blarney, whom I knew before
he was chancellor. I was a special
favorite of his, and you can't think
what sweet things he used to say to me.
I shall not resist the temptation to
write to him one of these days sans
favon, and tell him bow he ought to
dispose of the next vacant living in
his gift."
Whether Jet the spaniel, being a
much more knowing dog than was
suspected, wished to express his dis.
approval of the Countess's last




AMOS BARTON.


133


peech, as not accordant with his
ideas of wisdom and veracity, I cannot say; but at this moment he
jumped off her lap, and, turning his
back upon her, placed one paw on
the fender, and held the other up to
warm, as if affecting to abstract
himself from the current of conversation.
But now Mr. Bridmain brought
out the chess-board, and Mr. Barton
accepted his challenge to play a
game, with immense satisfaction.
The Rev. Amos was very fond of
chess, as most people are who can
continue through many years to
create interesting  vicissitudes in
the game, by taking long-meditated
moves with their knights, and subsequently discovering that they have
thereby exposed their queen.
Chess is a silent game; and the
Countess's chat with Milly is in quite
an undertone, -probably relating
to women's matters that it would be
impertinent for us to listen to; so
we will leave Camp Villa, and proceed to Milby Vicarage, where Mr.
Farquhar has sat out two other
guests with whom he has been dining
at Mr. Ely's, and is now   rather
wearying that reverend gentleman by
his protracted small-talk.
Mr. Ely was a tall, dark-haired,
distinguished-looking man of threeand-thirty.  By the laity of Milby
and its neighborhood he was regarded as a man of quite remarkable
powers and learning, who must make
a considerable sensation in London
pulpits and drawing-rooms on his
occasional visits to the metropolis;
and by his brother clergy he was re
garded as a discreet and agreeable
fellow. Mr. Ely never got into a
warm discussion; he suggested what
might be thought, but rarely said
what he thought himself; he never
let either men or women see that he
was laughing at them, and he never
gave any one an opportunity of
laughing at him. In one thing only
he was injudicious. He parted his
dark wavy hair down the middle;


and as his head was rather flat than
otherwise, that style of coiffure was
not advantageous to him.
Mr. Farquhar, though not a parishioner of Mr. Ely's, was one of his
warmest admirers, and thought he
would make an unexceptionable sonin-law, in spite of his being of no particular "family." Mr. Farquhar was
susceptible on the point of " blood,"
- his own circulatingfluid, which animated a short and somewhat flabby
person, being, he considered, of very
superior quality.
"By the by," he said, with a certain pomposity counteracted by a lisp,
"what an ath Barton makth of himthelf, about that Bridmain and the
Counteth, ath she callth herthelf. After you were gone the other evening,
Mithith Farqular wath telling him
the general opinion about them in the
neighborhood, and he got quite red
and angry. Bleth your thoul, he believth the whole thtory about her
Polish huthband and hith wonderful
ethcapeth; and ath for her, - why, he
thinkth her perfection, a woman of
motht refined feelingth, and no end of
thtuff."
Mr. Ely smiled. "Some people
would say our friend Barton was not
the best judge of refinement. Perhaps the lady flatters him alittle, and
we men are susceptible. She goes to
Shepperton Church every Sunday,drawn there, let us suppose, by Mr.
Barton's eloquence."
"Pthaw," said Mr. Farquhar;
"now, to my mind, you have only
to look at that woman to thee what
what she ith, -throwing her eyth
about when she comth into church,
and drething in a way to attract attention. I should thay, she'th tired
of her brother Bridmain, and looking
out for another brother with a thtronger family likeneth.  Mithith Farquhar ith very fond of Mithith Barton, and ith quite dithtrethed that she
should athothiatewith thuch a woman,
tho she attacked himron the thubject
purpothly.  But I tell her it'th of no
uthe, with a pig-headed fellow like




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.:him. Barton 'th well meaning enough,
but tho contheited. I've left off giving him my advithe."
Mr. Ely smiled inwardly and said
to himself, "What a punishment!"
~But to Mr. Farquhar he said, " Bar*ton might be more judicious, it must
be confessed." He was getting tired,
and did not want to develop the subject.
"Why, nobody vithit-th them but
the Bartonth," continued Mr. Farquhlar, "and why should thuch people
come here, unleth they had particular
reathonth for preferring a neighbor-,hood where they are not known?
Pooh! it lookth bad on the very fathe
of it. You called on them, now; how
did you find them?"
" Oh - Mr. Bridmain strikes me as
a common sort of man, who is making
an effort to seem wise and well-bred.
-He comes down on one tremendously
with political information, and seems
knowing about the King of the French.
The Countess is certainly a handsome
woman, but she puts on the grand air
a little too powerfully. Woodcock
was immensely taken with her, and
insisted on his wife's calling on her
and asking her to dinner; but I think
Mrs. Woodcock turned restive after
the first visit, and would n't invite her
again."
"Ha, ha! Woodcock hath alwayth
-a thoft place in hith heart for a pretty
-fathe.  It'th odd how he came to
marry that plain woman, and no fortune either.
"Mysteries of the tender passion,"
said Mr. Ely. "I am not initiated
yet, you know."
Here Mr. Farquhar's carriage was
'announced, and as we have not found
his conversation particularly brilliant
under the stimulus of Mr. Ely's exceptional presence, we will not accompany him home to the less exciting
' tmosphere of domestic life.
Mr. Ely threw himself with a sense
of relief into his easiest chair, set his
feet on the hobs, and in this attitude
of bachelor enjoyment began to read
Bishop Jebb's Memoirs.


CHAPTER IV.          -tug
I AM by no means sure that if the
good people of Milby had known the
truth about the Countess Czerlaski,
they would not have been considerably
disappointed to find that it was very
far from being as bad as they imagined. Nice distinctions are troublesome. It is so much easier to say
that a thing is black, than to discriminate the particular shade of brown,
blue, or green, to which it really belongs. It is so much easier to make
up your mind that your neighbor is
good for nothing, than to enter into
all the circumstances that would
oblige you to modify that opinion.
Besides, think of all the virtuous
declamation, all the penetrating observation, which had been built up entirely on the fundamental position
that'the Countess was a very oljectionable person indeed, and which
would be utterly overturned and nullified by the destruction of that premise.
Mrs. Phipps, the banker's wife, and
Mrs. Landor, the attorney's wife, had
invested part of their reputation for
acuteness in the supposition that Mr.
Bridmain was not the Countess's
brother. Moreover, Miss Phipps was
conscious that if the Countess was
not a disreputable person, she, Miss
Phipps, had no compensating superiority in virtue to set against the other
lady's manifest superiority in personal charms. Miss Phipps's stumpy
figure and unsuccessful attire, instead
of looking down fiom a mount of virtue with an aureole round its head,
would then be seen on the same level
and in the same light as the Countess
Czerlaski's Diana-like form and wellchosen drapery. Miss Phipps, for her
part, did n t like dressing for effect, -
she had always avoided that style of
appearance which was calculated to
create a sensation.
Then what amusing innuendoes of
the Milby gentlemen over their wine
would have been entirely frustrated
and reduced to naught, if you had
told them that the Countess had real



AMOS BARTON.


135


ly been guilty of no misdemeanors spot where his five hundred a year
which demanded her exclusion from  might have won him the definite digstrictly respectable society; that her nity of a parochial magnate.
husband had been the veritable Count  The Countess had her views in
Czerlaski, who had had wonderful choosing a quiet provincial place like
escapes, as she said, and who, as she Milby. After three years of widowdid not say, but as was said in cer- hood, she had brought her feelings to
tain circulars once folded by her fair contemplate giving a successor to her
hands, had subsequently given dan- lamented Czerlaski, whose fine whiscing-lessons in the metropolis; that kers, fine air, and romantic fortunes
Mr. Bridmain was neither more nor had won her heart ten years ago,
less than her half-brother, who, by when, as pretty Caroline Bridmain,
unimpeached integrity and industry, in the full bloom of five-and-twenty,
had won a partnership in a silk-manu- she was governess to Lady Porter's
factory, and thereby a moderate for- daughters whom he initiated into the
tune, that enabled him to retire, as mysteries of the pas de basque, and the
you see, to study politics, the weather, Lancers' quadrilles. She had had
and the art of conversation at his lei- seven years of sufficiently happy matsure. Mr. Bridmain, in fact, quad- rimony with Czerlaski, who had taken
ragenarian bachelor as he was, felt her to Paris and Germany, and introextremely well pleased to receive his duced her there to many of his old
sister in her widowhood, and to shine friends with large titles and small
in the reflected light of her beauty and fortunes. So that the fair Caroline
title. Every man who is not a mon- had had considerable experience of:ster, a mathematician, or a mad phi- life, and had gathered therefrom, not,
losopher, is the slave of some woman indeed, any very ripe and comprehea*or other. Mr. Bridmain had put his sive wisdom, but much external polish,
neck under the yoke of his handsome and certain practical conclusions of a
sister, and though his soul was a very decided kind. One of these convery little one, -of the smallest de- clusions was, that there were things
scription indeed, - he would not have more solid in life than fine whiskers
ventured to call it his own. He might and a title, and that, in accepting a
be slightly recalcitrant now and then, second husband, she would regard
as is the habit of long-eared pachy- these items as quite subordinate to a
derms, under the thong of the fair carriage and a settlement. Now, she
Countess's tongue; but there seemed had ascertained, by tentative resilittle probability that he would ever dences, that the kind of bite she was
get his neck loose. Still, a bachelor's angling for was difficult to be met
heart is an outlying fortress that with at watering-places, which were
some fair enemy may any day take already preoccupied with abundance
either by storm  or stratagem; and of angling beauties, and were chiefly
there was always the possibility that stocked with men whose whiskers
Mr. Bridmain's first nuptials might might be dyed, and whose incomes
occur before the Countess was quite were still more problematic; so she
sure of her second. As it was, how- had determined on trying a neighborever, he submitted to all his sister's hood where people were extremely
caprices, never grumbled because her well acquainted with each other's afdress and her maid formed a consid- fairs, and where the women were
erable item beyond her own little in- mostly ill dressed and ugly.  Mr.
come of sixty pounds per annum, and Bridmain's slow brain had adopted
consented to lead with her a migrato- his sister's views, and it seemed to him
ry life, as personages on the debatable that a woman so handsome and disground -between aristocracyand cornm- tinguished as the Countess must cermonalty, instead of settling in some tainly make:a match that might lift




136


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


himself into the region of county
celebrities, and give him at least a
sort of cousinship to the quarter-sessions.
All this, which was the simple truth,
would have seemed extremely flat to
the gossips of Milby, who had made
up their minds to something much
more exciting. There was nothing here
so verydetestable. It is true the Countess was a little vain, a little ambitious,
a little selfish, a little shallow and frivolous, a little given to white lies. -
But who considers such slight blemishes, such moral pimples as these,
disqualifications for entering into the
most respectable society!  Indeed,
the severest ladies in Milby would
have been perfectly aware that these
characteristics would have created no
wide distinction between the Countess
Czerlaski and themselves; and since it
was clear there was a wide distinction,
- why, it must lie in the possession of
some vices from which they were undeniably free.
Hence it came to pass that Milby
respectability refused to recognize the
Countess Czerlaski, in spite of her
assiduous church-going, and the deep
disgust she was known to have expressed at the extreme paucity of the
congregations on Ash-Wednesdays.
So she began to feel that she had
miscalculated the advantages of a
neighborhood where people are well
acquainted with each other's private
affairs. Under these circumstances,
you will imagine how welcome was
the perfect credence and admiration
she met with fiom Mr. and Mrs. Barton. She had been especially irritated by Mr. Ely's behavior to her; she
felt sure that he was not in the least
struck with her beauty, that he quizzed her conversation, and that he
spoke of her with a sneer. A woman
always knows where she is utterly
powerless, and shuns a coldly satirical
eye as she would shun a Gorgon.
And she was especially eager for clerical notice and friendship, not merely
because that is quite the most respectable countenance to be obtained in


society, but because she really cared
about religious matters, and had all
uneasy sense that she was not altogether safe in that quarter. She had
serious intentions of becoming quite
pious, - without any reserves, -
when she had once got her carriage
and settlement. Let us do this one
sly trick, says Ulysses to Neoptolemus, and we will be perfectly honest
ever after, -
aXh' j68v yap rTO. KT/mLa "rS7 VKSn} Xaf4eiv,
T7Aha' 86K1cuOt ' aO0es fKKavovf;iLf..
The Countess did not quote Sophocles, but she said to herself: "Only
this little bit of pretence and vanity,
and then I will be quite good, and
make myself quite safe for another
world."
And as she had by no means such
fine taste and insight in theological
teaching as in costume, the Rev.
Amos Barton seemed to her a man
not only of learning, - that is always
understood with a clergyman, - but
of much power as a spiritual director.
As for Milly, the Countess really loved
her as well as the preoccupied state
of her affections would allow. For
you have already perceived that there
was one being to whom the Countess
was absorbingly devoted, and to
whose desires she made everything
else subservient, - namely, Caroline
Czerlaski, nee Bridmain.
Thus there was really not much
affectation in her sweet speeches and
attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Barton.
Still, their friendship by no means
adequately represented the object she
had in view when she came to Milby,
and it had been for some time clear to
her that she must suggest a new
change of residence to her brother.
The thing we look forward to often
comes to pass, but never precisely in
the way we have imagined to ourselves. The Countess did actually
leave Camp Villa before many months
were past, but under circumstances
which had-not at all entered into her
contemplation.




AMOS BARTON.


137


CHAPTER      V.           their very insignificanc,,-in  our
comparison of their dim and narrow
THE Rev. Amos Barton, whose existence with the glorious possibilisad fortunes I have undertaken to re- ties of that human nature which they
late, was, you perceive, in no respect share.
an ideal or exceptional character;   Depend upon it, you would gain
and perhaps I am doing a bold thing unspeakably if you would learn with
to bespeak your sympathy on behalf me to see some of the poetry and the
of a man who was so very far from  pathos, the tragedy and the comedy,
remarkable,- a man whose virtues lying in the experience of a human
were not heroic, and who had no un- soul that looks out through dull gray
detected crime within his breast; who eyes, and that speaks in a voice of
had not the slightest mystery hang- quite ordinary tones. In that case, I
ing about him, but was palpably and should have no fear of your not carunmistakably  commonplace; who ing to know what further befell tile
was not even in love, but had had Rev. Amos Barton, or of your thinkthat complaint favorably many years ing the homely details I have to tell
ago.  "An    utterly  uninteresting at all beneath your attention. As it
character! " I think I hear a lady is, you can, if you please, decline to
reader exclaim, - Mrs. Farthingale, pursue my story farther; and you will
for example, who prefers the ideal in easily find reading  more to your
fiction; to whom tragedy means er- taste, since I learn from  the newsmine tippets, adultery, and murder; papers that many remarkable novels,
and comedy, the adventures of some full of striking situations, thrilling inpersonage who is quite a " character." cidents, and eloquent writing, have
But, my dear madam, it is so very appeared only within the last sealarge a majority of your fellow-coun- son.
trynien that are of this insignificant  Meanwhile, readers who have begun
stamp. At least eighty out of a hun- to feel an interest in the Rev. Amos
dred of your adult male fellow-Brit- Barton and his wife will be glad to
ons returned in the last census are learn that Mr. Oldinport lent the
neither extraordinarily silly, nor ex- twenty pounds. But twenty pounds
traordinarily wicked, nor extraordi- are-soon exhausted when twelve are
asrily wise; their eyes are neither due as back payment to the butcher,
deep and liquid with sediment, nor and when the possession of eight exsparkling with suppressed witticisms; tra sovereigns in February weather
they'have probably had no hairbreadth is an irresistible temptation to order
escapes or   thrilling  adventures; a new great-coat. And though Mr.
their brains are certainly not preg- Bridmain so far departed from the
nant with genius, and their passions necessary economy entailed on him
have not manifested themselves at all by the Countess's elegant toilet and
after the fashion of a volcano. They expensive maid, as to choose a handare simplymenof complexions more or some black silk, stiff, as his experitess muddy, whose conversation is enced eye discerned, with the genuine
more or less bald and disjointed. Yet strength of its own texture, and not
these commonplace  people -many with the factitious strength of gum,
f them - bear a conscience, and have and present it to Mrs. Barton, in
cit the sublime prompting to do the retrieval of the accident that had
)ainful right; they have their tin- occurred at his table, yet, dear me,-;poken  sorrows, and  their sacred as every husband has heard, -what
ioys; their hearts have perhaps gone is the present of a gown when you
)ut towards their first-born, and they are deficiently furnished with the ettave mourned over the irreclaimable ceteras of apparel, and when, morelead. Nay, is there not a pathos in over, there are six children whose




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


wear and tear of clothes is something
incredible to the non-maternal mind?
Indeed, the equation of income and
expenditure was offering new and
constantly accumulating difficulties
to Mr. and Mrs. Barton; for shortly
after the birth of little Walter, Milly's
aunt, who had lived with her ever
since her marriage, had withdrawn
herself, her furniture, and her yearly
income, to the household of another
niece; prompted to that step, very
probably, by a slight " tiff" with the
Rev. Amos, which occurred while
Milly was up stairs, and proved one
too many for the elderly lady's patience and magnanimity. Mr. Barton's temper was a little warm, but,
on the other hand, elderly maiden
ladies are known to be susceptible;
so we will not suppose that all the
blame lay on his side, — the less so,
as he had every motive for humoring
an inmate whose presence kept the
wolf from the door. It was now nearly a year since Miss Jackson's departure, and, to a fine ear, the howl
of the wolf was audibly approaching.
It was a sad thing, too, that when
the last snow had melted, when
the purple and yellow crocuses were
coming up in the garden, and the
old church was already half pulled
down, Milly had an illness which
made her lips look pale, and rendered
it absolutely necessary that she should
not exert herself for some time. Mr.
Brand, the Shepperton doctor so obnoxious to Mr. Pilgrim, ordered her
to drink port-wine, and it was quite
necessary to have a charwoman very
often, to assist Nanny in all the extra work that fell upon her.
Mrs. Hackit, who hardly ever paid
a visit to any one but her oldest and
nearest neighbor Mrs. Patten, now
took the unusual step of calling at the
vicarage one morning; and the tears
came into her unsentimental eyes as
she saw Milly seated pale and feeble
in the parlor, unable to persevere in
sewing the pinafore that lay on the
table beside her. Little Dickey, a


boisterous boy of five, with large pink
cheeks and sturdy legs, was having
his turn to sit with mamma, and was
squatting quiet as a mouse at her
knee, holding her soft white hand be.
tween his little red black-nailed fists.
He was a boy whom Mrs. Hackit,
in a severe mood, had pronounced
"stocky " (a word that etymologically, in all probability, conveys some
allusion to an instrument of punishment for the refractory); but seeing
him thus subdued into goodness, she
smiled at him with her kindest smile,
and, stooping down, suggested a kiss,
-a favor which Dickey resolutely
declined.
" Nowdo you take nourishing things
enough? " was one of Mrs. Hackit's
first questions, and Milly endeavored
to make it appear that no woman was
ever so much in danger of being overfed and led into self-indulgent habits
as herself. But Mrs. Hackit gathered
one fact from her replies, namely, that
Mr. Brand had ordered port-wine.
While this conversation was goirtg
forward, Dickey had been furtively
stroking and kissing the soft white
hand; so that at last, when a pause
came, his mother said, smilingly,
"Why are you kissing my hand,
Dickey?"
"It id to yovely," answered Dickey,
who, you observe, was decidedly backward in his pronunciation.
Mrs. Hackit remembered this little
scene in after days, and thought with
peculiar tenderness and pity of the
"stocky boy."
The next day there came a hamper with Mrs. Hackit's respects; and
on being opened it was found to contain half a dozen of port-wine and two
couples of fowls. Mrs. Farquhar, too,
was very kind; insisted on Mrs. Barton's rejecting all arrowroot but hers,
which was genuine Indian, and carried away Sophy and Fred to stay
with her a fortnight. These and other good-natured attentions made the
trouble of Milly's illness more bearable; but they could not prevent it
from swelling expenses, and Mr. Par



AMOS BARTON.


139


ton began to have serious thoughts of
representing his case to a certain charity for the relief of needy curates.
Altogether, as matters stood in
Shepperton, the parishioners were
more likely to have a strong sense
that the clergyman needed their material aid, than that they needed his
spiritual aid, - not the best state of
things in this age and country, where
faith in men solely on the ground of
their spiritual gifts has considerably
diminished, and especially unfavorable to the influence of the Rev. Amos,
whose spiritual gifts would not have
had a very commanding power even
in an age of faith.
But, you ask, did not the Countess
Czerlaski pay any attention to her
friends all this time? To be sure she
did. She was indefatigable in visiting
her "sweet Milly," and sitting with
her for hours together. It may seem
remarkable to you that she neither
thought of taking away any of the
2hildrcn, nor of providing for any of
Milly's probable wants; but ladies of
rank and of luxurious habits, you
know, cannot be expected to surmise;he details of poverty.  She put a
Treat deal of eau-de-Cologne on Mrs.
Barton's pocket-handkerchief, rear~anged her pillow and footstool, kissed
ier cheeks, wrapped her in a soft
varm shawl from her own shoulders,
md amused her with stories of the life
he had seen abroad.    When Mr.
3arton joined them she talked of
Cractarianism, of her determination
tot to re-enter the vortex of fashionale life, and of her anxiety to see him
n a sphere large enough for his taints. Milly thought her sprightliness.*d affectionate warmth quite charmag, and was very fond of her; while
he Rev. Amos had a vague consciousess that he had risen into aristocratic
ife, and only associated with his midle-class parishioners in a pastoral and
arenthetic manner.
However, as the days brightened,
iilly's cheeks and lips brightened
)o; and in a few weeks she was alLost as active as ever, though watch

ful eyes might have seen that activity
was not easy to her. Mrs. Hackit's
eyes were of that kind, and one day,
when Mr. and Mrs. Barton had been
dining with her for the first time since
Milly's illness, she observed to her
husband, -" That    poor  thing 's
dreadful weak an' dilicate; she won't
stan' havin' many more children."
Mr. Barton, meanwhile, had been
indefatigable in his vocation. tie had
preached two extemporary sermons'
every Sunday at the workhouse, where
a room had been fitted up for divine
service, pending the alterations in the
church; and had walked the same
evening to a cottage at one or other
extremity of his parish to deliver another sermon, still more extemporary,
in an atmosphere impregnated with
spring-flowers and perspiration. After all these labors you will easily conceive that he was considerably exhausted by half past nine o'clock in
the evening, and that a supper at a
friendly parishioner's with a glass, or
even two glasses, of brandy-and-water
after it, was a welcome reinforcement.
Mr. Barton was not at all an ascetic;
he thought the benefits of fasting were
entirely confined to the Old Testament
dispensation; he was fond of relaxing
himself with a little gossip; indeed,
Miss Bond, and other ladies of enthusiastic views, sometimes regretted that
Mr. Barton did not more uninterruptedly exhibit a superiority to the things
of the flesh. Thin ladies, who take
little exercise, and whose livers are
not strong enough to bear stimulants,
are so extremely critical about one's
personal habits! And, after all, the
Rev. Amos never came near the borders of a vice. His very faults were
middling, - he was not rery ungrammatical. It was not in his nature to
be superlative in anything; unless,
indeed, he was superlatively middling,
the quintessential extract of mediocrity. If there was any one point on
which he showed an inclination to be
excessive, it was confidence in his own
shrewdness and ability in practical
matters, so that he was very full of




140


SCENES- OF CLERICAL LIFE.


plans which were something like his
moves in chess, - admirably well calculated, supposing the state of the case
were otherwise. Forexample, that notable plan of introducing anti-Dissenting books into his Lending Library did
not in the least appear to have bruised
the head of Dissent, though it had certainly made Dissent strongly inclined
to bite the Rev. Amos's heel. Again,
he vexed the souls of his churchwardens and influential parishioners by
his fertile suggestiveness as to what it
would be well for them to do in the
matter of the church repairs, and other ecclesiastical secularities.
"I never saw the like to parsons,"
Mr. I-ackit said one day in conversation with his brother churchwarden,
Mr. Bond; "they 're al'ys for meddling with business, an' they know no
more about it than my black filly."
"Ah," said Mr. Bond, " they 're
too high learnt to have much common
sense."
"Well," remarked Mr. Hackit, in
a modest and dubious tone, as if
throwing out a hypothesis which
might be considered bold, " I should
say that 's a bad sort of eddication as
makes folks unreasonable."
So that, you perceive, Mr. Barton's
popularity was in that precarious
condition, in that toppling and contingent state, in which a very slight
push from a malignant destiny would
utterly upset it. That push was not
long in being given, as you shall
hear.
One fine May morning, when Amos
was out on his parochial visits, and
the sunlight was streaming through
the bow-window of the sitting-room,
where Milly was seated at her sewing,
occasionally looking up to glance at
the children playing in the garden,
there came a loud rap at the door,
which she at once recognized as the
Countess's, and that well-dressed lady
presently entered the sitting-room,
with her veil drawn over her face.
Milly was not at all surprised or
sorry to see her; but when the Countess threw up her veil, and showed


that her eyes were red and swollelt,
she was both surprised and sorry.
"What can be the matter, dear
Caroline? "
Caroline threw down Jet, who gag
a little yelp; then she threw her arms
round Milly's neck, and began to
sob; then she threw herself on the
sofa, and begged for a glass of water,
then she threw off her bonnet and
shawl; and by the time Millv'8 imagination had exhausted itself in con
juring up calamities, she said: -
"Dear, how shall I tell you? I
am the most wretched woman. To
be deceived by a brother to whom I
have been so devoted, -to see him
degrading himself, -giving himself
utterly to the dogs! "
"What can it be?" said Milly,
who began to picture to herself the
sober Mr. Bridmain taking to brand<y
and betting.
"He is going to be married, -to
marry my own maid, that deceitfiiu
Alice, to whom I have been the most
indulgent mistress. Did you evet
hear of anything so disgraceful? '
mortifying? so disreputable? "
" And has he only just told you of
it'l" said Milly, who, having really
heard of worse conduct, even in her
innocent life, avoided a direct answer.
" Told me of it! he had not even
the grace to do that. I went into the
dining-room suddenly and found him
kissing her, — disgusting at his time;
of life, is it not? - and when I re'
proved her for allowing such liberties,
she turned round saucily, and said
she was engaged to be married to my
h other, and she saw no shame in allowing him to kiss her. Edmund is
a miserable coward, you know, and
looked frightened; but when she
asked him to say whether it was not
so, he tried to summon up courage
and say yes. I left the room in disgust, and this morning I have been
questioning Edmund, and find that
he is bent on marrying this woman,
and that he has been putting off telling me, -because he was ashamed
of himself, I suppose. I could n't




AMOS BARTON.


141


possibly stay in the house after this,
with my own maid turned mistress.
And now, Milly, I am come to throw
myself on your charity for a week or
two.  Will you take me in "
( That we will," said Milly, "if
you will only put up with our poor
rooms and way of living. It will be
delightful to have you! "
"It will soothe me to be with you
and Mr. Barton a little while. I feel
quite unable to go among my other
friends just at present. What those
two wretched people will do I don't
know, - leave the neighborhood at
once, I hope. I entreated my brother
to do so, before he disgraced himself."
When Amos came home, he joined
his cordial welcome and s ympathy to
Milly's. By and by the Countess's
formidable boxes, which she had carefully packed before her indignation
drove her away from Camp Villa,
arrived at the vicarage, and were deposited in the spare bedroom, and in
two closets, not spare, which Milly
emptied for their reception. A week
afterwards, the excellent apartments
at Camp Villa, comprising dining
and drawing rooms, three bedrooms
and a dressing-room, were again to
let, and Mr. Bridmain's sudden departure, together with the Countess
Czerlaski's installation as a visitor at
Shepperton Vicarage, became a topic
of general conversation in the neighborhood. The keen-sighted virtue of
Milby and Shepperton saw in all this
a confirmation of its worst suspicions,
and pitied the Rev. Amos Barton's
gullibility.
But when week after week, and
month after month, slipped by without witnessing the Countess's departurej -when summer and harvest had
ned, and still left her behind them
ccupying the spare bedroom and the:losets, and also a large proportion
)f Mrs. Barton's time and attention,
iew surmises of a very evil kind were
tdded to the old rumors, and began
o take the form of settled convictions
n the minds even of Mr. Barton's
nost friendly parishioners.


And now, here is an opportunity
for an accomplished writer to apostrophize calumny, to quote Virgil, and
to show that he is acquainted with the
most ingenious things which have
been said on that subject in polite literature.
But what is opportunity to the
man who can't use it? An unfecundated egg, which the waves of time
wash away into nonentity. So, as
my memory is ill furnished and my
note-book still worse, I am unable to
show myself either erudite or eloquent
apropos of the calumny whereof the
Rev. Amos Barton was the victim. I
can only. ask my reader,- did you
ever upset your ink-bottle and watch,
in helpless agony the rapid spread of
Stygian blackness over your fair manuscript or fairer table-cover? With
a like inky swiftness did gossip now
blacken the reputation of the Rev.
Amos Barton, causing the unfriendly
to scorn and even the friendly to stand
aloof at a time when difficulties of another kind were fast thickening around
him.
CHAPTER VI.
ONE November morning, at least
six months after the Countess Czerlaski had taken up her residence at
the vicarage, Mrs. Hackit heard that
her neighbor Mrs. Patten had an attack of her old complaint, vaguely
called "the spasms.'  Accordingly
about eleven o'clock she put on her
velvet bonnet and cloth cloak, with a
long boa and muff large enough to
stow a prize baby in; for Mrs. Hackit regulated her costume by the calendar, and brought out her furs on the
first of November, whatever might be
the temperature. She was not a woman weakly to accommodate herself
to shilly-shally proceedings. If the
season did n't know what it ought to
do, Mrs. Hackit did. In her best
days it was always sharp weather at
" Gunpowder Plot," and she did n't
like new fashions.




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


And this morning the weather was " disgraceful enough.  I stuck tb
very rationally in accordance with Mr. Barton as long as I could, for his
her costume, for as she made her way wife's sake; but I can't countenance
through the fields to Cross Farm, the such goings on. It's hateful to see
yellow leaves on the hedge-girt elms, that woman coming with 'em to serwhich showed bright and golden vice of a Sunday, and if Mr. Hackit
againstthe low-hanging purple clouds, was n't churchwarden and I did n't
were being scattered across the grassy think it wrong to forsake one's own
path by the coldest of November parish, I should go to       Knebley
winds. "Ah," Mrs. Hackit thought Church. There's a many parish'ners
to herself, " I dare say we shall have a as do."
sharp pinch this winter, and if we do,  "I used to think Barton was only 
I should n't wonder if it takes the old fool," observed Mr. Pilgrim, in a tone
lady off. They say a green Yule whichimpliedthathe wasconsciousof
makes a fat churchyard; but so does having been weakly charitable. '"i
a white Yule too, for that matter. thought he was imposed upon and led
When the stool's rotten enough, no away by those people when they first
matter who sits on it."            came. But that's impossible now."
However, on her arrival at Cross   "0, it's as plain as the nose in
Farm, the prospect of Mrs. Patten's your face," said Mrs. Hackit, unredecease was again thrown into the flectingly, not perceiving the equidim distance in her imagination, for voque.in hercomparison,-"comin'to
Miss Janet Gibbs met her with the Milby, like a sparrow perchin' on a
news that Mrs. Patten was much bet- bough, as I may say, with her brother
ter, and led her, without any prelimi- as she called him; and then all o0 -nary announcement, to the old lady's a sudden the brother goes off wjti
bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached himself, and she throws herself on
the end of her circumstantial narra- the Bartons.  Though what could
tive how the attack came on and make her take up with a poor noto
what were her aunt's sensations, - a mise of a parson as has n't got enough
narrative to which Mrs. Patten, in her to keep wife and children, there'a
neatly plaited nightcap, seemed to One above knows, - I don't."
listen with a contemptuous resigna-  "Mr. Barton may have attractionp
tion to her niece's historical inaccura- we don't know of," said Mr. Pilgrimi
cy, contenting herself with occasional- who piqued himself on a talent for sarly confounding Janet by a shake of casm. "The Countess has no maid
the head, - when the clatter of a now, and they say Mr. Barton is handy
horse's hoofs on the yard pavement in assisting at her toilet, — laces hey
announced the arrival of Mr. Pilgrim, boots, and so forth."
whose large top-booted person present-  "Tilette, be fiddled!" said Mrs,
ly made its appearance up stairs. He Hackit, with indignant boldness of
found Mrs. Patten going on so well metaphor; "an' there 's that poor
that there was no need to look solemn. thing a sewing her fingers to the bone
He might glide from condolence into for them children, - an' another corngossip withoutoffence, and the tempta- in' on. What she must have to go
tion of having Mrs. Hackit's ear was through! It goes to my heart to tursi
irresistible.                      my back on her. But she's i' the
"What a disgraceful business this wrong to let herself be put upon i' that
is turning out of your parson's! " was manner."
the remark with which he made this   " Ah! I was talking to Mrs. Fart
agreeable transition, throwing himself quhar about that the other day. She
back in the chair from which he had said, 'I think Mrs. Barton a v-e-r-y
been leaning towards the patient.  w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n.' "  (Mr. Pilgrim
"Eh, dear me!" said Mrs. Hackit, gave this quotation with a slow em



AMOS BARTON.


143


piasis, as if he thought Mrs. Farquhar
ad uttered a remarkable sentiment.)
"They find it impossible to invite her
to their house while she has that equivocal person staying with her."
" Well! " remarked Miss Gibbs, "if
I was a wife, nothing should induce
me to bear what Mrs. Barton does."
" Yes, it's fine talking," said Mrs.
Patten, from her pillow; " old maids'
husbands are al'ys well managed. If
you was a wife you'd be as foolish as
your betters, belike,"
"All my wonder is," observed Mrs.
Ilackit, " how the Bartons make both
ends meet. You may depend on it,
she's got nothing to give 'em; for I
understand as he's been having money from some clergy charity. They
said at fust as she stuffed Mr. Barton
Wi' notions about her writing to the
Chancellor an' her fine friends, to give
hil a living. Howiver, I don't know
what's true an' what's false. Mr.
Barton keeps away from our house
now, for I gave him a bit o' my mind
oie day. Maybe he's ashamed of himself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a Sunday."
" 0, he must be aware he's getting
into bad odor everywhere. The clerare quite disgusted with his folly.
hey say Carpe would be glad to get
Barton out of the curacy if he could;
but he can't do that without coming
to Shepperton himself, as Barton's
a licensed curate: and he wouldn't
like that, I suppose."
At this moment Mrs. Patten showed
signs of uneasiness, which recalled
Mr. Pilgrim to professional attentions; and Mrs. Hackit, observing
that it was Thursday, and she must
see after the butter, said good by,
promising to look in again soon, and
bring her knitting.
This Thursday, by the by, is the
first in the month, - the day on which
the Clerical Meeting is held at Milby
Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Barton has reasons for not attending, he
will very likely be a subject of convers:ition amongst his clerical brethren.
Suppose we go there, and hear wheth



er Mr. Pilgrim has reported their opinion correctly.
There is not a numerous party today, for it is a season of sore throats
and catarrhs; so that the exegetical
and theological discussions, which are
the preliminary of dining, have not
been quite so spirited as usual; and
although a question relative to the
Epistle of Jude has not been quite
cleared up, the striking of six by the
church clock, and the simultaneous
announcement of dinner, are sounds
that no one feels to be importunate.
Pleasant (when one is not in the
least bilious) to enter a comfortable
dining-room, where the closely drawn
red curtains glow with the double
light of fire and candle, where glass
and silver are glittering on the pure
damask, and a soup-tureen gives a
hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to inundate your hungry
senses, and prepare them, by the delicate visitation of atoms, for the keen
gusto of ampler contact! Especially
if you have confidence in the dinnergiving capacity of your host, - if you
know that he is not a man who entertains grovelling views of eating and
drinking as a mere satisfaction of hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the
finer influences of the palate, expects
his guest to be brilliant on ill-flavored
gravies and the cheapest Marsala.
Mr. Ely was particularly worthy of
such confidence, and his virtues as an
Amphitryon had probably contributed
quite as much as the central situation
of Milby to the selection of his house
as a clerical rendezvous. He looks
particularly graceful at the head of his
table, and, indeed, on all occasions
where he acts as president or moderator: he is a man who seems to listen well, and is an excellent amalgam
of dissimilar ingredients.
At the other end of the table, as
"Vice," sits Mr. Fellowes, rector and
magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice and the
readiest of tonoues. Mr. Fellowes
once obtained a living by the persuasive charms of his conversation, and




144


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


the fluency with which he interpreted
the opinions of an obese and stammering baronet, so as to give that elderly
gentleman a very pleasing perception
of his own wisdom. Mr. Fellowes is
a very successful man, and has the
highest character everywhere except
in his own parish, where, doubtless because his parishioners happen to be
quarrelsome people, he is always at
ferce feud with a farmer or two, a
colliery proprietor, a grocer who was
once churchwarden, and a tailor who
formerly oiciated as clerk.
At Mr. Ely's right hand you see a
very small man with a sallow and
somewhat puffy face, whose hair is
brushed straight up, evidently with
the intention of giving him a height
somewhat less disproportionate to his
sense of his own importance than the
measure of five feet three accorded
him by an oversight of nature. This
is the Rev. Archibald Duke, a very
dyspeptic and evangelical man, who
takes the gloomiest view of mankind
and their prospects, and thinks the
immense sale of the 'Pickwick Papers,' recently completed, one of the
strongest proofs of original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr. Duke was
not burdened with a family, his yearly expenditure was apt considerably
to exceed his income; and the unpleasant circumstances resulting from
this, together with heavy meat-breakfasts, may probably have contributed
to his desponding views of the world
generally.
Next to him is seated Mr. Furness,
a tall young man, with blond hair
and whiskers, who was plucked at
Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; at least I know that he soon
afterwards published a volume of
poems, which were considered remarkably beautiful by many young ladies
of his acquaintance.  Mr. Furness
preached his own sermons, as any one
of tolerable critical acumen might
have certified by comparing them
with his poems; in both, there was an
exuberance of metaphor and simile
entirely original, and not in the least




borrowed from any resemblance in the
things compared.. 
On Mr. Furness's left you see Mr.
Pugh, another young curate of muck
less marked characteristics. He had
not published any poems; he had not
even been plucked'; he had neat black
whiskers and a pale complexion;
read prayers and a sermon twice every
Sunday, and might be seen any day
sallying forth on his parochial duties
in a white tie, a well-brushed hat, a
perfect suit of black, and well-polished boots, - an equipment which he
probably supposed hieroglyphically to
represent the spirit of Christianity to
the parishioners of Whittlecombe.;
Mr. Pugh's vis-a-vis is the Re.v
Martin Cleves, a man about forty,middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with
a negligently tied cravat, large irregular features, and a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown hair.
'o a superficial glance, Mr. Clevesiis
the plainest and least clerical-Iookiag
of the party; yet, strange to say, there
is the true parish priest, the pastor
beloved, consulted, relied on by his
flock; a clergyman who is not associated with  the  undertaker, Bht
thought of as the surest helper under
a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging rather than severe. Mr.
Cleves has the wonderful art of
preaching sermons which the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because he talks condescending twaddle, but because he can
call a spade a spade, and knows how to
disencumber ideas of their wordy fippery. Look at him more attentively,
and you will see that his face iA a
very interesting one, - that there is a
great deal of humor and feeling playing in his gray eyes, and about fhe
corners of his roughly cut mouth --
a man, you observe, who has mist
likely sprung from the harder-working section of the middle class, and
has hereditary sympathies with the
checkered life of the people. He gets
together the working-men in his prish on a Monday evening, and gives
them a sort of conversational lecture




AMOS BARTON.


on useful practical matters, telling
them stories,or reading some select
passages from an agreeable book, and
commenting on them; and if you
were to ask the first laborer or artisan
in Tripplegate what sort of man the
parson was, he would say, -" a uncommon, knowin', sensable, freespoken gentleman; very kind an'
good-natur'd too." Yet, for all this,
he is perhaps the best Grecian of the
party, if we except Mr. Baird, the
young man on his left.
Mr. Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writer
and metropolitan lecturer, but at that
time he used to preach in a little
church something like a barn, to a
congregation consisting of three rich
farmers and their servants, about fifteen laborers, and the due proportion
of women and children. The rich
farmers understood him to be " very
high learnt "; but if you had interrogated them for a more precise description, they would have said that he
was "a thinnish-faced man, with a
sort o' cast in his eye, like."
Seven, altogether: a delightful
number for a dinner-party, supposing
the units to be delightful, but everything depends on that. During dinner Mr. Fellowes took the lead in the
conversation, which set strongly in
the direction of mangold-wurzel and
the rotation of crops; for Mr. Fellowes and Mr. Cleves cultivated their
own glebes. "Mr. Ely, too, had some
agricultural notions, and even the
Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive
to that class of mundane subjects by
the possession of some potato-ground.
The two young curates talked a little
a.ide during these discussions, which
~had imperfect interest for their unbeneficed minds; and the transcendental and near-sighted Mr. Baird
seemed to listen somewhat abstractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangold- wurzel than that
they were some form of the " Conditioned."
" What a hobby farming is with
Lord Watling!" said Mr. Fellowes,
7


when the cloth was being drawn.
"I went over his farm at Tetterley
with him last summer. It is really a
model farm; first-rate dairy, grazing
and wheat-land, and such splendid
farm-buildings! An expensive hobby,
though. He sinks a good deal of
money there, I fancy. He has a great
whim for black cattle, and he sends
that drunken old Scotch bailiff of his
to Scotland every year, with hundreds
in his pocket, to buy these beasts."
"By the by," said Mr. Ely, "do'
you know who is the man to whom
Lord Watling has given the Bramhill
living? "
"A man named Sargent. I knew
him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, and was very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair.
That 's why Sargent got the living."
" Sargent," said Mr. Ely.   "I
know him. Is n't he a showy, talkative fellow; has written travels in
Mesopotamia, or something of that
sort? "
"That's the man."
"He was at Witherington once,
as Bagshawe's curate. He got into
rather bad odor there, through some
scandal about a flirtation, I think."
"Talking of scandal," returned
Mr. Fellowes, " have you heard the
last story about Barton? Nisbett was
telling me the other day that he dines
alone with the Countess at six, while
Mrs. Barton is in the kitchen acting
as cook."
"Rather an apocryphal authority,
Nisbett," said Mr. Ely.
"Ah," said Mr. Cleves, with goodnatured humor twinkling in his eyes,
"depend upon it, that is a corrupt
version. The original text is, that
they all dined together with six, —
meaning six children, -and that Mrs.
Barton is an excellent cook."
" I wish dining alone together may
be the worst of that sad business,"
said the Rev. Archibald Duke, in a
tone implying that his wish was a
strong figure of speech.
"Well," said Mr. Fellowes, filling
J




146                SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
his glass and looking jocose, "Barton are greater signs of poverty about
is certainly either the greatest gull in them than ever."
existence, or he has some cunning   "Well, come," returned Mr. Cleves,
secret,- some philter or other to make who could be caustic sometimes, and
himself charming in the eyes of a fair who was not at all fond of his reverlady. It is n't all of us that can make end brother, Mr. Duke, "that 's someconquests when our ugliness is past thing in Barton's favor at all events.
its bloom."                       He might be poor without showing
"The lady seemed to have made a signs of poverty."
conquest of him at the very outset,"  Mr. Duke turned rather yellow,
said Mr. Ely. " I was immensely which was his way of blushing, and
amused one night at Granby's when Mr. Ely came to his relief by observhe was telling us her story about her ing:husband's adventures.  He said:     "They 're making a very good
'When she told me the tale, I felt piece of work of Shepperton Church.
I don't know how, -I felt it from the Dolby, the architect, who has it in
crown of my head to the sole of my hand, is a very clever fellow."
feet."'                             " It's he who has been doing CopMr. Ely gave these words dramati- pleton Church," said Mr. Furness.
cally, imitating the Rev. Amos's fer-  They 've got it in excellent order for
vor and symbolic action, and every the visitation."
one laughed except Mr. Duke, whose  This mention of the visitation sugafter-dinner view of things was not gested the Bishop, and thus opened a
apt to be jovial. He said: -      wide duct, which entirely diverted the
"I think some of us ought to re- stream of animadversion from that
monstrate with Mr. Barton on the small pipe, - that capillary vessel,
scandal he is causing. He is not only the Rev. Amos Barton.
imperilling his own soul, but the souls  The talk of the clergy about their
of his flock."                    Bishop belongs to the esoteric part of
"Depend upon it," said Mr. Cleves, their profession; so we will at once
"there is some simple explanation of quit the dining-room at Milby Vicarthe whole affair, if we only happened age, lest we should happen to overto know it. Barton has always im- hear remarks unsuited to the lay unpressed me as a right-minded man, derstanding, and perhaps dangerous
who has the knack of doing himself to our repose of mind.
injustice by his manner."
"Now I never liked Barton," said            --
Mr. Fellowes. "He's not a gentleman. Why, he used to be on terms          CHAPTER VII.
of intimacy with that canting Prior,
who died a little while ago;a fel-  I DARE say the long residence of
low who soaked himself with spirits, the Countess Czerlaski at Shepperten
and talked of the Gospel through an Vicarage is very puzzling to you also,
inflamed nose."                   dear reader, as well as to Mr. Barton's
"The Countess has given him more clerical brethren; the more so, as I
refined tastes, I dare say," said Mr. hope you are not in the least inclined
Ely.                             to put that very evil interpretation on
"Well;" observed Mr. Cleves, " the it which evidently found acceptance
poor fellow must have a hard pull to with the sallow and dyspeptic Mr.
get along, with his small income and Duke, and with the florid and highly
large family. Let us hope the Count- peptic Mr. Fellowes. You have seen
ess does something towards making enough, I trust, of the Rev. Am6s
the pot boil."                    Barton, to be convinced that he was
"Not she," said Mr. Duke;" there more apt to fall into a blunder than




AMOS BARTON.


147


into a sin, -more apt to be deceived
than to incur a necessity for being deceitful; and if you have a keen eye
for physiognomy, you will have detected that the Countess Czerlaski
loved herself far too well to get entangled in an unprofitable vice.
How, then, will you say, could this
fine lady choose to quarter herself on
the establishment of a poor curate,
where the carpets were probably falling into holes, where the attendance
was limited to a maid-of-all-work, and
where six children were running loose
from eight o'clock in the morning till
eight o'clock in the evening? Surely
you must be straining probability.
Heaven forbid! For not having a
lofty imagination, as you perceive,
and being unable to invent thrilling
incidents for your amusement, my
only merit must lie in the truth with
which I represent to you the humble
experience of ordinary fellow-mortals.
I wish to stir your sympathy with
commonplace troubles, - to win your
tears for real sorrow: - sorrow such
as may live next door to you, - such
as walks neither in rags nor in velvet,
but in very ordinary decent apparel.
Therefore, that you may dismiss
your suspicions as to the truth of my
picture, I will beg you to consider,
that at the time the Countess Czerlaski
left Camp Villa in dudgeon, she had
only twenty pounds in her pocket,
being about one third of the income
she possessed independently of her
brother. You will then perceive that
she was in the extremely inconvenient
prediament of having quarrelled, not
ideed with her bread and cheese, but
certainly with her chicken and tart,
- a predicament all the more inconvenient to her, because the habit of
idleness had quite unfitted her for
earning those necessary superfluities,
and because, with all her fascinations,
she had not secured any enthusiastic
friends whose houses were open to her,
and who were dying to see her. Thus
she had completely checkmated herself, unless she could resolve on one
unpleasant move, -namely, to hum

ble herself to her brother, and recognize his wife. This seemed quite impossible to her as long as she entertained the hope that he would make
the first advances; and in this flattering hope she remained month after
month at Shepperton Vicarage, gracefully overlooking the deficiencies of
accommodation, and feeling that she
was really behaving charmingly.
"Who, indeed," she thought to herself, " could do otherwise, with a lovely, gentle creature like Milly? I shall
really be sorry to leave the poor
thing."
So, though she lay in bed till ten,
and came down to a separate breakfast at eleven, she kindly consented to
dine as early as five, when a hot joint
was prepared, which coldly furnished
forth the children's table the next day;
she considerately prevented Milly from
devoting herself too closely to the
children, by insisting on reading, talking, and walking with her; and she
even began to embroider a cap for the
next baby, which must certainly be a
girl, and be named Caroline.
After the first month or two of her
residence at the vicarage, the Rev.
Amos Barton became aware -as,
indeed, it was unavoidable that he
should - of the strong disapprobation it drew upon him, and the change
of feelings towards him which it was
producing in his kindest parishioners.
But, in the first place, he still believed
in the Countess as a charming and influential woman, disposed to befriend
him, and, in any case, he could hardly
hint departure to a lady guest who
had been kind to him and his, and
who might any day spontaneously
announce the termination of her visit;
in the second place, he was conscious
of his own innocence, and felt some
contemptuous indignation towards
people who were ready to imagine
evil of him; and, lastly, he had, as I
have already intimated, a strong will
of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingled itself with
his other feelings on the subject.
The one unpleasant consequence




148


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


which was not to be evaded or counteracted by any mere mental state
was the increasing drain on his slender purse for household expenses, to
meet which the remittance he had
received from the clerical charity
threatened to be quite inadequate.
Slander may be defeated by equanimity; but courageous thoughts will
not pay your baker's bill, and fortitude is nowhere considered legal tender for beef. Month after month the
financial aspect of the Rev. Anlos's
affairs became more and more serious
to him, and month after month, too,
wore away more and more of that
armor of indignation and defiance
with which he had at first defended
himself from the harsh looks of faces
that were once the friendliest.
But quite the heaviest pressure of
the trouble fell on Milly, - on gentle,
uncomplaining Milly,- whose delicate body was becoming daily less fit
for all the many things that had to
be done between rising up and lying
down.   At first, she thought the
Countess's visit would not last long,
and she was quite glad to incur extra
exertion for the sake of making her
friend comfortable.  I can hardly
bear to think of all the rough work
she did with those lovely hands, -
all by the sly, without letting her
husband know anything about it, and
husbands are not clairvoyant; how
she salted bacon, ironed shirts and
cravats, put patches on patches, and
redarned darns. Then there was the
task of mending and eking out babylinen in prospect, and the problem
perpetually suggesting itself how she
and Nanny should manage when there
was another baby, as there would be
before very many months were past.
When time glided on, and the
Countess's visit did not end, Milly
was not blind to any phase of their
position. She knew of the slander;
she was aware of the keeping aloof of
old friends; but these she felt almost
entirely on her husband's account.
A loving woman's world lies within
the four walls of her own home; and




it is only through her husband that
she is in any electric communication
with the world beyond. Mrs. Simpkins may have looked scornfully at
her, but baby crows and holds out
his little arms none the less blithely;
Mrs. Tomkins may have left off calling on her, but her husband comes
home none the less to receive her
care and caresses; it has been wet
and gloomy out of doors to-day, bat
she has looked well after the shirt
buttons, has cut out baby's pinafores,
and half finished Willy's blouse.
So it was with Milly. She was only
vexed that her husband should be
vexed,-only wounded because he
was misconceived. But the difficulty
about ways and means she felt in quite
a different manner. Her rectitude was
alarmed lest they should have to make
tradesmen wait for their money; her
motherly love dreaded the diminution
of comforts for the children; and the
sense of her own failing health gave
exaggerated force to these fears.
Milly could no longer shut her
eyes to the fact, that the Countess
was inconsiderate, if she did not
allow herself to entertain severer
thoughts; and she began to feel that
it would soon be a duty to tell her
frankly that they really could not
afford to have her visit further prolonged. But a process was going
forward in two other minds, which
ultimately saved Milly from having
to perform this painful task.
In the first place, the Countess
was getting weary of Shepperton, -
weary of waiting for her brother's
overtures which never came; so, ohe
fine morning, she reflected that forgiveness was a Christian duty, that a
sister should be placable, that Mr.
Bridmain must feel the need of her
advice, to which he had been accustomed for three years, and that very
likely "that woman" did n't make
the poor man happy. In this amiable frame of mind she wrote a very
affectionate appeal, and addressed
it to Mr. Bridmain, through his
banker.




AMOS BARTON.


149


Another mind   that was being
wrought up to a climax was Nanny's,
the maid-of-all-work, who had a warm
heart and a still warmer temper.
Nanny adored her mistress; she had
been heard to say, that she was
"ready to kiss the ground as the
missis trod on "; and Walter, she
considered, was her baby, of whom
she was as jealous as a lover. But
she had, from the first, very slight
admiration for the Countess Czerlaski. That lady, from Nanny's point
of view, was a personage always
" drawed out i' fine clothes," the chief
result of whose existence was to cause
additional bed-making, carrying of
hot water, laying of table-cloths, and
cooking of dinners. It was a perpetually heightening "aggravation"
to Nanny that she and her mistress
had to " slave" more than ever, because there was this fine lady in the
house.
" An' she pays notbin' for't, neither," observed Nanny to Mr. Jacob
Tomms, a young gentleman in the
tailoring  line, who occasionallysimply out of a taste for dialogue -
looked into the vicarage kitchen of
an evening. "I know the master's
shorter o' money than iver, an' it
meks no end o' difference i' th' housekeepin', - her bein' here, besides bein'
obliged to have a charwoman constant."
"There's fine stories i' the village
about her," said Mr. Tomms. " They
say as Muster Barton 's great wi' her,
or else she 'd niver stop here."
"Then they say a passill o' lies,
an' you ought to be ashamed to go
an' tell 'em o'er again. Do you think
as the master, as has tot a wife like
the missis, 'ud go running arter a
stuck -up piece o' goods like that
Countess as is n't fit to black the
missis's shoes? I 'm none so fond o'
the master, but I know better on him
nor that."
"Well, I didn't b'lieve it," said
Mr. Tomms, humbly.
" B'lieve it? you'd ha' been a ninny if yer did. An' she's a nasty,


stingy thing, that Countess. She's
niver giv me a sixpence nor an old
rag neither, sin' here's she's been.
A lyin' abed an a comin' down to
breakfast when other fblks wants
their dinner!"
If such was the state of Nanny's
mind as early as the end of August,
when this dialogue with Mr. Tomms
occurred, you may imagine what it
must have been by the beginning of
November, and that at that time a
very slight spark might any day
cause the long-smouldering anger to
flame forth in open indignation.
That spark happened to fall the
very morning that Mrs. Hackit paid
the visit to Mrs. Patten, recorded in
the last chapter. Nanny's dislike of
the Countess extended to the innocent
dog Jet, whom she "could n't a-bear
to see made a fuss wi' like a Christian.
An' the little ouzel must be washed,
too, ivery Saturday, as if there was n't
children enoo to wash, wi'out washin' dogs."
Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was quite too poorly
to get up, and Mr. Barton observed
to Nanny, on going out, that he would
call and tell Mr. Brand to come.
These circumstances were already
enough to make Nanny anxious and
susceptible. But the Countess, comfortably ignorant of them, came down
as usual about eleven o'clock to her
separate breakfast, which stood ready
for her at that hour in the parlor; the
kettle singing on the hob, that she
might make her own tea. There was
a little jug of cream, taken according
to custom from last night's milk, and
specially saved for the Countess's
breakfast. Jet always awaited his
mistress at her bedroom door, and it
was her habit to carry him down
stairs.
"Now, my little Jet," she said,
putting him down gently on the
hearth-rug "you shall have a nice,
nice breakfast."
Jet indicated that he thought that
observation extremely pertinent and
well timed, by immediately raising




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


himself on his hind-legs, and the
Countess emptied the cream-jug into
the saucer. Now there was usually a
small jug of milk standing on the tray
by the side of the cream, and destined
for Jet's breakfast, but this morning
Nanny, being "moithered," had forgotten that part of the arrangements,
so that when the Countess had made
her tea, she perceived there was no
second jug, andrang thebell. Nanny
appeared, looking very red and heated, - the fact was, she had been " doing up" the kitchen fire, and that is
a sort of work which by no means
conduces to blandness of temper.
"Nanny, you have forgotten Jet's
milk; will you bring me some more
cream, please? "
This was just a little too much for
Nanny's forbearance.
"* Yes, I dare say. Here am I wi'
my hands full o' the children an' the
dinner, and missis ill abed, and Mr.
Brand a comin'; and I must run o'er
the village to get more cream, 'cause
you've give it to that nasty little
blackamoor."
" Is Mrs. Barton ill?"
" 111 -yes - I should think she is
ill, an' much you care. She's likely
to be' ill, moithered as she is from
mornin' to night, wi' folks as had
better be elsewhere."
" What doyou mean by behaving
in this way?
" Mean? Why, I mean as the
missis is a slavin' her life out an'
a sittin' up o' nights, for folks as are
better able to wait of/ er, i'stid o' lyin'
abed an' doin' nothin' all the blessed
day, but mek work."
" Leave the room and don't be insolent."
"Insolent! I'd bette be insolent
than like what some folks is, - a livin,
on other folks, an' bringin' a bad
name on 'em into the bargain."
Here Nanny flung out of the room,
leaving the lady to digest this unexpected breakfast at her leisure.
The Countess was stunned for a few
minutes, but when she began to recall
Nanny's words, there was nopossi

bility of avoiding very unpleasant
c6nclusions from them, or of failing
to see her position at the vicarage in
an entirely new light. The interpretation too of Nanny's allusion to a
"bad name" did not lie out of the
reach of the Countess's imagination,
and she saw the necessity of quitting;
Shepperton without delay. Still, she
would like to wait for her brother's
letter - no - she would ask Milly to
forward it to her -still better, she
would go at once to London, inquire
her brother's address at his banker's,
and go to see him without preliminary.
She went up to Milly's room, and,
after kisses and inquiries, said: "II
find, on consideration, dear Milly,
from the letter I had yesterday, that
I must bid you good by and go up to
London at once. But you must not
let me leave you ill, you naughty
thing."
" 0 no," said Milly, who felt as if
a load had been taken off her back,
"I shall be very well in an hour or
two. Indeed, I'm much better now.
You will want me to help you to
pack. But you won't go for two or
three days? "
"Yes, I must go to-morrow. But
I shall not let you help me to pack, so
don't entertain any unreasonable projects, but lie still. Mr. Brand is coming, Nanny says."
The news was not an unpleasant
surprise to Mr. Barton when he came
home, though he was able to express
more regret at the idea of parting
than Milly could summon to her lips.
He retained more of his original feeling for the Countess than Milly did,
for women never betray themselves to
men as they do to each other; and
the Rev. Amos had not a keen instinct
for character. But he felt that he was
being relieved from a difficulty, and
in the way that was easiest for him.
Neither he nor Milly suspected that it
was Nanny who had cut the knot for
them, for the Countess took care to
give.no sign on that subject. As for
Nanny, she was perfectly aware of the




AMOS BARTON.


relation between cause and effect in
the affair, and secretly chuckled over
her outburst of "sauce" as the best
morning's work she had ever done.
So, on Friday morning, a fly was
seen standing at the vicarage gate
with the Countess's boxes packed
upon it; and presently that lady herself was seen getting into the vehicle.
After a last shake of the hand to Mr.
Barton, and last kisses to Milly and
the children, the door was closed; and
as the fly rolled off, the little party
at the vicarage gate caught a last
glimpse of the handsome Countess
leaning and waving kisses from the
carriage window. Jet's little black
phiz was also seen, and doubtless he
ad his thoughts and feelings on the
occasion, but he kept them strictly
within his own bosom.
The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and lost no
time in telling it to the schoolmaster,
who again communicated the news to
the landlord of The Jolly Colliers,
at the close of the morning schoolhours. Nanny poured the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr. Farquhar's
footman, who happened to call with
a letter, and Mr. Brand carried them
to all the patients he visited that
morning, after calling on Mrs. Barton.
So that, before Sunday, it was very
generally known in Shepperton parish that the Countess Czerlaski had
left the vicarage.
The Countess had left, but alas,
the bills she had contributed to swell
still remained; so did the exiguity of
the children's clothing, which also
was partly an indirect consequence of
her presence; and so, too, did the
coolness and alienation in the parishioners, which could not at once vanish
before the fact of her departure. The
Rev. Amos was not exculpated, - the
past was not expunged. But what
was worse than all, Milly's health
gave frequent cause for alarm, and the
prospect of baby's birth was overshadowed by more than the usual
fears. The birth came prematurely,
about six weeks after the Countess's




departure, but Mr. Brand gave favorable reports to all inquirers on
the following day, which was Saturday. On Sunday, after morning service, Mrs. Hackit called at the vicarage to inquire how Mrs. Barton was,
and was invited up stairs to see her.
Milly lay placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held out her hand to Mrs. 
Hackit with a beaming smile. It was
verypleasant to her to see heroldfriend
unreserved and cordial once more.
The seven months' baby was very
tiny and very red, but "handsome is
that handsome does,"-he was pronounced to be " doing well," and Mrs.
Hackit went home gladdened at heart
to think that the perilous hour was
over.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE following Wednesday, when
Mr. and Mrs. Hackit were seated
comfortably by their bright hearth,
enjoying the long afternoon afforded
by an early dinner, Rachel, the housemaid, came in and said:"If you please 'm the shepherd
says, have you heard as Mrs. Barton's wuss, and not expected to
live? "
Mrs. Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the shepherd,
who, she found, had heard the sad
news at an alehouse in the village.
Mr. Hackit followed her out and said,
"You'd better have the pony-chaise,
and go directly."
" Yes," said Mrs. Hackit, too much
overcome to utter any exclamations.
"Rachel, come an' help me on wi' my
things." When her husband was
wrapping her cloak round her feet in
the pony-chaise, she said: -
" If I don't come home to-night, I
shall send back the pony-chaise, and
you '11 know I'm wanted there."
" Yes, yes."
It was a bright frosty day, and by
the time Mrs. Hackit arrived at the
vicarage, the sun was near its setting.
There was a carriage and pair stand



ing at the gate, which
as Dr. Madeley's, the
Rotherby. She enter
en door, that she migi
ing, and quietly ques
No one was in the kite
ing on, she saw the sit
open, and Nanny, wit]
arms, removing the kr
which had been laid f(
hours ago.
"Master says he c:
ner," was Nanny's firs!
never tasted nothin'


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
she recognized  She went out to give the order, and
physician from  encountered Dr. Madeley and Mr.
ed at the kitch- Brand, who were just going.
it avoid knock-  Mr. Brand said: "I am very glad
stioned Nanny. to see you are here, Mrs. Hackit.
chen, but, pass- No time must be lost in sending for
ting-room door the children. Mrs. Barton wants to
h Walter in her see them."
lives and forks,  "Do  you  quite give  her up
)r dinner three then?"
"She can hardly live through the
an't eat no din- night.  She begged us to tell her
tword. "He's how long she had to live; and then
sin' yesterday asked for the children."


mornin' but a cup o' tea."
"When was your missis took
worse?"
"0' Monday night. They sent for
Dr. Madeley i' the middle o the day
yisterday, an' he's here again now.
"Is the baby alive? "
"No, it died last night. The children's all at Mrs. Bond's. She come
and took' em away last night, but the
master says they must be fetched soon.
He 's up stairs now, wi' Dr. Madeley
and Mr. Brand."
At this moment Mrs. Hackit heard
the sound of a heavy, slow foot, in the
passage; and presently Amos Barton
entered, with dry despairing eyes,
haggard and unshaven. He expected to find the sitting-room as he left
it, with nothing to meet his eyes but
Millv's work-basket in the corner of
the sofa, and the children's toys overturned in the bow-window. But
when he saw Mrs. Hackit come towards him with answering sorrow in
her face, the pent-up fountain of tears
was opened; he threw himself on the
sofa, hid his face, and sobbed aloud.
"Bear up, Mr. Barton," Mrs.
Hackit ventured to sa7 at last;
" bear up, for the sake o them dear
children.
"The children," said Amos, starting up. "They must be sent for.
Some one must fetch them. Milly
will want to...."
He could n't finish the sentence,
but Mrs. Hackit understood him, and
said, "I'll send the man with the
pony-carriage for 'em."


_


The pony-carriage was sent; and
Mrs. Hackit, returning to Mr. Barton, said she would like to go up
stairs now. He went up stairs with
her and opened the door. The chamber fronted the west; the sun was
just setting, and the red light fell full
upon the bed, where Milly lay with the
hand of death visibly upon her. The
feather-bed had been removed, and
she lay low  on a mattress, with
her head slightly raised by pillows.
Her long fair neck seemed to be
struggling with a painful effort; her
features were pallid and pinched, and
her eyes were closed. There was no
one in the room but the nurse, and
the mistress of the free school, who
had come to give her help from the
beginning of the change.
Amos and Mrs. Hackit stood beside the bed, and Milly opened her
eyes.
" My darling, Mrs. Hackit is come
to see you."
Milly smiled and looked at her
with that strange, far-off look which
belongs to ebbing life.
"Are the children coming?" sh6
said, painfully.
" Yes, they will be here directly."
She closed her eyes again.
Presently the pony-carriage wa~
heard; and Amos, motioning to Mrs.
Hackit to follow him, left the room,
On their way down stairs, she sug.
gested that the carriage should remain to take them away again afterwards, and Amos assented.
There they stood in the melancholy




AMOS BARTON.


sitting-room,- the five sweet children, from Patty to Chubby, - all,
with their mother's eyes, - all, except
Patty, looking up with a vague fear
at tleir father as he entered. Patty
understood the great sorrow that was
come upon them, and tried to check her
sobs as she heard her papa's footsteps.
-" My children," said Amos, taking
Chubby in his arms, " God is going
to take away your dear mamma from
us. She wants to see you to say
good by. You must try to be very
good and not cry."
He could say no more, but turned
round to see if Nanny was there with
Walter, and then led the way up
stairs, leading Dickey with the other
hand. Mrs. Hackit followed with
Sophy and Patty, and then came
Nanny with Walter and Fred.
It seemed as if Milly had heard the
little footsteps on the stairs, for when
Amos entered her eyes were wide
open, eagerly looking towards the
door. They all stood by the bedside,
-Amos nearest to her, holding
Chubby and Dickey. But she motioned for Patty to come first, and
clasping the poor pale child by the
hand, said: -
"Patty, I'm  going away from
you.  Love your papa.    Comfort
him; and take care of your little
brothers and sister. God will help
you."
Patty stood perfectly quiet, and
said, "Yes, mamma."
The mother motioned with her
pallid lips for the dear child to lean
towards her and kiss her; and then
Patty's great anguish overcame her,
and she burst into sobs. Amos drew
her towards him and pressed her head
gently to him, while Milly beckoned
Fred and Sophy, and said to them
more faintly: -
"Patty will try to be your mamma
when I am gone, my darlings. You
will be good and not vex her."
They leaned towards her, and she
stroked their fair heads, and kissed
their tear-stained cheeks. They cried
because mamma was ill and papa
7*


looked so unhappy; but they thought
perhaps next week things would be
as they used to be again.
The little ones were lifted on the
bed to kiss her. Little Walter said,
"Mamma, mamma," and stretched
out his fat -arms and smiled; and
Chubby seemed gravely wondering;
but Dickey, who had been looking fixedly at her with lip hanging down
ever since he came into the room,
now seemed suddenly pierced with
the idea that mamma was going away
somewhere; his little heart swelled
and he cried aloud.
Then Mrs. Hackit and Nanny took
them all away. Patty at first begged
to stay at home and not go to Mrs.
Bond's again; but when Nanny reminded her that' she had better go to
take care of the younger ones, she submitted at once, and they were all
packed in the pony-carriage once
more.
Milly kept her eyes shut for sometime after the children were gone.
Amos had sunk on his knees and was
holding her hand while he watched her
face. By and by she opened her eyes
and, drawing him close to her, whispered slowly: -
" My dear - dear - husband -
you have been - very - good to me.
You - have - made me - very -
happy."
She spoke no more for many hours.
They watched her breathing becoming more and more difficult until
evening deepened into night, and until midnight was past. About half
past twelve she seemed to be trying
to speak, and they leaned to catch her
words.
"Music - music - did n't-you hear
it?"
Amos knelt by the bed and held
her hand in his. He did not believe
in his sorrow. It was a bad dream.
He did not know when she was gone.
But Mr. Brand, whom Mrs. Hackit
had sent for before twelve o'clock,
thinking that Mr. Barton might probably need his help, now came up to
him and said: -




154


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


"She feels no more pain now. dren felt that mamma was in that cof-:
Come, my dear sir, come with me."  fin and that a new and sadder life
"She is n't dead?" shrieked the had begun for papa and herself.
poor, desolate man, struggling to She was pale and trembling, but she
shake off Mr. Brand, who had taken clasped his hand more firmly as the
him by the arm.    But his weary coffin went down and gave no sob.
weakened frame was not equal to re- Fred and Sophy, though they were
sistance, and he was dragged out of only two and three years youngthe room.                         er, and though they had seen mam+- — ma in her coffin, seemed to themselves
to be looking at some strange show.
CHAPTER IX.               They had not learned to decipher that
terrible handwriting of human destiTHEY laid her in the grave, - the ny, illness and death. Dickey had
sweet mother with her baby in her rebelled against his black clothes, unarms, -while the Christmas snow   til he was told that it would be
lay thick upon the graves. It was naughty to mamma not to put them
Mr. Cleves who buried her. On the on, when he at once submitted; and
first news of Mr. Barton's calamity now, though he had heard Nanny say
he had ridden over from Tripplegate that mamma was in heaven, he had- a
to beg that he might be made of some vague notion that she would come
use, and his silent grasp of Amos's home again to-morrow, and say he had
hand had penetrated like the painful been a good boy and let him empty her
thrill of life-recovering warmth to the workbox. He stood close to his fapoor benumbed heart of the stricken ther with great rosy cheeks, and wideman.                              open blue eyes, looking first up at Mr.
The snow lay thick upon the graves Cleves and then down at the coffin,
and the day was cold and dreary; but and thinking he and Chubby would
there was many a sad eye watching play at that when they got home.
that black procession as it passed  The burial was over, and Amos
from the vicarage to the church, and turned with his children to re-enter
from the church to the open grave. the house, - the house where, an
There were men and women standing hour ago Milly's dear body lay, where
in that churchyard who had bandied the windows were half darkened, and
vulgar jests about their pastor and sorrow seemed to have a hallowed
who had lightly charged him  with precinct for itself, shut out from the
sin; but now when they saw him fol- world. But now she was gone; the
lowing the coffin pale and haggard, broad snow-reflected daylight was in
he was consecrated anew by his great all the rooms; 'the vicarage again
sorrow, and they looked at him with seemed part of the common workings
respectful pity.                  day world, and Amos, for the first
All the children were there, for time, felt that he was alone,- that
Amos had willed it so, thinking that day after day, month after month,
some dim memory of that sacred mo- year after year, would have to be
ment might remain even with little lived through without Milly's love.
Walter, and link itself with what he Spring would come, and she would
would hear of his sweet mother in af- not be there; summer, and she would
ter years. He himself led Patty and not be there; and he would never
Dickey; then came Sophy and Fred; have her again with him by the fireMr. Brand had begged    to carry side in the long evenings.    The
Chubby, and Nanny followed with seasons all seemed irksome to his
Walter. They made a circle round thoughts; and how dreary the suan
the grave while the coffin was being shiny days that would be sure to
lowered. Patty alone of all the chil- come! She was gone from  him;




AMOS BARTON.


and he could never show her his love
any more, never make up for omissions in the past by filling future days
with tenderness.
0 the anguish of that thought that
we can never atone to our dead for
the stinted affection we gave them,
for the light answers we returned to
their plaints or their pleadings, for
the little reverence we showed to that
sacred human soul that lived so close
to us, and was the divinest thing God
had given us to know!
Amos Barton had been an affectionate husband, and while Milly was
with him, he was never visited by the
thought that perhaps his sympathy
with her was not quick and watchful
enough; but now he relived all their
life together, with that terrible keenness of memory and imagination
which bereavement gives, and he felt
as if his very love needed a pardon
for its poverty and selfishness.
No outward solace could counteract
the bitterness of this inward woe.
But outward solace came. Cold faces
looked kind again, and parishioners
turned over in their minds what they
could best do to help their pastor.
Mr. Oldinport wrote to express his
sympathy, and enclosed another twenty-pound note, begging that he might
be permitted to contribute in this way
to the relief of Mr. Barton's mind
frotn pecuniary anxieties, under the
pressure of a grief which all his parishioners must share; and offering
his interest towards placing the two
eldest girls in a school expressly
founded for clergymen's daughters.
Mr. Cleves succeeded in collecting
thirty pounds among his richer clerical brethren, and, adding ten pounds
himself, sent the sum to Amos, with
the kindest and most delicate words
of Christian fellowship and manly
friendship. Miss Jackson forgot old
grievances, and came to stay some
months with Milly's children, bringing such material aid as she could
spare from her small income. These
Were substantial helps, which relieved
Amos from the pressure of his money


difficulties; and the friendly attentions, the kind pressure of the hand,
the cordial looks he met with everywhere in his parish, made him feel
that the fatal frost which had settled
on his pastoral duties during the
Countess's residence at the vicarage,
was completely thawed, and that the
hearts of his parishioners were once
more open to him.
No one breathed the Countess's
name now; for Milly's memory hallowed her husband, as of old the
place was hallowed on which an angel
from God had alighted.
When the spring came, Mrs. Hackit
begged that she might have Dickey
to stay with her, and great was the
enlargement of Dickey's experience
from that visit. Every morning he
was allowed - being well wrapped up
as to his chest by Mrs. Hackit s own
hands, but very bare and red as to his
legs -to run loose in the cow and
poultry yard, to persecute the turkeycock by satirical imitations of his
gobble-gobble, and to put difficult
questions to the groom as to the reasons why horses had four legs, and
other transcendental matters. Then
Mr. [lackit would take Dickey up on
horseback when he rode round his
farm, and Mrs. Hackit had a large
plumcake in cut, ready to meet incidental attacks of hunger. So that
Dickey had considerably modified his
views as to the desirability of Mrs.
Hackit's kisses.
The Misses Farquhar made particular pets of Fred and Sophy, to whom
they undertook to give lessons twice
a week in writing and geography; and
Mrs. Farquhar devised many treats
for the little ones. Patty's treat was
to stay at home, or walk about with
her papa; and when he sat by the
fire in an evening, after the other
children were gone to bed, she would
bring a stool, and, placing it against
his feet, would sit down upon it and
lean her head against his knee. Then
his hand would rest on that fair head,
and he would feel that Milly's love
was not quite gone out of his life.




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


So the time wore on till it was May
again, and the church was quite finished and reopened in all its new
splendor, and Mr. Barton was devoting himself with more vigor than
ever to his parochial duties. But one
morning, - it was a very bright morning, and evil tidings sometimes like
to fly in the finest weather,- there
came a letter for Mr. Barton, addressed in the vicar's handwriting.
Amos opened it with some anxiety, -
somehow or other he had a presentiment of evil. The letter contained
the announcement that Mr. Carpe
had resolved on coming to reside at
Shepperton, and that, consequently,
in six months from that time, Mr.
Barton's duties as curate in that parish would be closed.
0, it was hard! Just when Shepperton had become the place where
he most wished to stay, - where
be had friends who knew his sorrows, -where he lived close to Milly's grave. To part from that grave
seemed like parting with Milly a second time; for Amos was one who
clung to all the material links between his mind and the past.  His
imagination was not vivid, and required the stimulus of actual perception.
It roused some bitter feeling, too,
to think that Mr. Carpe's wish to reside at Shepperton was merely a pretext for removing Mr. Barton, in order that he might ultimately give the
curacy of Shepperton to his own
brother-in-law, who was known to be
wanting a new position.
Still, it must be borne; and the
painful business of seeking another
curacy must be set about without loss
of time. After the lapse of some
months, Amos was obliged to renounce the hope of getting one at all
near Shepperton, and he at length
resigned himself to accepting one in
a distant county. The parish was in
a large manufacturing town, where
his walks would lie among noisy
streets and dingy alleys, and where
the children would have no garden to


play in, and no pleasant farkn-houseo.
to visit.
It was another blow inflicted on,
the bruised man.
CHAPTER X.
AT length the dreaded week was,
come, when Amos and his chfldren.'
must leave S hepperton. There was
general regret among the parishioner,','%'
at his departure; not that an.y one of,
them 'thought his spiritual gifts pTqr
eminent, or was conscious of great-,
edification from his ministry. hut',
his recent troubles had called out their
better sympathies, and that is alway,,
a source of love. Amos failed to touch.
the spring of goodness by his sermons, but he ttiched it effectually b,.
his sorrows; and there was now.&
real bond between him and his flock,,
My heart aches for them'poor.
rnotherless children," said Mrs. Back —
it to her husband, " a going among
strangers and into a nasty towp,,,
where there 's no good victuals to blli
bad, and you must pay dear to got
bad uns."
Mrs. Hadkit had a vague notion of
a town life as a combination of dirty
back-yards, measly pork, and dingy,
linen.
The same sort 6f sympathy was
strong among the poorer class of pa,
rishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. I - or.
zer, ivbo was still able to earn a litt1q
by gardening 11 jobs," stopped Mrs''.'
Cramp, the charwoman, on her Wa
home from the vicarage, where s4
bad been helping Nanny to pack upt.he day before the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr. Barr
ton'   ospects.
cc W, poor mon," he was beard. tosav, " I 'm sorry for un. He hed n't'
much here, but he 1I be wuss of.,
theer. Half a loaf 's better nor ne'er
un."
The sad good-bys, bad all been sahl
before that last'evening; and after all
the packing was done and all the ar

play in, and no pleasant farm-houses
to visit.
It was another blow inflicted on
the bruised man.
CHAPTER X.
AT length the dreaded week was
come, when Amos and his children
must leave Shepperton. There was
general regret among the parishioners
at his departure; not that any one of
them thought his spiritual gifts preeminent, or was conscious of great.
edification from his ministry. But,
his recent troubles had called out their
better sympathies, and that is always
a source of love. Amos failed to touch
the spring of goodness by his sermons, but he touched it effectually by
his sorrows; and there was now &
real bond between him and his flock,
" My heart aches for them 'poor
motherless children," said Mrs. Hackit to her husband, "a going among
strangers, and into a nasty town,.
where there 's no good victuals to be
had, and you must pay dear to get
bad uns."
Mrs. Hackit had a vague notion of
a town life as a combination of dirty
back-yards, measly pork, and dingy
linen.
The same sort of sympathy was
strong among the poorer class of pa.
rishioners. Old stiff-jointed Mr. Tozer, who was still able to earn a little
by gardening "jobs," stopped Mrs.
Cramp, the charwoman, on her way
home from the vicarage, where she
had been helping Nanny to pack up
the day before the departure, and inquired very particularly into Mr. Barton's prospects.
"Ah, poor mon," he was heard to
say, "I 'm sorry for un. He hed n't
much here, but he '11 be wuss off
theer. Half a loaf's better nor ne'er
un."
The sad good-bys had all been said
before that last evening; and after all
the packing was done and all the ar



AMOS BARTON.


157


rangements were made, Amos felt
the oppression of that blank interval
in which one has nothing left to think
of but the dreary future, -the separation from the loved and familiar.
and the chilling entrance on the new
and strange. In every parting there
is an inmage of death.
Soon after ten o'clock, when he had
sent Nanny to bed, that she might
have a good night's rest before the fatigues of the morrow, he stole softly
out to pay a last visit to Milly's
grave. It was a moonless night, but
the sky was thick with stars, and
their light was enough to show that
the grass had grown long on the
grave, and that there was a tombstone
telling in bright letters, on a dark
ground, that beneath were deposited
the remains of Amelia, the beloved
wife of Amos Barton, who died in the
thirty-fifth year of her age, leaving a
husband and six children to lament
her loss. The final words of the inscription were, " Thy will be done.": The husband was now advancing
towards the dear mound from which
he was so soon to be parted, perhaps
forever.  He stood a few minutes
reading over and over again the words
on the tombstone, as if to assure himself that all the happy and unhappy
past was a reality. For love is frightened at the intervals of insensibility
and callousness that encroach by little
and little on the dominion of grief,
and it makes efforts to recall the
keenness of the first anguish.
Gradually, as his eye dwelt on the
words, "Amelia, the beloved wife,"
the waves of feeling swelled within
his soul, and he threw himself on the
grave, clasping it with his arms, and
kissing the cold turf.
"Milly, Milly, dost thou hear me?
I did n't love thee enough, - I was n't
tender enough to thee, - but I think
of it all now."  The sobs came and
choked his utterance, and the warm
tears fell.


CONCLUSION.
ONLY once again in his life has
Amos Barton visited Milly's grave.
It was in the calm and softened light
of an autumnal afternoon, and he was
not alone. 'He held on his arm a
young woman, with a sweet, grave
face, which strongly recalled the expression of Mrs. Barton's, but was less
lovely in form and color. She was
about thirty, but there were some.
premature lines round her mouth
and eyes, which told of early anxiety.
Amos himself was much changed.
His thin circlet of hair was nearly
white, and his walk was no longer
firm and upright. But his glance was
calm, and even cheerful, and his neat
linen told of a woman's care. Milly
did not take all her love from the
earth when she died. She had left
some of it in Patty's heart.
All the other children were now
grown up, and had gone their several
ways. Dickey, you will be glad to
hear, had shown remarkable talents
as an engineer. His cheeks are still
ruddly, in spite of mixed mathematics,
and his eyes are still large and blue;
but in other respects his person would
present no marks of identification for
his friend Mrs. Hackit, if she were to
see him; especially now that her eyes
must be grown very dim, with the wear
of more than twenty additional years.
He is nearly six feet high, and has a
proportionately broad chest; he wears
spectacles, and rubs his large white
hands through a mass of shaggy brown
hair. But I am sure you have no
doubt that Mr. Richard Barton is a
thoroughly good fellow, as well as a
man of talent, and you will be glad
any day to shake hands with him, for
his own sake as well as his mother's.
Patty alone remains by her father's
side, and makes the evening sunshine
of his life.




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.
-4 —


CHAPTER I.
W     HEN old Mr. Gilfil died, thirty
years ago, there was general
sorrow in Shepperton; and if black
cloth had not been hung round the
pulpit and reading-desk, by order of
is nephew and principal legatee, the
parishioners would certainly have subscribed the necessary sum out of their
own pockets, rather than allow such
a tribute of respect to be wanting. All
the farmers' wives brought out their
black bombazines; and Mrs. Jennings,
at the Wharf, by appearing the first
Sunday after Mr. Gilfil's death in her
salmon-colored ribbons and green
shawl, excited the severest remark.
To be sure, Mrs. Jennings was a newcomer, and town-bred, so that she
could hardly be expected to have very
clear notions of what was proper; but,
as Mrs. Higgins observed in an undertone to Mrs. Parrot when they were
coming out of church, " Her husband,
who'd been born i' the parish, might
ha' told her better."  An unreadiness
to put on black on all available occasions, or too great an alacrity in putting it off, argued, in Mrs. Higgins's
opinion, a dangerous levity of character, and an unnatural insensibility to
the essential fitness of things.
" Some folks can't a-bear to put off
their colors," she remarked; " but that
was never the way i' my family. Why,
Mrs. Parrot, from the time I was married till Mr. Higgins died, nine year
ago come Candlemas, I niver was out
o' black two year together! "
"Ah," said Mrs. Parrot, who was
conscious of inferiority in this respect,


"there isn't many families as hame
had so many deaths as yours, Mrs.
Higgins." 
Mrs. Higgins, who was an elderly
widow," well left," reflected with complacency that Mrs. Parrot's observation was no more than just, and that
Mrs. Jennings very likely belonged to
a family which had had no funerals to
speak of.
Even dirty Dame Fripp, who was a
very rare church-goer, had been to
Mrs. Hackit to beg a bit of old crajpe,
and with this sign of grief pinned on
her little coal-scuttle bonnet, was seen
dropping her courtesy opposite the
reading-desk. This manifestation if
respect towards Mr. Gilfil's memory
on the part of Dame Fripp had n'o
theological bearing whatever. It was
due to an event which had occurred
scme years back, and which, I am sorry to say, had left that grimy old lady
as indifferent to the means of grace is
ever. Dame Fripp kept leeches, and
was understood to have such remarkable influence over those wilful animals in inducing them to bite tnder
the most unpromising circumstances,
that though her own leeches were uially rejected, from  a suspicion that
they had lost their appetite, she herself was constantly called in to apply
the more lively individuals furnished
from Mr. Pilgrim's surgery, when, as
was very often the case, one of that
clever man's paying patients was
attacked with inflammation. Thus
Dame Fripp,in addition to "property"
supposed to yield her no less than half
a crown a week, was in the receipt
of professional fees, the gross amount




MR. 'GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


159


of which was vaguely estimated b,
her neighbors as "pouns an' pouns.
Moreover, she drove a brisk trade in
lollipop with epicurean urchins, who
recklessly purchased that luxury at
the rate of two hundred per cent.
Nevertheless, with all these notorious
sources of income, the shameless old
woman constantly pleaded poverty,
and begged for scraps at Mrs. Hackit's, who, though she always said Mrs..Fripp was " as false as two folks," and
no better than a miser and a heathen,
had yet a leaning towards her as an
old neighbor.
"There's that case-hardened old
Judy a coming after the tea-leaves
again," Mrs. Hackit would say; " an'
I'm fool enough to give 'em  her,
though Sally wants 'em all the while
to sweep the floors with!"
Such was Dame Fripp, whom Mr.
Gilfil, riding leisurely in top-boots and
spurs from doing duty at Knebley one
warm Sunday afternoon, observed sitting in the dry ditch near her cottage,
and by her side a large pig, who, with
that ease and confidence belonging to
perfect friendship, was lying with his
head in her lap, and making no effort
to play the agreeable beyond an occasional grunt.
" Why, Mrs. Fripp," said the Vicar, "I did n't know you had such a
fine pig. You 'll have some rare
flitches at Christmas! "
"Eh, God forbid!   My son gev
him me two 'ear ago, an' he's been
company to me iver sin'. I could n't
find i' my heart to part wi'm, if I
niver knowed the taste o' bacon-fat
again."
" Why, he 'll eat his head off and
yours too. How can you go on keepng a pig, and making nothing by
him?"
" 0, he picks a bit hisself wi' rootin', and I dooant mind doing wi'out
to gi' him summat. A bit o' coompany's meat an' drink too, an' he
follers me about, and grunts when I
spake to'm, just like a Christian."
Mr. Gilfil laughed, and  I am
obliged to admit that he said good by




to Dame Fripp without asking her
why she had not been to church, or
making the slightest effort for her
spiritual edification.  But the next
day he ordered his man David to take
her a great piece of bacon, with a
message, saying, the parson wanted
to make sure that Mrs. Fripp would
know the taste of bacon-fat again.
So, when Mr. Gilfil died, Dame
Fripp manifested her gratitude and
reverence in the simple, dingy fashion
I have mentioned.
You already suspect that the Vicar
did not shine in the more spiritual
functions of his office; and indeed,
the utmost I can say for him in this
respect is, that he performed those
functions with undeviating attention
to brevity and despatch. He had a
large heap of short sermons, rather
yellow and worn at the edges, from
which he took two every Sunday, securing perfect impartiality in -the selection by taking them as they came,
without reference to topics; and having preached one of these sermons
at Shepperton in the morning, he
mounted his horse and rode hastily
with the other in his pocket to Knebley, where he officiated in a wonderful
little church, with a checkered pavement which had once rung to the iron
tread of military monks, with coats
of arms in clusters on the lofty roof,
marble warriors and their wives without noses occupying a large proportion of the area, and the twelve apostles, with their heads very much on
one side, holding didactic ribbons,
painted in fresco on the walls. Here,
in an absence of mind to which he
was prone, Mr. Gilfil would sometimes forget to take off his spurs before putting on his surplice, and only
become aware of the omission by
feeling something mysteriously tugging at the skirts of that garment as
he stepped into the reading-desk.
But the Knebley farmers would as
soon have thought of criticising the
moon as their pastor. He belonged
to the course of nature, like markets
and toll-gates, and dirty bank-notes;




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


and being a vicar, his claim on their
veneration had never been counteracted by an exasperating claim on
their pockets. Some of them, who
did not indulge in the superfluity of
a covered cart without springs, had
dined half an hour earlier than usual,
- that is to say, at twelve o'clock, -
in order to have time for their long
walk through miry lanes, and present
thenselves duly in their places at
two o'clock, when Mr. Oldinport and
Lady Felicia, to whom Knebley
Church was a sort of family temple,
made their way among the bows and
courtesies of their dependants to a
carved and canopied pew in the chancel, diffusing as they went a delicate
odor of Indian roses on the unsusceptible nostrils of the congregation.
The farmers' wives and children sat
on the dark oaken benches, but the
husbands usually chose the distinctive dignity of a stall under one of the
twelve apostles, where, when the alternation of prayers and responses
had given place to the agreeable monotony of the sermon, Paterfamilias
might be seen or heard sinking into a
pleasant doze, from which he infallibly woke up at the sound of the concluding doxology. And then they
made their way back again through
the miry lanes, perhaps almost as
much the better for this simple weeklv tribute to what they knew of good
and right, as many a more wakeful
and critical congregation of the present day.
Mr. Gilfil, too, used to make his
way home in the later years of his
life, for he had given up the habit of
dining at Knebley Abbey on a Sunday,
having, I am sorry to say, had a very
bitter quarrel with Mr. Oldinport, the
cousin and predecessor of the Mr. Oldinport who flourished in the Rev.
Amos Barton's time. That quarrel
was a sad pity, for the two had had
many a good day's hunting together
when they were younger, and in those
friendly times not a few members of the
hunt envied Mr. Oldinport the excellent terms he was on with his vicar; for,


as Sir Jasper Sitwell observed, " next
to a man's wife, there's nobody can
be such an infernal plague to you as
a parson, always under your nose on
your own estate."
I fancy the original difference
which led to the rupture was very
slight; but Mr. Gilfil was of an extremely caustic turn, his satire having
a flavor of originality which was quite
wanting in his sermons; and as Mr.
Oldinport's armor of conscious virtue
presented some considerable and conispicuous gaps, the Vicar's keen-edge
retorts probably made a few incisions
too deep to be forgiven. Such, at
least, was the view of the case presented by Mr. Hackit, who knew M.
much of the matter as any third person. For, the very week after thie
quarrel, when presiding at the annual
dinner of the Association for the
Prosecution of Felons, held at the
Oldinport Arms, he contributed an
additional zest to the conviviality on
that occasion by informing 'the company that " the parson had given th'
squire a lick with the rough side of hbi
tongue." The detection of the person
or persons who had driven off Mr.
Parrot's heifer could hardly havr
been more welcome news to the Shepperton tenantry, with whom Mr. OldInport was in the worst odor as a lan4-,
lord, having kept up his rents in
spite of falling prices, and not being
in the least stung to emulation 'by
paragraphs in the provincial newspapers, stating that the Honorable Augustus Purwell, or Viscount Blethers,
had made a return of ten per cent on
their last rent-day. The fact was,
Mr. Oldinport had not the slightest
intention of standing for Parliament,
whereas he had the strongest intention of adding to his unentailed estate.  Hence, to the   Shepperton
farmers it was as good as lemon with
their grog to know that the Vicar had
thrown out sarcasms against the
Squire's charities, as little better than
those of the man who stole a goose,
and gave away the giblets in alms.
For Shepperton, you observe, was in




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


161


a state of Attic culture compared with
Knebley; it had turnpike roads and
a public opinion, whereas, in the
Bceotiau Knebley, men's minds and
wagons alike moved in the deepest
of ruts, and the landlord was only
grumbled at as a necessary and unalterable evil, like the weather, the weeviS, and the turnip-fly.
Thus in Shepperton this breach
with Mr. Oldinport tended only to
heighten that good understanding
which the Vicar hid always enjoyed
with the rest of his parishioners, from
the generation whose children he had
christened a quarter of a century before, down to that hopeful generation
represented by little Tommy Bond,
who had recently quitted frocks and
trousers for the severe simplicity of a
tight suit of corduroys, relieved by
numerous brass buttons.  Tommy
was a saucy boy, impervious to all
impressions of reverence, and excessively addicted to humming-tops and
marbles, with which recreative resources he was in the habit of immoderately distending the pockets of
his corduroys. One day, spinning
his top on the garden-walk, and seeing the Vicar advance directly towards it, at that exciting molmnt
when it was beginning to " sleep"
magnificently, he shouted out with
all the force of his lungs,-" Stop!
don't knock my top down, now!"
From  that day " little Corduroys"
had been an especial favorite with
Mr. Gilfil, who dlighted to provoke
his ready scorn and wonder by putting questions which gave Tommy
the meanest opinion of his intellect.
"Well, little Corduroys, have they
milked the geese to-day? "
"Milked the geese! why, they
don t milk the geese, you silly "
"No! dear heart! why, how do
the goslings live, then? "
The nutriment of goslings rather
transcending Tommy's observations
in natural history, he feigned to understand this question in an excl namtory rather than an interroga

tory sense, and became absorbed in
winding up his top.
". Ah, I see you don't know bow
thegoslingslive! Butdidyounotice
how it rained sugrar- lurns yesterp
day?" (Here Tommy became at.
tentive.) 11 Why,' they fell into my
pocket as I rode alone.. You look
in my pocket and "see if they
did n't."
Tommy, without waiting to discuss
the alleged antecedent, lost no time
in ascertaining the presence of the
agreeable consequent, for he, had a
well-founded belief in the advantages
of divin(r into the Vicar's pocket. Mr.
Gilfil called it his wonderful pocket,
because, as he deli-hted to tell the
it youno- shavers " and " two-shoes
so he called all little boys and
girls, -whenever he put pennies in.
to it, they turned into sugarplums or
gingerbread, or some other nice thin,-.
Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, a flaxenheaded " two-shoes," very white and
fat as to her neck, always had the
admirable directness and sincerity to
salute him with the question, -
What zoo dot in zoo pottet? "
You can imagine, then, that the
christeninw-dintiers were none tho
less merry, for the presence of the
parion-  The farmers relished hit
scLciety particularly, for he could not
only smoke his pipe, and sea-son the
details of parish affairs with abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs,
but, as Mr. Bond often said, no rnan.
knew more than the Vicar about the
breed of cows and horses. He had
grazing-land of his own about five
miles off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a
tenant, farmed under his direction;
and to ride backwards and forwards,
and look after the buying and sellinm
of stock, was the old gentleman's
chief relaxation, now his huntindays were over. To hear him discussing the respective merits of the
Devonshire, breed and the short-horns,
or the last foolish decision of the
magistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have seen little difference beyond his superior


tory sense, and became absorbed in
winding up his top.
"Ah, I see you don't know how
the goslings live! But did you notice
how it rained sugar-plums yesterday?"  (Here Tommy became attentive.)  " Why, they fell into my
pocket as I rode along. You look
in my pocket and see if they
did n't."
Tommy, without waiting to discuss
the alleged antecedent, lost no time
in ascertaining the presence of the
agreeable consequent, for he had a
well-founded belief in the advantages
of divine into the Vicar's pocket. Mr.
Gilfil called it his wonderful pocket,
because, as he delighted to tell the
"young shavers" and "two-shoes"
-so he called all little boys and
girls, -whenever he put pennies into it, they turned into sugar-plums or
gingerbread, or some other nice thing.
Indeed, little Bessie Parrot, a flaxenheaded " two-shoes," very white and
fat as to her neck, always had the
admirable directness and sincerity to
salute him with the question, -
" What zoo dot in zoo pottet? "
You can imagine, then, that the
christening-dinlers were none the
less merry for the presence of the
parson.  The farmers relished his
society particularly, for he could not
only smoke his pipe, and season the
details of parish affairs with abundance of caustic jokes and proverbs,
but, as Mr. Bond often said, no man
knew more than the Vicar about the
breed of cows and horses. He had
grazing-land of his own about five
miles off, which a bailiff, ostensibly a
tenant, farmed under his direction;
and to ride backwards and forwards,
and look after the buying and selling
of stock, was the old gentleman's
chief relaxation, now his huntingdays were over. To hear him discussing the respective merits of the
Devonshire breed and the short-horns,
or the last foolish decision of the
magistrates about a pauper, a superficial observer might have seen little difference, beyond his superior
K




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


shrewdness, between the Vicar and
his bucolic parishioners; for it was
his habit to approximate his accent
and mode of speech to theirs, doubtless because he thought it a mere
frustration of the purposes of language
to talk of " shear-hogs " and " ewes"
to men who habitually said "sharrags" and "yowes."    Nevertheless
the farmers themselves were perfectly
aware of the distinction between them
and the parson, and had not at all
the less belief in him as a gentleman
and a clergyman for his easy speech
and familiar manners. Mrs. Parrot
smoothed her apron and set her cap
right with the utmost solicitude when
she saw the Vicar coming, made him
her deepest courtesy, and every Christmas had a fat turkey ready to send
him with her "duty." And in the
most gossiping colloquies with Mr.
Gilfil, you might have observed that
both men and women " minded their
words," and never became indifferent
to his approbation.
The same respect attended him in
his strictly clerical functions. The
benefits of baptism were supposed to
be somehow bound up with Mr. Gilfil's personality, so metaphysical a
distinction as that between a man
and his office being, as yet, quite foreign to the mind of a good SheppeKton Churchman, savoring, he would
have thought, of Dissent on the very
face of it. Miss SelinaParrot put off
her marriage a whole month when
Mr. Gilfil had an attack of rheumatism, rather than be married in a
makeshift manner by the Milby curate.
" We've had a very good sermon
this morning," was the frequent remark, after hearing one of the old
yellow series, heard with all the more
satisfaction because it had been heard
for the twentieth time; for to minds
on the Shepperton level it is repetition, not novelty, that produces the
strongest effect; and phrases, like
tunes, are a long time making themselves at home in the brain.
Mr. Gilfil's sermons, as you may


imagine, were not of a highly doctrinal, still less of a polemical, cast.
They perhaps did not search the conscience very powerfully; for you re,
member that to Mrs. Patten, who
had listened to them thirty years, the
announcement that she was a sinner
appeared an uncivil heresy; but, on
the other hand, they made no unreasonable demand on the Shepperton
intellect, - amounting, indeed, to littie more than an expansion of the
concise thesis, that those who do
wrong will find it the worse for them,
and those who do well will find it the
better for them; the nature of wrongdoing being exposed in special sermons against lying, backbiting, anger, slothfulness, and the like; and
well-doing being interpreted as honi
esty, truthfulness, charity, industry,
and other common virtues, lying quite
on the surface of life, and having very
little to do with deep spiritual doctrine. Mrs. Patten understood that
if she turned out ill-crushed cheeses,
a just retribution awaited her;
though, I fear, she made no particular application of the sermon on backbiting. Mrs. Hackit expressed herself greatly edified by the sermon on
honesty, the allusion to the unjust
weight and deceitful balance having
a peculiar lucidity for her, owing to
a recent dispute with her grocer; but
I am not aware that she ever appeared
to be much struck by the sermon on
anger.
As to any suspicion that Mr. Gilfil
did not dispense the pure Gospel, or
any strictures on his doctrine and
mode of delivery, such thoughts never
visited the minds of the Shepperton
parishioners, - of those very parishioners who, ten or fifteen years later,
showed themselves extremely critical
of Mr. Barton's discourses and demeanor.   But in the interim they
had tasted that dangerous fruit of the
tree of knowledge - innovation,
which is well known to open the eyes,
even in an uncomfortable manner.
At present, to find fault with the sermon was regarded as almost equiva



3IR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


163


lent to finding fault with religion
itself. One Sunday, Mr. Hackit's
nephew, Master Tom Stokes, a Hippant town youth, greatly scandalized
his excellent relatives by declaring
that he could write as good a sermon
as Mr. Gilfil's; whereupon Mr. Hackit sought to reduce the presumptuous
youth to utter confusion, by offering
him a sovereign if he would fulfil his
vaunt.   The sermon was written,
however; and though it was not admitted to be anywhere within reach of
MrGilfil's, it was yet so astonishingly like a sermon, having a text, three
divisions, and a concluding exhortation beginning "And now, my brethren/' that the sovereign, though denied formally, was bestowed informally, and the sermonwas pronounced
when Master Stokes's back was
turned, to be " an uncommon civer
thing."
The Rev. Mr. Pickard, indeed, of
the Independent Meeting, had stated,
in a sermon preached at Rotherby,
for the reduction of a debt on New
Zion, built, with an exuberance of
faith and a deficiency of funds, by seceders from the original Zion, that he
lived in a parish where the Vicar was
very " dark "; and in the prayers he
addressed to his own congregation,
he was in the habit of comprehensively alluding to the parishioners
outside the chapel walls, as those
who, Gallio-like, "cared for none of
these things." But I need hardly
say that no church-goer ever came
within earshot of Mr. Pickard.
It was not to the Shepperton farmers only that Mr. Gilfil s society was
acceptable; he was a welcome guest
at some of the best houses in that
part of the country. Old Sir Jasper
Sitwell would have been glad to see
him every week; and if you had seen
him conducting Lady Sitwell in to
dinner, or had heard him talking to
her with quaint yet graceful gallantry, you would have inferred that the
earlier period of his life had been
passed in more stately society than
could be found in Shepperton, and


that. his slipshod chat and humely
manners were but like weather-stains
on a fine old block of marble, allowing
you still to see here and there the fineness of the grain, and the delicacy of
the orio-inal tint. But in his later
years these visits became a little too
troublesome to the old gentleman,
and he was rarely to be found anywhere of an evening beyond the
bounds of his own parish, - most frequently, indeed, by the side of his
own sitting-room fire, smoking his,
pipe and maintaining the pleasing
antithesis of dryness, and -moisture by
an occasional sip of gin-and-water.
Here I am aware that I have run
the risk of alienating aT my refined
lady-readers, and utterly annihilating
any curiosity they may have fiBlt to
know the details of Mr. Gilfil's lovestory.  " Gin-and-water! foh! you
may as well ask us to interest ourselves in the romance of a tallowchandler who mingles the image of
his beloved with short dips and
mo-tilds."
But in the first place, dear ladies,
allow me to plead that gin-and-water,
like obesity, or baldness, or the gout,
does not exclude a vast amount of antecedetit romance, any more than the
neatly executed " fronts " which you
may some day wear will exclude
I
your present possession of less expensive braids.  Alas, alas! we poor
mortals are often little better thart
wood-ashes, - there is small sign of
the sap, and the leafy freshness, and
the bursting buds that were once
there; but wherever we see woodashes, we know that all that early
fulness of life must have been. 1, at
least, hardly ever look at a bent old
man, or a wizened old woman, but I
see also, with my mind's eye, that
Past of which they are the shrunken
remnant, and the unfinished romance
of rosy cheeks and- bright eyes seems
sometimes of feeble interest and significance, comparedwith that drama
of hope and love which has long ago
reached its catastrophe, and left the
Door soul, like a dim and dusty stage,


that his slipshod chat and homely
manners were but like weather-stains
on a fine old block of marble, allowing
you still to see here and there the fineness of the grain, and the delicacy of
the original tint. But in his later
years these visits became a little too
troublesome to the old gentleman,
and he was rarely to be found anywhere of an evening beyond tho
bounds of his own parish, - most frequently, indeed, by the side of his
own sitting-room fire, smoking his
pipe, and maintaining the pleasing
antithesis of dryness and moisture by
an occasional sip of gin-and-water.
Here I am aware that I have run
the risk of alienating all my refined
lady-readers, and utterly annihilating
any curiosity they may have felt to
know the details of Mr. Gilfil's lovestory.  "Gin-and-water! foh! you
may as well ask us to interest ourselves in the romance of a tallowchandler, who mingles the image of
his beloved with short dips and
mo.ulds."
But in the first place, dear ladies,
allow me to plead that gin-and-water,
like obesity, or baldness, or the gout,
does not exclude a vast amount of antecedent romance, any more than the
neatly executed "fronts" which you
may some day wear will exclude
your present possession of less expensive braids.  Alas, alas! we poor
mortals are often little better than
wood-ashes, - there is small sign of
the sap, and the leafy freshness, and
the bursting buds that were once
there; but wherever we see woodashes, we know that all that early
fulness of life must have been. I, at
least, hardly ever look at a bent old
man, or a wizened old woman, but I
see also, with my mind's eye, that
Past of which they are the shrunken
remnant, and the unfinished romance
of rosy cheeks and bright eyes seems
sometimes of feeble interest and significance, compared'with that drama
of hope and love which has long ago
reached its catastrophe, and left the
poor soul, like a dim and dusty stage,




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


with all its sweet garden-scenes and derstanding with his master.  But
fair perspectives overturned and thrust there was a chamber in Shepperton
out of sight.                      Vicarage which told a different story
In the second place, let me assure from that bare and cheerless diningyou that Mr. Gilfil's potations of gin- room, -a chamber never entered by
and-water were quite moderate. His any one besides Mr. Gilfil and.old
nose was not rubicund; on the con- Martha the housekeeper, who, with
trary, his white hair hung around a David her husband as groom   and
pale and venerable face. He drank gardener, formed the Vicar's entire
it chiefly, I believe, because it was establishment.  The blinds of this
cheap; and here 1 find myself alight- chamber were always down, except
ing on another of the Vicar's weak- once a quarter, when Martha entered
nesses, which, if I had cared to paint that she might air and clean it. She
a flattering portrait rather than a always asked Mr. Gilfil for the key,
faithful one, I might have chosen to which he kept locked up in his busuppress. It is undeniable that, as reau, and returned it to him when
the years advanced, Mr. Gilfil became, she had finished her task.
as Mr. Hackit observed, more and     It was a touching sight that the
more "close-fisted," though the grow- daylight streamed in upon, as Maring propensity showed itself rather tha drew aside the blinds and thick
in the parsimony or his personal hab- curtains, and opened the Gothic caseits, than in withholding help from  ment of the oriel window! On the
the needy. He was saving - so he little dressing-table there was a dainty
represented the matter to himself-  looking-glass in a carved and gilt
for a nephew, the only son of a sister frame; bits of wax-candle were still
who had been the dearest object, all in the branched sockets at the sides,
but one, in his life. " The lad," he and on one of these branches hung a
thought, " will have a nice little for- little black lace kerchief; a faded sattune to begin life with, and will bring in pincushion, with the pins rusted
his pretty young wife some day to in it, a scent-bottle, and a large green
see the spot where his old uncle lies. fan, lay on the table; and on a dressIt will perhaps be all the better for ing-box by the side of the glass was a
his hearth that mine was lonely."  work-basket, and an unfinished babyMr. Gilfil was a bachelor, then?  cap, yellow with age, lying in it.
That is the conclusion to which you Two gowns, of a fashion long forgotwould probably have come if you had ten, were hanging on nails against the
entered his sitting-room  where the door, and a pair of tiny red slippers,
bare tables, the large old-fashioned with a bit of tarnished silver emhorse-hair chairs, and the threadbare broidery on them, were standing at
Turkey carpet perpetually fumigated the foot of the bed. Two or three
with tobacco, seemed to tell a story water-color drawings, views of Naof wifeless existence that was contra- plus, hung upon the walls; and over
dicted by no portrait, no piece of em- the mantel-piece, above some bits of
broidery, no faded bit of pretty trivial- rare old china, two miniatures in oval
ity, hinting of taper-fingers and small frames. One of these miniatures repfeminine ambitions.  And it was resented a young man about sevenhere that Mr. Gilfil passed his even- and-twenty, with a sanguine comings, seldom with other society than plexion, full lips, and clear candid
that of Ponto, his old brown setter, gray eyes. The other was the likewho, stretched out at full length on ness of a girl probably not more than
the rug with his nose between his fore- eighteen, with small features, thin
paws, would wrinkle his brows and cheeks, a pale southern-looking comlift up his eyelids every now and then, plexion, and large dark eyes. The
to exchange a glance of mutual un- gentleman wore powder; the lady




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


165


had her dark hair gathered away
from her face. and a little cap, with a
cherry-colored bow, set on the top of
her head, - a coquettish head-dress,
but the eyes spoke of sadness rather
than of coquetry.
Such were the things that Martha
had dusted and let the air upon, four
times a year, ever since she was a
blooming lass of twenty; and she was
now, in this last decade of Mr. Gilfil's
life, unquestionably on the wrong side
of- fifty. Such was the locked-up
chamber in Mr. Gilfil's house: a sort
of-visible symbol of the secret chamber in his heart, where he had long
turned the key on early hopes and
early sorrows, shutting up forever all
the passion and the poetry of his life.
There were not many people in the
parish, besides Martha, who had any
very distinct remembrance of Mr. Gilfil's wife, or indeed who knew anything of her, beyond the fact that
there was a marble tablet, with a
Latin inscription in memory of her,
over the vicarage pew. The parishioners who were old enough to remember her arrival were not generally
gifted with descriptive powers, and
the utmost you could gather from
them was, that Mirs. Gilfil looked
like a "furriner, wi' such eyes, you
can't think, an' a voice as went
through you when she sung at
church."  The one exception was
Mrs. Patten, whose strong memory
and taste for personal narrative m.ade
her a great source of oral tradition in
Shepperton. Mr. Hackit, who had
not come into the parish until ten
years after Mrs. Gilfit's death, would
often put old questions to Mrs. Patten
for the sake of getting the old answers, which ple sed him in the same
way as passages from a favorite book,
or the scenes of a familiar play, please
more accomplished people.
" Ah, you remember well the Sunday as Mrs. Gilfil first come to
church, eh, Mrs. Patten? "
" To be sure I do. It was a fine
bright Sunday as ever was seen, just
at the beginnin' o' hay harvest.




Mr. Tarbett preached that day, and
Mr. Gilfil sat i' the pew with his wife.
I think I see him now, a leading her
up the aisle, an' her head not reachin'
much above his elber: a little pale
woman, with eyes as black as sloes,
an' yet lookin' blank-like, as if she
see'd nothing with 'em."
"I warrant she had her weddin'
clothes on2 " said Mr. Hackit.
"Nothin' partickler smart, - on'y
a white hat tied down under her chin,
an' a white Indy muslin gown. But
you don't know what Mr. Gilfil was
in those times. He was fine an' altered before you come into the parish.
He'd a fresh color then, an' a bright
look wi' his eyes, as did your heart
good to see. He looked rare and happy that Sunday; but somehow, I 'd
a feelin' as it would n't last long.
I've no opinion o' furriners, Mr.
Hackit, for I 've travelled i' their
country with my lady in my time, an'
seen enough o' their victuals an'
their nasty ways."
"Mrs. Gilfil came from It'ly, did
n't she?"
"I reckon she did, but I niver
could rightly hear about that. Mr.
Gilfil was niver to be spoke to about
her, and nobody else hereabout
knowed anythin'. Howiver, she must
ha' come over pretty young, for she
spoke English as well as you an' me.
It's them Italians as has such fine
voices, an' Mrs. Gilfil sung, you
never heared the like. He brought
her here to have tea with me one afternoon, and says he, in his jovial way:
'Now, Mrs. Patten, I want Mrs. Gilfil to see the neatest house and drink
the best cup o' tea in all Shepperton;
you must show her your dairy and
your cheese-room, and then she shall
sing you a song.' An' so she did;
an' her voice seemed sometimes to fill
the room; an' then it went low an'
soft, as if it was whisperin' close to
your heart like."
"You never heared her again, I
reckon? "
" No: she was sickly then, and she
died in a few months after.  She




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


was n't in the parish much more nor
half a year altogether. She didn't
seem lively that afternoon, an' I
could see she did n't care about the
dairy, nor the cheeses, on'y she pretended, to please him. As for him, I
niver see'd a man so wrapt up in a
woman. He looked at her as if he
was worshippin' her, an' as if he
wanted to lift her off the ground ivery
minute, to save her the trouble o'
walkin'. Poor man, poor man! It
had like to ha' killed him when she
died, though he niver gev way, but
went on ridin' about and preachin'.
But he was wore to a shadow, an' his
eyes used to look as dead, — you
would n't ha' knowed 'em."
"She brought him no fortin?"
" Not she. All Mr. Gilfil's propertv come by his mother's side. There
was blood an' money too, there. It's
a thousand pities as he married i' that
way, -a fine man like him, as might
ha' had the pick o' the county, an'
had his grandchildren about him now.
An' him so fond o' children, too."
In this manner Mrs. Patten usually
wound up her reminiscences of the
Vicar's wife, of whom, you perceive,
she knew but little. It was clear that
the communicative old lady had nothing to tell of Mrs. Gilfil's history
previous to her arrival in Shepperton,
and that she was unacquainted with
Mr. Gilfil's love-story.
But I, dear reader, am quite as
communicative as Mrs. Patten, and
much better informed; so that, if you
care to know more about the Vicar's
courtship and marriage, you need
only carry your imagination back to
the latter end of the last century, and
your attention forward into the next
chapter.
CHAPTER II.
IT is the evening of the 21st of
June, 1788. The day has been bright
and sultry, and the sun will still be
more than an hour above the horizon,
but his rays, broken by the leafy


fretwork of the elms that border tli
park, no longer prevent two ladies
from carrying out their cushions af'd
embroidery, and seating themselves o
work on the lawn in fiont of Cheverel Manor. The soft turf gives wty
even under the fairy tread of the
younger lady, whose small statute
and slim figure rest on the tiniest of
full-grown feet. She trips along before the elder, carrying the cushibns,
which she places in the favorite spot,
just on the slope by a clump of la'urels, where they can see the sunbearbs
sparkling among the water-lilies, nrid
can be themselves seen from the diYiing-room windows. She has deposited
the cushions, and now turns round,
so that you may have a full view of
her as she stands waiting the slower
advance of the elder lady. You dAe
at once arrested by her large dark
eyes, which, in their inexpressive tnconscious beauty, resemble the eyes
of a fawn, and it is only by an effort
of attention that you notice the absence of bloom on her young cheek,
and the southern yellowish tint of
her small neck and face, rising abo'e
the little black lace kerchief which
prevents the too immediate comphrison of her skin with her white muslin
gown. Her large eyes seem all the
more striking because the dark hair
is gathered away from her face, under
a little cap set at the top of her head,
with a cherry-colored bow on olie
side.
The elder lady, who is advancing
towards the cushions, is cast in 'a
very different mould of womanhood.
She is tall, and looks the taller because her powdered hair is turned
backward over a toupee, and surmounted by lace and ribbons. She
is nearly fifty, but her complexion is
still fresh and beautiful, with the
beauty of an auburn blonde; her proud
pouting lips, and her head thrown a
little backward as she walks, give an
expression of hauteur which is not
contradicted by the cold gray eye.
The tucked-in  kerchief, rising fill
over the low tight bodice of her blue




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


dress, sets off the majestic form of her
bust, and she treads the lawn as if
she were one of Sir Joshua Reynolds's stately ladies, *ho had suddenly stepped from her frame to enjoy
the evening cool.
" Put the cushions lower, Caterina,
that we may not have so much sun
upon us," she called out, in a tone of
authority, when still at some distance.
Caterina obeyed, and they sat down,
making two bright patches of red and
white and blue on the green background of the laurels and the lawn,
which would look none the less pretty
in a picture because one of the women's hearts was rather cold and the
other rather sad.
And a charming picture Cheverel
Manor would have made that evening, if some English Watteau had
been there to paint it: the castellated
house of gray-tinted stone, with the
flickering sunbeams sending dashes
of golden light across the manyshaped panes in the mullioned windows, and a great beech leaning
athwart one of the flanking towers,
and breaking, with its dark flattened
boughs, the too formal symmetry of
the front; the broad gravel - walk
winding on the right, by a row of
tall pines, alongside the pool, -on
the left branching out among swelling
grassy mounds, surmounted by clumps
of trees, where the red trunk of the
Scotch fir glowvs in the descending
sunlight against the bright green of
limes and acacias; the great pool,
where a pair of swans are swimming
lazily with one leg tucked under a
wing, and where the open waterlilies lie calmly accepting the kisses
of the fluttering light-sparkles; the
lawn, with its smooth emerald greenness, sloping down to the' rougher
and browner herbage of the park,
from which it is invisibly fenced by a
little stream that winds away from
the pool, and disappears under a
wooden bridge in the distant pleasuregroind; and on this lawn our two
ladies, whose part in the landscape


the painter, standing at a favorable
point of view in the park, would
represent with a few little dabs of
red and white and blue.
Seen fiom the great Gothic windows of the dining-room, they had 
much more definiteness of outline,
and were distinctly visible to the
three gentlemen sipping their claret
there, as two fair women in whom all
three had a personal interest. These
gentlemen were a group worth considering attentively; but any one entering that dining-room for the first
time would perhaps have had his
attention even more strongly arrested
by the room itself, which was so bare
of furniture that it impressed one
with its architectural beauty like a
cathedral. A piece of matting stretched from door to door, a bit of worn
carpet under the dining-table, and a
sideboard in a deep recess, did not
detain the eve for a moment from the
lofty groined ceiling, with its richly
carved pendants, all of creamy white,
relieved here and there by touches of
gold. On one side, this lofty ceiling
was supported by pillars and arches,
beyond which a lower ceiling, a miniature copy of the higher one, covered
the square projection which, with its
three large pointed windows, formed
the central feature of the building.
The room looked less like a place to
dine in than a piece of space enclosed
simply for the sake of beautiful outline; and the small dining-table, with
the party round it, seemed an odd and
insignificant accident, rather than
anything connected with the original
purpose of the apartment.
But, examined closely, that group
was far from insignificant; for the
eldest, who was reading in the newspaper the last portentous proceedings
of the French Parliaments, and turning with occasional comments to his
young companions, was as fine a specimen of the old English gentleman as
could well have been found in those
venerable days of cocked-hats and
pigtails. His dark eyes sparkled under projecting brows, made more




168            SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


prominent by bushy grizzled eyebrows; but any apprehension of severity excited by these penetrating
eyes, and by a somewhat aquiline
nose, was allayed by the good-natured
lines about the mouth, which retained
all its teeth and its vigor of expression in spite of sixty winters. The
forehead sloped a little from the projecting brows, and its peaked outline
was made conspicuous by the arrangement of the profusely powdered hair
drawn backward and gathered into a pigtail.  He sat in a small
hard chair, which did not admit the
slightest approach to a lounge, and
which showed to advantage the flatness of his back and the breadth of his
chest. In fact, Sir Christopher Cheverel was a splendid old gentleman as any
one may see who enters the saloon at
Cheverel Manor where his full-length
portrait, taken when he was fifty,
hangs side by side with that of his
wife, the stately lady seated on the
lawn.
Looking at Sir Christopher, you
would at once have been inclined to
hope that he had a full-grown son and
heir; but perhaps you would have
wished that it might not prove to be
the young man on his right hand, in
whom a certain resemblance to the
Baronet, in the contour of the nose
and brow, seemed to indicate a family
relationship. If this young man had
been less elegant in his person, he
would have been remarked for the
elegance of his dress. But the perfections of his slim, well-proportioned
figure were so striking that no one
but a tailor could notice the perfections of his velvet coat; and his small
white hands with their blue veins and
taper fingers quite eclipsed the beauty
of his lace ruffles. The face, however,
- it was difficult to say why, - was
certainly  not pleasing.  Nothing
could be more delicate than the blond
complexion - its bloom set off by the
powdered hair - than the veined overhanging eyelids which gave an indolent expression to the hazel eyes;
nothing more finely cut than the trans

arent nostril and the short u per I
p   - ip.
Perhaps the chin and lower jaw were
too small for an irreproachable profile,
but the defect, was on the side of that
delicacy andfinesse which was the distinctive characteristic of the whole
person, and which was carried out in
the clear brown arch of the eyebrows,
and the marble smoothness of the
sloping forehead. Impossible to say
that this face was not eminently
handsome; yet for the majority both
of men and women, it was destitute
of cbarm. Women disliked eves t6`t
seemed to be indolently accepting admiration instead of rendering it.; and
men, especially if thev had a tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles,
were inclined to think this Antinous
in a pigtail a " confounded p
Uppy.
I fancy that was frequently the inward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the
opposite side of the dining-table,
though Mr. Gilfil's legs and profile
were not at all of a kind to make biva
peculiarly aliveto the impertineiwe
and frivolity of personal advantages.
His healthy open face and robifst
limbs were after an excellent pattern
for everv-day wear, and, in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country
gardener, would have become regimentals "a fain saight " better than
the   peaky " features and   sliaht
form of Captain Wybrow, notw4hstanding that this young gentleman,
as Sir Christopher's nephew and d-estined heir, had the strongest hereditary claim on the gardener's respe
and was undeniably " clean-limbeq.."
But alas! human longings are perversely obstinate; and to the man
whose mouth is watering for a peach,
it is of no use to offer the largest vegotable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not
sensitive to Mr. Bates's opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of
another person, who by no means
shared Mr. Bates's preference.
Who the other person was it would
not have required a very keen observer to guess, from a certain eagerness
in Mr. Gilfil's glance as that little


parent nostril and the short upper lip.:
Perhaps the chin and lower jaw were
too small for an irreproachable profile,
but the defect, was on the side of that
delicacy and finesse which was the distinctive characteristic of the whole
person, and which was carried out in
the clear brown arch of the eyebrows,
and the marble smoothness of the
sloping forehead. Impossible to say
that this face was not eminently
handsome; yet for the majority both
of men and women, it was destitute
of charm. Women disliked eves that
seemed to be indolently accepting admiration instead of rendering it; and
men, especially if they had a tendency to clumsiness in the nose and ankles,
were inclined to think this Antinous
in a pigtail a "confounded puppy."
I fancy that was frequently the inward interjection of the Rev. Maynard Gilfil, who was seated on the
opposite side of the dining-table,
though Mr. Gilfil's legs and profile
were not at all of a kind to make him
peculiarly alive to the impertinence
and frivolity of personal advantages.
His healthy open face and robust
limbs were after an excellent pattern
for every-day wear, and, in the opinion of Mr. Bates, the north-country
gardener, would have become regimentals "a fain saight" better than
the "peaky" features and    slight
form of Captain Wybrow, notwithstanding that this young gentleman,
as Sir Christopher's nephew and destined heir, had the strongest hereditary claim on the gardener's respect,
and was undeniably "clean-limbed."
But alas! human longings are perversely obstinate; and to the man
whose mouth is watering for a peach,
it is of no use to offer the largest vegetable marrow. Mr. Gilfil was not
sensitive to Mr. Bates's opinion, whereas he was sensitive to the opinion of
another person, who by no means
shared Mr. Bates's preference.
Who the other person was it would
not have required a very keen observer to guess, from a certain eagerness
in Mr. Gilfil's glance as that little




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


169


figure in white tripped along the lawn
with the cushions. Captain Wybrow,
too, was looking in the same direction, but his handsome face remained
handsome, - and nothing more.
" Ah," said Sir Christopher, looking up from his paper, "there's my
lady. Ring for coffee, Anthony; we
'11 go and join her, and the little monkey Tina shall give us a song."
The  coffee presently  appeared,
brought- not as usual by the footman, in scarlet and drab, but -by
the old butler, in threadbare, but wellbrushed black, who, as he was placing
it on the table, said, -
"If you please, Sir Christopher,
there's the widow Hartopp a crying
i' the still-room, and begs leave to see
your honor."
" I have given Markham full orders
about the widow Hartopp," said Sir
Christopher, in a sharp, decided tone.
" I have nothing to say to her."
"Your honor," pleaded the butler,
rubbing his hands, and putting on an
additional coating of humility, "the
poor woman 's dreadful overcome,
and says she can't sleep a wink this
blessed night without seeing your
honor, and she begs you to pardon
the great freedom she s took to come
at this time. She cries fit to break
her heart."
"Ay, ay; water pays no tax.
Well, show her into the library."
Coffee despatched, the two young
men walked out through the open
window, and joined the ladies on the
lawn, while Sir Christopher made his
way to the library, solemnly followed
by Rupert, his pet bloodhound, who,
in his habitual place at the Baronet's
right hand, behaved with great urbanity during dinner; but when the
cloth was drawn, invariably disappeared under the table, apparently
regarding the claret-jug as a mere human weakness, which he winked at,
but refused to sanction.
The library lay but three steps
from the dining-room, on the other
side of a cloistered and matted passage. The oriel window was over8


shadowed by the great beech, and
this, with the flat, heavily carved ceiling and the dark hue of the old books
that lined the walls, made the room
look sombre, especially on entering it
from the dining-room, with its aerial
curves and cream-colored fretwork
touched with gold. As Sir Christopher opened the door, a jet of brighter
light fell on a woman in a widow's
dress, who stood in the middle of the
room, and made the deepest of courtesies as he entered. She was a buxom
woman approaching forty, her eyes
red with the tears which had evidently been absorbed by the handkerchief
gathered into a damp ball in her right
hand.
"Now, Mrs. Hartopp," said Sir
Christopher, taking out his gold
snuff-box and tapping the lid, " what
have you to say to me? Markham
has delivered you a notice to quit, I
suppose?"
" O yis, your honor, an' that 's the
reason why I 've come. I hope your
honor 'll think better on it, an' not
turn me an' my poor children out o'
the farm, where my husband al'ys
paid his rent as reglar as the day
come."
"Nonsense! I should like to know
what good it will do you and your
children to stay on a farm and lose
every farthing your husband has left
you, instead of selling your stock and
going into some little place where you
can keep your money together. It is
very well known to every tenant of
mine that I never allow widows to
stay on their husbands' farms."
" 0 Sir Christifer, if you would
consider, - when I 've sold the hay,
an' corn, an' all the live things, an'
paid the debts, an' put the money out
to use, I shall have hardly enough to
keep our souls an' bodies together.
An how can I rear my boys and put
'em 'prentice? They must go for
day-laborers, an' their father a man
wi as good belongings as any on
your honor's estate, an' niver threshed
his wheat afore it was well i' the rick,
nor sold the straw off his farm, nor




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


pothiri.' Ask all the farmers round
if there was a stiddier, soberer man
than my husband as attended Ripstone market. An' he says, 'Bessie,'
says he, —them was his last words,
— ' you '11 mek a shift to manage the
farm, if Sir Christifer 'ull let you stay
on.' "
"Pooh, pooh!" said Sir Christopher, Mrs. H-artopp's sobs having interrupted her pleadings, "now listen
to me, and try to understand a little
common sense. You are about as
able to manage the farm as your best
milch cow. You '11 be obliged to
have some managing man, who will
either cheat you out of your money
or wheedle you into marrying him."
"'0 your honor, I was never that
sort o' woman, an' nobody has known
it on me."
" Very likely not, because you were
never a widow before. A woman 's
always silly enough, but she 's never
quite as great a fool as she can be
until she puts on a widow's cap.
Now, just ask yourself how much the
better you will be for staying on your
farm at the end of four years, when
you 've got through your money,
and let your farm run down, and are
in arrears for half your rent; or,
perhaps, have got some great hulky
fellow for a husband, who swears at
you and kicks your children."
" Indeed, Sir Christifer, I know a
deal o' farmin', an' was brought up i'
the thick on it, as you may say. An'
there was my husband's great-aunt
managed a farm for twenty year, an'
left legacies to all her nephys an'
nieces, an' even to my husband, as
was then a babe unborn."
"Psha! a woman six feet high,
with a squint and sharp elbows, I
dare say, - a man in petticoats. Not
a rosy-cheeked widow like you, Mrs.
Hartopp."
" Indeed, your honor, I never heard
of her squintin', an' they said as she
might ha' been married o'er and o'er
again, to people as had no call to hanker after her money."
" Ay, ay, that's what you all think.


Every man that looks at you wants
to marry you, and would like you the
better the more children you have and
the less money. But it is useless to
talk and cry. I have good reasons
for my plans, and never alter them.
What you have to do is to make the
best of your stock, and to look out for
some little place to go to, when you
leave the Hollows. Now, go back to
Mrs. Bellamy's room, and ask her to
give you a dish of tea."
Mrs. Hartopp, understanding from
Sir Christopher's tone that he was not
to be shaken, courtesied low and left
the library, while the Baronet, seating himself at his desk in the oriel
window, wrote the following letter: -
" MR. MARKHAM, - Take no steps
about letting Crowbfoot Cottage, as I
intend to put in the widow Hartopip
when she leaves her farm; and if you
will be here at eleven on Saturday
morning, I will ride round with you,
and settle about making some repairs,
and see about adding a bit of land to
the take, as she will want to keep A
cow and some pigs.
"Yours faithfully, 
" CRISTOPIER CHEVEREL.".
After ringing the bell and ordering
this letter to be sent, Sir Christopher
walked out to join the party on tie
lawn. But finding the cushions deserted, he walked on to the eastern
front of the building, where, by the
side of the grand entrance, was the
large bow-window of the saloon, opening on to the gravel-sweep, and looking towards a long vista of undulating
turf, bordered by tall trees, which,
seeming to unite itself with the green
of the meadows and a grassy road
through a plantation, only terminated
with the Gothic arch of a gateway in
the far distance. The bow-window
was open, and Sir Christopher, stepping in, found the group he sought,
examining the progress of the unfinished ceiling. It was in the same
style of florid pointed Gothic as the:Z:
N.,
Ir




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


171


dining-room, but more elaborate in
its tracery, which was like petrified
lace-work picked out with delicate
and varied coloring. About a fourth
of it still remained uncolored, and
under this part were scaffolding, ladders, and tools; otherwise the spacious saloon was empty of furniture,
and seemed to be a grand Gothic
canopy for the group of five human
figures standing in the centre.
"Francesco has been getting on a
little better the last (lay or two," said
Sir Christopher, as he joined the party: " he 's a sad lazy dog, and I fancyhe h as a knack of sleeping as lie
stands, with his brushes in his hands.
But I must spur him on, or we may
not have the scaffolding cleared away
before the bride comes, if you show
dexterous generalship in your wooing, eh, Anthony? and take your
Magdeburg quickly."
"Ah, sir, a siee is known to be one
of the most tedious operations in
war," said Captain Wybrow, with an
easy smile.
" Not when there's a traitor with-.in the walls in the shape of a soft
heart.  And that there will be, if
Beatrice has her mother's tenderness
as well as her mother's beauty."
" What do you think, Sir Christopher," said Lady Cheverel, who
seemed to wince a little under her husband's reminiscences, "of hanging
Guercino's' Sibyl' over that door
when we put up the pictures? It is
rather lost in my sitting-room."
" Very good, my love," answered
Sir Christopher, in a tone of punctiliously polite affection; "if you like
to part with the ornament from your
own room, it will show admirably
here. Our portraits, by Sir Joshua,
will hang opposite the window, and
the 'Transfiguration,' at that end.
You see, Anthony, I am leaving no
good places on the walls for you and
your wife. We shall turn you with
your faces to the wall in the gallery,
and you may take your revenge on us
by and by."
While this conversation was going


on, Mr. Gilfil turned to Caterina and
said:
" I like the view from this window
better than any other in the house."
She made no answer, and he saw
that her eyes were filling with tears;
so lie added: " Suppose we walk out a
little; Sir Christopher and my lady
seem to be occupied."
Caterina complied silently, and
they turned down one of the gravel
walks that led, after many windings,
under tall trees and among grassy
openings, to a large enclosed flowergarden. Their walk was perfectly silent, for Maynard Gilfil knew that
Caterina's thoughts were not with
him, and she had been long used to
make him endure the weight of those
moods which she carefully hid from
others.
They reached the flower-garden,
and turned mechanically in at the gate
that opened, through a high thick
hedge, on an expanse of brilliant color, which, after the green shades they
had passed through, startled the eye
like flames. The effect was assisted
by an undulation of the ground,
which gradually descended from the
entrance-gate, and then rose again
towards the opposite end, crowned by
an orangery. The flowers were glowing with their evening splendors;
verbenas and heliotropes were sending up their finest incense. It seemed
a gala where all was happiness and
brilliancy, and misery could find no
sympathy.   This was the effect it
had on Caterina.   As she wound
among the beds of gold and blue and
pink, where the flowers seemed to be
looking at her with wondering, elf-like
eyes, knowing nothing of sorrow, the
feeling of isolation in her wretchedness overcame her, and the tears,
which had been before trickling slowly down her pale cheeks, now gushed
forth accompanied with sobs. And
yet there was a loving human being
close beside her, whose heart was
aching for hers, who was possessed by
the feeling that she was miserable,
and that he was helpless to soothe her.




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


But she was too much irritated by
the idea that his wishes were different
from hers, that he rather regretted
the folly of her hopes than the probability of their disappointment, to
take any comfort in his sympathy.
Caterina, like the rest of us, turned
away from sympathy which she suspected to be mingled with criticism,
as the child turns away from the
sweetmeat in which it suspects imperceptible medicine.
"Dear Caterina, I think I hear
voices," said Mr. Gilfil "they may
be coming this way."
She checked herself like one accustomed to conceal her emotions, and
ran rapidly to the other end of the
garden, where she seemed occupied in
selecting a rose.  Presently Lady
Cheverel entered, leaning on the arm
of Captain Wybrow, and followed by
Sir Christopher. The party stopped
to admire the tiers of geraniums near
the gate; and in the mean time Caterina tripped back with a moss rosebud in her hand, and, going up to
Sir Christopher, said - " There, Padroncello, - there is a nice rose for
your button-hole."
"Ah, you black-eyed monkey," he
said, fondly stroking her cheek; "so
you have been running off with Maynard, either to torment or coax him
an inch or two deeper into love.
Come, come, I want you to sing us
' Ho perduto' before we sit down to
piquet,  Anthony goes to-morrow,
you know; you must warble him into
the right sentimental lover's mood,
that he may acquit himself well at
Bath." He put her little arm uider
his, and calling to Lady Cheverel,
"Come, Henrietta!" led the way
towards the house.
The party entered the drawingroom, which, with its oriel window,
corresponded to the library in the
other wing, and had also a flat ceiling heavy with carving and blazonry;
but the window being unshaded, and
the walls hung with full-length portraits of knights and dames in scarlet,
white, and gold, it had not-the sombre


effect of the library. Here hung the
portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel,.
who in the reign of Charles II. was
the renovator of the family splendor,
which had suffered some declension
from the early brilliancy of that Chevreuil who came over with the Conqueror. A very imposing personage
was this Sir Anthony, standing with
one arm akimbo, and one fine leg and
foot advanced, evidently with a view to
the gratification of his contemporaries and posterity. You might have
taken off his splendid peruke, and his
scarlet cloak, which was thrown backward from his shoulders, without annihilating the dignity of his appearance. And he had known how to
choose a wife, too, for his lady, hanging opposite to him, with her sunny
brown hair drawn away in bands
from her mild grave face, and falling
in two large rich curls on her snowy
gently sloping neck, which shamed
the harsher hue and outline of her
white satin robe, was a fit mother of
"large-acred " heirs.
In this room tea was served; and
here, every evening, as regularly as
the great clock in the court-yard with
deliberate bass tones struck nine,
Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel
sat down to piquet until half past ten,
when Mr. Gilfil read prayers to the
assembled household in the chapel.
But now it was not near nine, and
Caterina must sit down to the harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher's favorite airs, by Gluck and Paesiello,
whose operas, for the happiness of
that generation, were then to be
heard on the London stage. It happened this evening that the sentiment
of these airs, " C'he faro senza Eurydice?" and " Ho perduto il bel senbiante," in both of which the singer
pours out his yearning after his lost
love, came very close to Caterina's
own feeling. But her emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her
singing, gave her additional power.
Her singing was what she could do
best; it was her one point of superiority, in which it was probable she




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


173


would excel the high-born beauty
whom Anthony was to woo; and her
love, her jealousy, her pride, her rebellion against her destiny, made one
stream of passion which welled forth
in the deep rich tones of her voice.
She had a rare contralto, which Lady
Cheverel, who had high musical taste,
had been careful to preserve her from
straining.
"Excellent, Caterina," said Lady
Cheverel, as there was a pause after
the wonderful linked sweetness of
" Che farb."  " I never heard you
sing that so well. Once more!"
It was repeated; and then came,
" Ho perduto," which Sir Christopher
encored, in spite of the clock, just
striking nine. When the last note
was dying out he said: —
"There 's a clever black - eyed
monkey. Now bring out the table
for piquet."
Caterina drew out the table and
placed the cards; then, with her
rapid fairy suddenness of motion,
threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir Christopher's knee. He bent
down, stroked her cheek, and smiled.
"Caterina, that is foolish," said
Lady Cheverel. "I wish you would
leave off those stage-players' antics."
She jumped up, arranged the
music on the harpsichord, and then,
seeing the Baronet and his lady seated at piquet, quietly glided out of the
room.
Captain Wybrow had been leaning
near the harpsichord during the singing, and the chaplain had thrown
himself on a sofa at the end of the
room. They both now took up a
book. Mr. Gilfil chose the last numbe; of the " Gentleman's Magazine ";
Captain Wybrow, stretched on an
ottoman near the door, opened " Faubias "; and there was perfect silence
in the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate
tones of Caterina.
She had made her way along the
cloistered passages, now lighted here
and there by a small oil-lamp, to the
grand staircase, which led directly


to a gallery running along the whole
eastern side of the building, where it
was her habit to walk when she
wished to be alone. The bri-ht moonlicht was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and
shadow the heterogeneous objects
that lined the Iona walls: Greek statlues and busts of Roman emperors;
low cabinets filled with curiosities,
natural and antiquarian; tro'picM
birds and huge horns of beasts; 11indoo gods and strange shells; swords
and daggers, and bits of chainarmor; Roman lamps and tiny
models of Greek ternples; and, above
all these, queer old family portraits,
of little boys and girls, once the
hope of the Cheverels, with close-shaven heads im. oned in stiff ruffs, -
of faded, in -faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses,-of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.
Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade, and here billiards were played;
but, in the evenin-, it was forsaken
by all except Caterina, -and, sometimes, one other person.
She paced up and down in the
moonlight, her pale face and thin
white-robed form making her look
like the ghost of some former Lady
Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses
ofthe moon.
By and by she paused opposite the
broad window above the portico, and
looked out on the Ion- vista of turf
and tree:,,, now stretching chill and
saddened. in the moonlight.
Suddenly a breath of warmth and
roses seemed to float towards her,
and an arm stole gently round her
waist, while a soft hand took up her
tinyfin-ers. Caterinafeltanelectric
thrill, anti was motionless for one
Iona moment; then she pushed away
the arm and hand, and, turning
round, lifted up to the face that hung
over her eyes full of tenderness and
reproach.   The    fawn-like  unconsciousness was zone. and in that one


to a gallery running along the whole
eastern side of the building, where it
was her habit to walk when she
wished to be alone. The bright moonlight was streaming through the windows, throwing ilto strange light and
shadow the heterogeneous objects
that lined the long walls: Greek statues and busts of Roman emperors;
low cabinets filled with curiosities,
natural and  antiquarian; tropical
birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and strange shells; swords
and daggers, and   bits of chainarmor; Roman    lamps  and  tiny
models of Greek temples; and, above
all these, queer old family portraits,
-of little boys and girls, once the
hope of the Cheverels, with close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs, -
of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly developed head-dresses, - of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.
Here, on rainy days, Sir Christopher and his lady took their promenade, and here billiards were played;
but, in the evening, it was forsaken
by all except Caterina,- and, sometimes, one other person.
She paced up and down in the
moonlight, her pale face and thin
white-robed form making her look
like the ghost of some former Lady
Cheverel come to revisit the glimpses
of the moon.
By and by she paused opposite the
broad window above the portico, and
looked out on the long vista of turf
and trees, now stretching chill and
saddened in the moonlight.
Suddenly a breath of warmth and
roses seemed to float towards her,
and an arm stole gently round her
waist, while a soft hand took up her
tiny fingers. Caterina felt an electric
thrill, and was motionless for one
long moment; then she pushed away
the arm and hand, and, turning
round, lifted up to the face that hung
over her eyes full of tenderness and
reproach.  The fawn-like unconsciousness was gone, and in that one




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


look were the gronnd tones of poor
little Caterina s nature, - intense
love and fierce jealousy.
"Why do you push me away,
Tina?" said Captain Wybrow, in a
half-whisper; " are you angry with
me for what a hard fate puts upon
me? Would you have me cross my
uncle —who has done so much for
us both - in his dearest wish? You
know I have duties-we both have
duties - before which feeling must
be sacrificed."
" Yes, yes," said Caterina, stamping her foot, and turning away her
head; " don't tell me what 1 know
already."
There was a voice speaking in Caterina's mind to which she had never
yet given vent. That voice said continually: "Why did he make me
love him, - why did he let me know
he loved me, if he knew all the while
that he could n't brave everything for
my sake " Then love answered:
"He was led on by the feeling of the
moment, as you have been, Caterina;
and now you ought to help him to
do what is right." Then the voice
rejoined: "It was a slight matter to
him. He does n't much mind giving
you up.   He will soon love that
beautiful woman, and forget a poor
little pale thing like you."
Thus love, anger, and jealousy
were struggling.in that young soul.
"Besides, Tina," continued Captain Wybrow in still gentler tones,
"I shall not succeed. Miss Assher
very likely prefers some one else;
and you know I have the best will
in the world to fail. I shall come
back a hapless bachelor,-perhaps
to find you already married to the
good-looking chaplain, who is over
head and ears in love with you. Poor
Sir Christopher has made up his
mind that you 're to have Gilfil."
"Why will you speak so? You
speak from your own want of feeling.
Go away from me."
"Don't let us part in anger, Tina.
All this may pass away. It's as likely as not that I may never marry any


one at all. These palpitations fthiti
carry me off, and you may have tW
satisfaction of knowing that I shalt
never be anybody's bridegroom. Wht
knows what may happen? I may be
my own master before I get into the
bonds of holy matrimony, and be ahbl
to choose my little singing-bird. Why
should we distress ourselves before
the time? "
"It is easy to talk so when you are
not feeling," said Caterina, the tears
flowing fast. " It is bad to bear now;
whatever may come after. But yott
don't care about my misery."
"Don't I, Tina? " said Anthoiny
in his tenderest tones, again stealing
his arm round her waist, and drawing
her towards him. Poor Tina was the
slave of this voice and touch. Grief
and resentment, retrospect and foreboding, vanished, -all life before antid
after melted away in the bliss of that
moment, as Anthony pressed his lips
to hers.
Captain Wybrow thought: "Poor,
little Tin! it would make her very
happy to have me. But she is a mad
little thing."
At that moment a loud bell startled
Caterina from her trance of bliss. -It
was the summons to prayers in the
chapel, and she hastened away, leaving Captain Wybrow to follow slowly.
It was a pretty sight, that family
assembled to worship in the little
chapel, where a couple of wax cantlles threw a mild faint light on the
figures kneeling there. In the deak
was Mr. Gilfil, with his face a shade
graver than usual.   On his right
hand, kneeling on their red velvet
cushions, were the master and mistress of the household, in their elderly dignified beauty. On his left, the
youthful grace of Anthony and Caterina, in all the striking contrast of
their coloring, -he, with his exquisite outline and rounded fairness, like
an Olympian god; she, dark and tiny,
like a gypsy changeling. Then there
were the domestics kneeling on redcovered forms, - the women headed




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


175


by Mrs. Bellamy, the natty little old
housekeeper, in snowy cap and apron,
and Mrs. Sharp, my lady's maid, of
somewhat vinegar aspect and flaunting attire; the men by Mr. Bellamy
the butler, and Mr. Warren, Sir
Christopher's venerable valet.
A few collects from the Evening
Service was what Mr. Gilfil habitually
read, ending with the simple petition,
' Lighten our darkness."
And then they all rose, the servants
turning to courtesy and bow as they
went out. The family returned to
the drawing-room, said good night to
each other, and dispersed, - all to
speedy slumber except two.   Catermna only cried herself to sleep after
the clock had struck twelve. Mr.
Gilfil lay awake still longer, thinking
that very likely Caterina was crying.
Captain Wybrow, having dismissed
his valet at eleven, was soon in a soft
plumber, his face looking like a fine
cameo in high relief on the slightly indented pillow.
CHAPTER III.
THE last chapter has given the discerning reader sufficient insight into
the state of things at Cheverel Manor
in the summer of 1788. In that summer, we know, the great nation of
France was agitated by conflicting
thoughts and passions, which were
but the beginning of sorrows. And
in our Caterina's little breast, too,
there were terrible struggles. The
poor bird was beginning to flutter
and vainly dash its soft breast against
the hard iron bars of the inevitable,
and we see too plainly the danger, if
that anguish should go on heightening instead of being allayed, that the
palpitating heart may be fatally
bruised.
Meanwhile, if, as I hope, you feel
some interest in Caterina and her
friends at Cheverel Manor, you are
perhaps asking, How came she to be
there? How was it that this tiny,
dark-eyed child of the south, whose


face was immediately suggestive of olive-covered hills and taper-lit shrines,
came to have her home in that stately
English manor-house, by the side of
the blond matron, Lady Cheverel,
almost as if a humming-bird were
found perched on one of the elm-trees
in the park, by the side of her ladyship's handsomest pouter-pigeon?
Speaking good English, too, and joining in Protestant prayers! Surely
she must have been adopted and
brought over to England at a very
early age. She was.
During Sir Christopher's last visit
to Italy with his lady, fifteen years before, they resided for some time at
Milan, where Sir Christopher, who
was an enthusiast for Gothic architecture, and was then entertaining
the project of metamorphosing his
plain brick family mansion into the
model of a Gothic manor-house, was
bent on studying the details of that
marble miracle, the Cathedral. Here
Lady Cheverel, as at other Italian
cities where she made any protracted
stay, engaged a maestro to give her
lessons in singing, for she had then
not only fine musical taste, but a fine
soprano voice. Those were days when
very rich people used manuscript music, and many a man who resembled
Jean Jacques in nothing else resembled him in getting a livelihood "B
copier la musique a tant la page."
Lady Cheverel having need of this
service, Maestro Albani told her he
would send her a poveraccio of his
acquaintance, whose manuscript was
the neatest and most correct he knew
of. Unhappily, the poveraccio was
not always in his best wits, and was
sometimes rather slow in consequence; but it would be a work of
hristian charity worthy of the beautiful Signora to employ poor Sarti.
The next morning, Mrs. Sharp,
then a blooming abigail of three-andthirty, entered her lady's private room
and said: "If you please, my lady,
there's the frowiest, shabbiest man
you ever saw outside, and he's told
Mr. Warren as the singing-master




176


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


sent him to see your ladyship. But I
think you 'll hardly like him to come
in here. Belike he's only a beggar."
"O yes, show him in immediately-"
Mrs. Sharp retired, muttering something about "fleas and worse." She
had the smallest possible admiration
for fair Ausonia and its natives, and
even her profound deference for Sir
Christopher and her lady could not
prevent her from expressing her
amazement at the infatuation of gentlefolks in choosing to sojourn among
"Papises, in countries where there
was no getting to air a bit o' linen,
and where the people smelt o' garlick
fit to knock you down."
However she presently reappeared,
ushering in a small meagre man,
sallow and dingy, with a restless wandering look in his dull eyes, and an
excessive timidity about his deep
reverences, which gave him the air of
a man who had been long a solitary
prisoner. Yet through all this squalor
and wretchedness there were some
traces discernible of comparative youth
and former good looks. Lady Cheverel, though not very tender-hearted,
still less sentimental, was essentially
kind, and liked to dispense benefits
like a goddess, who looks down benignly on the halt, the maimed, and
the blind that approach her shrine.
She was smitten with some compassion at the sight of poor Sarti, who
struck her as the mere battered wreck
of a vessel that might have once floated gayly enough on its outward voyage, to the sound of pipes and tabors.
She spoke gently as she pointed out
to him the operatic selections she
wished him to copy, and he seemed
to sun himself in her auburn, radiant
presence, so that when he made his
exit with the music-books under his
arm, his bow, though not less reverent, was less timid.
It was ten years at least since Sarti
had seen anythingso bright and stately
and beautiful as Lady Cheverel. For
the time was far off in which he had


trod the stage in satin and feathers,the primo teltore of one short season,-,
He had completely lost his voice in th.-,
following winter, and had ever sincq-,,
been little better than a cracked fid-.
dle, which is good for nothing but:,
firewood.  For, like  many Italian 
singers, he was too ignorant to teac-b
and if it had not been for his one:
talent of penmanship, he and his
young helpless wife might have
starved. Then, just after their third
child was born, fever came, swept,
away the sickly mother and the two
eldest, children, and attacked Sarti.
himself, who rose from his sick-bed,
with enfeebled brain and muscle, and.
a tiny baby on his hands, scarcely
four months old. He lodged over a
fruit-shop kept by a stout virago,
loud of tongue and irate in temper,
but who had had children born to
her, and so had taken care of the;
tiny yellow, black-eyed  bambinetta,
and tended Sarti himself through his
sickness.  Here he continued to live,
earning a meagre subsistence for himself and his little one by the work of
copying music, put into his hands
chiefly by Maestro Albani. He seemed
to exist for nothing but the child;
he tended it, he dangled it, he chatted
to it, living with it alone in his one
room above the fruit-shop, only asking his landlady to take care of the
marmoset during his short absences
in fetching and carrying home work,
Customers frequenting that fruit-shop
might often see the tiny Caterina
seated on the floor with her legs in a
heap of peas, which it was her de
light to kick about; or perhaps depQsited, like a kitten, in a large basket
out of harm's way.
Sometimes, however, Sarti left his
little one with another kind of protectress. He was very regular in his
devotions, which he paid thrice a
week in the great cathedral, carrying
Caterina with him. Here, when the
high morning sun was warming the
myriad glittering pinnacles without,
and struggling against the massiveg
gloom within, the shadow of a man -




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


177


with a child on his arm  might be in a dirty narrow street opposite La
seen flitting across the more station- Pazzini's fruit-shop, and that large
ary shadows of pillar and mullion, specimen of womanhood immediately
and making its way towards a little presented herself at the door, to the
tinsel Madonna hanging in a retired extreme disgust of Mrs. Sharp, who
spot near the choir. Amid all the remarked privately to Mr. Warren
sublimities of the mighty cathedral, that La Pazzini was a " hijeous porpoor Sarti had fixed on this tinsel pis."  The fruit-woman, however,
adonna as the symbol of divine was all smiles and deep courtesies to
mercy and protection,-just as a the Eccelentissima, who, not very well
child, in the presence of a great land- understanding her Milanese dialect,
scape, sees none of the glories of wood abbreviated the conversation by asking
and sky, but sets its heart on a float- to be shown at once to Signor Sarti.
ing feather or insect that happens to La Pazzini preceded her up the dark
be on a level with its eye. Here, narrow stairs, and opened a door
then, Sarti worshipped and prayed, through which she begged her ladysetting Caterina on the floor by his ship to enter. Directly opposite the
side; and now and then, when the door lay Sarti, on a low miserable
cathedral lay near some place where bed. His eyes were glazed, and no
he had to call, and did not like to movement indicated that he was contake her, he would leave her there in scious of their entrance.
front of the tinsel Madonna, where   On the foot of the bed was seated a
she would sit, perfectly good, amusing tiny child, apparently not three years
herself with low crowing noises and old, her head covered by a linen cap,
see-sawings of her tiny body. And her feet clothed with leather boots,
when Sarti came back, he always above which her little yellow   legs
found that the Blessed Mother had showed thin and naked. A     frock,
taken good care of Caterina.      made of what had once been a gay
That was briefly the historyof Sarti, flowered silk, was her only other garwho fulfilled so well the orders Lady ment. Her large dark eyes shone
Cheverel gave him, that she sent him  from out her queer little face, like two
away again with a stock of new work. precious stones in a grotesque image
But this time, week after week passed, carved in old ivory. She held an
and he neither reappeared nor sent empty medicine-bottle in her hand,
home the music intrusted to him. and was amusing herself with putting
Lady Cheverel began to be anxious, the cork in and drawing it out again,
and was thinking of sending Warren to hear how it would pop.
to inquire at the address Sarti had  La Pazzini went up to the bed and
given her, when one day, as she was said, " Ecco la nobilissima donna!"
equipped for driving out, the valet but directly after screamed out, " Hobrought in a small piece of paper, ly mother! he is dead! "
which, he said, had been left for her  It was so. The entreaty had not
ladyship by a man who was carrying been sent in time for Sarti to carry
fruit. The paper contained only three out his project of asking the great
tremulous lines, in Italian:-     English lady to take care of his Cate"Will the Eccelentissima, for the rina. That was the thought which
love of God, have pity on a dying haunted his feeble brain as soon as he
man, and come to him? "            began to fear that his illness would
Lady Cheverel recognized the hand- end in death.  She had wealthwriting as Sarti's in spite of its trem- she was kind -she would surely do
ulousness, and, going down to her something for the poor orphan. And
carriage, ordered the Milanese coach- so, at last, he sent that scrap of paper
man to drive to Strada Quinquagesi- which won the fulfilment of his prayer,
ma, Numero 10. The coach stopped though he did not live to utter it.
8*                                        L




178


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


Lady Cheverel gave La Pazzini money that the last decencies might be
paid to the dead man, and carried
away Caterina, meaning to consult
Sir Christopher as to what should be
done with her. Even Mrs. Sharp
had been so smitten with pity by the
scene she had witnessed, when she
was summoned up stairs to fetch Caterina, as to shed a small tear, though
she was not at all subject to that weakness; indeed, she abstained from it on
principle, because, as she often said,
it was known to be the worst thing
in the world for the eyes.
On the way back to her hotel, Lady Cheverel turned over various projects in her mind regarding Caterina,
but at last one gained the preference
over all the rest. Why should they
not take the child to England, and
bring her up there? They had been
married twelve years, yet Cheverel
Manor was cheered by no children's
voices, and the old house would be
all the better for a little of that music.
Besides, it would be a Christian work
to train this little Papist into a good
Protestant, and graft as much English
fruit as possible on the Italian stem.
Sir Christopher listened to this plan
with hearty acquiescence. He loved
children, and took at once to the little
black-eyed monkey, - his name for
Caterina all through her short life.
But neither he nor Lady Cheverel
had any idea of adopting her as their
daughter, and giving her their own
rank in life. They were much too
English and aristocratic to think of
anything so romantic. No! the child
would be brought up at Cheverel
Manor as a protdege, to be ultimately
useful, perhaps, in sorting worsteds,
keeping accounts, reading aloud, and
otherwise supplying the place of spectacles when her ladyship s eyes should
wax dim.
So Mrs. Sharp had to procure new
clothes, to replace the linen cap, flowered frock, and leathern boots; and
now, strange to say, little Caterina,
who had suffered many unconscious
evils in her existence of thirty moons,


i
i


first began to know conscious troubles.
' Ignorance," says Ajax, " is a painless evil"; so, I should think, is dirt,
considering the merry faces that- go
along with it. At any rate, cleanliness is sometimes a painful good, as
any one can vouch who has had his
face washed the wrong way, by a pitiless hand with a gold ring on the
third finger. If you, reader, have not
known that initiatory anguish, it is
idle to expect that you will form any
approximate  conception  of what
Caterina endured under Mrs. Sharp's
new dispensation of soap and water.
Happily, this purgatory came presently to be associated in her tiny brain
with a passage straightway to a seat
of bliss, - the sofa in Lady Cheverel's
sitting-room, where there were toys to
be broken, a ride was to be had on Sir
Christopher's knee, and a spaniel of
resigned temper was prepared to undergo small tortures without flinching.




CHAPTER IV.




IN three months from the time of
Caterina's adoption, -namely in the
late autumn of 1773,-the chimneys
of Cheverel Manor were sending up
unwonted smoke, and the servants
were awaiting in excitement the return of their master and mistress after
a two years' absence. Great was the
astonishment of Mrs. Bellamy, the
housekeeper, when Mr. Warren lifted
a little black-eyed child out of the
carriage, and great was Mrs. Sharp's
sense of superior information and experience, as she detailed Caterina's
history, interspersed with copious
comments, to the rest of the upper servants that evening, as they were taking
a comfortable glass of grog together in
the housekeeper's room.
A pleasant room it was as any party need desire to muster in on a cold
November evening.    The fireplace
alone was a picture: a wide and deep
recess with a low brick altar in the
middle, where great logs of dry wood




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


179


sent myriad sparks up the dark chimney-throat; and over the front of this
recess a large wooden entablature
bearing this motto, finely carved in
old English letters, "ifear:(ob anb
trnor tle st(ng."  And beyond the
party, who formed a half-moon with
their chairs and well-furnished table
round this bright fireplace, what a
space of chiaroscuro for the imagination to revel in! Stretching across
the far end of the room, what an oak
table, high enough surely for Homer's
gods, standing on four massive legs,
bossed and bulging like sculptured
urns! and, lining the distant wall,
what vast cupboards, suggestive of
inexhaustible apricot jam and promiscuous butler's perquisites! A stray
picture or two had found their way
down there, and made agreeable
patches of dark brown on the buffcolored walls. High over the loudresounding double door hung one
which, from some indications of a
face looming out of blackness, might,
by a great synthetic effort, be pronounced a Magdalen. Considerably
lower down hung the similitude of a
hat and feathers, with portions of a
ruff, stated by Mrs. Bellamy to represent Sir Francis Bacon, who invented
gunpowder, and, in her opinion,
"might ha' been better emplyed."
But this evening the mind is but
slightly arrested by the great Verulam, and is in the humor to think a
dead philosopher less interesting than
a living gardener, who sits conspicuous in the half-circle round the fireplace. Mr. Bates is habitually a
guest in the housekeeper's room of an
evening, preferring the social pleasures there -the feast of gossip and
the flow of grog —to a bachelor's
chair in his charming thatched cottage on a little island where every
sound is remote but the cawing of
rooks and the screaming of wild
geese: poetic sounds, doubtless, but,
humanly speaking, not convivial.
Mr. Bates was by no means an average person, to he passed without
special notice. He was a sturdy


Yorkshireman, approaching    forty,
whose face Nature seemed to have colored when she was in a hurry, and
had no time to attend to nuances,
for every inch of him visible above his
neckcloth was of one impartial redness; so that when he was at some
distance your imagination was at liberty to place his lips anywhere between his nose and chin. Seen closer, his lips were discerned to be of a
peculiar cut, and I fancy this had
something to do with the peculiarity
of his dialect, which, as we shall see,
was individual rather than provincial.
Mr. Bates was further distinguished
from the common herd by a perpetual
blinking of the eyes; and this, together with the red-rose tint of his
complexion, and a way he had of
hanging his head forward, and rolling
it from side to side as he walked, gave
him the air of a Bacchus in a blue
apron, who, in the present reduced
circumstances of Olympus, had taken to the management of his own
vines.  Yet, as gluttons are often
thin, so sober men are often rubicund -
and Mr. Bates was sober, with that
manly, British, churchman-like sobriety which can carry a few glasses
of grog without any perceptible clarification of ideas.
" Dang my boottons!" observed
Mr. Bates, who, at the conclusion of
Mrs. Sharp's narrative, felt himself
urged to his strongest interjection,
'it's what I should n't ha' looked for
from Sir Cristhifer an' my ledy, to
bring a furrin child into the coonthry;
an' depend on't whether you an' me
lives to see 't or noo, it'll coom to
soom harm. The first sitiation iver I
held, - it was a hold hancient habbey, wi' the biggest orchard o' apples
an' pears you ever see, - there was a
French valet, an' he stool silk stoockins' an' shirts, an' rings, an' iverythin' he could ley his hands on, an'
run away at last wi' th' missis's jewlbox.   They 're  all alaike, them
furriners. It roons i' th' blood."
" Well," said Mrs. Sharp, with the
air of a person who held liberal views




180


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


but- knew where to draw the line,
" I 'm not a going to defend the furriners, for I 've as good reason to
know what they are as most folks, an'
nobody 'll ever hear me say but what
they 're next door to heathens, and
the hile they eat wi' their victuals is
enough to turn any Christian's stomach. But for all that, -an' for all
as the trouble in respect o' washin'
and managin' has fell upo' me
through the journey, - I can't say
but what I think as my Lady an' Sir
Cristifer's done a right thing by a
hinnicent child as doesn't know its
right hand from its left, i' bringing it
where it'll learn to speak summat
better nor gibberish, and be brought
up i' the true religion. For as for
them furrin churches as Sir Cristifer
is so unaccountable mad after, wi'
pictures o' men an' women a showing
themselves justfor all the world as God
made 'em, I think, for my part as it's
almost a sin to go into 'em."
" You're likely to have more foreigners, however," said Mr. Warren,
who liked to provoke the gardener,
"for Sir Christopher has engaged
some Italian workmen to help in the
alterations in the house."
" Olterations!" exclaimed  Mrs.
Bellamy, in alarm. "What olterations?"
"Why," answered Mr. Warren,
"Sir Christopher, as I understand, is
going to make a new thing of the old
Manor-house, both inside and out.
And he 's got portfolios full of plans
and pictures coming. It is to be cased
with stone, in the Gothic style,pretty near like the churches, you
know, as far as I can make out; and
the ceilings are to be beyond anything
that's been seen in the country. Sir
Christopher's been giving a deal of
study to it."
"  ear heart alive!" said Mrs.
Bellamy, "we shall be pisoned wi'
lime an' plaster, an' hev the house
full o' workmen colloguing wi' the
maids, an' makin' no end o' mischief."
"That ye may ley your life on,




Mrs. Bellamy," said Mr. Bates.-l::;
"Howiver, I'11 noot denay that theGoothic stayle's prithy anoof, an' it's.;
woonderful how  near them  stoon-::
carvers cuts oot the shapes o' the pineapples, an' shamrucks, an' rooses. I 
dare sey Sir Cristhifer '11 meek a naice; 
thing o' the Manor, an' there woontbe many gentlemen's houses i' the:
coonthry as '11 coom up to't, wi' sich a 
garden an' pleasure-groons an' wallfruit as King George maight be proodon."
"Well, I can't think as the house
can be better nor it is, Gothic or no
Gothic," said Mrs. Bellamy; "an'
I 've done the picklin' and preservin'
in it fourteen year Michaelmas was a
three weeks. But what does my lady
say to't? "
" My lady knows better than cross
Sir Cristifer in what he's set his mind
on," said Mr. Bellamy, who objected
to the critical tone of the conversa- 
tion. "Sir Clistifer'll hev his own
way, that you may tek your oath,
An' i' the right on't too. He's a
gentleman born, an's got the money.
But come, Mester Bates, fill your
glass, an' we'll drink health an' happiness to his honor an' my lady, and
then you shall give us a song. Sir
Cristifer does n't come hum from Italy ivery night."
This demonstrable position was
accepted without hesitation as ground
for a toast; but Mr. Bates, apparent.
ly thinking that his song was not an
equally reasonable sequence, ignored
the second part of Mr. Bellamy's proposal. So Mrs. Sharp, who had been
heard to say that she had no thoughts
at all of marrying Mr. Bates, though
he was " a sensable, fresh-colored man
as many a woman 'ud snap at for a
husband," enforced Mr. Bellamy's
appeal.
"Come, Mr. Bates, let us hear
'Roy's Wife.'   I'd rether hear a
good old song like that, nor all the
fine Italian toodlin."
Mr. Bates, urged thus flatteringly,
stuck his thumbs into the armholes of -
his waistcoat, threw himself back it -;




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


181


his chair with his head in that position in which he could look directly
towards the zenith, and struck up a
remarkably staccato  rendering  of
"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."  This
melody may certainly be taxed with
excessive iteration, but that was precisely its highest recommendation to
the present audience, who found it all
the easier to swell the chorus. Nor
did it at all diminish their pleasure
that the only particular concerning
" Roy's Wife,' which Mr. Bates's
enunciation allowed them to gather,
was that she " chated him," -whether
in the matter of garden stuff or of
some other commodity, or why her
name should, in consequence, be repeatedly reiterated with exultation,
remaining an agreeable mystery.
Mr. Bates's song formed the climax
of the evening's good-fellowship, and
the party soon after dispersed, - Mrs.
Bellamy perhaps to dream of quicklime flying among her preservingpans, or of lovesick housemaids reckless of unswept corners, - and Mrs.
Sharp to sink into pleasant visions of
independent housekeeping in Mr.
Bates's cottage, with no bells to answer, and with fruit and vegetables ad
libitumn.
Caterina soon conquered all prejudices against her foreign blood; for
what prejudices will hold out against
helplessness and broken prattle? She
became the pet of the household,
thrusting Sir Christopher's favorite
bloodhound of that day, Mrs. Bellamy's two canaries, and Mr. Bates's
largest Dorking hen, into a merely
secondary position. The consequence
was, that in the space of a summer's
day she went through a great cycle of
experiences, commencing with the
somewhat acidulated good-will of Mrs.
Sharp's nursery discipline.  Then
came the grave luxury of her ladyship's sitting-room, and, perhaps, the
dignity of a ride on Sir Christopher's
knee, sometimes followed by a visit
with him to the stables, where Caterina soon learned to hear without cryinf-the baying of the chained blood

hounds, and say, with ostentatious
bravery, clinging to Sir Christopher's
leg all the while, " Dey not hurt
Tina." Then Mrs. Bellamy would
perhaps be going out to gather the
rose-leaves and lavender, and Tina
was made proud and happy by being
allowed to carry a handful in her pinafore; bappier still, when they were
spread out on sheets to dry, so that
she could sit down like a frog among
them, and have them poured over ber
in fragrant showers. Another frequen t pleasure was to take a journey
with Mr. Bates through the kitchengardens and the hothouses, where the
rich bunches of green and purple
grapes hung from the roof, far out of
reach of the tiny yellow hand that
could not help stretching it-Zelf out
towards them; though the hand was
sure at last to be satisfied with some
delicate-flavored fruit or sweet-scented
flower. Indeed, in the long, monotonous leisure of that great countryhouse, you may be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to do than to play with Tina. So
that the little southern bird had its
northern nest lined with tenderness,
and caresses, and pretty tbings. A
loving sensitive nature was too likely,
under such nurture, to have its susceptibility heightened into unfitness
for an encounter with any harder experience; all the more, because there
were gleams of fierce resistance to
nny discipline that bad a harsh or unloving aspect. For the only thing in
which Caterina, showed any precocity
was a certain ingenuity in vindictiveness. When she was five vears old
she had revenged herself for an unpleasant rohibition by pouring the
ink into Vrs. Sharp's work-basket;
and once, when Lady Cheverel took
her doll from her, because she wns
affectionately licking the paint off its
face, the little minx straightway
climbed on a chair and threw down a
flower-vase, that stood on a bracket.
This was almost the only instance in
which her anger overcame her awe of
Tady Cheverel, who had the ascend.


hounds, and say, with ostentatious
bravery, clinging to Sir Christopher's
leg all the while, "Dey not hurt
Tina." Then Mrs. Bellamy would
perhaps be going out to gather the
rose-leaves and lavender, and Tina
was made proud and happy by being
allowed to carry a handful in her pinafore; happier still, when they were
spread out on sheets to dry, so that
she could sit down like a frog among
them, and have them poured over her
in fragrant showers. Another frequent pleasure was to take a journey
with Mr. Bates through the kitchengardens and the hothouses, where the
rich bunches of green and purple
grapes hung from the roof, far out of
reach of the tiny yellow hand that
could not help stretching itself out
towards them; though the hand was
sure at last to be satisfied with some
delicate-flavored fruit or sweet-scented
flower. Indeed, in the long, monotonous leisure of that great countryhouse, you may be sure there was always some one who had nothing better to do than to play with Tina. So
that the little southern bird had its
northern nest lined with tenderness,
and caresses, and pretty things. A
loving sensitive nature was too likely,
under such nurture, to have its susceptibility heightened into unfitness
for an encounter with any harder experience; all the more, because there
were gleams of fierce resistance to
nny discipline that had a harsh or unloving aspect. For the only thing in
which Caterina showed any precocity
was a certain ingenuity in vindictiveness. When she was five years old
she had revenged herself for an unpleasant prohibition by pouring the
ink into Mrs. Sharp's work-basket;
and once, when Lady Cheverel took
her doll from  her, because she was
affectionately licking the paint off its
face, the little minx straightway
climbed on a chair and threw down a
flower-vase that stood on a bracket.
This was almost the only instance in
which her anger overcame her awe of
Lady Cheverel, who had the ascend



182


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


ency always belonging to kindness a grievance. As for Sir Christopher,
that never melts into caresses, and is he was perfectly indifferent to citiseverely but uniformly beneficent.  cism.  "An   obstinate,  crotchety
By and by the happy monotony of man," said his neighbors.   But I,
Cheverel Manor was broken in upon who have seen Cheverel Manor as he
in the way Mr. Warren had an- bequeathed it to his heirs, ratheratnounced.   The roads through  the tribute that unswerving architectural
park were cut up by wagons carry- purpose of his, conceived and carried
ing loads of stone from a neighboring out through long years of systematic
quarry, the green court-yard became personal exertion, to something of the
dusty with lime, aud the peaceful fervor of genius, as well as inflexibilhouse rang with the sound of tools. ity of will; and in walking through
For the next ten years Sir Christopher those rooms, with their splendid ceilwas occupied with the architectural ings and  their meagre furniture,
metamorphosis of his old family man- which tell how all the spare money
sion; thus anticipating, through the had been absorbed before personal
prompting of his individual taste, comfort was thought of, I have felt
that general reaction from the insipid that there dwelt in this old English
imitation of the Palladian style, to- baronet some of that sublime spirit
wards a restoration of the Gothic, which distinguishes art from luxury,
which marked the close of the eigh- and worships beauty apart from selfteenth century. This was the object indulgence.
he had set his heart on, with a single-  While Cheverel Manor was growing
ness of determination which was re- from ugliness into beauty, Caterina
garded with not a little contempt by too was growing from a little yellow
his fox-hunting neighbors, who won- bantling into a whiter maiden, with
dered greatly that a man with some of no positive beauty indeed, but with a
the best blood in England in his veins, certain light airy grace, which, with
should be mean enough to economize her large appealing dark eyes, and a
in his cellar, and reduce his stud to voice that, in its low-toned tenderness,
two old coach-horses and a hack, for recalled the love-notes of the stockthe sake of riding a hobby, and play- dove, gave her a more than usual
ing the architect. Their wives did charm. Unlike the building, hownot see so much to blame in the mat- ever, Caterina's development was the
ter of the cellar and stables, but they result of no systematic or careful apwere eloquent in pity for poor Lady pliances. She grew up very much
Cheverel, who had to live in no more like the primroses, which the gardener
than three rooms at once, and who is not sorry to see within his enclosmust be distracted with noises, and ure, but takes no pains to cultivate.
have her constitution undermined by Lady Cheverel taught her to read
unhealthy smells. It was as bad as and write, and say her catechism;
having a husband with an asthma. Mr. Warren, being a good accountWhy did not Sir Christopher take a ant, gave her lessons in arithmetic,
house for her at Bath, or, at least, if by her ladyship's desire; and Mrs.
he must spend his time in overlooking Sharp initiated her in all the mysteries
workmen, somewhere in the neighbor- of the needle. But, for a long time,
hood of the Manor? This pity was there was no thought of giving her
quite gratuitous, as the most plentiful any more elaborate education. It is
pity always is; for though Lady very likely that to her dying day
Cheverel did not share her husband's Caterina thought the earth stood stil,
architectural enthusiasm, she had too and that the sun and stars moved
rigorous a view of a wife's duties, and round it; but so, for the matter of
too profound a deference for Sir that, did Helen, and Dido, and PesChristopher, to regard submission as demona, and Juliet; whence I hope




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


183


you will not think my Caterina less ous what they can be good for, esworthy to be a heroine on that ac- pecially when, like Caterina, they give
count. The truth is, that, with one no particular promise of cleverness or
exception, her only talent lay in lov- beauty; and it is not surprising that
ing; and there, it is probable, the in that uninteresting period there was
most astronomical of women could no particular plan formed as to her funot have surpassed her. Orphan and ture position. She could always help
protegee though she was, this su- Mrs. Sharp, supposing she were fit for
preme talent of hers found plenty of nothing else, as she grew up; but
exercise at Cheverel Manor, and Cate- now, this rare gift of song endeared her
rina had more people to love than to Lady Cheverel, who loved music
many a small lady and gentleman above all things, and it associated her
affluent in silver mugs and blood-re- at once with the pleasures of the
lations. I think the first place in her drawing-room. Insensibly she came
childish heart was given to Sir Chris- to be regarded as one of the family,
topher, for little girls are apt to at- and the servants began to understand
tach themselves to the finest-looking that Miss Sarti was to be a lady after
gentleman at hand, especially as he all.
seldom has anything to do with dis-  "And the raight on't too," said
cipline. Next to the Baronet came Mr. Bates, "for she hasn't the cut
Dorcas, the merry, rosy-cheeked dam- of a gell as must work for her bread;
sel who was Mrs. Sharp's lieutenant she's as nesh an' dilicate as a paichin the nursery, and thus played the blossom, - welly laike a linnet, wi'
part of the raisins in a dose of senna  on'y joost body anoof to hold her
It was a black day for Caterina when voice."
Dorcas married the coachman, and     But long before Tina had reached
went, with a great sense of elevation this stage of her history, a new era
in the world, to preside over a " pub- had begun for her, in the arrival of a
lie " in the noisy town of Sloppeter. younger companion than any she had
A little china box, bearing the motto hitherto known. When she was no
" Though lost to sight, to memory more than seven, a ward of Sir Chrisdear," which Dorcas sent her as a topher's- a lad of fifteen, Maynard
remembrance, was among Caterina's Gilfil by name - began to spend his
treasures ten years after.         vacations at Cheverel Manor, and
The one other exceptional talent, found there no playfellow so much to
you already guess, was music. When his mind as Caterina. Maynard was
the fact that Caterina had a remark- an affectionate lad, who retained a
able ear for music, and a still more propensity to white rabbits, pet squirremarkable voice, attracted  Lady rels, and guinea-pigs, perhaps a little
Cheverel's notice, the discovery was beyond the age at which young genvery welcome both to her and Sir tlemen usually look down on such
Christopher. Her musical education pleasures as puerile. He was also
became at once an object of interest. much given to fishing, and to carpenLady Cheverel devoted much time to try, considered as a fine art, without
it; and the rapidity of Tina's pro- any base view to utility. And in all
gress surpassing all hopes, an Italian these pleasures it was his delight to
singing-master was entaged, for sev- have Caterina as his companion, to
eral years, to spend some months to- call her little pet names, answer her
gether at Cheverel Manor. This un- wondering questions, and have her
expected gift made a great alteration toddling after him as you may have
in Caterina's position. After those seen a Blenheim spaniel trotting after
first years in which little girls are a large setter. Whenever Maynard
petted like puppies and kittens, there went back to school, there was a lit,
comes a time when it seems less obvi- tie scene of parting.




184


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


"You won't forget me, Tina, before I come back again? I shall
leave you all the whip-cord we've
made; and don't you let Guinea die.
Come, give me a kiss, and promise
not to forget me."
As the years wore on, and Maynard passed from school to college,
and from a slim lad to a stalwart
young man, their companionship in
the vacations necessarily took a different form, but it retained a brotherly and sisterly familiarity.  With
Maynard the boyish affection had insensibly grown into ardent love.
Among all the many kinds of first
love, that which begins in childish
companionship is the strongest and
most enduring: when passion comes
to unite its force to long affection,
love is at its springtide. And Maynard Gilfil's love was of a kind to
make him prefer being tormented by
Caterina to any pleasure, apart from
her, which the most benevolent magician could have devised for him. It
is the way with those tall, large-limbed men, from  Samson downwards.
As for Tina, the little minx was perfectly well aware that Maynard was
her slave; he was the one person in
the world whom she did as she pleased
with; and I need not tell you that
this was a symptom of her being perfectly heart-whole so far as he was
concerned: for a passionate woman's
love is always overshadowed   by
fear.
Maynard Gilfil did not deceive
himself in his interpretation of Caterina's feelings, but he nursed the
hope that some time or other she
would at least care enough for him
to accept his love.  So he waited
patiently for the day when he might
venture to say, "Caterina, I love
you!" You see, he would have been
content with very little, being one of
those men who pass through life
without making the least clamor
about themselves; thinking neither
the cut of his coat, nor the flavor of
his soup, nor the precise depth of a
servant's bow, at all momentous. He


thought -foolishly enough, as "lo-:
ers will think -that it was a good"'.
augury for him when he came to be 
domesticated at Cheverel Manor in'
the quality of chaplain there, and
curate of a neighboring parish; judging falsely, from his own case, that -
habit and affection were the likeliest.
avenues to love.  Sir Christopher 
satisfied several feelings in installing
Maynard as chaplain in his house.
He liked the old-fashioned dignity of
that domestic appendage; he liked
his ward's companionship; and, as  -
Maynard had some private fortune,;'
he might take life easily in that- '
agreeable home, keeping his hunter,  '
and observing a mild regimen of cler- 
ical duty, until the  Cumbermoor
living should fall in, when he might- -
be settled for life in the neighborhood 
of the manor. " With Caterina for -
a wife, too," Sir Christopher soon  '
began to think; for though the good:
Baronet was not at all quick to suspect what was unpleasant and opposed
to his views of fitness, he was quick.
to see what would dovetail with his
own plans; and he had first guessed, -
and then ascertained, by direct inquiry, the state of Maynard's feelings.
He at once leaped to the conclusion
that Caterina was of the same mind,
or at least would be, when she was
old enough.  But these were too
early days for anything definite to be 
said or done.
Meanwhile,  new   circumstances
were arising, which, though they
made no change in Sir Christophers 
plans and prospects, converted Mr.
Gilfil's hopes into anxieties, and made
it clear to him not only that Caterina's heart was never likely to be his,
but that it was given entirely to
another.
Once or twice in Caterina's childhood, there had been another boy —
visitor at the manor, younger than
Maynard Gilfil,-a beautiful boy
with brown curls and splendid
clothes, on whom Caterina had looked with shy admiration. This was
Anthony Wybrow, the son of Sir




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


185


Christopher's younger sister, and
chosen heir of Cheverel Manor. The
Baronet had sacrificed a large sum,
and even straitened the resources by
which he was to carry out his architectural schemes, for the sake of removing the entail from his estate,
and making this boy his heir,moved to the step, I am sorry to say,
by an implacable quarrel with his
elder sister; for a power of forgiveness was not among Sir Christopher's
virtues. At length, on the death of
Anthony's mother, when he was no
longer a curly-headed boy, but a tall
young man, with a captain's commission, Cheverel Manor became his
home too, whenever he was absent
from  his regiment.  Caterina was
then a little woman, between sixteen
and seventeen, and I need not spend
many words in explaining what you
perceive to be the most natural thing
in the world.
There was little company kept at
the Manor, and Captain Wybrow
would have been much duller if
Caterina had not been there. It was
pleasant to pay her attentions, - to
speak to her in gentle tones, to see
her little flutter of pleasure, the blush
that just lit up her pale cheek, and
the momentary timid glance of her
dark eyes, when he praised her sining, leaning at her side over the piano.
Pleasant, too, to cut out that chaplain with his large calves! What
idle -man can withstand the temptation of a woman to fascinate, and
another man to eclipse? - especially
when it is quite clear to himself that
he means no mischief, and shall leave
everything to come right again by
and by.   At the end of eighteen
months, however, during which Captain Wybrow had spent much of his
time at the Manor, he found that
matters had reached a point which he
had not at all contemplated. Gentle
tones had led to tender words, and
tender words had called forth a response of looks which made it impossible not to carry on the crescendo of
love-making.  To find one's self


adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed,
sweet-singing woman, whom no one
need despise, is an agreeable sensation, comparable to smoking the
flnest Latakia, and also imposes some
return of tenderness as a duty.
Perhaps you think that C 'aptain
Wvbrow, who knew that it would be
ridiculous to dream of his marrying
Caterina, musthave been a reckless libertine to win her affections in this.manner! Not at all. He was a voung,
man of calm passions, who was rarely
led into any conduct of which he could
n.ot give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny, fragile Caterina was
a woman who touched the imagination and the affections rather than the
senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and would very likely have
loved her, - if he had been able to
love any one. But nature had not endowed him with that capability. She
had given him an admirable figure,
the whitest of hands, the most delicate
of nostrils, and a large amount of serene self-satisfaction; but, as if to save
such a delicate piece of work from any
risk of bein(r spattered, she had guarded him from the liability to a strong
emotion. There was no list of youthful. inisdeameanors on record against
him, and Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs,
full of grateful deference to themselves, and, above all things, guided
by a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow
always did the thing easiest and most
agreeable to him from a sense of duty:
be dressed expensively, because it was
~ duty be owed to his position; from
~ sense of duty he adapted himself to
Sir Christopher's inflexible will, which
it would have been troublesome as
well as useless to resist; and, being of
a delicate constitution, he took care
of his health from a sense of duty.
His health was the only point on
which he gave anxiety to his friends;
and it was owing to this that Sir
Christopher wished to se 'e his nephew
early married, the more so as a match
after the BaroneVs own heart ap

adored by a little, graceful, dark-eyed,
sweet-singing woman, whom no one
need despise, is an agreeable sensation, comparable to smoking the
finest Latakia, and also imposes some
return of tenderness as a duty.
Perhaps you think that Captain
Wybrow, who knew that it would )e
ridiculous to dream of his marrying
Caterina, musthave been a reckless libertine to win her affections in this
manner! Not at all. He was a voung
man of calm passions, who was rarely
led into any conduct of which he could
not give a plausible account to himself; and the tiny, fragile Caterina was
a woman who touched the imagination and the affections rather than the
senses. He really felt very kindly towards her, and would very likely have
loved her, - if he had been able to
love any one. But nature had not endowed him with that capability. She
had given him an admirable figure,
the whitest of hands, the most delicate
of nostrils, and a large amount of serene self-satisfaction; but, as if to save
such a delicate piece of work from any
risk of being shattered, she had guarded him from the liability to a strong
emotion. There was no list of youthful Inisdeameanors on record against
him, and Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel thought him the best of nephews, the most satisfactory of heirs,
full of grateful deference to themselves, and, above all things, guided
by a sense of duty. Captain Wybrow
always did the thing easiest and most
agreeable to him from a sense of duty:
he dressed expensively, because it was
a duty he owed to his position; from
a sense of duty he adapted himself to
Sir Christopher's inflexible will,which
it would have been troublesome as
well as useless to resist; and, being of
a delicate constitution, he took care
of his health from a sense of duty.
His health was the only point on
which he gave anxiety to his friends;
and it was owing to this that Sir
Christopher wished to see his nephew
early married, the more so as a match
after the Baronet's own heart ap



SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


peared immediately attainable. Anthony had seen and admired Miss
Assher, the only child of a lady who
had been Sir Christopher's earliest
love, but who, as things will happen
in this world, had married another
baronet instead of him. Miss Assher's
father was now dead, and she was in
possession of a pretty estate. If, as
was probable, she should prove susceptible to the merits of Anthony's
person and character, nothing could
make Sir Christopher so happy as to
see a marriage which might be expected to secure the inheritance of Cheverel Manor from getting into the
wrong hands. Anthony had already
been kindly received by Lady Assher
as the nephew of her early friend; why
should he not go to Bath, where she
and her daughter were then residing,
follow up the acquaintance, and win
a handsome, well-born, and sufficiently wealthy bride?
Sir Christopher's wishes were communicated to his nephew, who at once
intimated his willingness to comply
with them,- from a sense of duty.
Caterina was tenderly informed by
her lover of the sacrifice demanded
from them both; and three days afterwards occurred the parting scene you
have witnessed in the gallery, on the
eve of Captain Wybrow's departure
for Bath.
CHAPTER V.
THE inexorable ticking of the clock
is like the throb of pain to sensations
made keen by a sickening fear. And
so it is with the great clockwork of
nature. Daisies and buttercups give
way to the brown waving grasses,
tinged with the warm red sorrel; the
waving grasses are swept away, and
the meadows lie like emeralds set in
the bushy hedgerows: the tawnytipped corn begins to bow with the
weight of the full ear; the reapers are
bending amongst it, and it soon stands
in sheaves; then, presently, the patches of yellow stubble lie side by side


with streaks of dark-red earth, whiel^ 
the plough is turning up in preparae.
tion for the new-thrashed seed. Ant-'
this passage from beauty to beautf '
which to the happy is like the flow ofi
melody, measures for many a human
heart the approach of foreseen anguish, - seems hurrying on the mi.i
men t when the shadow of dread will ' 
followed up by the reality of despair'
How cruelly hasty that summer o6f
1788 seemed to Caterina! Surely te'1
roses vanished earlier, and the berriis
on the mountain-ash were more impitient to redden, and bring on the autumn, when she would be face to facie
with her misery, and witness A*thony giving all his gentle tones, teitder words, and soft looks to another.
Before the end of July, Captain WXy
brow had written word that Lad"
Assher and her daughter were abou0
to fly from the heat and gayety of.
Bath to the shady quiet of their plac~;
at Farleigh, and that he was invited
to join the party there. His letteri
implied that he was on an excellernt
footing with both the ladies and gayv
no hint of a rival; so that Sir Christopher was more than usually bright
and cheerful after reading them. At
length, towards the close of August,
came the announcement that Captaif
Wybrow was an accepted lover, and
after much complimentary and coigratulatory correspondence betweei
the two families, it was understood
that in September Lady Assher and
her daughter would pay a visit to
Cheverel Manor, when Beatrice would
make the acquaintance of her futtrfe
relatives, and all needful arrangements could be discussed. Captain
Wybrow would remain at Farleigh
till then, and accompany the ladies
on their journey.
In the interval, every one at Cheverel Manor had something to do by
way of preparing for the visitors.
Sir Christopher was occupied in consultations with his steward and lawyer, and in giving orders to every our
else, especially in spurring on Ffatcesco to finish the saloon. Mr. Gilil




IMR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


187


had the-responsibility of procuring a
lady's horse, Miss Assher being a
great rider. Lady Cheverel had unwonted calls to make and invitations
to deliver.  Mr. Bates's turf, and
gravel, and flower-beds were always at
such a point of neatness and finish
that nothing extraordinary could be
d6ne in the garden, except a little cxtraordinary scolding of the under-gardener, and this addition Mr. Bates
did not neglect.
Happily for Caterina, she too had
her task to fill up the long dreary
daytime: it was to finish a chaircushion which would. complete the
set of embroidered covers for the
drawving-room, Lady Cheverel's yearlong work, and the only noteworthy
bit of furniture in the Manor. Over
this embroidery she sat with cold lips
and a palpitating heart, thankful that
this miserable sensation throughout
the daytime seemed to counteract the
tendency to tears which returned with
iight and solitullc. She was most
frightened when Sir Christopher approached her. The Baronet's eye
was brighter and his step more elastic
than ever, and it seemed to him that
only the most leaden or churlish souls
could be otherwise than brisk and exulting in a world where everything
went so well. Dear old gentleman!
he had gone through life a little
flushed with the power of his will, and
niow his latest plan was succeeding,
and Cheverel Manor would be inherited by a grand-nephew, whom  he
migrht even yet live to see a fine
young fellow with at least the down
oi his chin. Why not? one is still
Young at sixty.
Sir Christopher had always sometting playful to say to Caterina.
" Now, little mon-key, you must be
in your best voice; you 'le the minstrel of the Manor, you know, and be
sure you have a pretty gown and a
new ribbon. You must not be dressed
in russet, though you are a singingbird." Or perhaps, " It is your turn
to be courted next, Tina. But don't
you learn any naughty proud airs. l


I must have Maynard let off easily."
Caterina's affection for the old Baronet helped her to summon up a
smile as he stroked her cheek and,
looked at her kindly, but that was
the noment at which she felt it most
difficult not to burst out crying.
Lady Cheverel's conversation and
presence were less trying; for her
ladyship felt no more than calm satisfaction in this family event; and besides, she was further sobered by a
little jealousy at Sir Christopher's
anticipation of pleasure in seeing
Lady Assher, enshrined in his memory as a mild-eyed beauty of sixteen,
with whom he had exchanged locks before he went on his first travels. Lady
Cheverel would have died rather than
confess it, but she could n't help
hoping that he would be disappointed
in Lady Assher, and rather ashamed
of having called her so charming.
Mr. Gilfil watched Caterina through
these days with mixed feelings. Her
suffering went to his heart; but, even
for her sake, he was glad that a love
which could never come to good
should be no longer fed by false
hopes; and how could he help saying
to himself, "Perhaps, after a while,
C;:terina will be tired of fretting
about that cold-hearted puppy, and
then...."
At length the much-expected day
arrived, and the brightest of September suns was lighting up the yellowing lime-trees, as about five o'clock
Lady Assher's carriage drove un der the
portico. Caterina, seated at work in
her own room, heard the rolling of
the wheels, followed presently by the
opening and shutting of doors, and
the sound of voices in the corridors.
Remembering that the dinner-hour
was six, and that Lady Cheverel had
desired her to he in the drawing-room
early, she started up to dress, and was
delighted to find herself feeling suddenly brave and strong. Curiosity
to see Miss Assher, — the thought
that Anthony was in the house, - the
wish not to look unattractive, were




1~. 


188


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


feeings that brought some color to
her lips, and made it easy to attend
to her toilet. They would ask her
to sing this evening, and she would
-sing well. Miss Assher should not
think her utterly insignificant. So
she put on her gray silk gown and
her cherry-colored ribbon with as
much care as if she had been herself
the betrothed; not forgetting the
pair of round pearl ear-rings which
Sir Christopher had told Lady Cheverel to give her, because Tina's little
ears were so pretty.
Quick as she had been, she found
Sir Christopher and Lady Cheverel
in the drawing-room chatting with
Mr. Gilfil, and telling him how handsome Miss Assher was, but how entirely unlike her mother, - apparently resembling her father only.
"Aha!" said Sir Christopher, as
he turned to look at Caterina, "what
do you think of this, Maynard?
Did you ever see Tina look so pretty
befbre? Why, that little gray gown
has been made out of a bit of my
lady's, hasn't it? It doesn't take
anything much larger than a pockethandkerchief to dress the little monkey."
Lady Cheverel, too, serenely radiant in the assurance a single glance
had given her of Lady Assher's inferiority, smiled approval, and Caterina was in one of those moods of
self-possession and indifference which
come as the ebb-tide between the
struggles of passion. She retired to
the piano, and busied herself with arranging her music, not at all insensible to the pleasure of being looked
at with admiration the while, and
thinking that, the next time the door
opened, Captain Wybrow would enter, and she would speak to him quite
cheerfully. But when she heard him
come in, and the scent of roses floated towards her, her heart gave one
great leap. She knew nothing till
he was pressing her hand, and saying, in the old easy way: " Well,
Caterina, how do you do?    You
look quite blooming."


She felt her cheeks reddening wil<
anger that he could speak and 6lo
with such perfect nonchalance. Af. r
he was too deeply in love with sb't
one else to remember anything - 
had felt for her. But the next momnei
she was conscious of her folly 2[
"as if he could show any feeltv
then!"  This conflict of emdton.
stretched into a long interval.et"
few moments that elapsed before t'n
door opened again, and her own "'
tention, as well as that of all the
rest, was absorbed by the entrance"8
the two ladies.!" 
The daughter was the more stlk /
ing, from the contrast she presei&te
to her mother, a round-shoulderei1
middle-sized woman, who had on'
had  the  transient pink-and-wit'f
beauty of a blonde, with ill-defiNtie
features and early embonpoint. Misi
Assher was tall, and graceful]
though substantially formed, cai':
ing herself with an air of minglc
graciousness and self-confidence; hi;
dark-brown hair, untouched by p6;#
der, hanging in bushy curls rotnii
her face, and falling behind in long
thick ringlets nearly to her waist
The brilliant carmine tint of hlr
well-rounded cheeks, and the finelycut outline of her straight nose, produced an impression   of splendhi
beauty, in spite of commonplacJ
brown eyes, a narrow forehead, aftfi
thin lips. She was in mourning, anci
the dend black of her crape dress, relieved here and there by jet orntments, gave the fullest effect to her
complexion, and to the rounded
whiteness of her arms, bare from the
elbow.   The  first coup d'ceil was
dazzling, and as she stood looking
down   with a gracious smile on
Caterina, whom Lady Cheverel was
presenting to her, the 'poor littl6
thing seemed to herself to feel, for
the first time, all the folly of her
former dream.
"We are enchanted with your
place, Sir Christopher," said Lady
Assher, with a feeble kind of pompousness, which she seemed to be




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


189


copying from some one else; "I'm
sure your nephew must have thought
Farleigh  wretchedly out of order.
Poor Sir John was so very careless
about keeping up the house and
grounds. I often talked to him about
it, but he said, 'Pooh, pooh! as long
as my friends find a good dinner and
a good bottle of wine, they won't
care about my ceilings being rather
smoky.' He was so very hospitable,
was Sir John."
"I think the view of the house
from the park, just after we passed
the bridge, particularly fine," said
Miss Assher, interposing rather eagerly, as if she feared her mother
might be making infelicitous speechcs, "and the pleasure of the first
glimpse was all the greater because
Anthony would describe nothing to
us beforehand. Ha would not spoil
our first impressions by raising false
ideas. I long to go over the house,
Sir Christopher, and learn the history of all your architectural designs,
which Anthony says have cost you
so much time and study."
"Take care how you set an old
man talking about the past, my
dear," said the Baronet; "I hope
we shall find something pleasanter
for you-to do than turning over my
old plans and pictures. Our friend
Mr. Gilfil here has found a beautiful
mare for you, and you can scour the
country to your heart's content.
Anthony has sent us word what a
horsewoman you are."
Miss Assher turned to Mr. Gilfil
with her most beaming smile, and
expressed her thanks with the elaborate graciousness of a person who
means to be thought charming, and
is sure of success.
"Pray do not thank me," said Mr.
Gilfil, "till you have tried the mare.
She has been ridden by Lady Sara
Linter for the last two years; hut
one lady's taste may not be like
another's in horses, any more than in
other matters."
While this conversation was passing, Captain Wybrow was leaning


against the mantel-piece, contenting
himself with responding from under
his indolent eyelids to the glances
Miss Assher was constantly directing
towards him as she spoke. " She is
very much in love with him " thought
Caterina. But she was relieved that
Anthony remained passive in his attentions. She thought, too, that he
was looking paler and more languid than usual.  "If he did n't
love her very much,- if he sometimes thought of the past with regret, I think I could bear it all, and
be glad to see Sir Christopher made
happy."
During dinner there was a little
incident  which  confirmed  these
thoughts.  When the sweets were
on the table, there was a mould of
jelly just opposite Captain Wybrow,
and being inclined to take some himself, he first invited Miss Assher, who
colored, and said, in rather a sharper key than usual, "Have you not
learned by this time that I never take
jelly. "
"Don't you? " said Captain Wybrow, whose perceptions were not
asute enourh for him to notice the
difference of a semitone. "I should
have thought you were fond of it.
There was always some on the table
at Farleigh, I think."
"You don't seem to take much interest in my likes and dislikes."
" I'm too much possessed by the
happy thought.that you like me,"
was the ex officio reply, in silvery
tones.
This little episode was unnoticed
by every one hut Caterina. Sir Christopher was listening with polite attention to Lady Assher's history of
her last man-cook, who was first-rate
at gravies, and for that reason pleased
Sir John, —he was so particular
about his gravies, was Sir John; and
so they kept the man six years in
spite of his bad pastry. Lady Cheverel and Mr. Gilfil were smiling at
Rupert the bloodhound, who had
pushed his great head under his master's arm, and was taking a survey




I ~~ -,


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


of the dishes, after snuffing at the
contents of the Baronet's plate.
When the ladies were in the drawing-room again, Lady Assher was
soon deep in a statement to Lady
Cheverel of her views about burying
people in woollen.
" To be sure, you must have a
woollen dress, because it's the law,
you know; but that need hinder no
one from putting linen underneath.
I always used to say, 'If Sir John
died to-morrow, I would bury him
in his shirt'; and I did. And let me
advise you to do so by Sir Christopher. You never saw Sir John, Lady
Cheverel. He was a large, tall man,
with a nose just like Beatrice, and so
very particular about his shirts."
Miss Assher, meanwhile, had seated
herself by Caterina, and, with that
smiling affability which seems to say,
-" I am really not at all proud, though
you might expect it of me," said:"Anthony tells me you sing so
very beautifully. I hope we shall
hear you this evening."
"O yes," said Caterina, quietly,
without smiling; "I always sing
when I am wanted to sing."
"I envy you such a charming talent. Do you know, I have no ear;
I cannot hum the smallest tune, and
I delight in music so. Is it not unfortunate1 But I shall have quite a
treat while I am here; Captain Wybrow says you will give us some music every day."
" I should have thought you would
n't care about music if you had no
ear," said Caterina, becoming epigrammatic by force of grave simplicity.
", I assure you, I doat on it;
and Anthony is so fond of it; it
would be so delightful if I could
play and sing to him; though he says
he likes me best not to sing, because
it does n't belong to his idea of me.
What style of music do you like best? "
"I don't know. I like all beautiful music."
" And are you as fond of riding as
of music."


"No; I never ride. I think:,
should be very frightened."   - 
"0 no! indeed you would not,
after a little practice. I have newv
been in the least timid. I think A-,
thony is more afraid for me thanttam for myself; and since I have bei>
riding with him, I have been obliget
to be more careful, because he is so
nervous about me."
Caterina made no reply; but-,
said to herself: "I wish she woulat
go away and not talk to me. Sh8
only wants me to admire her goodnature, and to talk about Anth<W
ny."
Miss Assher was thinking at tho
same time, " This Miss Sarti seenl
a stupid little thing. Those musieat
people often are. But she is pretties
than I expected; Anthony said she
was not pretty."               - r
Happily at this moment Lady
Assher called her daughter's atteut
tion to the embroidered cushion,.
and Miss Assher, walking to the Qo
posite sofa, was soon in conversajtla
with Lady Cheverel about tapestS
and embroidery in general, while Oke
mother, feeling  herself superseded
there, came and placed herself beside
Caterina.
* I hear you are the most beautiful
singer," was of course the opening
remark. "All Italians sing so beautifully. I travelled in Italy with Sir
John when we were first married, ald
we went to Venice, where they go
about in gondolas, you know. You
don't wear powder, I see. No more
will Beatrice; though many people
think her curls would look all the
better for powder. She has so much
hair, hasn't she?   Our last maid
dressed it much better than this; but,
do you know, she wore Beatrice's
stockings before they went to the
wash, and we could n't keep her after
that, could we?"
Caterina, accepting the question as
a mere Lit of rhetorical effect, thought
it superfluous to reply, till Lady
Assher repeated, " Could we, now?"
as if Tina's sanction was essential to




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


191


her repose of mind. After a faint
"No," she went on.
"Maids are so very troublesome,
and Beatrice is so particular, you
can't imagine.  I often say to her,
'My dear, you can't have perfection.'
That very gown she has on, - to be
sure, it fits her beautifully now, -but
it has been unmade and made up
again twice. But she is like poor Sir
John, - he was so very particular
about his own things, was Sir John.
Is Lady Cheverel particular?"
" Rather.  But Mrs. Sharp has
been her maid twenty years."
"I wish there was any chance of
our keeping Griffin twenty years.
But I am afraid we shall have to
part with her because her health is
so delicate; and she is so obstinate,
she will not take bitters as I want
her. You look delicate, now. Let
me recommend you to take camomile
tea in a morning, fasting. Beatrice is
so strong and healthy, she never takes
any medicine; but if I had had twenty girls, and they had been delicate, I
should have given them all camomile
tea. It strengthens the constitution
beyond anything.  Now, will you
promise me to take camomile tea "
" Thank you; I'm not at all ill,"
said Caterina.  "I've always been
pale and thin."
Lady Assher was sure camomile
tea would make all the difference in
the world, -Caterina must see if it
would n't, - and then went dribbling
on like a leaky shower-bath, until the
early entrance of the gentlemen created a diversion, and she fastened on
Sir Christopher, who probably began
to think that, for poetical purposes, it
woul I be better not to meet one's first
love again, after a lapse of forty
years.
Captain Wybrow, of course, joined
his aunt and Miss Assher, and Mr.
Gilfil tried to relieve Caterina from
the awkwardness of sitting aloof and
dumb, by telling her how a friend of
his had broken his arm and staked
his horse that morning, not at all
appearing to heed that she hardly


listened, and was looking, towards the,other side of the room. One of the
tortures of jealousy is, that it can
never turn away its eyes front the
thing that. pains it.
By and by every one felt the need
of a relief from chitchat, - Sir Christopher perhaps the most of all, - and
it was he who made the acceptable
proposition: -
" Come, Tina, are we to have no
music to-ni-bt before we sit down to
cards? Your ladyship plays at cards,
I think? " be added, recollecting himself, and turning to Lady Assher.
" 0  yes!  Poor dear Sir John
would have a whist-table every
night."
Caterina sat down to the harpsiebord at once, and bad no sooner
begun to sing than she perceived with
deffirht that Captain Wybrow was
gliding towards the harpsichord. find
soon standing in the old place. This
consciousness gave fresh strcu-th to
her voice; and when she noticed
that Miss Assber presently followed
Min with that air of ostentatious
admiration which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her closing,
bravura ivas none the worse for being
animated by a little triumphant contempt.
Why, you are in better voice than
'Ver, Caterina! " said Captain NVybrow, Nvben she bad ended. " This is
rather different from Miss Hibbert's
small piping that we used to be glad
of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice? "
" Indeed it is. Yon are a most
enviable creature, Miss Sarti, - Caterina, -may I not. call you Caterina?
for I have heard Anthony speak of
you so often, I seem to know you
quite well. You will let me call you
Caterina?
It 0 yes, every one calls me Caterina,
only when they call me Tina."
" Come, come, more singing, more
singing, little monkey," Sir Cbristopher called out from the other side
of the room. "We have not had
half enough yeti "
Caterina was ready enough to obey,


listened, and was looking towards the
other side of the room. One of the
tortures of jealousy is, that it can
never turn away its eyes fiont the
thing that pains it.
By and by every one felt the need
of a relief from chit-chat, - Sir Christopher perhaps the most of all, - and
it was he who made the acceptable
proposition: -
"Come, Tina, are we to have no
music to-night before we sit down to
cards? Your ladyship plays at cards,
I think? " he added, recollecting himself, and turning to Lady Assher.
"0   yes!  Poor dear Sir John
would have a whist-table every
night."
Caterina sat down to the harpsichord at once, and had no sooner
begun to sing than she perceived with
delight that Captain Wybrow was
gliding towards the harpsichord. and
soon standing in the old place. This
consciousness gave fresh strength to
her voice; and when she noticed
that Miss Assher presently followed
hin with that air of ostentatious
admiration which belongs to the absence of real enjoyment, her closing
bravura was none the worse for being
animated by a little triumphant contempt.
"Why, you are in better voice than
ever, Caterina!" said Captain WVybrow, when she had ended. " This is
rather different from Miss Hibbert's
small piping that we used to be glad
of at Farleigh, is it not, Beatrice? "
"Indeed it is. You are a most
enviable creature, Miss Sarti, - Caterina, -may I not call you Caterina?
for I have heard Anthony speak of
you so often, I seem to know you
quite well. You will let me call you
Caterina?"
" 0 yes, every one calls me Caterina,
only when they call me Tina."
" Come, come, more singing, more
singing, little monkey," Sir Christopher called out from the other side
of the room. "We have not had
half enough yet; "
Caterina was ready enough to obey,




192


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


for while she was singing she was
queen of the room, and Miss Assher
was reduced to grimacing admiration.
Alas! you see what jealousy was
doing in this poor young soul. Caterina, who had passed her life as a little
unobtrusive singing-bird, nestling so
fondly under the wings that were outstretched for her, her heart beating
only to the peaceful rhythm of love,
or fluttering with some easily stifled
fear, had begun to know the fierce
palpitations of triumph and hatred.
When the singing was over, Sir
Christopher and Lady Cheverel sat
down to whist with Lady Assher and
Mr. Gilfil, and Caterina placed herself
at the Baronet's elbow, as if to watch
the game, that she might not appear
to thrust herself on the pair of lovers.
At first she was glowing with her little triumph, and felt the strength of
pride; but her eye would steal to the
opposite side of the fireplace, where
Captain Wybrow had seated himself
close to Miss Assher, and was leaning
with his arm over the back of the
chair, in the most lover-like position.
Caterina began to feel a choking sensation. She could see, almost without looking, that he was taking up
her arm to examine her bracelet; their
heads were bending close together,
her curls touching his chek, - now
he was putting his lips to her hand.
Caterina felt her cheeks burn, -she
could sit no longer. She got up, pretended to he gliding about in search
of something, and at length slipped
out of the room.
Outside, she took a candle, and,
hurrying along the passages and up
the stairs to her own room, locked the
door.
" O, I cannot bear it, I cannot bear
it!" the poor thing burst out aloud,
clasping her little fingers, and press.
ing them back against her forehead,
as if she wanted to break them.
Then she walked hurriedly up and
down the room.
"And this must go on for days
and days, and I must see it."
She looked about nervously for


something to clutch. There wa*s -
muslin kerchief lying on the tablke
she took it bp and tore it into shreds
as she walked up and down, and then
pressed it into hard balls in her hand.
"And Anthony," she thought, "he
can do this without caring for what I
feel. 0, he can forget everythitg:
how he used to say he loved meohow he used to take my hand if Ais
as we walked, - how he used to stud
near me in the evenings for the sake
of looking into my eyes."
"0, it is cruel, it is cruel!" -die
burst out again aloud, as all those
love-moments in the past returned
upon her. Then the tears gushed
forth, she threw herself on her knies
by the bed, and sobbed bitterly. 'f
She did not know how long she had
been there, till she was startled by the
prayer-bell; when, thinking Lary
Cheverel might perhaps send sotfe
one to inquire after her, she rose, ad
began hastily to undress, that ethe
might be no possibility of her going
down again. She had hardly nmifstened her hair, and thrown a loose
gown about her,before there waos'a
knock at the door, and Mrs. Sharp's
voice said,-"Miss Tina, my lady
wants to know if you're ill."
Caterina opened the door and said,
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Sharp; I
have a bad headache; please tell my
lady I felt it come on after singing."
"Then, goodness me! why art't
you in bed, instead o' standing shirering there, fit to catch your death?
Come, let me fasten up your hair and
tuck you up warm." 
"0 no, thank you; I shall really
be in bed very soon. Good night,
dear Sharpy; don't scold; I will be
good, and get into bed."
Caterina kissed her old friend cosxingly, but Mrs. Sharp was not to be
" come over " in that way, and insiSted on seeing her former charge in bed,
taking away the candle which the
poor child had wanted to keep as a
companion. 
But it was impossible to lie the'e




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


193


long with that beating heart and the in their eternal courses; the tides
little white figure was soon out of bed swelled to the level of the last expectagain, seeking relief in the very sense ant weed; the sun was making brilof chill and uncomfort. It was light liant day to busy nations on the other
enough for her to see about her room, side of the swift earth. The stream
for the moon, nearly at full, was riding of hunan thought and deed was hurhigh in the heavens among scattered rying and broadening onward. The
hurrying clouds. Caterinadrew aside astronomer was at his telescope; the
thewindow-curtain; and, sitting with great ships were laboring over the
her forehead pressed against the cold waves; the toiling eagerness of compane, looked out on the wide stretch merce, tie fierce spirit of revolution,
of park and lawn.                  were only ebbing in brief rest; and
How   dreary the  moonlight is, sleepless statesmen were dreading the
robbed of all its tenderness and repose possible crisis of the morrow. What
by the hard driving wind! The trees were our little Tina and her trouble
are harassed by that tossing motion, in this mighty torrent, rushing from
when they would like to be at rest; one awful unknown    to another?
the shivering grass makes her quake Lighter than the smallest centre of
with sympathetic cold; and the wil- quivering life in the water-drop, hidlows by the pool, bent low and white den and uncared for as the pulse of
under that invisible harshness, seem  anguish in the breast of the tiniest
agitated and helpless like herself. Bt bird that has fluttered down to its nest
she loves the scene the batter for its with the long-sought food, and has
sadness: there is some pity in it. It found the nest torn and empty.
is not like that hard, unfeeling happiness of lovers, flaunting in the eyes of:
misery.
She set her teeth tight against the       CHAPTER     VI.
window-frame, and the tears fell thick
and fast. She was so thankful she    THE next morning, when Caterina
could cry, for the mad passion she had was waked from her heavy sleep by
felt when her eyes were dry frightened Martha bringing in the warm water,
her. If that dreadful feeling were to the sun was shining, the wind had
come on when Lady Cheverel was abated, and those hours of suffering
present, she should never be able to in the night seemed unreal and dreamcontain herself.                  like, in spite of weary limbs and achThen there was Sir Christopher, -  ing eyes. She got up and began to
so good to her, - so happy about An- dress with a strange feeling of insenthony's marriage; and all the while sibility, as if nothing could make her
she had these wicked feelings.     cry again; and she even felt a sort
"O0, I cannot help it, I cannot help of longing to be down stairs in the
it!" she said in a loud whisper be- midst of company, that she might get
tween her sobs. " 0 God, have pity rid of this benumbed condition by
upon me!"                         contact.
In this way Tina wore out the long  There are few of us that are not
hours of the windy moonlight, till at rather ashamed of-our sins and follies
last, with weary, aching limbs, she lay as we look out on the blessed morndown in bed again, and slept from  ing sunlight, which comes to us like
mere exhaustion.                   a bright-winged angel beckoning us
While this poor little heart was be- to quit the old path of vanity that
ing bruised with a weight too heavy stretches its dreary length behind us;
for it, Nature was holding on her calm  and Tina, little as she knew about
inexorable way, in unmoved and ter- doctrines and theories, seemed to herrible beauty. The stars were rushing self to have been both foolish and
9                                        M




SCENES OP CLERICAL LIFt.


wicked yesterday. To-day she would
try to be good; and when she knelt
down to say her short prayer, - the
very form she had learned by heart
when she was ten years old, -she
added, " 0 God, help me to bear
it!"
That day the prayer seemed to be
answered, for after some remarks on
her pale looks at breakfast, Caterina
passed the morning quietly, Miss
Assher and Captain Wybrow being
out on a riding excursion.  In the
evening there was a dinner-party, and
after Caterina had sung a little, Lady
Cheverel, remembering that she was
ailing, sent her to bed, where she
soon sank into a deep sleep. Body
and mind must renew their force to
suffer as well as to enjoy.
On the morrow, however, it was
rainy, and every one must stay indoors; so it was resolved that the
guests should be taken over the house
by Sir Christopher, to hear the story
of the architectural alterations, the
family portraits, and the family relics.
All the party, except Mr. Gilfil, were
in the drawing-room when the proposition was made; and when Miss
Assher rose to go, she looked towards
Captain Wybrow, expecting to see
him rise too; but he kept his seat
near the fire, turning his eyes towards
the newspaper which he had been
holding unread in his hand.
" Are you not coming, Anthony?"
said Lady Cheverel, noticing Miss
Assher's look of expectation.
" I think not, if you '11 excuse me,"
he answered, rising and opening the
door; "I feel a little chilled this
morning, and I am afraid of the cold
rooms and draughts."
Miss Assher reddened, but said
nothing, and passed on, Lady Cheverel accompanying her.
Caterina was seated at work in the
oriel window. It was the first time
she and Anthony had been alone together, and she had thought before
that he wished to avoid her. But
now, surely, he wanted to speak to
her,-he wanted to say something


kind.  Presently he rose from- I
seat near the fire, and placed hims 
on the ottoman opposite to her.;: Ji."Well, Tina, and how have ia y:been all this long time?" 
Both the tone and the wordsw4 
an offence to her; the tone wat  S:
different from the old one, the y i
were so cold and unmeaning. SB.
answered, with a little bitterness * 
"I think you need n't ask. 
does n't make much difference, 
you.".
"Is that the kindest thing you hai~ iS
to say to me after my long- *'.. a.
sence?"                      ' A
"I don't know why you should ewM:
pect me to say kind things." 
Captain Wybrow was silent He le
wished very much to avoid allusioni!H
to the past or comments on the pres:e
ent. And yet he wished to be well 
with Caterina. He would have liUj  A
to caress her, make her presents, i:.
have her think him very kind to hi..
But these women are plaguy perverp:t
There 's no bringing them to J.:
rationally at anything. At lastj 
said: "I hoped you would thinkj
the better of me, Tina, for doing:;S
have done, instead of bearing nma i:
towards me. I hoped you would s.
that it is the best thing for everjy
one,-the best for your happiness i
too."                         ' m t
"0 pray don't make love to IMis 
Assher for the sake of my happinessa":
answered Tina. 
At this moment the door openqle
and Miss Assher entered, to fetch  ~
reticule, which lay on the harpsichord. She gave a keen glance:t 
Caterina, whose face was flushed, a4 
saying to Captain Wybrow witht'
slight sneer, " Since you are so chi)4
I wonder you like to sit in the wiAdow," left the room again imme4i   X
ately. 
The lover did not appear much
discomposed, but sat quiet a little
longer, and then, seating himself Op
the music-stool, drew it near to Catrina, and, taking her hand, sai,:
"Come, Tina, look kindly at me, a;




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MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.,Assher has her eyes open on what
passes between you and Captain Wybrow, and I feel sure she is getting jealous of you.  Pray be very careful,
Caterina, and try to behave with politeness and indifference to him. You
must see by this time that he is not
worth the feeling you have given him.
J.e 's more disturbed at his pulse beating one too many in a minute, than
at all the misery he has caused you by
hiis foolish trifling."
" You ought not to speak so of him,
Maynard," said Caterina, passionately  "He is not what you think. He
(id care for me; he did love me; only
he wanted to do what his uncle
wished."
", to be sure! I know it is only
from the most virtuous motives that
he does what is convenient to himself"
Mr. Gilfil paused. He felt that he
yas getting irritated, and defeating his
Qwn object. Presently he continued in
f calm and affectionate tone:"I will say no more about what I
think of him, Caterina. But whether
he loved you or not, his position now
with Miss Assher is such that any
love you may cherish for him can
brng nothing but misery. God knows
I don't expect you to leave off loving
him at a moment's notice. Timeand
absence, and trying to do what is
right, are the only cures. If it were
not that Sir Christopher and Lady
Cheverel would be displeased and puzzled at your wishing to leave home
just now, I would beg you pay a visit to my sister. She and her husband
are good creatures, and would make
their house a home to you. But I
could not urge the thing just now without giving a special reason; and what
is most of all to be dreaded is the raising of any suspicion in Sir Christopher's mind of what has happened in
the past, or of your present feelings.
You think so too, don't you, Tina? "
Mr. Gilfil paused again, but Caterina said nothing. She was looking
away from him, out of the window,
and her eyes were filling with tears.
9*




He rose, and, advancing a little towards her, held out his hand and
said: -
"Forgive me, Caterina, for intruding on your feelings in this way. I
was so afraid you might not be aware
how Miss Assher watched you. Remember, I entreat you, that the peace
of the whole family depends on your
power of governing yourself.  Only
say you forgive me before I go."
"Dear, good Maynard," she said;
stretching out her little hand and taking two of his large fingers in her
grasp, while her tears flowed fast;
"I am very cross to you. But my
heart is breaking.  I don't know
what I do. Good by."
He stooped down, kissed the little
hand, and then left the room.
"The cursed scoundrel! " he muttered between his teeth, as he closed
the door behind him. " If it were not
for Sir Christopher, I should like to
pound him into paste to poison puppies like himself. 
CHAPTER X.
TRAT evening Captain Wybrow,
returning from a long ride with Miss
Assher, went up to his dressing-room
and seated himself with an air of considerable lassitude before his mirror.
The reflection there presented of his
exquisite self was certainly paler and
more worn than usual, and might excuse the anxiety with which he first
felt his pulse, and then laid his hand
on his heart.
" It's a devil of a position this for
a man to be in," was the train of his
thought, as he kept his eyes fixed on
the glass, while he leaned back in his
chair, and crossed his hands behind
his head; " between two jealous women and both of them as ready to
take fire as tinder. And in my state
of health, too! I should be glad
enough to run away from the whole
affair, and go off to some lotos-eating
place or other where there are no wo



scENES OF CLERICAL LiFiE.


men, or only women who are too sleepy
to be jealous. Here am I, doing nothing to please myself, trying to do the
best thing for everybody else, and all
the comfort I get is to have fire shot at
me from women's eyes, and venom
spurted at me from women's tongues.
If Beatrice takes another jealous fit
into her head, - and it's likely
enough, Tina is so unmanageable,I don't know what storm she may
raise. And any hitch il this marriage, especially of that sort, might be
a fatal business for the, old gentleman. I would n't have such a blow
fall upon him for a great deal. Besides, a man must be married some
time in his life, and I could hardly do
better than marry Beatrice. She's
an uncommonly fine woman, and
I'm really very fond of her; and as
I shall let her have her own way, her
temper won't signify much. I wish
the wedding was over and done with,
for this fuss does n't suit me at all.
I haven't been half so well lately.
That scene about Tina this morning
quite upset me. Poor little Tina!
What a little simpleton it was, to set
her heart on mein that way! But
she ought to see how impossible it is
that things should be different.  If
she would but understand how kindly
I feel towards her, and make up her
mind to look on me as a friend, - but
that is what one never can get a woman to do. Beatrice is very goodnatured; I'm sure she would be kind
to the little thing. It would be a
greatcomfort if Tina would take to
Gilfil, if it were only in anger against
me. He'd make her a capital husband, and I should like to see the
little grasshopper happy. If I had
been in a different position, I would
certainly have married her myself; but
that was out of the question with my
responsibilities to Sir Christopher. I
think a little persuasion from my uncle would bring her to accept Gilfil;
I know she would never be able to oppose my uncle's wishes. And if they
were once married, she's such a loving little thing, she would soon be




billing and cooing with bmtt aila s
had never known me.': t.would!; '
tainly be the best thing for her hli
ness if that marriage were hast;
Heigho!   Those are lucky fe?:
that have no women falling in: 
with them. It's a confounded'i 
sponsibility.":'/ih
At this point in his meditaati-di
turned his head a little, so as to gW H
three-quarter view of his face. Cie
ly it was the " dono infelice dela bt
lezza " that laid these onerous tdu'
upon him, - an idea which natnr'.~
suggested that he should ring for -lii
valet.
For the next few days, however
there was such a cessation of threat.
ening symptoms as to allay the ani
ety both of Captain Wybrow    anid
Mr. Gilfil. All earthly things habo
their lull: even on nights when toi:
most unappeasable wind is raging
there will be a moment of stillne|
before it crashes among the bough!
again, and storms against the wir
dows, and howls like a thousand lo0
demons through the key-holes.. K'
Miss Assher appeared to be in the
highest good-humor; Captain W.
brow was more assiduous than usuai
and was very circumspect in his behav,
ior to Caterina, on whom Miss Asshei
bestowed unwonted attentions. The
weather was brilliant; there were rid;
ing excursions in the mornings and
dinner-parties in the evenings. CMa?
sultations in the library between Sir
Christopher and Lady Assher seemed
to be leading to a satisfactory resultil
and it was understood that this visit
at Cheverel Manor would terminate
in another fortnight, when the prepa
rations for the wedding would be
carried forward with all despatchii
Farleigh.   The   Baronet  seemeA
every day more radiant. Accustomed
to view people who entered into his
plans by the pleasant light which his
own strong will and bright hopeful.
ness were always casting on the far
ture, he saw nothing but personal
charms and promising domestic qual
ities in Miss Assher, whose quickne'S




MR. GILFIL'S




otfeye and taste in externals formed a
real ground of sympathy between her
and Sir Christopher. Lady Cheverel's enthusiasm never rose above the
temperate mark of calm satisfaction,
and, having quite her share of the
critical acumen which characterizes
the mutual estimates of the fair sex,
she had a more moderate opinion of
Miss Assher's qualities. She suspected that the fair Beatrice had a sharp
and imperious temper; and being
herself, on principle and by habitual
self-command, the most deferential of
wives, she noticed with disapproval
Miss Assher's occasional air of authority towards Captain Wybrow.
A proud woman who has learned to
submit carries all her pride to the reinforcement of her submission, and
looks down with severe superiority on
all feminine assumption as" unbecoming." Lady Clieverel, however, confined her criticisms to the privacy of
her own thoughts, and, with a reticence which I fear may seem incredible, did not use them as a means of disturbing her husband's complacency.
And Caterina? How did she pass
these sunny autumn days, in which
the skies seemed to be smiling on the
family gladness 'r To her the change
in Miss Assher's manner was unaccountable. Those compassionate attentions, those smiling condescensions,
were torture to Caterina, who was
constantly tempted to repulse them
with anger. She thought, " Perhaps
Anthony has told her to be kind to
poor Tina."   This was an insult.
le ought to have known that the
mere presence of Miss Assher was
painful to her, th-it Miss Assher's
smiles scorched her, that Miss Assher's
kind words were like poison stings inflaming her to madness. And he -
Anthony- he was evidently repenting of the tenderness he had been betrayed into that morning in the drawing-room. He was cold and distant
and civil to her, to ward off Beatrice's
suspicions, and Beatrice could be so
gracious now, because she was sure
of Anthony's entire devotion. Well!


LOVE-STORY.                   203
and so it ought to be,- and she
ought not to wish it otherwise. And
yet —O, he was cruel to her.  She
could never have behaved so to him.
To make her love him so, - to speak
such tender words, - to give her such
caresses, and then to behave as if
such things had never been. He had
given her the poison that seemed so
sweet while she was drinking it, and
now it was in her blood, and she was
helpless.
With this tempest pent up in her
bosom, the poor child went up to her
room every night, and there it all
burst forth. There with loud whispers and sobs, restlessly pacing up
and down, lying on the hard floor,
courting cold and weariness, she told
to the pitiful listening night the anguish which she could pour into no
mortal car. But always sleep came
at last, and always in the morning
the reactive calm that enabled her to
live through the day.
It is amazing how long a young
franie will go on battling with this
sort of secret wretchedness, and yet
show no traces of the conflict for any
but sympathetic eyes. The very delicacy of Caterina's usual appearance,
her natural paleness and habitually
quiet mouse-like ways, made any
symptoms of fatigue and suffering less
noticeable. And her singing - the
one thing in which she ceased to be
passive, and became prominen - lost
none of its energy. She herself sometimes wondered how it was that
whether she felt sad or angry, crushed
with the sense of Anthony's indifference or burning with impatience under Miss Assher's attentions, it was
always a relief to her to sing. Those
full deep notes she sent forth seemed
to be lifting the pain from her heart,
— seemed to be carrying away the
madness from her brain.
Thus Lady Cheverel noticed no
change in Caterina, and it was only
Mr. Gilfil who discerned with anxiety
the feverish spot that sometimes rose
on her cheek, the deepening violet
tint under her eyes, and the strange




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


absent glance, the unhealthy glitter
of the beautiful eyes themselves.
But those agitated nights were producing a more fatal effect than was
represented by these slight outward
changes.
CHAPTER XI.
THE following Sunday, the morning being rainy, it was determined
that the family should not go to Cumbermoor Church as usual, but that
Mr. Gilfil, who had only an afternoon
service at his curacy, should conduct
the morning service in the chapel.
Just before the appointed hour of
eleven, Caterina came down into the
drawing-room, looking so unusually
ill as to call forth an anxious inquiry
from Lady Cheverel, who, on learning that she had a severe headache,
insisted that she should not attend
service, and at once packed her up
comfortably on a sofa near the fire,
putting a volume of Tillotson's Sermons into her hands, - as appropriate reading, if Caterina should feel
equal to that means of edification.
Excellent medicine for the mind
are the good Archbishop's sermons,
but a medicine, unhappily, not suited
to Tina's case.  She sat with the
book open on her knees, her dark
eyes fixed vacantly on the portrait of
that handsome Lady Cheverel, wife
of the notable Sir Anthony.  She
gazed at the picture without thinking
of it, and the fair blond dame seemed
to look down on her with that benignant unconcern, that mild wonder, with which happy self-possessed
women are apt to look down on their
agitated and weaker sisters.
Caterina was thinking of the near
future, -of the wedding that was so
soon to come, -of all she would
have to live through in the next
months.
"I wish I could be very ill, and
die before  then,"  she  thought.
"When people get very ill, they
don't mind about things. Poor Pat

ty Richards looked so happy,
she was in a decline. She djdd,.
seem to care any more about lhe
lover that she was engaged to ai
married to, and she liked the sBl4
of the flowers so, that I used to t'a(
her. 0, if I could but like apyti4gi
— if I could but think about, a
thing else! If these dreadful feelings
would go away, I would n't mixlZ
about not being happy. I wouldfJi
want anything, - and I could:.d
what would please Sir Christopi
and Lady Cheverel. But when -
rage and anger comes into me,,
don't know what to do. I don't i
the ground under me; I only feel my
head and heart beating, and it seeqn
as if I must do something dredidful.
Oh! I wonder if any one ever felt lik:
me before. I must be very wicked
But God will have pity on me; l
knows all I have to bear."
In this way the time wore on ti_
Tina heard the sound of voices along
the passage, and became conscioQ
that the volume of Tillotson hai
slipped on the floor. She had onlx
just picked it up, and seen with
alarm that the pages were bent, whe
Lady Assher, Beatrice, and Captain
Wybrow entered, all with that brisk
and cheerful air which a sermon is
often observed to produce when it i
quite finished. 
Lady Assher at once came a
seated  herself by Caterina.  Hg
ladyship had been considerably ro.
freshed by a doze, and was in grea;
force for monologue.
"Well, my dear Miss Sarti, and
how do you feel now?- a little bet
ter, I see. I thought you would bu,
sitting quietly here.  These head4
aches, now, are all from weakness
You must not over-exert yourself
and you must take bitters. I used
to have just the same sort of heacT.
aches when I was your age, and o)in
Dr. Samson used to say to my mother, 'Madam, what your daughter
suffers from is weakness.' He wad.
such a curious old man, was Dr.
Samson. But I wish vou could have




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


205 -


hefard the sermon this morning.
Such an excellent sermon! It was
about the ten virgins: five of them
were foolish, and five were clever,
you know; and Mr. Gilfil explained
all that.  What a very pleasant
young man he is! so very quiet and
agreeable, and such a good hand at
whist. I wish we had him at Farleigh. Sir John would have liked
him beyond anything; he is so goodtempered at cards, and he was such a
man for cards, was Sir John. And
our rector is a very irritable man;
he can't bear to lose his money at
cards. I don't think a clergyman
ought to mind about losing his
money; do you? - do you now? "
" 0 pray, Lady Assher," interposed Beatrice, in her usual tone of superiority, "do not weary poor Caterina with such uninteresting questions.
Your head seems very bad still,
dear," she continued, in a condoling
tone, to Caterina; "do take my
vinaigrette, and keep it in your pocket. It will perhaps refresh you now
and then."
"No, thank you," answered Caterina; " I will not take it away from
you.2'
"Indeed, dear, I never use it; you
must take it," Miss Assher persisted,
holding it close to Tina's hand.
Tina colored deeply, pushed the vinaigrette away with some impatience,
and said: " Thank you, I never use
those things. I don't like vinaigrettes."
Miss Assher returned the vinaigrette
to her pocket in surprise and haughty silence, and Captain  Wybrow,
who had looked on in some alarm,
said hastily: " See! it is quite bright
out of doors now.  There is time
for a walk before luncheon. Come,
Beatrice, put on your hat and cloak,
and let us have half an hour's walk
on the gravel."
"Yes, do, my dear," said Lady
Assher, "and I will go and see if
Sir Christopher is having his walk in
the gallery."
As soon as the door had closed be

hind the two ladies,'Captain Wybrow,
standing with his back to the fire,
turned towards Caterina, and said in
a tone of earnest remonstrance: " MY
dear Caterina, let me beg of you to
exercise more control over vour feelings; you are really rude' to Miss
Assher, and I can see that she is quite
hurt. Consider how strange your be,
havior must appear to her. She will
wonder what can be the cause of it.
Come, dear Tina," he added, approaching her, and attempting to take
her hand; " for your own sake let me
entreat you to receive her attentions
politely. She really feels very kindly
towards you, and I should be so happy to see you friends."
Caterina was already, in such a
state of diseased susceptibility that
the most innocent words from Captain Wybrow would have been irri 'tating to her, as the whir of the
most delicate wing will afflict a nervous patient. But this tone of benev.,
olent remonstrance was intolerable.
He had inflicted a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an air of benevolence towards
her. This was a new outrage. His
profession of good-will was insolence.
Caterina snatched awav her hand
and said indignantly: "][eave me to
myself, Captain W brow I I do not
disturb you."
" Caterina, why will you be so
violent,-sounjusttome? Itisfor
you that I feel anxious. Miss Assher
has already noticed how strange your
behavior is both to her and me, and
it puts me into a very difficult position. What can I sav to her?
"Say?" Caterina burst forthwith
intense bitterness, rising, and moving
towards the door; " say that I am a
por silly girl, and have fallen in love
with you, and am jealous of her; but
that you have never find any feeling
but pity for me, - you have never bebaved with anything more than friendliness to me. Tell her that, and she
will think all the better of you."
Tina uttered this as the bitterest
sarcasm her ideate would farnish her


hind the two ladies, Captain Wybrow,
standing with his back to the fire,
turned towards Caterina, and said in
a tone of earnest remonstrance: " My
dear Caterina, let me beg of you to
exercise more control over your feelings; you are really rude to Miss
Assher, and I can see that she is quite
hurt. Consider how strange your behavior must appear to her. She will
wonder what can be the cause of it.
Come, dear Tina," he added, approaching her, and attempting to take
her hand; " for your own sake let me
entreat you to receive her attentions
politely. She really feels very kindly
towards you, and I should be so happy to see you friends."
Caterina was already in such a
state of diseased susceptibility that
the most innocent words from Captain Wybrow would have been irritating to her, as the whir of the
most delicate wing will afflict a nervous patient. But this tone of benev.
olent remonstrance was intolerable.
He had inflicted a great and unrepented injury on her, and now he assumed an air of benevolence towards
her. This was a new outrage. His
profession of good-will was insolence.
Caterina snatched awav her hand
and said indignantly: "Leave me to
myself, Captain Wybrow I I do not
disturb you."
" Caterina, why will you be so
violent,- so unjust to me? It is for
you that I feel anxious. Miss Assher
has already noticed how strange your
behavior is both to her and me, and
it puts me into a very difficult position. What can I say to her? "
"Say?" Caterina burst forth with
intense bitterness, rising, and moving
towards the door; " say that I am a
poor silly girl, and have fallen in love
with you, and am jealous of her; but
that you have never had any feeling
but pity for me, - you have never behaved with anything more than friendliness to me. Tell her that, and she
will think all the better of you."
Tina uttered this as the bitterest
sarcasm her ideas would farnish her




-.:-. 11 7,.. 7,7 —
,


SCENES O? CLERICAL LIFE.


with, not having the faintest suspicion
that the sarcasm derived any of its
bitterness from truth.  Underneath
all her sense of wrong, which was
rather instinctive than reflective,underneath all the madness of her
jealousy, and her ungovernable impulses of resentment and vindictiveness,- underneath all this scorching
passion, there were still left some hidden crystal dews of trust, of self-reproof, of belief that Anthony was trying to do the right. Love had not
all gone to feed the fires of hatred.
Tina still trusted that Anthony felt
more for her than he seemed to feel;
she was still far from suspecting him
of a wrong which a woman resents
even more than inconstancy. And
she threw out this taunt simply as
the most intense expression she could
find for the anger of the moment.
As she stood nearly in the middle
of the room, her little body trembling
under the shock of passions too strong
for it, her very lips pale, and her
eyes gleaming, the door opened, and
Miss Assher appeared, tall, blooming,
and splendid, in her walking costume. As she entered, her face wore
the smile appropriate to the exits and
entrances of a young lady who feels
that her presence is an interesting
fact; but the next moment she looked
at Caterina with grave surprise, and
then threw a glance of angry suspicion at Captain Wybrow, who wore
an air of weariness and vexation.
"Perhaps you are too much engaged to walk out, Captain Wybrow?
I will go alone."
"No, no, I am coming," he answered, hurrying towards her, and
leading her out of the room; leaving
poor Caterina to feel all the reaction
of shame and self-reproach after her
outburst of passion.
CHAPTER XII.


and Miss Sarti " said Miss AsHf
to Captain Wybrow, as soon as tli`
were out on the gravel. " It woul
be agreeable to have some ide&<Of
what is coming.";
Captain Wybrow was silent. He
felt out of humor, wearied, annoyed.
There come moments when one almost
determines never again to oppoSe
anything but dead silence to an ani
woman, "Now then, confound if
he said to himself, "I 'm going to 6i
battered on the other flank." He
looked resolutely at the horizon, with
something more like a frown on his
face than Beatrice had ever sedn
there. 
After a pause of two or three mrin
utes, she continued in a still haughtier tone, " I suppose you are aware,
Captain Wybrow, that I expect (
explanation of what I have just
seen."                        *
"I have no explanation, my dear
Beatrice," he answered at last, manking a strong effort over himself, " ecept what I have already given yuo.
I hoped you would never recur to the
subject.":
"Your explanation, however, is
very far from satisfactory. I can only say that the airs Miss Sarti thinks
herself entitled to put on towards ydn
are quite incompatible with your position as regards me. And her behaVior to me is most insulting. I shll
certainly not stay in the house under
such circumstances, and mamma must
state the reasons to Sir Christopheri'
"Beatrice," said Captain Wybrow,
his irritation giving way to alarm, 
" I beseech you to be patient, and exercise your good feelings in this affair.
It is very painful, I know, but I am
sure you would be grieved to injure
poor Caterina, - to bring down, hy
uncle's anger upon her.  Consider
what a poor little dependent thing
she is."
" It is very adroit of you to make
these evasions, but do not suppose
that they deceive me. Miss Sarti
would never dare to behave to yonuas
she does, if you had not flirted with


"PRAY, what is likely to be the
taext scene in the drama between you




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


207


her. or made love to her. I suppose
she considers your engagement to me
a breach of faith to her. I akn much
obliged to you, certainly, for making
ne Miss Sarti's rival. You have told
me a falsehood, Captain Wybrow."
'"Beatrice, I solemnly declare to
you that Caterina is nothing more
to me than a girl I naturally feel
kindly to, - as a favorite of my uncle's and a nice little thing enough.
I should be glad to see her married to
Gilfil to-morrow; that's a good proof
that I'm not in love with her, I
should think. As to the past, I may
have shown her little attentions,
which she has exaggerated and misinterpreted. What man is not liable
to that sort of thing? "
"But what can she found her behavior on? What had she been saying to you this morning to make her
tremble and turn pale in that way "
" 0, I don't know.  I just said
something about her behaving peevishly.  With that Italian blood of
'hers, there's no knowing how she
may take what one says. She 's a
fierce little thing, though she seems
so quiet generally."
"But she ought to be made to
know how unbecoming and indelicate
her conduct is. For my part, I wonder Lady Chevcrel has not noticed
her short answers and the airs she
puts on."
" Let me beg of you, Beatrice, not
to hint anything of the kind to Lady
Cheverel. You must have observed
how strict my aunt is. It never enters her head that a girl can be in
love with a man who has not made
her an offer."
" Well, I shall let Miss Sarti know
myself that I have observed her conduct. It will be only a charity to
her."
"Nay, dear, that will be doing
nothing but harm. Caterina's temper is peculiar. The best thing you
can do will be to leave her to herself
as much as possible. It will all wear
uoff. I 've no doubt she '11 be married
to Gilfil before lobi,:::Gitl', anei


are easily diverted from one object to
another. By Jove, what a rate my
heart is galloping at! These confounded palpitations get worse instead
of better."
Thus ended the conversation, so
far as it concerned Caterina, not without leaving a distinct resolution in
Captain Wybrow's mind, - a resolution carried into effect the next day,
when he was in the library with Sir
Christopher for the purpose of discussing some arrangements about the
approaching marriage.
"By the by," he said carelessly,
when the business came to a pause,
and he was sauntering round the
room with his hands in his coat-pockets, surveying the backs of the books
that lined the walls, "when is the
wedding between Gilfil and Caterina
to come off, sir? I 've a fellow-feeling for a poor devil so many fathoms
deep in love as Maynard. Why
should n't their marriage happen as
soon as ours? I suppose he has come
to an understanding with Tina?
" Why," said Sir Christopher, I
did think of letting the thing be until
old Crichley died; he can't hold out
very long, poor fellow; and then
Maynard might have entered into matrimony and the rectory both at once.
But, after all, that really is no good
reason for waiting. There is no need
for them to leave the Manor when
they are married. The little monkey
is quite old enough. It would be
pretty to see her a matron, with a baby about the size of a kitten in her
arms.",
"I think that system of waiting is
always bad. And if I can further any
settlement vou would like to make on
Caterina, I shall be delighted to carry
out your wishes."
" My dear boy, that's very good of
you; but Maynard will have enough;
and from what I know of him - and
I know him well - I think he would
rather provide for Caterina himself.
However, now you have put this matter into my head, I begin to blame
myself for not having thought of it




208


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


before. I've been so wrapt up in
Beatrice and you, you rascal, that I
had really forgotten poor Maynard.
And he's older than you, - it s high
time he was settled in life as a family
man."
Sir Christopher paused, took snuff
in a meditative manner, and presently
said, more to himself than to Anthony,
who was humming a tune at the far
end of the room, " Yes, yes. It will
be a capital plan to finish off all our
family business at once."
Riding out with Miss Assher the
same morning, Captain Wybrow mentioned to her incidentally, that Sir
Christopher was anxious to bring
about the wedding between Gilfil and
Caterina as soon as possible, and that
lie, for his parr, should do all he could
to further the affair. It would be the
best thing in the world for Tina, in
whose welfare he was really interested.
With Sir Christopher there was
never any long interval between purpose and execution. He made up his
mind promptly, and he acted promptly. On rising from luncheon, he said
to Mr. Gilfil, " Come with me into the
library, Maynard. I want to have a
word with you."
"Maynard, my boy," he began, as
soon as they were seated, tapping his
snuff-box, and looking radiant at the
idea of the unexpected pleasure he
was about to give, "why should n't
we have two happy couples instead of
one, before the autumn is over, eh? "
"Eh? " he repeated, after a moment's pause, lentrthening out the
nlonosyllable, taking a slow pinch,
and looking up at Maynard with a
sly smile.                r
"I 'm not quite sure that I understand you, sir," answered Mr. Gilfil,
who felt annoyed at the consciousness
that he was turning pale.
"Not understand me, you rogue?
You know very well whose happiness
lies nearest to my heart after Anthony's. You know you let me into your
secrets long ago, so there's no confesgion to. make. Tina's quite old


enough to be a grave little wife now 
and though the Rectory's not ready
for you, that's no matter. My lady
and I shall feel all the more comfortable for having you with us. We
should miss our little singing-bird if
we lost her all at once."
Mr. Gilfil felt himself in a painfully
difficult position. He dreaded that
Sir Christopher should surmise or
discover the true state of Caterina's
feelings, and yet he was obliged to
make those feelings the ground of his
reply.
r"My dear sir," he at last said with
some effort, "you will not suppose
that I am not alive to your goodness,
-that I am not grateful for your
fatherly interest in my happiness;
but I fear that Caterina's feelings towards me are not such as to warrant
the hope that she would accept a proposal of marriage fiom me."
" Have you ever asked her? "
"No, sir. But we often know these
things too well without asking."
"Pooh, pooh! the little monkey
must love you. Why, you were her
first playfellow; and I remember she
used to cry if you cut your finger. Besides, she has always silently admitted that you were her lover. You
know I have always spoken of
you to her in that light. I took.it
for granted you had settled the business between yourselves; so did Anthony.  Anthony thinks she's in
love wilh you, and he has young eyes,
which are apt enough to see clearly in
these matters. He was talking to me
about it this morning, and pleased
me very much by the friendly interest
he showed in vou and Tina."
The blood - more than was wanted - rushed back to Mr. Gilfil's face;
he set his teeth and clenched his
hands in the effort to repress a burst
of indignation. Sir Christopher noticed the flush, but thought it indicated the fluctuation of hope and fear
about Caterina. He went on: —
" You're too modest by half, Maynard., A fellow who can take a fivebarred gate as you can ought not to




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.                    209
be soi faint-hearted. If you can't speak  " DEAR CATERINA, - DO not sus.
t6 her yourself, leave me to talk to pect for a moment that anything Sir
her."                             Christopher may say to you about
- Sir Christopher," said poor May- our marriage has been prompted by
nard earnestly, "I shall really feel it me. I have done all I dare do to
the greatest kindness you can possibly dissuade him from urging the subject,
show me not to mention this subject and have only been prevented from
to6Caterina at present. I think such speaking more strongly by the dread
a proposal, made prematurely, might of provoking questions which I-could
only alienate her from me."      not answer without causing you fresh.
Sir Christopher was getting a little misery. I write this, both to prepare
displeased at this contradiction. His you for anything Sir Christopher may
tofte became a little sharper as he say, and to assure you - but I hope
said: " Have you any grounds to state you already believe it- that your
for this opinion, beyond your general feelings are sacred to me. I would
notion that Tina is not enough in rather part with the dearest hope of
love with you? "                my life than be the means of adding
's I can state none beyond my own to your trouble.
very strong impression that she does  "It is Captain Wybrow who has
not love mo well enough to marry prompted Sir Christopher to take up
me."                             the subject at this moment. I tell
"Then I think that ground is you this, to save you from hearing it
worth nothing at all. I am tolerably suddenly when  you  are with Sir
correct in my judgment of people; Christopher. You see nov what sort
anrd if I am not very much deceived of stuff that dastard's heart is made
in Tina, she looks forward to nothing of.  Trust in me always, dearest
else but to your being her husband. Caterina, as - whatever may come
Leave me to manage the matter as I - your faithful friend and brother,
think best. You may rely on me               "MAYNARD GILFIL."
that I shall do no harm to your
cause, Maynard."                   Caterina was at first too terribly
Mr; Giltil, afraid to say more, yet stung by the words about Captain
wretched in the prospect of what Wybrow to think of the difficulty
might result from Sir Christopher's which threatened her, - to think eidetermination, quitted the library in ther of what Sir Christopher would
a - state of mingled  indignation say to her, or of what she could say
against Captain Wybrow, and dis- in reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce
treas for himself and Caterina. What resentment, left no room for fear.
would she think of him? She mi-ht With the poisoned garment upon
suppose that he had instigated or sanc- him, the victim  writhes under the
tioned Sir Christopher's proceeding. torture, - he has no thought of the
He should perhaps not have an oppor- coming death.
tunity of speaking to her on the sub-  Anthony could do this!-Of this
ject- in time; he would write her a there could be no explanation but the
note, and carry it up to her room after coolest contempt for her feelings, the
the dressing-bell had rung. No; that basest sacrifice of all the consideration
wohld agitate her, and unfit her for and tenderness he owed her to the
appearing at dinner, and passing the ease of his position with Miss Assher.
evening calmly. He would defer it No. It was worse than that; it was
till bedtime. After prayers, he con- deliberate, gratuitous cruelty.  He
trived to lead her back to the drawing- wanted to show her how he despised
room, and to put a letter in her hand. her; he wanted to make her feel her
She-tcarried it up to her own room, folly in having ever believed that he
wondering, and there read:-       loved her.
''        E




210


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.'. The last crystal drops of trust and
tenderness, she thought, were dried
up; all was parched, fiery hatred.
Now she need no longer check her
resentment by the fear of doing him
an injustice; he had trifled with her,
as Maynard had said; he had been
reckless of her; and now he was base
and cruel. She had cause enough for
her bitterness and anger; they were
not so wicked as they had seemed to
her.
As these thoughts were hurrying
after each other like so many sharp
throbs of fevered pain, she shed no
tear.  She paced restlessly to and
fro, as her habit was,- her' hands
clenched, her eyes gleaming fiercely
and wandering uneasily, as if in
search of something on which she
might throw herself like a tigress.
"If I could speak to him," she
whispered, " and tell him I hate him,
I despise him, I loathe him!"
Suddenly, as if a new thought had
struck lier, she drew a key from her
pocket, and, unlocking an inlaid desk
where she stored up her keepsakes,
took from it a small miniature. It
was in a very slight gold frame, with
a ring to it, as if intended to be worn
on a chain; and under the glass at
the back were two locks of hair, one
dark and the other auburn, arranged
in a fantastic knot. It was Anthony's
secret present to her a year ago,- a
copy he had had made specially for
her. For the last month she had
not taken it from its hiding-place;
there was no need to heighten the
vividness of the past. But now she
clutched it fiercely, and dashed it
across the room against the bare
hearthstone.
Will she crush it under her feet,
and grind it under her high-heeled
shoe, till every trace of those false
cruel features is gone?
Ah, no! She rushed across the
room; but when she saw the little
treasure she had cherished so fondly,
so often smothered with kisses, so
often laid under her pillow, and
remembered with the first return of




consciousness in the morning, - wha
she saw this one visible relic of tih
too happy past lying with the gmI
shivered, the hair fallen out, the thii
ivory cracked, there was a revulsion
of the overstrained feeling: relenting
came, and she burst into tears.
Look at her stooping down to gathi
er up her treasure, searching for, -he
hair and replacing it, and then morr,
fully examining the crack that di
figures the once-loved image. Ther
is no glass now to guard either /,*
hair or the portrait; but see hawt
carefully she wraps delicate pap
round it, and locks it up again in4ix
old place. Poor child! God send
the relenting may always oome before
the worst irrevocable deed! 
This action had quieted her, and
she sat down to read Maynard's le,
ter again. She read it two or three
times without seeming to take in tw
sense; her apprehension was dullej
by the passion of the last hours and
she found it difficult to call upA th
ideas suggested by the words.:-A
last she began to have a distinct-0ly
ception df the impending intervi*._
with Sir Christopher. The idea po
displeasing the Baronet, of whom
every one at the Manor stood in awe,
frightened  her so much that,sh
thought it would be impossible- 'f
resist his wish. He believed that shloved Maynard; he had always spps
ken as if he were quite sure of iite
How could she tell him he was,.4^
ceived, - and what if he were to-i.J
her whether she loved anybody ~el.a
To have Sir Christopher looking 'fr
grily at her was more than she co4l.
bear, even in imagination. He sh.
always been so good to her! 1 Ts
she began to think of the pain 'he 
might give him, and the more selfis4
distress of fear gave way to the -dib
tress of affection.  Unselfish tearbegan to flow, and sorrowful gratei.
tude to Sir Christopher helped: t;
awaken her sensibility to Mr. Gili$P;
tenderness and generosity.    *,: -'
"Dear, good Maynard! - whti
poor return I make him I If I cZm






MIR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


211'


but have loved him instead, - but I
can never love or care for anything
again. My heart is broken."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE next morning the dreaded
moment came. Caterna, stupefied by
the suffering of the previous night,
wirh that dull mental aching which
follows on acute anguish, was in Lady
Cheverel's sitting-room, copying out
some charity lists, when her ladyship
came in, and said:" Tina, Sir Christopher wants you;
go down into the library."
She went down trembling. As soon
as she entered, Sir Christopher, who
was seated near his writing-table,
said: "Now, little monkey, come and
sit down by me; I have something to
tell you."
Caterina took a footstool, and seated
herself on it at the Baronet's feet. It
was her habit to sit on these low
stools, and in this way she could hide
her face better. She put her little arm
round his leg, and leaned her cheek
against his knee.
"Why, you seem out of spirits this
morning, Tina. What's the matter,
eh?"
"Nothing, Padroncello; only my
head is bad."
"Poor monkey!      Well, now,
would n't it do the head good if I were
to promise you a good husband, and
smart little wedding-gowns, and by
and by a house of your own, where
you would be a little mistress, and
Padroncello would come and see you
sometimes? "
" O no, no! I should n't like ever
to be married. Let me always stay
with you!"
"Pooh, pooh, little simpleton. I
shall get old and tiresome, and there
will be Anthony's children putting
your nose out of joint. You will want
some one to love you best of all, and
you must have children of your own
to love. I can't have you withering


away into an old maid. I hate old
maids: they make me dismal to look
at them. I never see Sharp without
shuddering.  My little black-eyed
monkey was never meant for anything
so ugly. And there 's Maynard Gilfil, the best man in the county, worth
his weight in gold, heavy as he is; he
loves you better than his eyes. And
you love him too, you silly monkey,
whatever you may say about not being
married."
"No, no, dear Padroncello, do not
say so; I could not marry him."
" Why not, you foolish child? You
don't know your own mind. Why,
it is plain to everybody that you love
him. My lady has all along said
she was sure you loved him, —_she
has seen what little princess airs you
put on to him; and Anthony too, he
thinks you are in love with Gilfil.
Come, what has made you take it into
your head that you would n't like to
marry him? "
Caterina was now sobbing too deep.
ly to snake any answer. Sir Christopher patted her on the back and said:
"Come, come; why, Tina, you are
not well this morning. Go and rest,
little one.  You will see things in
quite another light when you are well.
Think over what I have said, and remember there is nothing, after Anthony's marriage, that I have set my
heart on so much as seeing you and
Maynard settled fbr life. I must have
no whims and follies, - no nonsense."
This was said with a slight severity;
but he presently added, in a soothing tone: " There, there, stop crying,
and be a good little monkey. Go and
lie down and get to sleep."
Caterina slipped from the stool on to
her knees, took the old Baronet's hand,
covered it with tears and kisses, and
then ran out of the room.
Before the evening, Captain Wy.
brow had heard from his uncle the result of the interview with Caterina.
He thought, "If I could have a long
quiet talk with her, I could perhaps
persuade her to look more reasonably
at things. But there 's no speaking




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


to her in the house without being interrupted, and I can hardly see her
anywhere else without Beatrice's finding it out." At last he determined to
make it a matter of confidence with
Miss Assher, -to tell her that he
wished to talk to Caterina quietly for
the sake of bringing her to a calmer
state of mind, and persuade her to
listen to Gilfil's affection. He was
very much pleased with this judicious
and candid plan, and in the course of
the evening he had arranged with himself the time and place of meeting, and
had communicated his purpose to Miss
Assher, who gave her entire approval.
Anthony, she thought, would do well
to speak plainly and seriously to Miss
Sartj. He was really very patient
and kind to her, considering how she
behaved.
Tina had kept her room all that day,
and had been carefully tended as an
invalid, Sir Christopher having told
her ladyship how matters stood. This
tendance was so irksome to Caterina,
she felt so uneasy under attentions and
kindness that were based on a misconception, that she exerted herself
to appear at breakfast the next morning, and declared herself well, though
head and heart were throbbing. To
be confined in her own room was
intolerable; it was wretched enough
to be looked at and spoken to, but it
was more wretched to be left alone.
She was frightened at her own sensations: she was frightened at the
imperious vividness with which pictures of the past and future thrust
themselves on her imagination. And
there was another feeling, too, which
made her want to be down stairs and
moving about. Perhaps she might
have an opportunity of speaking to
Captain Wybrow alone, - of speaking
those words of hatred and scorn that
burned on her tongue. That opportunity offered itself in a very unexpected manner.
Lady Cheverel having sent Caterina
out of the drawing-room to fetch some
patterns of embroidery from her sitting-room, Captain Wybrow presently


walked out after her, and met het: i
she was returning down stairs.  '
"Caterina," he said, laying ho
hand on her arm as she was hurrying
on without looking at him, "will yow
meet me in the Rookery at twel`v
o'clock? I must speak to you, and we
shall be in privacy there. I canqp4
speak to you in the house." 
To his surprise, there was a ftas
of pleasure across her face; Si'e
answered  shortly  and  decidedly
"Yes," then snatched her arm awi
from him, and passed down stairs. ];
Miss Assher was this morning btsy
winding silks, being bent on erod
lating Lady Cheverel's embroidery
and Lady Assher chose the passiXg
amusement of holding the skeins.
Lady Cheverel had now all her wor.
ing apparatus about her, and Ca't
rina, thinking she was not wantec
went away and sat down to the hqrpsichord in the sitting-room. It seteji
as if playing massive chords, - bring
ing out volumes of sound, would il
the easiest way of passing the log
feverish moments before twelve o'cl:'
Handel's "Messiah" stood open on t.
desk, at the chorus "All we like.sheep," and Caterina threw herself:
at once into the impetuous intricacie
of that magnificent fugue. In.i
happiest moments she could ney,
have played it so well; for now a
the passion that made her misery ]'k
hurled by a convulsive effort into 'ie
music, just as pain gives new f6rc
to the clutch of the sinking wrestle$r
and as terror gives far-sounding"j
tensity to the shriek of the feeble.6,!,
But at half past eleven she Or-S
interrupted by Lady Cheverel,.whq
said, " Tina, go down, will you,:
hold Miss Assher's silks for her.
Lady Assher and I have decidedoti
having our drive before luncheon.,"L
Caterina went down, wondermig
how she should es( ape from the drai.'
ing-room in time to he in the RookigP
at twelve. Nothing should preyet4
her from   going; nothing   shov,
rob her of this one precious mom.(.t
- perhaps the last- when she could




MIR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


213


speak out the thoughts that were in
her. After that, she would be passive;
she would bear anything.
But she had scarcely sat down
with a skein of yellow silk on her
hands, when Miss Assher said, graciously: -
" I know you have an engagement
with Captain Wybrow this morning.
You must not let me detain you
beyond the time."
'" So he has been talking to her
about me," thought Caterina. Her
hands began to tremble as she held
the skein.; Miss Assher continued, in the same
gracious tone: "It is tedious work
holding these skeins. I amn sure I
am very much obliged to you."
"No, you are not obliged to me,"
said Caterina, completely mastered
by her irritation; " I have only done
it because Lady Cheverel told me."
The moment was come when Miss
Assher could no longer suppress her
long latent desire to "let Miss Sarti
know the impropriety of her conduct."  With the malicious anger
that assumes the tone of compassion,
she said: -
" Miss Sarti, I am really sorry for
you, that you are not able to control'
yourself better. This giving way to
unwarrantable feelings is lowering
you, - it is indeed."
" What unwarrantable feelings?"
said Caterina, letting her hands fall,
and fixing her great dark eyes steadily on Miss Assher.
I' It is quite unnecessary for me to
say more. You must be conscious
what I mean. Only summon a sense
of duty to your aid. You are paining
Captain Wybrow extremely by your
want of self-control."
"Did he tell you I pained him? "
"Yes, indeed, he did. He is very
much hurt that you should behave to
me as if you had a sort of enmity towards me. He would like you to
make a friend of me. I assure you
we both feel very kindly towards you,
and are sorry you should cherish such
feelings."


" He is very good," said Caterina,
bitterly. " What feelings did he say
I cherished? "
This bitter tone increased Miss
Assher's irritation. There was still
a lurking suspicion in her mind,
though she would not admit it to herself, that Captain Wybrow had told
her a falsehood about his conduct and
feelings towards Caterina.  It was
this suspicion, more even than the anger of the moment, which urged her
to say something that would test the
truth of his statement.  That she
would be humiliating Caterina at the
same time was only an additional
temptation.
"These are things I do not like to
talk of, Miss Sarti. I cannot even
understand how a woman can indulge
a passion for a man who has never
given her the least ground for it, as
Captain Wybrow assures me is the
case."
" He told you that, did he?" said
Caterina, in clear low tones, her lips
turning white as she rose from her
chair.
"Yes; indeed, he did.  He was
bound to tell it me after your strange
behavior."
Caterina said nothing, but turned
round suddenly and left the room.
See how she rushes noiselessly, like
a pale meteor, along the passages and
up the gallery stairs! Those gleaming eyes, those bloodless lips, that
swift silent tread, make her look like
the incarnation of a fierce purpose,
rather than a woman.  The midday
sun is shining on the armor in the
gallery, making mimic suns on bossed
sword-hilts and the angles of polished
breast-plates. Yes, there are sharp
weapons in the gallery. There is a
dagger in that cabinet; she knows it
well. And as a dragon-fly wheels in
its flight to alight for an instant on a
leaf, she darts to the cabinet, takes
out the dagger, and thrusts it into her
pocket. In three minutes more she is
out, in hat and cloak, on the gravelwalk, hurrying along towards the
thick shades of the distant Rookery.




F: 7;4


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


She threads the windings of the plantations, not feeling the golden leaves
that rain upon her, not feeling the
earth beneath her feet. Her hand is
in her pocket, clenching the handle
of the dagger, which she holds half
out of its sheath.
Sht has reached the Rookery, and is
under the gloom of the interlacing
boughs. Her heart throbs as if it
would burst her bosom, - as if every
next leap must be its last. Wait,
wait, O heart! - till she has done
this one deed. He will be there, -
he will be before her in a moment.
He will come towards her with that
false smile, thinking she does not
know his baseness, - she will plunge
that dagger into his heart.
Poor child  poor child! she who
used to cry to have the fish put back
into the water, - who never willingly
killed the smallest living thing, -
dreams now, in the madness of her
passion, that she can kill the man
whose very voice unnerves her.
But what is that lying among the
dank leaves on the path three yards
before her?
-Good God! it is he, —lying motionless, - his hat fallen off. He is
ill, then,- he hasfainted. Herhand
lets go the dagger, and she rushes towards him. His eyes are fixed; he
does not see her. She sinks down on
her knees, takes the dear head in her
arms, and kisses the cold forehead.
" Anthony, Anthony I speak to me,
- it is Tina, - speak to me! 0 God,
he is dead!"
CHAPTER XIV.
"YES, Maynard," said Sir Christopher, chatting with Mr. Gilfil in the
library, " it really is a remarkable
thing that I never in my life laid a
plan, and failed to carry it out. I lay
my plans well, and I never swerve
from them, -that 's it.  A strong
will is the only magic. And next to
striking out one's plans, the pleasantest thing in the world is to see them


well accomplished. This year,) "  t.
will be the happiest of my life, all bt f  Kthe year '53, when I came into pQos9e:sion of the Manor, and married I?'
rietta. The last touch is givenr jtthe old house; Anthony's marriage  -
-the thing I had nearest my bear 
- is settled to my entire satisfsction  -
and by andby youwillbe buying a littel
wedding-ring for Tina's finger. IbiD ti
shake your head in that forlorn WVc:
- when I make prophecies they geis H:
erally come to pass. But there -aIj 
quarter after twelve striking. I miue
be riding to the High Ash toS -mety
Markham about felling some timberc:
My old oaks will have to groan fQWs
this wedding, but-" 
The door burst open, and Caterinns
ghastly and panting, her eyes distettdi,
ed with terror, rushed in, threw hews
arms round Sir Christopher's neekk
and gasping out,-"Anthony <.i.'
the Rookery... dead... in thee
Rookery," fell fainting on the floor.::1:
In a moment Sir Christopher watr
out of the room, and Mr. Gilfil w;:
bending to raise Caterina in his arl!i
As he lifted her from the ground:*
felt something hard and heavy in: h
pocket.  What could it be? q 'Thd
weight of it would be enough to huvt
her as she lay. He carried her-Ai
the sofa, put his hand in her pocketi
and drew forth the dagger.. 
Maynard shuddered. Did she mea '
to kill herself, then, or... or.:i
a horrible suspicion forced itself upew:
him. "Dead - in the Rookery." i*
hated himself for the thought that:
prompted him to draw the dagger
from its sheath. No! there wase  r
trace of blood, and he was ready Wt
kiss the good steel for its innocencea
He thrust the weapon into his tsii
pocket; he would restore it as soon
as possible to its well-known placein
the gallery. Yet, why had Catering
taken this dagger? What was it thar
had happened in the Rookery? Waa,
it only a delirious vision of hers I 5
He was afraid to ring, - afraid toa
summon any one to Caterina's assists
ance.  What might she Aot atmy




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


215


when she awoke from this fainting
fit? She might be raving. He could
not leave her, and yet he felt as if he
were guilty for not following Sir
Christopher to see what was the
truth.  It took but a moment to
think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such a long agony to
him that he began to reproach himself for letting it pass without seeking
some means of reviving Caterina.
Happily the decanter of water on Sir
Christopher's table was untouched.
He would at least try the effect of
throwing that water over her. She
might revive without his needing to
call any one else.
Meanwhile Sir Christopher was
harrying at his utmost speed towards
the Rookery; his face, so lately bright
and confident, now agitated by a
vague dread. The deep, alarmed bark
of Rupert, who ran by his side, had
struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then on
his way homeward, as something
unwonted, and, hastening in the
direction of the sound, he met the
Baronet just as he was approaching
the entrance of the Rookery. Sir
Christopher's look was enough. Mr.
Bates s.aid nothing, but hurried along
by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the dead leaves with his
nose to the ground. They had scarcely lost sight of him a minute when a
change in the tone of his bark told
them that he had found something,
and in another instant he was leaping
back over one of the large planted
mounds.  They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert leading
them; the tumultuous cawing of the
rooks, the very rustling of the leaves,
as their feet plunged among them,
falling like an evil omen on the Baronet's ear.
They had reached the summit of
the mound, and had begun to descend.
Sir Christopher saw something purple
down on the path below among the
yellow leaves.  Rupert was already
beside it, but Sir Christopher could
not move faster. A tremor had taken
hold of the firm limbs. Rupert came


back and licked the trembling hand,
as if to say " Courage! " and then
was down again snuffing the body.
Yes, it was a body... Anthony's
body. There was the white hand
with its diamond-ring clutching the
dark leaves. His eyes were half open,
but did not heed the gleam of sunlight
that darted itself directly on them
from between the boughs.
Still he might only have fainted;
it might only be a fit. Sir Christopher knelt down, unfastened the
cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and
laid his hand on the heart. It might
be syncope; it might not-it could
not be death.   No! that thought
must be kept far off.
" Go, Bates, get help; we '11 carry
him to your cottage. Send some one
to the house to tell Mr. Giltil and
Warren.   Bid them  send off for
Doctor Hart, and break it to my lady
and Miss Assher that Anthony is
ill."
Mr. Bates hastened away, and the
Baronet was left alone kneeling beside the body. The young and supple limb;, the rounded cheeks, the
delicate ripe lips, the smooth white
hands, were lying cold and rigid; and
the aged face was bending over them
in silent anguish; the aged deep-veined
hands were seeking with tremulous
inquiring touches for some symptom
that life was not irrevocably gone.
Rupert was there too, waiting and
watching: licking first the dead and
then the living hands; then running
off on Mr. Bates's track as if he would
follow and hasten his return, but
in a moment turning back again, unable to quit the scene of his master's
sorrow.
CHAPTER XV.
IT is a wonderful moment, the first
time we stand by one who has fainted,
and witness the fresh birth of consciousness spreading itself over the
blank features, like the rising sunlight on the alpine summits that lay




216


SCENES OF C]


ghastly and dead under the leaden
twilight. A slight shudder, and the
frost-bound eyes recover their liquid
light; for an instant they show the
inward semi-consciousness of an infant's; then, with a little start, they
open wider and begin to look; the
present is visible, but only as a strange
writing, and the interpreter Memory
is not vet there.
Mr. Gilfil felt a trembling joy as
this change passed over Caterina's
face. He bent over her, rubbing her
chill hands, and looking at her with
tender pity as her dark eyes opened
on him wonderingly. He thought
there might be some wine in the
dining-room close by. He left the
room, and Caterina's eyes turned towards the window, - towards Sir
Christopher's chair. There was the
link at which the chain of consciousness had snapped, and the events of
the morning were beginning to recur
dimly like a half-remembered dream,
when Maynard returned with some
wine. Ile raised her, and she drank
it; but still she was silent, seeming
lost in the attempt to recover the
past, when the door opened, and Mr.
Warren appeared with looks that announced terrible tidings. Mr. Gilfil,
dreading lest he should tell them in
Caterina's presence, hurried towards
him with his finger on his lips, and
drew him away into the dining-room
on the opposite side of the passage.
Caterina, revived by the stimulant,
was now recovering the full consciousness of the scene in the Rookery. Anthony was lying there dead;
she had left him to tell Sir Christopher; she must go and see what they
were doing with him; perhaps he was
not really dead, - only in a trance;
people did fall into trances sometimes.
While Mr. Gilfil was telling Warren
how it would be best to break the
news to Lady Cheverel and Miss
Assher, anxious himself to return to
Caterina, the poor child had made her
way feebly to the great entrance-door,
which stood open. Her strength in

LERICAL LIFE. 
creased as she moved and breathed
the fresh air, and with every increase
of strength came increased vividnessI
of emotion, increased yearning to bae
where her thought was,- in thas
Rookery with Anthony. Shewalktd'
more and -more swiftly, and at lti t
gathering the artificial strength of pw,.
sionate excitement, began to run., t
But now she heard the tread of' 
heavy steps, and under the yeltoiwr
shade near the wooden bridge she swl
men slowly carrying something. ion 
she was face to face with them.,Aa,thony was no longer in the Rookery:
they were carrying him stretched.l
a door, and there behind him was $irt
Christopher, with the firmly setmouth, 
the deathly paleness, and the coucli
trated expression of suffering in,: be
eye, which mark the suppressed gxif
of the strong man. The sight of this
face, on which Caterina had never bbp
fore beheld the signs of anguish, caiUd
a rush of new feeling which for:tbe
moment submerged all the rest,- 8io 
went gently up to him, put her litSe
hand in his, and walked in silencmly
his side. Sir Christopher could aft
tell her to leave him, and so she went
on with that sad procession to Mr
Bates's cottage in the Mosslands, ard
sat there in silence, waiting and wAt.i]ing to know if Anthony were etroJy
dead.
She had not yet missed the dagger
from her pocket; she had not yet evYn
thought of it. At the sight of  pthony lying dead, her nature had, rtbounded from its new bias of mesetment and hatred to the old sweet
habit of love. The earliest and.te
longest has still the mastery over. u;
and the only past that linked itsef
with those glazed unconscious eyer
was the past when they beamed Pn
her with tenderness. She forgot the
interval of wrong and jealousy and
hatred,- all his cruelty, and all her
thoughts of revenge, —as the exile
forgets the stormy passage that lay
between home and happiness and the
dreary land in which he finds himself
desolate.




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


217




CHAPTER XVI.
BEFORE night all hope was gone.
Dr. Hart had said it was death;
Anthony's body had been carried to
the house, and every one there knew
the calamity that had fallen on
them.
Caterina had been questioned by
Dr. Hart, and had answered briefly
that she found Anthony lying in the
Rookery. That she should have been
walking there just at that time was
not a coincidence to raise conjectures
in any one besides Mr. Gilfil. Except
in answering this question, she had
not broken her silence  She sat mute
in a corner of the gardener's kitchen,
shaking her head when Maynard entreated her to return with him, and
apparently unable to think of anything but the possibility that Anthony
might revive, until she saw them carrying away the body to the house.
Then she followed by Sir Christopher's side again, so quietly that
even Dr. Hart did not object to her
presence.
It was decided to lay the body in
the library until after the coroner's
inquest to-morrow; and when Caterina saw the door finally closed, she
turned up the gallery stairs on her
way to her own room, the place where
she felt at home with her sorrows. It
was the first time she had been in the
gallery since that terrible moment in
the morning, and now the spot and
the objects around began to reawaken
her half-stunned memory. The armor was no longer glittering in the
sunlight, but there it hung dead and
sombre above the cabinet from which
she had taken the dagger. Yes! now
it all came back to her,- all the
wretchedness and all the sin. But
where was the dagger now? She felt
in her pocket; it was not there. Could
it have been her fancy,- all that
about the dagger? She looked in the
cabinet; it was not there. Alas! no;
it could not have been her fancy, and
she was guilty of that wickedness.
10


But where could the dagger be now 
Could it have fallen out of her pocket 1
She heard steps ascending the stairs,
and hurried on to her room, where,
kneeling by the bed, and burying her
face to shut out the hateful light, she
tried to- recall every feeling and incident of the morning.
It all. came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she '
had felt for the last month - for many
months - ever since that June evenin- when he had last spoken to her
in the gallery. She looked back on
her storms of passion, herjealousy and
hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts
of revenge on Anthony.    0, bow
wicked she had been! It was she who
had been sinning; it was she who
had driven him to do and say those
things that had made her so angryAnd if he had wronged her, what had
she been on the verge of doingy to
him? She was too wicked ever to
be pardoned. She would like to confess how wicked she had been, that
they might punish her; she would
like to humble herself to the dust before every one, - before Miss Assher
even. Sir Christopher would send
her away, - would never see her
-again, if he knew all; and she would
be happier to be punished and frowned
on, than to be treated tenderly while
she had that guilty secret in her
breast. But then, if Sir Christopher
were to know all, it would add to his
sorrow, and make him more wretched
than ever. No! she could not confess it,-she should have to tell
about Anthony. But she could not
stay at the Manor; she must go
away; she could not bear Sir Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight
of all these things that reminded her
of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps
she should die soon: she felt very
feeble; there could not be much life
in her. She would go away and live
humbly, and pray to God to pardon
her, and let her iie.
The poor ch 'ild never thought of
suicide. No sooner was the storm of
ancrarnaaaacl +han +1ka candarnaaa rund


But where could the dagger be now?
Could it have fallen out of her pocket?
She heard steps ascending the stairs,
and hurried on to her room, where,
kneeling by the bed, and burying her
face to shut out the hateful light, she
tried to recall every feeling and incident of the morning.
It all came back; everything Anthony had done, and everything she
had felt for the last month - for many
months - ever since that June evening when he had last spoken to her
in the gallery. She looked back on
her storms of passion, her jealousy and
hatred of Miss Assher, her thoughts
of revenge on Anthony.   0, how
wicked she had been! It was she who
had been sinning; it was she who
had driven him to do and say those
things that had made her so angry.
And if he had wronged her, what had
she been on the verge of doing to
him? She was too wicked ever to
be pardoned. She would like to confess how wicked she had been, that
they might punish her; she would
like to humble herself to the dust before every one, - before Miss Assher
even. Sir Christopher would send
her away, - would never see her
again, if he knew all; and she would
be happier to be punished and frowned
on, than to be treated tenderly while
she had that guilty secret in her
breast. But then, if Sir Christopher
were to know all, it would add to his
sorrow, and make him more wretched
than ever. No! she could not confess it,-she should have to tell
about Anthony. But she could not
stay at the Manor; she must go
away; she could not bear Sir Christopher's eye, could not bear the sight
of all these things that reminded her
of Anthony and of her sin. Perhaps
she should die soon: she felt very
feeble; there could not be much life
in her. She would go away and live
humbly, and pray to God to pardon
her, and let her die.
The poor child never thought of
suicide. No sooner was the storm of
anger passed than the tenderness and




218


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


timidity of her nature returned, and mind was now bent on going away
she could do nothing but love and from the Manor, and she was thinkmourn. Her inexperience prevented ing of all the ways and means her
her from imagining the consequences little life's experience could sugof her disappearance from the Manor; gest.
she foresaw none of the terrible de-  It was dusk now; she must waft
tails of alarm and distress and search till early dawn, for she was too timid
that must ensue. " They will think to go away in the dark, but she must
I am dead," she said to herself, "and make her escape before any one was
by and by they will forget me, and up in the house. There would be
Maynard will get happy again, and people watching Anthony in the lilove some one else."               brary, but sbe could make her way
She was roused from her absorption out of a small door leading into the
by a knock at the door. Mrs. Bel- garden, against the drawing-room on
lamy was there. She had come by the other side of the house.
Mr. Gilfil's request to see how Miss  She laid her cloak, bonnet, and veil
Sarti was, and to bring her some food ready; then she lighted a candle,
and wine.                          opened her desk, and took out the
" You look sadly, my dear," said broken portrait wrapped in paper
the old housekeeper, " an' you re all She folded it again in two little notes
of a quake wi' cold. Get you to bed, of Anthony's, written in pencil, and
now do.    Martha shall come an' placed it in her bosom. There was
warm it, an'light your fire. See now, the little china box, too, - Dorcas's
here 's some nice arrowroot, wi' a present, the pearl ear-rings, and-a silk
drop o' wine in it. Take that, and purse, with fifteen seven-shilling pieces
it '11 warm you. I must go down in it, the presents Sir Christopher had
again, for I can't awhile to stay. made her on her birthday, ever since
There's so many things to see to; an' she had been at the Manor. Should
Miss Assher 's in hysterics constant, she take the ear-rings and the sevenan' her maid 's ill i' bed, - a poor shilling pieces? She could not bear
creachy thing, - an' Mrs. Sharp 's to part with them; it seemed as if they
wanted every minute. But I '11l send had some of Sir Christopher's love in
Martha up, an' do you get ready to them. She would like them   to be
go to bed, there 's a dear child, an' buried with her. She fastened the
take care o' yourself."            little round ear-rings in her ears, and
" Thank you, dear mammy," said put the purse with Dorcas's box in her
Tina, kissing the little old woman's pocket. She had another purse there,
wrinkled cheek; "I shall eat the ar- and she took it out to count her
rowroot, and don't trouble about me money, for she would never spend her
any more to-night. I shall do very seven-shilling pieces.  She had a
well when Martha has lighted my guinea and eight shillings; that would
fire. Tell Mr. Gilfil I 'm better. I be plenty.
shall go to bed by and by, so don't  So now she sat down to wait for
you come up again because you may the morning, afraid to lay herself ona
only disturb me."                 the bed lest she should sleep too long,
"Well, well, take care o' yourself, If she could but see Anthony once
there 's a good child, an' God send more and kiss his cold forehead I! But
you may sleep."                   thatcould not be. She did not deserve
Caterina took the arrowroot quite it. She must go away from him, away
eagerly, while Martha was lighting from Sir Christopher, and Lady Chev- 
her fire. She wanted to get strength erel, and Maynard, and everybody 1
for her journey, and she kept the who had    been kind to her, and 
plate of biscuits by her that she might thought her good while she was so.
put some in her pocket. Her whole wicked.




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


219


CHAPTER XVII.
SOME of Mrs. Sharp's earliest
thoughts, the next morning  were
given to Caterina, whom she had not
been able to visit the evening before,
and whom, from a nearly equal mixture of affection and self-importance,
she did not at all like resigning to
Mrs. Bellamy's care. At half past
eight o'clock she went up to Tina's
room, bent on benevolent dictation as
to doses and diet and lying in bed.
But on opening the door she found the
bed smooth and empty. Evidently it
had not been slept in. What could
this mean? Had she sat up all night,
and was she gone out to walk? The
poor thing's head might be touched
by what had happened yesterday; it
was such a shock, - finding Captain
Wybrow in that way; she was perhaps gone out of her mind.  Mrs.
Sharp looked anxiously il the pl;ce
where Tina kept her hat and cloak;,they were not there, so that she had
ihad at least the presence of mindt to
put them on. Still the good woman
felt greatly alarmed, and hastened
away to tell Mr. Gilfil, who, she knew,
was in his studly.
"Mr. Gilfil,' she said, as soon as
she had closed the door behind her,
"' my mind misgives me dreadful about
Miss Sarti."
" What is it? "said poor Maynard,
with a horrible fear that Caterina had
ibetrayed something about the dag-!ger.
" She 's not in her room, an' her
bed 's not been slept in this night, an'
her hat an' cloak 's gone."
For a minute or two Mr. Gilfil was
unable to speak. He felt sure the
worst had come: Caterina had destroyed herself. The strong man suddenly looked so ill and helpless that
Mrs. Sharp began to be frightened at
the effect of her abruptness.
" 0 sir, I 'm grieved to my heart
to shock you so; but I did n't know
who else to go to."
" No, no, you were quite right."'
He gathered some strength from his


very despair. It was all over, and he
had nothing now to do but to suffer
and to help the suffering. He went
on in a firmer voice: -
"Be sure not to breathe a word
about it to any one. We must not
alarm Lady Cheverel and Sir Christopher. Miss Sarti may be only walking in the garden. She was terribly
excited by what she saw yesterday,
and perhaps was unable to lie down
from restlessness.  Just go quietly
through the empty rooms, and see
whether she is in the house. I will
go and look for her in the grounds."
He went down, and, to avoid giving
any alarm in the house, walked at
once towards the Mosslands in search
of Mr. Bates, whom he met returning
from his breakfast. To the gardener
he confided his fear about Caterina,
assigning as a reason for this fear the
probability that the shock she had
undergone yesterday had unhinged
her mind, and begging him to send
men in search of her through the
gardens and park, and inquire if she
had been seen at the lodges; and if
she were not found or heard of in this
way, to lose no time in dragging the
waters round the Manor.
" God forbid it should be so, Bates,
but we shall be the easier for having
searched everywhere."
" Troost to mae, troost to mae, Mr.
Gilfil. Eh! but I 'd ha' worked for
day-wage all the rest o' my life, rether
than anythin' should ha' happened to
her."
The good gardener, in deep distress, strode away to the stables, that
he might send the grooms on horseback through the park.
Mr. Gilfil's next thought was to
search the Rookery: she might be
haunting the scene of Captain Wybrow's death. He went hastily over
every mound, looked round every
large tree, and followed every winding of the walks. In reality he had
little hope of finding her there; but
the bare possibility fenced off for a
time the fatal conviction that Caterina's body would be found in the,




220


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


water. When the Rookery had been
searched in vain, he walked fast to
that border of the little stream that
bounded one side of the grounds.
The stream was almost everywhere
hidden among trees, and there was
one place where it was broadelr and
deeper than elsewhere, - she would
be more likely to come to that spot
than to the pool. He hurried along
with strained eyes, his imagination
continually creating what he dreaded
to see.
There is something white behind
that overhanging bough. His knees
tremble under him. He seems to see
part of her dress caught on a branch,
and her dear dead face upturned. 0
God, give strength to thy creature,
on whom thou hast laid this great
agony!  He is nearly up to the
bough, and the white object is moving. It is a waterfowl, that spreads
its wings and flies away screaming.
Eie hardly knows whether it is a relief or a disappointment that she is
not there. The conviction that she
is dead presses its cold weight upon
him none the less heavily.
As he reached the great pool in
front of the Manor, he saw Mr.
Bates, with a group of men already
there, preparing for the dreadful
search which could only displace his
vague despair by a definite horror;
for the gardener, in his restless
anxiety, had been unable to defer
this until other means of search had
proved vain. The pool was not now
laughing with sparkles among the
water-lilies. It looked black and
cruel under the sombre sky, as if its
cold depths held relentlessly all the
murdered hope and joy of Maynard
Gilfil's life.
Thoughts of the sad consequences
for others as well as himself were
crowding on his mind. The blinds
and shutters were all closed in front
of the Manor, and it was not likely
that Sir Christopher would be aware
of anything that was passing outside;
but Mr. Gilfil felt that Caterina's disappearance could not long be con

cealed from him. The coroner's inquest would be held shortly; she
would be inquired for, and then it
would be inevitable that the Baronet
should know all.
CHAPTER XVIII.
AT twelve o'clock, when all search
and inquiry had been in vain, and
the coroner was expected every moment, Mr. Gilfil could no longer defer the hard duty of revealing this
fresh calamity to Sir Christopher,
who must otherwise have it discovered
to him abruptly.
The Baronet was seated in his
dressing-room, where the dark window-curtains were drawn so as to admit only a sombre light. It was the
first time Mr. Gilfil had had an interview with him this morning, and he
was struck to see how a single day
and night of grief had aged the fine
old man. The lines in his brow and
ahout his mouth were deepened; his
complexion looked dull and withered;
there was a swollen ridge under his
eyes; and the eyes themselves, which
used to cast so keen a glance on the
present, had the vacant expression
which tells that vision is no longer a
sense, but a memory.
He held out his hand to Maynard,
who pressed it, and sat down beside
him in silence.  Sir Christopher's
heart began to swell at this unspoken
sympathy; the tears would rise,
would roll in great drops down his
cheeks. The first tears he had shed
since boyhood were for Anthony.
Maynard felt as if his tongue were
glued to the roof of his mouth. He
could not speak first: he must wait
until Sir Christopher said something
which might lead on to the cruel
words that must be spoken.
At last the Baronet mastered himself enough to say: ' I 'm very weak,
Maynard, - God help me! Idid n't
think anything would unman me in
this way; but I'd built everything




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


221


on  that lad.  Perhaps I 've been
wrong in not forgiving my sister.
She lost one of her sons a little while
ago. I've been too proud and obstinate."
"We can hardly learn humility
and tenderness enough except by suffering," said Maynard; "and God
sees we are in need of suffering, for
it is falling more and more heavily
on us. We have a new trouble this
morning."
" Tina ' " said Sir Christopher,
looking up anxiously, -" is Tina
ill?"
"I am   in dreadful uncertainty
about her. She was very much lagitated yesterday, - and with her delicate health, —I am afraid to think
what turn the agitation may have
taken."
" Is she delirious, poor dear little
one?"
"God only knows how she is. We
are unable to find her. When Mrs.
Sharp went up to her room this morning, it was empty. She had not been
in bed. Her hat and cloak were gone.
I have had search made for her everywhere, - in the house and garden, in
the park, and - in the water. No
one has seen her since Martha went
up to light her fire at seven o'clock in
the evening."
While Mr. Gilfil was speaking, Sir
Christopher's eyes, which were eagerlyturned on him, recovered some of
their old keenness, and some sudden
painful emotion, as at a new thought,
fitted rapidly across his already agitated face, like the shadow of a dark
cloud over the waves. When the pause
came, he laid his hand on Mr. Gilfil's
arm, and said in a lower voice --
"Maynard, did that poor thing
love Anthony "
" She did."
Maynard hesitated after these words,
struggling between his reluctance to
-inflict a yet deeper wound on Sir
Christopher, and his determination.that no injustice should be done to
Caterina.  Sir Christopher's eyes.were still fixed on him in solemn in

quiry, and his own sunk towards the
ground, while he tried to find the
words that would tell the truth least
cruelly.
"You must not have any wrong
thoughts about Tina," he said at
length. "I must tell you now, for
her sake, what nothing but this should
ever have caused to pass my lips.
Captain Wybrow won her affections
by attentions which, in his position,
lie was bound not to show her. Before his marriage was talked of, he
had behaved to her like a lover."
Sir Christopher relaxed his hold of
Maynard's arm, and looked away
from him. He was silent for some
minutes, evidently attempting to master himself, so as to be able to speak
calmly.
"I must see Henrietta immediately," he said at last, with something of
his old sharp decision, "she must
know all; but we must keep it from
every one else as far as possible. My
dear boy," he continued in a kinder
tone, " the heaviest burden has fallen
on you. But we may find her yet;
we must not despair: there has not
been time enough for us to be certain.
Poor dear little one! God help me!
I thought I saw everything, and was
stone-blind all the while."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE sad slow week was gone by at
last. At the coroner's inquest a verdict of sudden death had been pronounced. Dr. Hart, acquainted with
Captain Wybrow's previous state of
health, had given his opinion that
death had been imminent from longestatlished disease of the heart, though
it had probably been accelerated by
some unusual emotion. Miss Assher
was the only person who positively
knew the motive that had led Captain
Wybrow to the Rookery; but she had
not mentioned Caterina's name, and
all painful details or inquiries were
studiously kept from her. Mr. Gilfl




222


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


and Sir Christopher, however, knew
enough to conjecture that the fatal
agitation was due to an appointed
meeting with Caterina.
All search and inquiry after her had
been fruitless, and were the more
likely to be so because they were carried on under the prepossession that
she had committed suicide. No one
noticed the absence of the trifles she
had taken from her desk; no one
knew of the likeness, or that she had
hoarded her seven-shilling pieces, and
it was not remarkable that she should
have happened to be wearing the
pearl elr-rlngs. She hadleft the house,
they thought, taking nothing with
her; it seemed impossible she could
have gone far; and she must have
been in a state of mental excitement,
that madle it too probable she had
only gone to seek relief in death.
The same places within three or four
miles of the Manor were searched
again and again,- every pond, every
ditch in the neighborhood was examined.
Sometimes Maynard thought that
death might have come on unsought,
from cold and exhaustion; and not a
day passed but he wandered through
the neighboring woods, turning up
the heaps of dead leaves, as if it were
possible her dead body could be hidden there.  Then another horrible
thought recurred, and before each
night came he had been again through
all the uninhabited rooms of the house,
to satisfy himself once more that she
was not hidden behind some cabinet,
or door, or curtain, - that he should
not find her there with tnadness in
her eyes, looking and looking, and
yet not seeing him.
But at last those five lono days and
nights were at an end, the funeral
was over, and the carriages were returning through the park. When
they had set out, a heavy rain was
falling; but now the clouds were
breaking up, and a gleam of sunshine
was sparkling among the dripping
boughs under which they were passing. This gleam fell upon a man-on


horseback who was jogging slowly
along, and whom Mr. Giltil recog,
nized, in spite of diminished rotundity, as Daniel Knott, the coachman
who had married the rosy-cheeked
Dorcas, ten years before.
Every new incident suggested the
same thought to Mr. Gilfil; and his
eye no sooner fell on Knott than he
said to himself, " Can he be come to
tell us anything about Caterina?"
Then he remembered that Caterina
had been very fond of Dorcas, and
that she always had some present
ready to send her when Knott paid aii
occasional visit to the Manor. Could
Tina have gone to Dorcas? But his
heart sank again as he thought, very
likely Knott had only come because
he had heard of Captain Wybrow's
death, and wanted to know how his
old master had borne the blow.
As soon as the carriage reached the
house, he went up to his study and
walked about nervously, longing, but
afraid to go down and speak to Knott,
lest his faint hope should be dissipated. Any one looking at that face,
usually so full of calm good-will, would
have seen that the last week's suffering had left deep traces. By day he had
been riding or wandering incessantly,
either searching for Caterina himself,
or directing inquiries to be made by
others. By night he had not known
sleep, - only intermittent dozing, in
which he seemed to he finding Caterina dead, and woke up with a start
from this unreal agony to the real anguish of believing that he should see
her no more. The clear gray eyes
looked sunken and restless, the full
careless lips had a strange tension
about them, and the brow, formerly
so smooth and open, was contracted
as if with pain. He had not lost the
object of a few months' passion; he
had lost the being who was bound up
with his power of loving, as the brook
we played by or the flowers we gathered in childhood are bound up with
our sense of beauty.  Love meant
nothing for him but to love Caterina.
For years the thought of her had




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


223


been present in everything, like the
air and the light; and now she was
gone, it seemed as if all pleasure had
lost its vehicle; the sky, the earth,
the daily ride, the daily talk might
be there, but the loveliness and the joy
that were in them had gone forever.
Presently, as he still paced backward an l forwards, he heard steps
along the corridor, and there was a
knock at his door. His voice trembled as he said " Come in," and the
rush of renewed hope was hardly distinguishable from pain when he saw
Warren enter with Daniel Knott behind him.
"Knott is come, sir, with news of
Miss Sarti. I thought it best to bring
him to you first."
Mr. Gilfil could not help going up
to the old coachman and wringing his
hand; but he was unable to speak,
and only motioned to him to take a
chair, while Warren left the room.
He hung upon Daniel's moon-face,
and listened to his small piping voice,
with the same solemn yearning expectation with which he would have
given ear to the most awful messenger
from the land of shades.
" It war Dorkis, sir, would hev me
come; but we knowed nothin' o'
what's happened at the Manor. She's
frightened out on her wits about Miss
Sarti, an' she would hev me saddle
Blackbird this mornin', an' leave the
ploughin', to come an' let Sir Christifer an' my lady know. P'raps you 've
heared, sir, we don't keep the Cross
Keys at Sloppeter now; a uncle o'
mine died three 'ear ago, an' left me a
leggicy. He was bailiff to Squire
Ramble, as hed them there big farms
on his hans; an' so we took a little
farm o' forty acres or thereabouts,
becos Dorkis didn't like the public
when she got moithered wi' children.
As pritty a place as iver you see, sir,
wi' water at the back convenent for
the cattle."
"For God's sake," said Maynard,
" tell me what it is about Miss Sarti.
Don't stay to tell me anything else:aow."


"Well, sirY, said Knott, rather
frightened by the arson's vehemence)
1(i she come t' our touse i' the carrier's
cart o' Wednesday, when it was welly
nine o'clock at night; and Dorkis run
out, for she heared the cart stop, an'
Miss Sarti throwed her arms roua'
Dorkis's neck an' says, ' 'Fek me in,
Dorkis, tek me in,' an' went off into
a swoond, like. Au' Dorkis calls out
to me, - ' 1) annel/ she calls, -an' I
run out and carried the young miss
in, an' she come roun' arter a bit, an'
opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her
to drink a spoonful o' runi-an'-water,
- we've got some capital- rum as we
brought from the Cross Keys, and
Dorkis won't lot nobody drink it. She
says she keeps it for sickness; but for
my part, I think it 's a pity to drink
good rum when your mouth's out o'
taste; you may just as well hev doctor's stuff. However, Dorkis got her
to bed, an' there she's lay iver sin, J
stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on',y
teks little bits an' sups when Dorkis
coaxes her. An' we be(-un to be
frightened, and couldn't think what
had 'Made her come away from the
Manor, and Dorkis was areared there
was sumniat wrong. So this mornin'
she could hold no longer, an' would
hev no nay but I must come an' see;
an' so I've rode twenty mile upo'
Blackbird, as thinks all the while he's
a ploughin', an' turns sharp roun'
every thirty yards, as if he was at the
end of a furrow. I 've bed a sore
time wi' him, I can tell you, sir."
" God bless you, Knott, for coming I " said Mr. Gilfil, wringing the
old coachman's hand again. "Now
go down and have something and rest
yourself. You will stay here to-night,
and by and by I shall come to ou to
learn the nearest way to your Use.
I shall get ready to ride there immediately, when I have spoken to Sir
Christopher."
In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare towards the little muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter.
Once more he. saw some gladn- iss in


"Well, sir," said Knott, rather
frightened by the parson's vehemence,
" she come t' our house i' the carrier's
cart o' Wednesday, when it was welly
nine o'clock at night; and Dorkis run
out, for she heared the cart stop, an'
Miss Sarti throwed her arms roun'
Dorkis's neck an' says, '''ek me in,
Dorkis, tek me in,' an' went off into
a swoond, like. An' I)orkis calls out
to me,-' l)annel,' she calls,-an' I
run out and carried the young miss
in, an' she come roun' arter a bit, an'
opened her eyes, and Dorkis got her
to drink a spoonful o' rum-an'-water,
- we 've got some capital rum as we
brought from the Cross Keys, and
Dorkis won't let nobody drink it. She
says she keeps it for sickness; but for
my part, I think it's a pity to drink
good rum when your mouth's out o'
taste; you may just as well hev doctor's stuff. However, Dorkis got her
to bed, an' there she's lay iver sin',
stoopid like, an' niver speaks, an' on'y
teks little bits an' sups when Dorkls
coaxes her. An' we begun to be
frightened, and couldn't think what
had made her come away from the
Manor, and Dorkis was ateared there
was summat wrong. So this mornin'
she could hold no longer, an' would
hev no nay but I must come an' see;
an' so I've rode twenty mile upo'
Blackbird, as thinks all the while he's
a ploughin', an' turns sharp roun'
every thirty yards, as if he was at the
end of a furrow. I've bed a sore
time wi' him, I can tell you, sir."
"God bless you, Knott, for coming!" said Mr. Gilfil, wringing the
old coachman's hand again. "Now
go down and have something and rest
yourself. You will stay here to-night,
and by and by I shall come to you to
learn the nearest way to your house.
I shall get ready to ride there immediately, when I have spoken to Sir
Christopher."
In an hour from that time Mr. Gilfil was galloping on a stout mare towards the lttle muddy village of Callam, five miles beyond Sloppeter.
Once more he saw some gladness in




-224


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


the afternoon sunlight; once more it
was a pleasure to see the hedgerow
trees flying past him, and to be conscious of a " good seat" while his
black Kitty bounded beneath him,
and the air whistled to the rhythm of
her pace. Caterina was not dead; he
had found her; his love and tenderness and long-suffering seemed so
strong, they must recall her to lifb
and happiness.  After that week of
despair, the rebound was so violent
that it carried his hopes at once as far
as the utmost mark they had ever
reached. Caterina would come to love
him at last; she would be his. They
had been carried through all that dark
and weary way that she might know
the depth of his love. How he would
cherish her, - his little bird with the
timid bright eye, and the sweet throat
that trembled with love and niusic!
She would nestle against him, and the
poor little breast which had been so
ruffled and bruised should be safe forevermore.  In the love of a brave
and faithful man there is always a
strain of maternal tenderness; he gives
out again those beams of protecting
fondness which were shed on him as
he lay on his mother's knee.
It was twilight as he entered the village of Callam, and, asking a homeward-bound laborer the way to Daniel
Knott's, learned that it was by the
church, which showed its stumpy ivyclad spire on a slight elevation of
ground; a useful addition to the
means of identifying that desirable
homestead afforded by Daniel's description, -" the prittiest place iver
you see," - though a small cow-yard
full of excellent manure, and leading
right up to the door, without any frivolous interruption from garden or
railing, might perhaps have been
enough to make that description unmistakably specific.
Mr. Gilfil had no sooner reached
the gate leading into the cow-yard,
than he was descried by a flaxenhaired lad of nine, prematurely invested with the toga viralis, or smock-frock,
vho. rua forward to let in the unusual


visitor. In a moment Dorcas was at
the door, the roses on her checks ap,
parently all the redder for the three
pair of cheeks which formed a group
round her, and for the very fat baby
who stared in her arnis, and sucked a
long crust with calm relish.
Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir  said Dorcas, courtesying low as he made his
way through the damp straw', after
tying up his horse.
" Yes, Dorcas; I'm grown out of
your knowledge. How is Miss S.arti V.,
" Just for all the world the same,
sir, as I suppose Dannel 's told you;
for I reckon  ou )ve come from  the
Manor, tjioug you've come uncommon quick, to be sure."
"Yes, lie got to the Manor about
one o'clock, and I set off as soon as
could. She 's not worse, is she 1 "
" No change, sir, for better or wuss.
Will you please to walk in, ir? She
lies there takin' no notice oy notbin',
no more nor a baby as is on'y a week
old, an' looks at me as blank as if she
did n't know me. 0, what can it be,
Mr. Gilfil? How come she to leave
theManor? How'shishonoran'my
lady? "
trou e, Dorcas. Cag:
tain         Sir Christo her's nep
ew,         W, has dieT suddenj '
Miss art    und him lying dead, and
I think the shock ha; affected her
mind."
11 Eli, dear! that fine young gentle.
man as was to be th' heir, as banne'l
told me about. I remember seein'bim.
when lie was a, little un, a visidn' at.
the Manor. Well-a-day, what a grief
to his honor and my lady. But that
poor Miss Tina, - an' she found hills
a I in' dead? 0 dear, 0 dear! "
Vollreas bad led the way into the
best kitchen, as charming a room as
best kitchens used to be in farmhouses
which bad no parlors, - the fire reflected in a bright row of pewter
plates and dishes; the sand-scoured
deal tables so clean you lonFed to.
stroke them; the salt-coffer in one'
chininey-co'mer, and a three-cornVed,


visitor. In a moment Dorcas was at
the door, the roses on her cheeks apparently all the redder for the three
pair of cheeks which formed a group
round her, and for the very fat baby
who stared in her arms, and sucked a
long crust with calm relish.
"Is it Mr. Gilfil, sir " said Dorcas, courtesying low as he made his
way through the damp straw, after
tying up his horse.
" Yes, Dorcas; I'm grown out of
your knowledge. How is Miss Sarti?"
" Just for all the world the same,
sir, as I suppose Dannel 's told you;
for I reckon you've come from the
Manor, though you've come uncommon quick, to be sure."
"Yes, he got to the Manor about
one o'clock, and I set off as soon as I
could. She 's not worse, is she l "
" No change, sir, for better or wuss.
Will you please to walk in, sir? She
lies there takin' no notice o' nothin',
no more nor a baby as is on'y a week
old, an' looks at me as blank as if she
did n't know me. 0, what can it be,
Mr. Gilfil? How come she to leave
the Manor? How's his honor an' my
lady? "
"In great trouble, Dorcas. Captain Wybrow, Sir Christopher's neph
ew, you know, has died suddenly,
Miss Sarti found him lying dead, and
I think the shock has affected her
mind."
" Eh, dear! that fine young gentleman as was to be th' heir, as Dannel
told me about. I remember seein' him
when he was a little un, a visitin' at
the Manor. Well-a-day, what a grief
to his honor and my lady. But that
poor Miss Tina, - an' she found him
a lyin' dead? 0 dear, 0 dear!"
Dorcas had led the way into the
best kitchen, as charming a room as
best kitchens used to be in farm-houses
which had no parlors,- the fire reflected in a bright row of pewter
plates and dishes; the sand-scoured
deal tables so clean you longed to
stroke them; the salt-coffer in one
chimney-cbrner, and a three-corneid




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


225


chair in the other, the walls behind as come from the Manor, it might
handsomely tapestried with flitches of bring back her mind, like."
bacon, and the ceiling ornamented    Maynard had that hope too, but he
with pendent hams.                felt cold mists of fear gathering round
"Sit ye down, sir, - do," said Dor- him after the few bright warm hours
cas, moving tle three-cornered chair, of joyful confidence which had passed
"an' let me get you somethin' after since he first heard that Caterina was
your long journey. Here, Becky, alive. The thought would urge itself
come an' tek the baby."            upon him that her mind and body
Becky, ared-armed damsel, emerged might never recover the strain that
from the adjoining back-kitchen, and had been put upon them, that her delpossessed herself of baby, whose feel- icate thread of life had already nearly
ings or fat made him  conveniently spun itself out.
apathetic under the transferrence.   " Go now, Dorcas, and see how she
" What '11 you please to tek, sir, as is, but don't say anything about my
I can give you '  I 'll get you a rasher being here. Perhaps it would be beto& bacon i' no time, an' I 've got some ter for me to wait till daylight before
tea, or belike you'd tek a glass o' I see her, and yet it would be very
rum-an'-water. I know we 've got hard to pass another night in this
nothin' asyou're used t' eat and drink; way."
but such as I hey, sir, I shall be proud  Dorcas set down little Bessie and
to give you."                      went away.   The three other chil" rhank you, Dorcas; I can't eat dren, including young Daniel in his
or drink anything. I'm not hungry smock-frock, were standing opposite
or tired. Let us talk about Tina. to Mr. Gilfil, watching him still more
Has she spoken at all?"           shyly now they were without their
Niver since the fust words. 'Dear mother's countenance. He drew litDorkis,' says she, 'tek me in '; an,' tle Bessie towards him and set her on
then went off into a faint an' not a his knee. She shook her yellow curls
word has she spoken since. I get her out of her eyes, and looked up at him
t' eat little bits an' sups o' things, but as she said: -
she teks no notice o' nothin'. I've  "Zoo tome to tee ze yady? Zoo
took up Bessie wi' me now and mek her peak? What zoo do to her?
then," - here Dorcas lifted to her lap Tiss her? "
a curly-headed little girl of three, who  "Do you like to be kissed, Bessie? "
was twisting a corner of her mother's  "Det," said Bessie, immediately
apron, and opening round eyes at the ducking down her head very low in
gentleman, - " folks '11 tek notice o' resistance to the expected rejoinder.
children sometimes when they won't   "We 've got two pups," said young
o' nothin' else. An' we gathered the Daniel, emboldened by observing the
autumn crocuses out o' th' orchard, gentleman's amenities towards Besand Bessie carried 'em up in her hand sie. " Shall I show 'em yer? One's
an' put 'em on the bed. I knowed got white spots."
how fond Miss Tina was o' flowers    "Yes, let me see them."
an' them things, when she was a lit-  Daniel ran out, and presently retIe un. But she looked at Bessie an' appeared with two blind puppies,
the flowers just the same as if she eagerly followed by the mother, afdid n't see 'em. It cuts me to th' fectionate though mongrel, gnd an
heart to look at them eyes o' hers; I exciting scene was beginning when
think they 're bigger nor iver, an' they Dorcas returned and said: -
look like my poor baby's as died, when  "There 's niver any difference in
it got so thin, — 0 dear, its little hands, her hardly.  I think you need n't
you could see thro' 'em. But I've wait, sir. She lies very still, as she
great hopes if she was to see you, sir, al'ys does. I 've put two candles i'
10*                                       0




226


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


the room, so as she may see you well.
You '11 please t' excuse the room, sir,
an' the cap as she has on; it's one o'
mine."
Mr. Gilfil nodded silently, and rose
to follow her up stairs. They turned
in at the first door, their footsteps
making little noise on the plaster
floor. The red-checkered linen curtains were drawn at the head of the
bed, and Dorcas had placed the candles on this side of the room, so that
the light might not fall oppressively on
Caterina's eyes. When she had opened
the door, Dorcas whispered, "I'd better leave you, sir, I think "
Mr. Gilfil motioned assent, and advanced beyond the curtain. Caterina
lay with her eyes turned the other
way, and seemed unconscious that
any one had entered. Her eyes, as
Dorcas had said, looked larger than
ever, perhaps because her face was
thinner and paler, and her hair quite
gathered away under one of Dorcas's
thick caps. The small hands, too,
that lay listlessly on the outside of
the bedclothes, were thinner than ever.
She looked younger than she really
was, and any one seeing the tiny face
and hands for the first time might
have thought they belonged to a little girl of twelve, who was being taken
away from coming instead of past
sorrow.
When Mr. Gilfil advanced and
stood opposite to her, the light fell
full upon his face. A slight startled
expression came over Caterina's eyes;
she looked at him earnestly for a few
moments, then lifted up her hand as
if to beckon him to stoop down towards her, and whispered "Maynard!"
He seated himself on the bed, and
stooped down towards her. She whisperedg aain —
"MJynard, did you see the dagger "
He followed his first impulse in
answering her, and it was a wise one.
" Yes," he whispered, "I found it
in your pocket, and put it back again
in the cabinet."


He took her hand in his and held
it gently, awaiting what she woMd
say next. His heart swelled so with
thankfulness that she had recognifj
ed him, he could hardly repress -a
sob.  Gradually her eyes became
softer and less intense in their gaE.
The tears were slowly gathering, anid
presently some large hot drops rolled
down her cheek. Then the floodgates were opened, and the hearteasing stream gushed forth; deep
sobs came; and for nearly an hour
she lay without speaking, while the'
heavy icy pressure that withheld her
misery from utterance was thus rmelting away. How precious these teafs
were to Maynard, who day after day
had been shuddering at the continually recurring image of Tina with the
dry, scorching stare of insanity!
By degrees the sobs subsided, she
began to breathe calmly, and lay
quiet with.her eyes shut. Patiently
Maynard sat, not heeding the flight
of the hours, not heeding the brI
clock that ticked loudly on the landing. But when it was nearly ten,
Dorcas, impatiently anxious to know
the result of Mr. Gilfil's appearance,
could not help stepping in on tip-toe.
Without moving, he whispered in hrt
ear to supply him with candles, see
that the cow-boy had shaken down
his mare, and go to bed,- he would
watch with Caterina,- a great change
had come over her.
Before long, 'lina's lips began to
move. "Maynard," she whispered
again. He leaned towards her, and
she went on.
"You know how wicked I am,
then? You know what I meant to
do with the dagger? "
"Did you mean to kill yourself,
Tina? "
She shook her head slowly, and
then was silent for a long while. At
last, looking at him with solemn eyes,
she whispered, " To kill him."
"Tina, my loved one, you would
never have done it. God saw your
whole heart; he knows you would
never harm   a living thing.  He




MR. GILFIL'S LOVE-STORY.


227


watches over his children, and will
not let them do things they would
pray with their whole hearts not to
do. It was the angry thought of a
moment, and he forgives you."
She sank into silence again till it
was nearly midnight.   The weary
enfeebled spirit seemed to be making
its slow way with difficulty through
the windings of thought; and when
she began to whisper again, it was in
reply to Maynard's words.
' But I had   had such wicked
feelings for a long while. I was so
angry, and I hated Miss Assher so,
and I didn't care what came to anybody, because I was so miserable myself. I was full of bad passions. No
one else was ever so wicked."
"Yes, Tina, many are just as
wicked. I often have very wicked
feelings, and am tempted to do wrong
things; but then my body is stronger
than yours, and I can hide my feelings and resist them better. They do
not master me so. You have seen
the little birds when they are very
young and just begin to fly, how all
their feathers are ruffled when they
are frightened or angry; they have
no power over themselves left, and
might fall into apit from mere fright.
You were like one of those little birds.
Your sorrow and suffering had taken
such hold of you, you hardly knew
what you did."
He would not speak long, lest he
should tire her, and oppress her with
too many thoughts.   Long pauses
seemed needful for her before she
could concentrate her feelings in short
words.
"But when I meant to do it," was
the next thing she whispered, " it was
as bad as if I had done it."
"No, my Tina," answered Maynard
slowly, waiting a little between each
sentence; "we mean to do wicked
things that we never could do, just as
we mean to do good or clever things
that we never conld do. Our thoughts
are often worse than we are, just as
they are often better than we are.
And God sees us as we are altogether,




not in separate feelings or actions, as
our fellowmen see us. We are always doing each other injustice, and
thinking better or worse of each other
than we deserve, because we only hear
and see separate words' and actions.
We don't see each other's whole nature. But God sees that you could.
not have committed that crime."
Caterina shook her head slowly,
and was silent. After a while, -
"I don't know," she said; "I
seemed to see him coming towards me,
just as he would really have looked,
and I meant- I meant to do it."
"But when you saw him, - tell me
how it was, Tina "
"I saw him lying on the ground
and thought he was ill, I don't know
how it was then; I forgot everything.
I knelt down and spoke to him, and
- and he took no notice of me, and
his eyes were fixed, and I began to
think he was dead."
"i And you have never felt angry
since?"
"0 no, no; it is I who have
been more wicked than any one; it
is I who have been wrong all
through."
"No, Tina; the fault has not all
been yours; he was wrong; he gave
you provocation. And wrong makes
wrong. When people use us ill, we
can hardly help having ill feeling
towards them.   But that second
wrong is more excusable. I am more
sinful than you, Tina; I have often
had very bad feelings towards Captain
Wybrow; and if he had provoked me
as he did you, I should perhaps have
done something more wicked.
"0, it was not so wrong in him;
he didn't know how he hurt me.
How was it likely he could love me
as I loved him? And how could he
marry a poor little thing like me? "
Maynard made no reply to this, and
there was again silence, till Tina
said:" Then I was so deceitful; they
did n't know how wicked I was. Padroncello did n't know; his good little
monkey he used to call me; and if he




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


had known, 0, how naughty he would
have thought me! "
"My Tina, we have all our secret
sins; and if we knew ourselves, we
should not judge each other harshly.
Sir Christopher himself has felt,
since this trouble came upon him,.that he has been too severe and obstinate."
In this way - in these broken confessions and answering words of comfort-the hours wore on, from the
deep black night to the chill early
twilight, and from early twilight to
the first yellow streak of morning
parting the purple cloud. Mr. Gilfil
telt as if in the long hours of that
night the bond that united his love
forever and alone to Caterina had
acquired fresh strength and sanctity.
It is so with the human relations that
rest on the deep emotional sympathy
of affection: every new day and night
of jov or sorrow is a new ground, a
new consecration, for the love that is
nourished by memories as well as
hopes, -the love to which perpetual
repetition is not a weariness but a
want, and to which a separated joy is
the beginning of pain.
The cocks began to crow; the gate
swung; there was a tramp of footsteps
in the yard, and Mr. Gilfil heard Dorcas stirring. These sounds seemed to
affect Caterina, for she looked anxiously at him and said: "Maynard,
are you going away? "
"No, I shall stay here at Callam
until you are better, and then you will
go away too."
" Never to the Manor again, 0 no!
I shall live poorly, and get my own
bread."
" Well, dearest, you shall do what
you like best.  But I wish you
could go to sleep now. Try to rest
quietly, and by and by you will perhaps sit up a little. God has kept you
in life in spite of all this sorrow; it
will be sinful not to try and make the
best of his gift. Dear Tina, you will
try; -and little Bessie brought you
some crocuses once, you did n't notice
the poor little thing; but you will no

tice her when she comes again, wj1
you not?" 
"I will try," whispered Tina hu m-$'
bly, and then closed her eyes. 
By the time the sun was above the
horizon, scattering the clouds, and
shining  with  pleasant  morning
warmth through the little leaded window, Caterina was asleep. Maynard
gently loosed the tiny hand, cheered
Dorcas with the good news, and made
his way to the village inn, with a
thankful heart that Tina had been so
far herself again. Evidently the sight:
of him had blended naturally with the
memories in which her mind was absorbed, and she had been led on to a:
unburdening of.herself that might be
the beginning of a complete restorea
tion. But her lody was so enfeebled,
- her soul so bruised, -that the utmost tenderness and care would e )e
necessary. The next thing to be done 
was to send tidings to Sir Christopher i
and Lady Cheverel; then to write and.
summon his sister, under whose care
he had determined to place Caterina.
The Manor, even if she had be"n -
wishing to return thither, would, he
knew, be the most undesirable honme
for her at present: every scene, every
object there, was associated with still
unallayed anguish. If she were domesticated for a time with his mild
gentle sister, who had a peaceful home
and a prattling little boy, Tina might
attach herself anew to life, and recov-  ai
er, partly at least, the shock that had 
been given to her constitution. When  I
he had written his letters and taken a i
hasty breakfast, he was soon in his 
saddle again, on his way to Sloppeter, 
where he would post them, and seek  X
out a medical man, to whom he might
confide the moral causes of Caterina's
enfeebled condition.


CHAPTER XX.


I


IN less than a week from that time
Caterinn was persuaded to travel in a
comfortable carriage, under the c4re




0
co
Co




0
Q
V2
(/




I3Vd OMISSII




0
Q
-




1avd ONISSII




3LVd ONISSIA




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


235


dor is a regular Tryanite. But we
have n't got your name yet, Pilgrim.'"
"Tut, tut, Budd," said Mr. Dcmpster, sarcastically, "you don't expect
Pilgrim to sign? He's got a dozen
Tryanite livers under his treatment.
Nothing like cant and methodism for
producing a superfluity of bile."." 0, I thought, as Pratt had declared himself a Tryanite, we should
be sure to get Pilgrim on our side."
Mr. Pilgrim was not a m1:ll to sit
quiet under a sarcasm, nature having
endowed him   with a considerable
share of selt-defensive wit. In his
mliist sober moments he had an impediment in his speech, and as copious gin-and-watcr stimulated not the
speech bitt the impediment, he had
time to make his retort sufficiently
bitter.
"Why, to tell you    the truth,
Budd," lie spluttered, "there's a report all over the town that Deb
Traunter swears you shall take her
with you as one of the delegates, and
they say there 's to le a fine crowd at
your door the morning you start, to
see the row. Knowing your tenderness for that member of the fair sex,
I thought you might find it impossible to deny her. I hang back a little
firom  signing on that account, as
Prendergast might not take the protest well if Deb Traunter went with
you."
Mr. Budd was a small, sleek-headed
bachelor of five-and-forty, whose scandalous life had long furnished his
more moral neighbors with an afterdinner joke. He had no other striking characteristic, except that he was
a currier of choleric temperament, so
that you might wonder why he had
been chosen as clergyman's churchwarden, if I did not tell you that he
hal recently been elected through Mr.
Dempster's exertions, in order that
his zeal against the threatened evening lecture might be backed by the
dignity of office.
"Come, come, Pilgrim," said Mr.
Tomlinson, covering Mr. Budd's re



treat, "you know you like to wear
the crier's coat, green o' one side and
red o' the other. You 've been to
hear Tryan preach at Paddiford Common, -you know you have."
" To be sure I have; and a capital
sermon too. It's a pity you were
not there. It was addressed to those
'void of understanding.'"
"No, lno, you '11 never catch me
there;" returned Mr. Tomlinson, not,
in the least stung; "he preaches
without book, they say, just like a
Dissenter.  It must be a rambling
sort of a concern."
" That 's not the worst," said Mr.
Dempster; "he preaches against
good works; says good works are
not necessary to salvation, —a sectarian, antinomian, anabaptist doctrine.
Tell a man he is not to be saved by
his works, and you open the floodgates of all immorality. You see it
in all these canting innovators; they
're all bad ones by the sly; smoothfaced, drawling, hypocritical fellows,
who pretend ginger is n't hot in their
mouths, and cry down all innocent
pleasures; their hearts are all the
blacker for their sanctimonious outsides.  Have n't we been warned
against those who make clean the
outside of the cup and the platter?
There's this Tryan, now, he goes
about praying with old women, and
singing with charity-children; but
what has he really got his eye on all
the while?  A domineering, ambitious Jesuit, gentlemen; all he wants
is to get his foot far enough into the
parish to step into Crcwe's shoes
when the old gentleman dies. Depend upon it, whenever you see a
man pretending to be better than his
neighbors, that man has either some
cunning end to serve, or his heart is
rotten with spiritual pride."
As if to guarantee himself against
this awful sin, Mr. l)empster seized
his glass of brandy-and-water, and
tossed off the contents with even greater rapidity than usual.
"Have you fixed on your third
delegate yet?" said Mr. Pilgrim,




236


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


whose taste was for detail rather than
for dissertation.
" That 's the man," answered
Dempstcr, pointing to Mr. Tomlinson. "We start for Elmstoke Rectory on Tuesday morning; so, if you
mean to give us your signature, you
must make up your mind pretty quickly, Pilgrim."
Mr. Pilgrim did not in the least
mean it, so he only said, " I should n't
wonder if Tryan turns out too many
for you, after all. He 's got a welloiled tongue of his own, and has perhaps talked over Prendergast into a
determination to stand by him."
"Ve-ry little fear of that," said
Dempster, in a confident tone. " I '11
soon bring him round. Tryan has
got his match. I've plenty of rods
in pic:;le for Tryan."
At this moment Boots entered the
bar, and put a letter into the lawyer's
hands, saying, "There's Trower's
man just come into the yard wi' a gig,
sir, an' lie's brought this here letter."
Mr. Dempster read the letter and
said: " Tell him to turn the gig, - I '11
be with him in a minute. Here, run
to Gruby's andget this snuff-box filled,
- quick! "
" Trower's worse, I suppose; eh,
Dempster? Wants you to alter his
will, eh?" said Mr. Pilgrim.
"Business, - business, - business,
-I don't know exactly what," answered the cautious Dempster, rising
deliberately from his chair, thrusting
on his low-crowned hat, and walking
with a slow but not unsteady step out
of the bar.
"I never see Dempster's equal; if.1 did I'll be shot," said Mr. Tomlinson, looking after the lawyer admiringly. " Why, he's drunk the best
part of a bottle o' brandy since here
we've been sitting, and I'll bet a
guinea, when he's got to Trower's his
head '11 be as clear as mine. He knows
more about law when he's drunk than
all the rest on 'em when they 're sober."
"Ay, and other things too, besides
law," said Mr. Budd. "Did you no

tice how he took up Byles about the
Presbyterians? Bless your heart, he
knows everything, Dempster does,
He studied very hard when he was a
young man."
CHAPTER II.
THE conversation just recorded is
not, I am aware, remarkably refined
or witty; but if it had been, it could
hardly have taken place in Milby when
Mr. l)empster flourished there, and
old Mr. Crewe, the curate, was yet
alive.
More than a quarter of a century
has slipped by since then, and in the
interval Milby has advanced at as
rapid a pace as other market-towns in
her Majesty's dominions.  By this
time it has a handsome railway station, where the drowsy London trav-.
eller may look out by the brilliant
gaslight and see perfectly sober papas
and husbands alighting with their
leather-bags after transacting their
day's business at the county town.
There is a resident rector, who appeals to the consciences of his hearers
with all the immense advantages of a
divine who keeps his own carriage;
the church is enlarged by at least five
hundred sittings; and the grammarschool, conducted on reformed principles, has its upper forms crowded with
the genteel youth of Milby.  The
gentlemen There fall into no other excess at dinner-parties than the perfectly
well-bred and virtuous excess of stupidity; and though the ladies are still
said sometimes to take too much upon
themselves, they are never known to
take too much in any other way. The
conversation is sometimes quite liter-s
ary, for there is a flourishing book.
club, and many of the younger ladies
have carried their studies so far as to
have forgotten a little German. In
short, Milby is now a refined, moral,
and enlightened town; no more resembling the Milby of former days
than the huge, long-skirted, drab
great-coat that embarrassed the ankles




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


237


of our grandfathers resembled the
light paletot in which we tread jauntily through the muddiest streets, or
than the bottle-nosed Britons, rejoicing over a tankard in the old sign of
the "Two Travellers" at Milby, resembled the severe-looking gentleman
in straps and high collars whom a
modern artist has represented as sipping the imaginary port of that wellnown commercial house.
But pray, reader, dismiss from your
mind all the refined and fashionable
ideas associated with this advanced
state of things, and transport your
imagination to a time when Milby
had no gaslights; when the mail
drove up dusty or bespattered to the
door of the Red Lion; when old Mr.
Crewe, the curate, in a brown Brutus
wig, delivered inaudible sermons on a
Sunday, and on a week-day imparted
the education of a gentleman -that
is to say, an arduous inacquaintance
with Latin through the medium of
the Eton Grammar —to three pupils
in the upper grammar-school.
If you had passed through Milby
on the coach at that time, you would
have had no idea what important
people lived there, and how very high
a sense of rank was prevalent among
them. It was a dingy-looking town,
with a strong smell of tanning up
one street and a great shaking of
hand-looms up another; and even in
that focus of aristocracy, Friar's Gate,
the houses would not have seemedvery
imposing to the hasty and superficial
glance of a passenger. You might
still less have suspected that the figure in light' fstian and large gray
whiskers, leaning.gainst the grocer's
door-post in High Street, was no less
a person than Mr. Lowme, one of the
most aristocratic men in Milby, said
to have been " brought up a gentleman," and to have had the gay habits
accordant with that station, keeping
his harriers and other expensive animals. He was now quite an elderly
Lothario, reduced to the most economical sins; the prominent form of
his gayety being this of lounging at


Mr. Gruby's door, embarrassing the
servant-maids who came for grocery,
and talking scandal with the rare
passers-by.  Still, it was generally
understood that Mr. Lowme belonged
to the highest circle of Milby society;
his sons and daughters held up their
heads very high indeed; and inr spite
of his condescending way of chatting
and drinking with inferior people, he
would himself have scorned any closer
identification with them. It must- be
admitted that he was of some service to
the town in this station at Mr. Gruby's
door, for he and Mr. Landor's Newfoundland dog, who stretched himself
and gaped on the opposite causeway,
took something fiom the lifeless air
that belonged to the High Street on
every day except Saturday.
Certainly, in spite of three assemblies and a charity ball in the winter,
the occasional advent of a ventriloquist, or a company of itinerant players, some of whom were very highly
thought of in London, and the annual
three days' fair in June, Milby might
be considered dull by people of a hypochondriacal temperament; and perhaps this was one reason why many
of the middle-aged inhabitants, male
and female, often found it impossible
to keep up their spirits without a very
abundant supply of stimulants. It is
true there were several substantial
men who had a reputation for exceptional sobriety, so that Milby habits
were really not as bad as possible;
and no one is warranted in saying
that old Mr. Crewe's flock could not
have been worse without any clergyman at all.
The well-dressed parishioners generally were very regular church-goers,
and to the younger ladies and gentlemen I am inclined to think that the Sunday-morning service was the most exiitingevent of the week; for few places
could present a nore brilliant show of
out-door toilets than might be seen
issuing from Milby Church at one
o'clock. There were the four tall
Miss Pittmans, old lawyer Pittman's
daughters, with cannon curls sur



SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


mounted by large hats, and long,
drooping ostrich feathers of parrot
green. There was Miss Phipps, with
a crimson bonnet, very much tilted
up behind, and a cockade of stiff
feathers on the summit. There was
Miss Landor, the belle of Milby, clad
regally in purple and ermine, with a
plume of feathers neither drooping
nor erect, but maintaining a discreet
medium. There were the three Miss
Tomlinsons, who imitated Miss Landor, and also wore ermine and feathers; but their beauty was considered
of a coarse order, and their square
forms were quite unsuited to the
round tippet which fell with such
remarkable grace on Miss Landor's
sloping shoulders. Looking at this
plumed procession of ladies, you would
have formed rather a high idea of Milby wealth; yet there was only one close
carriage in the place, and that was old
Mr. Landor's, the btnker, who, I
think, never drove more than one
horse.  These sumptuously attired
ladies flashed past the vulgar eye in
one-horse chaises, by no means of a
superior build.
The young gentlemen, too, were
not without their little Sunday displays of costume, of a limited masculine kind. Mr. Eustace Landor, being
nearly of age, had recently acquired
a diamond ring, together with the
habit of rubbing his hand through
his hair. He was tall and dark, and
thus had an advantage which Mr. Alfred Plipps, who, like his sister, was
blond and stumpy, found it difficult
to overtake, even by the severest attention to shirt-studs, and the particular shade of brown that was best relieved by gilt buttons.
The respect for the Sabbath, manifested in this attention to costume,
was unhappily counterbalanced by
considerable levity of behavior durin
the prayers and sermon; for the young
ladies and gentlemen of Milby were
of a very satirical turn, Miss. andor
especially being considered remarkably clever, and a terrible quiz; and
the large congregation necessarily


containing many persons inferior iit
dress and demeanor to the distinguisht
ed aristocratic minority, divine service
offered  irresistible temptations to
joking, through the medium of telegraphic communications from the
galleries to the aisles and back againt
I remember blushing very much, and
thinking Miss Landor was laughing
at me, because I was appearing in
coat-tails for the first time, when -.
saw her look down slyly towards
where I sat, and then turn with p
titter to handsome Mr. Bob Lowme,
who had such beautiful whiskers
meeting under his chin.  But perhaps she was not thinking of m,
after all; for our pew was near the
pulpit, and there was almost always
something funny about old Mr. Crewe.
"His brown wig was hardly ever put
on quite right, and he had a way of
raising his voice for three or foar
words, and lowering it again to a
mumble, so that we could scareely
make out a word he said; though, as
my mother observed, that was of np
consequence in the prayers, since every
one had a prayer-Eook; and as for the
sermon, she continued with some
causticity, we all of us heard more of
it than we could remember when we
got home. 
This youthful generation was not
particularly literary.  The young
ladies who frizzed their hair, and
gathered it all into large barricades in
front of their heads, leaving their
occipital region exposed without
ornament, as if that, being a back
view, was of no consequence, dreamed
as little that their daughters would
read a selection of German poetry,
and be able to express an admirationfor Schiller, as that they would turn
all their hair the other way, —that
instead of threatening us with barricades in front, they would be most
killing in retreat,
"And, like the Parthian, wound us as they
fly."
Those charming, well-frizzed ladies
spoke French indeed with consider



JANET'S REPENTANCE.


239


able facility, unshackled by any timid
regard to idiom, and were in the habit
of conducting conversations in that
language in the presence of their less
instructed elders; for according to
the standard of those backward days,
their education had been very lavish,
such young ladies as Miss Landor,
Miss Phipps, and the Miss Pittmans,
having been "finished" at distant
and expensive schools.
Old lawyer Pittinan had once been
a very important person indeed, having in his earlier days managed the
affairs of several gentleman in those
parts, who had subsequently been
obliged to sell everything and leave
the country, in which crisis Mr. Pittman accommodatingly stepped in as
a purchaser of their estates, taking on
himself the risk and trouble of a
more leisurely sale; which, however,
happened to turn out very much to
his advantage. Such opportunities
occur quite unexpectedly in the way
of business. But I think Mr. Pittman must have been unlucky in his
later speculations, for now, in his old
age, he had not the reputation of being very rich; and though he rode
slowly to his office in Milby every
morning on an old white hackney, he
had to resign the chief profits, as well
as the active business of the firm, to
his younger partner, Dempster. No
one in Milby considered old Pittnan
a virtuous man, and the elder townspeople were not at all backward in
narrating the least advantageous portions of his biography in a very round,
unvarnished manner.  Yet I could
never observe that they trusted him
any the less, or liked him any the
worse. Indeed, Pittman and Dempster were the popular lawyers of Milby and its neighborhood, and Mr.
Benjamin Landor, whom no one had
anything particular to say against,
had a very meagre business in comparison. Hardly a landholder, hardlv a farmer, hardly a parish within
ten mires of Milby, whose affairs were
not under the legal guardianship of
Pittman and Dcmpster; and I think


the clients were proud of their lawyers'
unscrupulousness, as the        'f
the fancy are proud of   eir champion's "condition." It was not, to
be sure, the tbing for ordinary life,
but it was the thin- to be bet on in a
lawyer. Dempste 'r's talent in " bringing throu-h " a client was a very
common topic of conversation with
the farmers, over an incidental 91ass
of grog at the Red Lion    He's a
Ion-headed feller Dempster; why, it
shows yer what a headpiece Dempster
has, as lie can di-ink a bottle o' brandy
at a sittin', an' vit see further throno-h
a stone wall ihen lie's done, than
other folks 1I see through a glass
winder."  Even Mr. Jerome, chief
member of the congregation at Salem
Chapel, an elderly man of very strict
life, was one of Dempster's clients,
and had quite,in exceptional indal(Ferree for his attorney's foibles., perhaps attributing them to the inevitable incompatibility of law and
gospel.
The standard of morality at Milby,
V011 perceive, was not inconveniently
high in those good old times, and an
ingenuous vice or two was what
every man expected of his neighbor.
Old'Mr. Crewe, the curate, Cor example, whs allowed to enjoy his
avarice in comfort, without fear of
sarcastic parish demagogues; and his
flock liked him all the better for baving scraped together a larie fortune
out of his school and curacy, and the
roceeds of the three thousand pounds
Ee had with his little deaf wife. It
was, clear he must be a learned man,
for he bad once bad a large private
school in connection with the grammar-school, and had even numbered
a young nobleman or two among his
pupils. The fact that he read nothing at all now, and that his mind
seemed absorbed in the commonest
matters, was doubtless due to his
having exhausted the resources of
erudition earlier in life. It is true he
was not spoken of in terms of high
respect, and old Crewes sting housely
keepinz was a frequent subject of


the clients were proud of their lawyers'
unscrupulousness, as the patrons of
the fancy are proud of their champion's "condition." It was not, to
be sure, the thing for ordinary life,
but it was the thing to be bet on in a
lawyer. Dempster's talent in " bringing through" a client was a very
common topic of conversation with
the farmers, over an incidental glass
of grog at the Red Lion. "He 's a
long-headed feller, Dempster; why, it
shows yer what a headpiece Dempster
has, as lie can drink a bottle o' brandy
at a sittin', an' vit see further through
a stone wall when he's done, than
other folks '11 see through a glass
winder."  Even Mr. Jerome, chief
member of the congregation at Salem
Chapel, an elderly man of very strict
life, was one of Dempster's clients,
and had quite an exceptional indulgence for his attorney's foibles, perhaps attributing them to the inevitable incompatibility of law and
gospel.
The standard of morality at Milby,
you perceive, was not inconveniently
high in those good old times, and an
ingenuous vice or two was what
every man expected of his neighbor.
Old Mr. Crewe, the curate, for example, was allowed to enjoy his
avarice in comfort, without fear of
sarcastic parish demagogues; and his
flock liked him all the better for having scraped together a large fortune
out of his school and curacy, and the
proceeds of the three thousand pounds
he had with his little deaf wife. It
was clear he must be a learned man,
for he had once had a large private
school in connection with the grammar-school, and had even numbered
a young nobleman or two among his
pupils. The fact that he read nothing at all now, and that his mind
seemed absorbed in the commonest
matters, was doubtless due to his
having exhausted the resources of
erudition earlier in life. It is true he
was not spoken of in terms of high
respect, and old Crewe's stingy housekeeping was a frequent subject of




240


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


jesting; but this was a good oldfashioned characteristic in a parson
who had been part of Milby life for
half a century: it was like the dents
and disfigurements in an old family
tankard, which no one would like to
part with for a smart new piece of
plate fresh from Birmingham. The
parishioners saw no reason at all why
it should be desirable to venerate the
parson or any one else: they were
much more comfortable to look down
a little on their fellow-creatures.
Even the Dissent in Milby was then
of a lax and indifferent kind. The
doctrine of adult baptism, struggling
under a heavy load of debt, had let
off half its chapel area as a ribbonshop; and Methodism was only to be
detected, as you detect curious larve,
by diligent search in dirty corners.
The Independents were the only Dissenters of whose existence Milby gentility was at all conscious, and it had
a vague idea that the salient points of
their creed were prayer without book,
red brick, and hypocrisy. The Independent chapel, known as Salem,
stood red and conspicuous in a broad
street; more than one pew-holder
kept a brass-bound gig; and Mr.
Jerome, a retired corn-factor, and the
most eminent member of the congregation, was one of the richest men in
the parish. But in spite of this apparent prosperity, together with the
usual amount of extemporaneous
preaching mitigated by furtive notes,
Salem  belied its name, and was.
not always the abode of peace. For
some reason or other, it was unfortunate in the choice of its ministers.
The Rev. Mr. Horner, elected with
brilliant hopes, was discovered to be
given to tippling and quarrelling with
his wife; the Rev. Mr. Rose's doctrine
was a little too "high," verging on
antinomianism; the Rev. Mr. Stickney's gift as a preacher was found to
be less striking on a more extended acquaintance; and the Rev. Mr. Smith,
a distinguished minister much sought
after in the iron districts, with a talent
for poetry, b,.canc ol)jectionable fi-om


an inclination to exchange verses with.
the young ladies of his congregation.
It was reasonably argued that such
verses as Mr. Smith's must take a
long time for their composition, add
the habit alluded to might intrench
seriously on his pastoral duties. These
reverend gentlemen, one and all, gave
it as their opinion that the Salei
church-members were among the most
enlightened of the Lord's people, and
that Milby was a low place, where
they would have found it a severe lot
to have their lines fall for any long
period; though to see the smart arin
crowded congregation assembled on
occasion of the annual charity semon, any one might have supposed
that the minister of Salem had rather
a brilliant position in the ranks o6
Dissent.  Several Church families
used to attend on that occasion, fo6
Milby, in those uninstructed dayg,
had not yet heard that the schisnlati
ministers of Salem  were obviouslr
typified by Korah, D)athan,'and AS'
ram; and many Church people thei.
were of opinion that.Dissent might
be a weakness, but, after all, had ini
great harm in it. These lax Episcopalians were, I believe, chiefly tradespeople, who held that, inasmuch a:
Congregationalism consumed candle],
it ought to be supported, and accordiugly made a point of present il
themselves at Salem for the afternoon
charity sermon, with the expectatiidn
of being asked to hold a plate. '1.
Pilgrim, too, was always there with''fs
half-sovereign; for as there was i
Dissenting doctor in Milby, Mr. PiIgrim looked with great tolerance, dA
all shades of religious opinion theat
did not include a belief in cures.
miracle.
On this point he had the conciir
rence of Mr. Pratt, the only otln4
medical man of the same standing i
Milby. Otherwise, it was remark.a,
how strongly these two clever ime
were contrasted. Pratt was middlr
sized, insinuating, and silvery-voicedA
Pi!grim was tall, heavy,'rough-ma1 -nered, and spluttering.  Both w:6~




.JANET'S REPENTANCE.


241


considered to have great powers of
conversation, but Pratt's anecdotes
were of the fine old crusted quality to
be procured only of Joe Miller; Pilgrim's had the full fruity flavor of
the most recent scandal. Pratt elegantly referred all diseases to debility,
and, with a proper contempt for symptomatic treatment, went to the root
of the 'matter with port-wine and
bark; Pilgrim was persuaded that
the evil principle in the human
system was plethora, and he made
war against it with cupping, blistering, and cathartics. They had both
been long established in Milby, and
as each had a sufficient practice, there
was no very malignant rivalry between them; on the contrary, they
had that sort of friendly contempt
for each other which is always conducive to a good understanding bsbetween professional men; and when
any new surgeon attempted, in an illadvised hour, to settle himself in the
town, it was strikingly demonstrated
how slight and trivial are theoretic differences compared with the broad basis of common human feeling. There
was the most perfect unanimity between Pratt and Pilgrim in the determination to drive away the obnoxious
and too probably unqualified intruder
as soon as possible. Whether t*e first
wonderful cure he effected was on a
patient of Pratt's or of Pilgrim's,
one was as ready as the other to pull
the interloper by the nose, and both
alike directed their remarkable powers
of conversation towards making the
town too hot for him. But by their
respective patients these two distinguished men were pitted against each
other with great virulence.  Mrs.
Lowme could not conceal her amazement that Mrs. Phipps should trust
her life in the hands of Pratt, who let
her feed herself up to that degree, it
was really shocking to hear how short
her breath was; and Mrs. Phipps had
no patience with Mrs. Lowme, living,
as she did on tea and broth, and looking as yellow as any crow-flower, and
yet letting Pilgrim bleed and blister
11*


her and give her lowering medicine
till her clothes hung on her like a
scarecrow's. On the whole, perhaps,
Mr. Pilgrim's reputation was at the
higher pitch, and when any lady under Mr. Pratt's care was doing ill,
she was half disposed to think that a
little more "active treatment" might
suit her better. But without very definite provocation no one would take
so serious a step as to part with the
family doctor, for in those remote days
there were few varieties of human
hatred more formidable than the medical. The doctor's estimate, even of a
confiding patient, was apt to rise and
fall with the entries in the day-book;
and I have known Mr. Pilgrim discover the most unexpected virtues in
a patient seized with a promising illness. At such times you might have
been glad to perceive that there were
some of Mr. Pilgrim's fellow-creatures
of whom he entertained a high opinion, and that he was liable to the amiable weakness of a too admiring estimate. A good inflammation fired his
enthusiasm, and a lingering dropsy
dissolved him into charity. Doubtless this crescendo of benevolence was
partly due to feelings not at all represented by the entries in the day-book;
for in Mr. Pilgrim's heart, too, there
was a latent store of tenderness and
pity which flowed forth at the sight
of suffering. Gradually, however, as
his patients became convalescent, his
view of their characters became more
dispassionate; when they could relish mutton-chops, he began to admit
that they had foibles, and by the time
they had swallowed their last dose of
tonic, he was alive to their most inexcusable faults. After this, the thermometer of his regard rested at the
moderate point of friendly backbiting,
which sufficed to make him agreeable
in his morning visits to the amiable
and worthy persons who were yet far
from convalescent.
Pratt's patients were profoundly
uninteresting to Pilgrim: their very
diseases were despicable, and he would
hardly  have thought their bodies
P




-242


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


worth dissecting. But of all Pratt's
patients, Mr. Jerome was the one on
whom Mr. Pilgrim heaped the most
unmitigated contempt. In spite of
the surgeon's wise tolerance, Dissent
became odious to him in the person
of Mr. Jerome. Perhaps it was because that old gentleman, being rich,
and having very large yearly bills for
medical attendance on himself and
his wife, nevertheless employed Pratt,
- neglected all the advantages of" active treatment," and paid away his
money without getting his system
lowered. On any other ground it is
hard to explain a feeling of hostility
to Mr. Jerome, who was an excellent
old gentleman, expressing a great
deal of good-will towards his neighbors, not only in imperfect English,
but in loans of money to the ostensibly rich, and in sacks of potatoes to the
obviously poor.
Assuredly Milby had that salt of
goodness which keeps the world together, in greater abundance than was
visible on the surface: innocent babes
were born there, sweetening their parents' hearts with simple joys; men
and women withering in disappointed
worldliness, or bloated with sensual
ease, had better moments in which they
pressed the hand of suffering with
sympathy, and were moved to deeds
of neighborly kindness. In church
and in chapel there were honest-hearted worshippers who strove to keep a
conscience void of offence * and even
up the dimmest alleys you might have
found here and there a Wesleyan to
whom Methodism was the vehicle of
peace on earth and good-will to men.
To a superficial glance, Milby was
nothing but dreary prose: a dingy
town, surrounded by flat fields, lopped
elms, and sprawling manufacturing
villages, which crept on and on with
their weaving-shops, till they threatened to graft themselves on the town.
But the sweet spring came to Milby
notwithstanding: the elm-tops were
red with buds; the churchyard was
starred with daisies; the lark showered his love-music on the flat fields;




the rainbows hung over the dingy
town, clothing the very roofs and
chimneys in a strange transfiguring
beauty. And so it was with the human life there, which at first seemed
a dismal mixture of griping worldliness, vanity, ostrich-feathers, and the
fumes of brandy: looking closer, you
found some purity, gentleness, and unselfishness, as you may have observed
a.scented geranium giving forth its
wholesome odors amidst blasphemy
and gin in a noisy pot-house. Little
deaf Mrs. Crewe would often carry
half her own spare dinner to the sick
and hungry; Miss Phipps, with her
cockade of red feathers, had a filial
heart, and lighted her father's pipe
with a pleasant smile; and there were
gray-haired men in drab gaiters, not
at all noticeable as you passed them in
the street, whose integrity had been
the basis of their rich neighbor's
wealth.
Such as the place was, the people
there were entirely contented with it.
They fancied life must be but a dull
affair for that large portion of mankind who were necessarily shut out
from  an acquaintance with Milby
families, and that it must be an advantage to London and Liverpool that
Milby gentlemen occasionally visited
those places on business.  But the
inhabitants became more intensely
conscious of the value they set upon
all their advantages, when innovation
made its appearance in the person of
the Rev. Mr. Tryan, the new curate,
at the chapel-of-ease on Paddiford
Common. It was soon notorious in
Milby that Mr. Tryan held peculiar
opinions; that he preached extempore; that he was founding a religious
fending library in his remote corner
of the parish; that he expounded the
Scriptures in cottages; and that his
preaching was attracting the Dissenters, and filling the very aisles of
his church. The rumor sprang up
that Evangelicalism had invaded Milby parish, —a murrain or. blight all
the more terrible, because its nature
was but dimly conjectured. Perhaps
'  




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


243


Milby was one of the last spots to be
reached by the wave of a new movement; and it was only now, when the
tide was just on the turn, that the
limpets there got a sprinkiing. Mr.
Tryan was the first Evangelical clergyman who had risen above the Miby
horizon: hitherto that obnoxious adjective had been unknown to the
townspeople of any gentility; and
there were even many Dissenters who
considered "evangelical" simply a
sort of baptismal name to the magazine which circulated among the congregation of Salem  Chapel.  But
now, at length, the disease had been
imported, when the parishioners were
expecting it as little as the innocent
Red Indians expected small-pox. As
long as Mr. Tr v'an's hearers were confined to Paddiford Common, - which,
by the by, was hardly recognizable as
a common at all, but was a dismal
district where you heard the rattle of
the hand-loom, andbreathed the smoke
of coal-pits, - the " canting parson"
could be treated as ajoke. Not so when
a number of single ladies in the town
appeared to be infected, and even one
or two men of substantial property,
with old Mr. Landor, the banker, at
their head, seemed to be "giving in"
to the new movement, — when Mr.
Tryan was known to be well received
in several good houses, where he was
in the habit of finishing the evening
with exhortation and prayer. Evangelicalism was no longer a nuisance
existing merely in by-corners, which
any well-clad person could avoid; it
was invading the very drawing-rooms,
mingling itself with the comfortable
fumes of port-wine and brandy, threatening to deaden with its murky breath
all the splendor of the ostrich-feathers, and to stifle Milby ingenuousness,
not pretending to be better than its
neighbors, with a cloud of cant and
lugubrious hypocrisy.  The alarm
reached its climax when it was reported that Mr. Tryan was endeavoring to obtain authority from Mr.
Prendergast, the non-resident rector,
to establish a Sunday-evening lecture




in the parish church, on the ground
that old Mr. Crewe did not preaca
the Gospel.
It now first appeared how surprisingly high a value Milby in general
set on the ministrations of Mr. Crewe;
how convinced it was that Mr. Crewe
was the model of a parish priest, and
his sermons the soundest and most
edifying that had ever remained unheard by a church-going population.
All allusions to his brown wig were
suppressed, and by a rhetorical figure
his name was associated with venerable gray hairs; the attempted intrusion of Mr. Tryan was an insult
to a man deep in years and learning;
moreover, it was an insolent effort to
thrust himself forward in a parish
where he was clearly distasteful to
the superior portion of its inhabitants.
The town was divided into two zealous
parties, the Tryanites and anti-Tryanites; and by the exertions of the
eloquent Dempster, the anti-Tryanite
virulence was soon developed into
an organized opposition. A protest
against the meditated evening lecture
was framed by that orthodox attorney,
and, after being numerously signed,
was to be carried to Mr. Prendergast
by three delegates representing the
intellect, morality, and wealth of Milby. The intellect, you perceive, was
to be personified in Mr. Dempster, the
morality in Mr. Budd, and the wealth
in Mr. W'omlinson; and the distinguished triad was to set out on its
great mission, as we have seen, on
the third day from that warm Saturday evening when the conversation
recorded in the previous chapter took
place in the bar of the Red Lion.
CHAPTER III.
IT was quite as warm on the following Thursday evening, when Mr.
Dempster and his colleagues wore to
return from their mission to Elmstoke
Rectory; but it was much pleasa^r
in Mrs. Linnet's parlor than in the bU




244


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


of the Red Lion. Through the open freshness which made them referable
window came the scent of inignonette to widely different periods. Waxand honeysuckle; the grass-plot in flowers presuppose delicate fingers and
front of the house was shaded by a robust patienc e, but there arc still
little plantation of Gueldres roses, many points of mind and person which
syringas, and laburnums; the noise they leave vague and problematic; so
of looms and carts and unmelodious I must tell you that Miss Linnet had
voices reached the ear simply as an  dark ringlets, a sallow complexion,
agreeable murmur, for Mrs. Linnet's and an amiable disposition. As to
house was situated quite on the out- her features, there was not much to
skirts of Paddiford Common; and criticise in them, for she had little
the only sound likely to disturb tlhe nose, less lip, and no eyebrow; and
serenity of the feminine party assem- as to her intellect, her friend Mis.
bled there was the occasional buzz of Pettifer often said: " She did n't
intrusive wasps, apparently mistaking  know a more sensible person to talk
each lady's head for a sugar-basin. to than Mary Linnet. 'here was no
No sugar-basin was visible in Mrs. one she liked better to come and take
Linnet's parlor, for the time of tea a quiet cup of tea with her, and read
was not yet, and the round table was a little of Klopstock's ' Messiah.'
littered with books which the ladies Mary Linnet had often told her a
were covering with black canvas as great deal of her mind when they
a reinforcement of the new Paddifoid were sitting together: she said there
Lending Library. Miss Linnet, whose were many things to bear in every
manuscript was the neatest type of condition of life, and nothing should
zigzag, was seated at a small table induce her to marry witlout a prosapart, writing on green paper tickets, pect of happiness. Once, when Mrs.
which were to l-c pasted on the cov- Pettifer admired her wax-flowers, she
ers. Miss Linnet had other accom- said, 'Ah, Mrs. Pettifer, think of the
plishments besides that of a neat man- beauties of nature! '  She always
uscript, and an index to some of them  spoke very prettily, did Maiy Linmight be found in the ornamints of net; very different, indeed, from
the room. She had always combined Rebecca."
a love of serious and poetical reading  Miss Rebecca Linnet, indeed, was
with her skill in fancy-work, and the not a general favorite. While most
neatly bound copies of Dryden's " Vir- people thought it a pity that a sensigil," Hannah More's " Sacred D)ra- ble woman like Mary had not found
mas," Falconer's " Shipwreck," Ma- a good husband, - and even her feson " On Self-knowledge," " Rasse- male friends said nothing more illlas," and Burke "On the Sublime natured of her, than that her face was
and Beautiful," which were the chief like a piece of putty with two Scotch
ornaments of the bookcase, were all pebbles stuck in it, - Relecca was
inscribed with her name, and had   always spoken of sarcastically, and it
been bought with her pocket-money was a customary kind of banter with
when she was in her teens. It must young ladies to recommend her as a
have been at least fifteen years since wife to any gentleman they happened
the latest of those purchases, but Miss to be flirting with, - her fat, her
Linnet's skill in fancy-work appeared finery, and her thick ankles sufficing
to have gone through more numerous to give piquancy to the joke, notwithphases than her literary taste; for standing the absence of novelty. Miss
the japanned boxes, the alum and Rebecca, however, possessed the acsealing-wax baskets, the fan-dolls, the complishment of music, and her sing"transferred" landscapes on the fire- ing of " 0 no, we never mention
screens, and the recent bouquets of her," and " The Soldier's Tear," was
-wax-flowers, showed a disparity in so desirable an accession to the pleas



JANET'S REPENTANCE.


245


ures of a tea-party that no one cared
to offend her, especially as Rebecca
had a high spirit of her own, and, in
spite of her expansively rounded contour, had a particularly sharp tongue.
lHer reading had been more extensive
than her sister's, embracing most of
the fiction in Mr. Proctor's circulating
library, and nothing but an acquaintance with the course of her studies
could afford a clew to the rapid transitions in her dress, which were suggested by the style of beauty, whether
sentimental, sprightly, or severe, possessed by the heroine of the three
volumes actually in perusal. A piece
of lace, which drooped round the edge
of her white bonnet one week, had
been rejected by the next; and her
cheeks,  which, on    Whitsunday,
loomed through a Turnerian haze of
network, were, on Trinity Sunday,
seen reposing in distinct red outline
on her shelving bust, like the sun on
a fog-bank. The black velvet, meeting with a crystal clasp, which one
evening encircled her head, had on
another descended to her neck, and
on a third to her wrist, suggesting to
an active inmaination either a magical contraction of the ornament, or a
fearful ratio of expansion in Miss
Rebecca's person. With this constant
application of art to dress, she could
have had little time for fancy-work,
even if she had not been destitute of
her sister's taste for that delightful
and truly feminine occupation. And
here, at least, you perceive the justice
of the Milby opinion as to the relative suitability of the two Miss Linnets for matrimony. When a man is
happy enough to win the affections of
a sweet girl, who can soothe his cares
with crochet, and respond to all his
most cherished ideas with beaded urnrugs and chair-covers in German wool,
he has, at least a guaranty of domestic comfort, whatever trials may
await him out of doors. What a resource it is under fatigue and irritation to have vour drawing-room well
supplied with small mats, which
would always be ready if you ever


wanted to set anything on them!
And what styptic for a bleeding heart
can equal copious squares of crochet,
which are useful for slipping down
the moment you touch them? How
our fathers managed without crochet
is the wonder; but I believe some
small and feeble substitute existed
in their time under the name of " tatting." Rebecca Linnet, however, had
neglected tatting as well as other
forms of fancy-work. At school, to
be sure, she had spent a greatdeal of
time in acquiring flower-painting,
according to the ingenious method
then fashionable, of applying the
shapes of leaves and flowers cut out
in cardboard, and scrubbing a brush
over the surface thus conveniently
marked out; but even the spill-cases
and hand-screens which were her last
half-year's performances in that way
were not considered eminently successful, and had long been consigned
to the retirement of the best bedroom.
Thus there was a good deal of family
unlikeness between Rebecca and her
sister, and I am afraid there was also
a little family dislike; but Mary's disapproval had usually been kept imprisoned behind her thin lips, for
Rebecca was not only of a headstrong
disposition, but was her mother's pet;
the old lady being herself stout, and
preferring a more showy style of cap
than she could prevail on her daughter Mary to make up for her.
But I have been describing Miss Rebecca as she was in former days only,
for her appearance this evening, as
she sits pasting on the green tickets,
is in striking contrast with what it
was three or four months ago. Her
plain gray gingham dress and plain
white collar could never have belonged to her wardrobe before that
date; and though she is not reduced
in size, and her brown hair will do
nothing but hang in crisp ringlets
down her large cheeks, there is a
change in her air and expression
which seems to shed a softened light
over her person, and make her look
like a peony in the shade, instead of




246


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


the same flower flaunting in a parterre in the hot sunlight.
No one could deny that Evangelicalism had wrought a change for the
better in Rebecca Linnet's person, -
not even Miss Pratt, the thin stiff
lady in spectacles, seated opposite to
her, who always had a peculiar repulsion for " females with a gross habit
of body." Miss Pratt was an old
maid; but that is a no more definite
description than if I had said she was
in the autumn of life. Was it autumn when the orchards are fragrant
with apples, or autumn when the oaks
are brown, or autumn when the last
yellow leaves are fluttering in the
chill breeze?  The young ladies in
Milby would have told you that the
Miss Linnetg were old maids; but
the Miss Linnets were to Miss Pratt
what the apple-scented September is
to the bare, nipping days of late November. The Miss Linnets were in
that temperate zone of old-maidism,
when a woman will not say but that,
if a man of suitable years and character were to offer himself, she might be
induced to tread the remainder of
life's vale in company with him; Miss
Pratt was in that arctic region where
a woman is confident that at no time
of life would she have consented to
give up her liberty, and that she has
never seen the man whom she would
engage to honor and obey. If the
Miss Linnets were old maids, they
were old maids with natural ringlets
and embonpoint, not to say obesity;
Miss Pratt was an old maid with a
cap. a braided "front," a backbone
and appendages. Miss Pratt was the
one blue-stocking of Milby, possessing, she said, no less than five hundred volumes, competent, as her
brother the doctor often observed, to
conduct a conversation on any topic
whatever, and occasionally dabbling
a little in authorship, though it was
understood that she had never put
forth the full powers of her mind in
print.  Her "Letters to a Young
Man on his Entrance into Life," and
" De Courcy, or the Rash Promise, a


Tale for Youth," were mere trifles
which she had been induced to publish because they were calculated for
popular utility, but they were nothing
to what she had for years had by her
in manuscript. Her latest production
had been Six Stanzas, addressed to
the Rev. Edgar Tryan, printed on
glazed paper with a neat border, and
beginning, " Forward, young wrestler
for the truth "
Miss Pratt having kept her brother's house during his long widowhood, his daughter, Miss Eliza, had
had the advantage of being educated
by her aunt, and thus of imbibing a
very strong antipathy to all that remarkable woman's tastes and opinions.  The silent, handsome girl of
two-and-twenty, who is covering the
" Memoirs of Felix Neff," is Miss Eliza
Pratt; and the small elderly lady in
dowdy clothing, who is also working
diligently, is Mrs. Pettifer, a superiorminded widow, much valued in Milby,
being such a very respectable person to
have in the house in case of illness, and
of quite too good a family to receive any
money-payment, - you could always
send her garden-stuff that would make
her ample amends. Miss Pratt has
enough to do in commenting on the
heap of volumes before her, feeling it
a responsibility entailed on her by her
great powers of mind to leave nothing without the advantage of her
opinion. Whatever was good must
be sprinkled with the chrism of her
approval; whatever was evil must be
blighted by her condemnation.
"Upon my word," she said, in a
deliberate high voice, as if she were
dictating to an amanuensis, " it is a
most admirable selection of works for
popular reading, this that our excellent Mr. Tryan has made. I do not
know whether, if the task had been
confided to me, I could have made a
selection, combining in a higher degree religious instruction and edification with a due admixture of the purer
species of amusement. This story of
'Father Clement' is a library in itself on the errors of Romanism. I




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


247


have ever considered fiction a suitable
form for conveying moral and religious instruction, as I have shown in
my little work 'De Courcy,' which,
as a very clever writer in the ' Crompton Argus' said at the time of its
appearance, is the light vehicle of a
weighty moral."
"One 'ud think," said Mrs. Linnet,
who also had her spectacles on, but
chiefly for the purpose of seeing what
the others were doing, " there did n't
want much to drive people away from
a religion as makes 'em walk barefoot over stone floors, like that girl in
'Father Clement,' - sending the
blood up to the head frightful. Anybody might see that was an unnat'ral
creed."
" Yes," said Miss Pratt," but asceticism is not the root of the error, as
Mr. Tryan was telling us the other
evening,- it is the denial of the great
doctrine of justification by faith.
Much as I had reflected on all subjects
in the course of my life, I am indebted to Mr. Tryan for opening my eyes
to the full importance of that cardinal
doctrine of the Reformation. From
a child I had a deep sense of religion,
but in my early days the Gospel light
was obscured in the English Church,
notwithstanding the possession of our
incomparable Liturgy, than which I
know no human composition more
faultless and sublime. As I tell Eliza,
I was not blessed as she is at the age
of two-and-twenty, in knowing a
clergymnan who unites all that is great
and admirable in intellect with the
highest spiritual gifts. I am no contemptible judge of a man's acquirements, and I assure you I have tested
Mr. Tryan's by questions which are a
pretty severe touchstone. It is true,
sometimes carry him a little beyond
the depth of the other listeners. Profound learning," continued Miss
Pratt, shutting her spectacles, and
tapping them on the book before her,
"has not many to estimate it in
Milby." 
"  iss Pratt," said Rebecca, "will
you please give me ' Scott's Force


of Truth '?   There, - that small
book lying against the 'Life of Legh
Richmond."
" That's a book I'm very fond of,
-the 'Life of Legh Richmond,"'
said Mrs. Linnet. "He found out
all about that woman at Tutbury as
pretended to live without eating. Stuff
and nonsense! "
Mrs. Linnet had become a reader
of religious books since Mr. Tryan's
advent, and as she was in the habit of
confining her perusal to the purely
secular portions, which bore a very
small proportion to the whole, she
could make rapid progress through
a large number of volumes. On
taking up the biography of a celebrated preacher, she immediately
turned to the end to see what disease
he died of; and if his legs swelled, as
her own occasionally did, she felt a
stronger interest in ascertaining any
earlier facts in the history of the
dropsical divine,- whether he had
ever fallen off a stage-coach, whether he had married more than one
wife, and, in general, any adventures
or repartees recorded of him previous
to the epoch of his conversion. She
then glanced over the letters and
diary, and wherever there was a predominance of Zion, the River of Life,
and notes of exclamation, she turned
over to the next page; but any passage in which she saw such promising nouns as "small-pox," " pony,"
or " boots and shoes, at once arrested her.
" It is half past six now," said Miss
Linnet, looking at her watch as the
servant appeared with the tea-tray.
"I suppose the delegates are come
back by this time. If Mr. Tryan
had not so kindly promised to call
and let us know, I should hardly
rest without walking to Milby myself to know what answer they have
brought back. It is a great privilege for us, Mr. Tryan living at Mrs.
Wagstaff's, for he is often able to
take us on his way backwards and
forwards into the town."
" I wonder if there's another man




248


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


in the world who has been brought
up as Mr. Tryan has, that would
choose to live in those small close
rooms on the common, among heaps
of dirty cottages, for the sake of
being near the poor people," said
Mrs. Pettifer. "I 'm afraid he hurts
his health by it; he looks to me far
from strong."
" Ah," said Miss Pratt, " I understand he is of a highly respectable
family indeed, in Huntingdonshire. I
heard him myself speak of his father's
carriage, - quite incidentally, you
know, - and Eliza tells me what very
fine cambric handkerchiefs he uses.
My eyes are not good enough to see
such things, but I know what breeding is as well as most people, and it
is easy to see that Mr. Tryan is quite
conmme il fuw, to use a French expression."
"I should like to tell him better
nor use fine cambric i' this place, where
there's such washing, it 's a shame
to be seen," said Mrs. Linnet; "he '11
get 'em tore to pieces. Good lawn
'ud be far better. I saw what a color
his linen looked at the sacrament last
Sunday. Mary 's making him a
black silk case to hold his bands, but
I told her she 'd more need wash 'em
for him."
" 0 mother!" said Rebecca, with
solemn severity, " pray don't think of
pocket-handkerchiefs and linen, when
we are talking of such a man. And
at this moment, too, when he is perhaps having to bear a heavy blow.
We don't know but wickedness may
have triumphed, and Mr. Prendergast
may have consented to forbid the lecture. There have been dispensations
quite as mysterious, and Satan is evidently putting forth all his strength
to resist the entrance of the Gospel
into Milby Church."
"You niver spoke a truer word
than that, my dear," said Mrs. Linnet,
who accepted all religious phrases,
but was extremely rationalistic in her
interpretation; " for if iver Old Harry appeared in.a human form, it's
that Dempster. It was all through


him as we got cheated out o' Pye's
Croft, making out as the title was n't
good. Such lawyer's villany! As
if paying good money was n't title
enough to anything. If your father
as is dead and gone had been worthy
to know it! But he '1 have a fall
some day, Dempster will. Mark my
words."
"Ah, out of his carriage, you
mean," said Miss Pratt, who, in the
movement occasioned by the clearing
of the table, had lost the first part of
Mrs. Linnet's speech. "It certainly
is alarming to see him driving home
from Rotherby, flogging his galloping
horse like a madman. My brother
has often said he expected every
Thursday evening to be called in to
set some of Dempster's bones; but I
suppose he may drop that expectation
now, for we are given to understand
from good authority that he has forbidden his wife to call my brother in
again either to herself or her mother.
He swears no Tryanite doctor shall
attend his family. I have reason to
believe that Pilgrim was called in to
Mrs. Dempster's mother the other
day."
"Poor Mrs. Raynor! she 's glad to
do anything for the sake of peace and
quietness," said Mrs. Pettifer; " but
it's no trifle at her time of life to part
with a doctor who knows her constitution."
" What trouble that poor woman
has to bear in her old age!" said
Mary Linnet, "to see her daughter
leading such a life! - an only daughter, too, that she doats on."
"Yes, indeed," said Miss Pratt.
"We, of course, know more about it
than most people, my brother having
attended the family so many years.
For my part, I never thought well of
the marriage; and I endeavored to
dissuade my brother when Mrs. Raynor asked him to give Janet away
at the wedding. 'If you will take
my advice, Richard,' I said,' you will
have nothing to do with that marriage.' And he has seen the justice
of my opinion since. Mrs. Raynor




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


249


herself was against the connection at strange anybody passing her in the
first; but she always spoiled Janet; street may see plain enough what's
and I fear, too, she was won over by the matter; but she's always got
a foolish pride in having her daughter some little good-natured plan in her
marry a professional man. I fear it head for all that. Only last night
was so. No one but myself, I think, when I met her, I saw five yards off
foresaw the extent of the evil."  she was n't fit to be out; but she had
" Well," said Mrs. Pettifer, "Janet a basin in her hand, full of somehad nothing to look to but being a thing she was carrying to Sally Margoverness; and it was hard for Mrs. tin, the deformed girl that's in a
Raynor to have to work at millinering, consumption."
- a woman well brought up, and her  "But she is just as bitter against
husband a man who held his head as Mr. Tryan as her husband is, I unhigh as any man in Thurston. And derstand," said   Rebecca.   " Her
it is n't everybody that sees everything heart is very much.set against the
fifteen  years  beforehand.  Robert truth, for I understand she bought
Dempster was the cleverest man in Mr. Tryan's sermons on purpose to
Milby; and there were n't many ridicule them to Mrs. Crewe."
young men fit to talk to Janet."    "Well, poor thing," said Mrs. Pet"It is a thousand pities," said tifer, "you know she stands up for
Miss Pratt, choosing to ignore Mrs. everything her husband says and
Pettifer's slight sarcasm, "for I cer- does. She never will admit to anytainly did consider Janet Raynor the body that he's not a good husband."
most promising young woman of my    "That is her pride," said Miss
acquaintance;-a little too much Pratt. "She married him in oppolifted up, perhaps, by her superior sition to the advice of her  best
education, and too much given to friends, and now she is not willing to
satire, but able to express herself very admit that she was wrong. Why,
well indeed about any book I recom- even to my brother - and a medical
mended to her perusal. There is no attendant, you know, can hardly fail
young woman in Milby now who can to be acquainted with family secrets
e compared with what Janet was - she has always pretended to have
when she was married, either in mind the highest respect for her husband's
or person. I consider Miss Landor qualities. Poor Mrs. Raynor, howfar, far below her. Indeed, I cannot ever, is well aware that every one
say much for the mental superiority knows the real state of things. Latof the young ladies in our first fami- terly, she has not even avoided the
lies. They are superficial, -very su- subject with me. The very last time
perficial."                       I called on her she said, ' Have you
" She made the handsomest bride been to see my poor daughter?' and
that ever'came out of Milby Church, burst into tears."
too," said Mrs. Pettifer. "Such a very  "Pride or no pride," said Mrs.
fine figure! and it showed off her Pettifer, "I shall always stand up
white poplin so well. And what a for Janet Dempster.    She sat up
pretty smile Janet always had! Poor with me night after night when I had
thing, she keeps that now for all her that attack of rheumatic fever six
old friends. I never see her but she years ago. There 's great excuses for
has something pretty to say to me, -  her. When a woman can't think of
living in the same street, you know, I her husband coming home without
can't help seeing her often, though trembling, it's enough to make her
I 've never been to the house since drink something to blunt her feelings,
Dempster broke out on me in one of - and no children either, to keep her
his drunken fits. She comes to me from it. You and me might do the
sometimes, poor thing, looking  so same, if we were in her place."
I I*




'250


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


"Speak for yourself, Mrs. Pettifer," said Miss Pratt. "Under no
circumstances can I imagine myself
resorting to a practice so degrading.
A woman should find support in her
own strength of mind."
"I think," said Rebecca, who considered Miss Pratt still very blind in
spiritual things, notwithstanding her
assumption of enlightenment, "she
will find poor support if she trusts
only to her own strength. She must
seek aid elsewhere than in herself."
Happily the removal of the teathings just then created a little confusion, which aided Miss Pratt to repress her resentment at Rebecca's
presumption in correcting her,- a
person like Rebecca Linnet! who six
months ago was as flighty and vain a
woman as Miss Pratt had ever
known, - so very unconscious of her
unfortunate person!
The ladies had scarcely been seated
at their work another hour, when the
sun was sinking, and the clouds that
flecked the sky to the very zenith
were every moment taking on a
brighter gold. The gate of the little garden opened, and Miss Linnet,
seated at her small table near the
window, saw Mr. Tryan enter.
"There is Mr. Tryan," she said,
and her pale cheek was lighted up
with a little blush that would have
made her look more attractive to almost any one except Miss Eliza
Pratt, whose fine gray eyes allowed
few things to escape her silent observation.  " Mary Linnet gets more
and more in love with Mr. Tryan,"
thought Miss Eliza; "it is really pitiable to see such feelings in a woman
of her age, with those old-maidish
little ringlets. I dare say she flatters
herself Mr. Tryan may fall in love
with her, because he makes her useful among the poor." At the same
time, Miss Eliza, as she bent her
handsome head and large cannon
curls with apparent calmness over
her work, felt a considerable internal
flutter when she heard the knock at
the door. Rebecca had less self-com



mand. She felt too much agitated
to go on with her pasting, and clutched the leg of the table to counteract
the trembling in her hands.
Poor women's hearts!   Heaven
forbid that I should laugh at you,
and make cheap jests on your susceptibility towards the clerical sex, as
if it had nothing deeper or more lovely in it than the mere vulgar angling
for a husband. Even in these enlightened days, many a curate who,
considered abstractedly, is nothing
more than a sleek birnanous animal
in a white neckcloth, with views more
or less Anglican, and furtively addicted to the flute, is adored by a girl
who has coarse brothers, or by a
solitary woman who would like to be
a helpmate in good works beyond her
own means, simply because he seems
to them the model of refinement and
of public usefulness. What wonder, then, that in Milby society, such
as I have told you it was a very long
while ago, a zealous evangelical clergyman, aged thirty-three, called forth
all the little agitations that belong to
the divine necessity of loving, implanted in the Miss Linnets, with
their seven or eight lustrums and
their unfashionable ringlets, no less
than in Miss Eliza Pratt, with her
youthful bloom and her ample cannon curls.
But Mr. Tryan has entered the
room, and the strange light from the
golden sky falling on his light-brown
hair, which is brushed high up round
his head, makes it look almost like
an aureole.  His gray edes, too,
shine with unwonted brilliancy this
evening. They were not remarkable
eyes, but they accorded completely
in their changing light with the
changing expression of his person,
which indicated the paradoxical character often observable in a largelimbed sanguine blonde; at once mild
and irritable, gentle and overbearing,
indolent and resolute, self-conscious
and dreamy. Except that the wellfilled lips had something of the artificially compressed look which is




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


251


often the sign of a struggle to keep
the dragon undermost, and that the
complexion was rather pallid, giving
the idea of imperfect health, Mr.
Tryan's face in repose was that of
an ordinary whiskerless blonde, and it
seemed difficult to refer a certain air
of distinction about him to anything
in particular, unless it were his delicate hands and well-shapcn feet.
It was a great anomaly to the Milby
mind that a canting evangelical parson, who would take tea with tradespeople, and make friends of vulgar
women like the Linncts, should have
so much the air of a gentleman, and
be so little like the splay-footed Mr.
Stickncy of Salem, to whom he approximated so closely in doctrine.
And this want of correspondence between the physique and the creed had
excited no less surprise in the larger
town of Laxeter, where Mr. Tryan
had formerly held a curacy; for of
the two other Low Church clergymen
in the neighlborhood, one was a Welshman of globose figure and unctuous
complexion, and the other a man of
atrabiliar aspect, with lank black hair,
and a redundance of limp cravat, -
in fact, the sort of thing you might
expect in men who distributed the
publications of the Religious Tract
Society, and introduced Dissenting
hymns into the Church.
Mr. Tryan shook hands with Mrs.
Linnet, bowed with rather a prcoccupied air to the other ladies, and seated
hiself in the large horse hair easvchair which had been drawn forward
for him, while the ladies ccased from
their work, and fixed their eyes on
him, awaiting the news he had to tell
them.
" It seems," he began, in a low and
silvery tone, " I need a lesson of patience; there has been something
wrong in my thought or action about
this evening lecture. I have been too
much bent on doing good to Milby
after my own plan, - too reliant on
my own wisdom."
Mr. Tryan paused. He was strug-.gling against inward irritation.


"The delegates are come back,
then? " " Has Mr. Prendergast given
way?" " Has Dempster succeeded? "
-were the eager questions of three
ladies at once.
"Yes; the town is in an uproar.
As we were sitting in Mr. Landor's
drawing-room we heard a loud cheering, and presently Mr. Thrupp, the
clerk at the bank, who had been waiting at the Red Lion to hear the result,
came to let us know. He said l)empster had been making a speech to the
mob out the window. They were distributing drink to the people, and
hoisting placards in great letters,' Down with the Tryanites!' ' )own
with cant!' They had a hideous caricature of me being tripped up and
pitched head-foremost out of the pulpit. Good old Mr. Landor would insist on sending me round in the carriagre; he thought I should not be
safe from the mob; but I got down at
the Crossways. The row was evidently preconcerted by I)empster beforc he set out. He made sure of succeeding."
Mr. Tryan's utterance had been
getting rather louder and more rapid
in the course of this speech, and he
now added, in the energetic chestvoice, which, both in and out of the
pulpit, alternated continually with his
more silvery notes: -
"But his triumph will be a short
one. If he thinks he can intimidate
me by obloquy or threats, he has mistaken the man he has to deal with.
Mr. Dempster and his colleagues will
find themselves checkmated after all.
Mr. Prendergast has been false to his
own conscience in this business. He
knows as well as I do that he is
throwing away the souls of the people
by leaving things as they are in the
parish.  But I shall appeal to the
Bishop, - I am confident of his sympathy."
" The Bishop will be coming shortly, I suppose," said Miss Pratt, "to
hold a'confirmation? "
" Yes; but I shall write to him at
once, and lay the, case. before him.




252


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


Indeed, I must hurry away now, for Mr. Tryan would "have something,
I have many matters to attend to. - some wine-and-water and a bisYou, ladies, have been kindly helping cuit," was just here a welcome relief
me with your labors, I see," continued from the necessity of answering Miss
Mr. Tryan, politely, glancing at the Pratt's oration.
canvas-covered books as he rose from  " Not anything, my dear Mrs. Linhis seat. Then, turning to Mary Lin- net, thank you. You forget what a
net: " Our library is really getting Rechabite 1 am. By the by, when I
on, I think.  You and your sister went this morning to sec a poor girl
have,quite a heavy task of distribution in Butcher's Lane, whom I had heard
now.                              of as being in a consumption, I found
Poor Rebecca felt it very hard to Mrs. Demnpster there. I had often
bear that Mr. Tryan did not turn to- met her in the street, but did not
wards her too. If he knew how much know  it was Mrs. Dempster.   It
she entered into his feelings about the seems she goes among the poor a good
lecture, and the interest she took in deal. She is really an interestingthe library. Well! perhaps it was Icoking woman. I was quite surprised,
her lot to be overlooked, -and it for I have heard the worst account
might be a token of mercy. Even a of her habits, - that she is almost as
good man might not always know the bad as her husband. She went out
heart that was most with him. But hastily as soon as I entered. But"
the next moment poor Mary had a (apologetically) " I am keeping you
pang, when Mr. Tryan turned to Miss all standing, and I must really hurry
Eliza Pratt, and the preoccupied ex- away. Mrs. Pettifer, I have not had
pression of his face melted into that the pleasure of calling on you for
beaming timidity with which a man some time; I shall take an early opalffost always addresses a pretty portunity of going your way. Good
woman.                            evening, good evening."
"I have to thank you too, Miss
Eliza, for seconding me so well in- 
your visits to Joseph Mercer. The
old man tells me how precious he           CHAPTER IV.
finds your reading to him, now he is
no longer able to go to church."    M. TRYAN was right in saying
Miss Eliza only answered by a that the "row" in Milby had been
blush, which made her look all the preconcerted  by  Dempster.  The
handsomer, but her aunt said: -  placards and the caricature were pre" Yes, Mr. Tryan, I have ever in- pared before the departure of the
culated on my dear Eliza the impor- delegates; and it had been settled
tance of spending her leisure in'being that Mat Paine, Dempster's clerk,
useful to her fellow-creatures. Your should ride out on Thursday mornexample and instruction have been ing to meet them at Whitlow, the
quite in the spirit of the system which last place where they would change
I have always pursued, though we are horses, that he might gallop back and
indebted to you for a clearer view of prepare an ovation for the triumvirate
the motives that should actuate us in in case of their success. Demnpster
our pursuit of good works. Not that had determined to dine at Whitlow:
I can accuse myself of having ever so that Mat Paine was in Milby again
had a self-righteous spirit, hut my two hours before the entrance of the
humility was rather instinctive than delegates, and had time to send a
based on a firm ground of doctrinal whisper up the back streets that there
knowledge, such as you so admirably was promise of a "spree" in the
imart to uS."                     Bridge Way, as well as to assemble
'Linuet's Usual entreaty that -two knots of picked men,-one to
1.




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


253


feed the flame of orthodox zeal with
gin-and-water, at the Green Man,
near High Street; the other to solidify their church principles with heady
beer at the Bear and Ragged Staff in
the Bridge Way.
The Bridge Way was an irregular
straggling street, where the town
fringed off raggedly into the Whitlow road: rows of new    red-brick
houses, in which ribbon-looms were
rattling behind long lines of window,
alternating with old, half-thatched,
half-tiled cottages, - one of those dismal wide, streets where dirt and misery have no long shadows thrown on
them to soften their ugliness. Here,
about half past five o'clock, Silly
Caleb, an idiot well known in l)og
Lane, but more of a stranger in the
Bridge Way, was seen slouching
along with a string of boys hooting
at his heels; presently another group,
for the most part out at elbows, came
briskly in the same direction, looking
round them with an air of expectation; and at no long interval, l)eb
Trannter, in a pink flounced gown
and floating ribbons, was observed
talking with great affability to two
men in seal-skin caps and fustian, who
formed her cortege. The Bridge Way
began to have a presentiment of something in the wind. Phib Cook left
her evening wash-tub and appeared
at her door in so p suds, a bonnetpoke, and general dampness; three
narrow-chested ribbon-weavers, in
rusty black streaked with shreds of
many-colored silk, sauntered out with
their hands in their pockets; and
Molly Beale, a brawny old virago,
descrying wiry Dame Iicketts peeping out from her entry, seized the opportunity of renewing the morning's
skirmish. In short, the Bridge Way
was in that state of excitement which
is understood to announce a" demonstration" on the part of the British
public; and the afflux of remote
townsmen increasing, there was soon
so large a crowd that it was time for
Bill Powers, a plethoric Goliath, who
preside.over the knot of beerdrink

ers at the Bear and Ragged Staff, to
issue forth with his companions, and,
like the enunciator of the ancient
myth, make the assemblage distinctly
conscious of the common sentiment
that had drawn them together. The
expectation of the delegates' chaise,
added to the tight between Molly
Beale and Dame Ricketts, and the
ill-advised appearance of a lean bullterrier, were a sufficient safety-valve
to the popular excitement during the
remaining quarter of an hour; at the
end of which the chaise was seen approaching along the Whitlow road,
with oak boughs ornamenting the
horses' heads; and, to quote the account of' this interesting scene which
was sent to the " Rotherby Guardian," " loud cheers immediately testified to the sympathy of the honest
fellows collected there with the public-spirited exertions of their fellowtownsmen."   Bill Powers, whose
bloodshot eyes, bent hat, and protuberant attitude marked him out as the
natural leader of the assemblage, undertook to interpret the common
sentiment by stopping the chaise, advancing to the door with raised hat,
and begging to know of Mr. Dempster, whether the Rector had forbidden the "canting lecture."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Dempster.
"Keep up a jolly good hurray."
No public duty could have been
more easy and agreeable to Mr. Powers and his associates, and the chorus
swelled all the way to the High
Street, where, by a mysterious coincidence often observable in these
spontaneous " demonstrations," large
placards on long poles were observed
to shoot upwards from among the
crowd, principally in the direction of
Tucker s Lane, where the Green Man
was situated.  One bore, "Down
with the Tryanites!" another, "No
Cant! " another, "Long live our
venerable Curate I" and one in still
larger letters, " Sound Church Principles and no Hypocrisy! "  But a
still more remarkable impromptu was
a huge caricture of M., Tryaa ai




254


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


gown and band, with an enormous
aureole of yellow hair and upturned
eyes, standing on the pulpit stairs
and trying to pull down old Mr.
Crewe. Groans, yells, and hisses -
hisses, yells, and groans - only
stemmed by the appearance of another caricature representing Mr.
Tryan being pitched head-foremost
from  the pulpit stairs by a hand
which the artist, either from subtilty
of intention or want of space, had
left unindicated. In the midst of the
tremendous cheering that saluted this
piece of symbolical art, the chaise
had reached the door of the Red Lion,
and loud cries of " Dempster forever!" with a feeble cheer now and
then for Tomlinson and Budd, were
presently responded to by the appearance of the public-spirited attorney at
the large upper window, where also
were visible a little in the background
the small sleek head of Mr. Budd,
and the blinking countenance of Mr.
Tomlinson.
Mr. Dempster held his hat in his
hand, and poked his head forward
with a butting motion by way of bow.
A storm of cheers subsided at last
into dropping sounds of " Silence! "
" Hear him! " " Go it, Dempster!"
and the lawyer's rasping voice became
distinctly audible.
"Fellow-townsmen! It gives us
the sincerest pleasure - I speak for.my respected colleagues as well as
myself- to witness these strong
proofs of your attachment to the
principles of our excellent Church,
and your zeal for the honor of our
venerable pastor. But it is no more
than I expected of you. I know you
well. I've known you for the last
twenty years to be as honest and respectable a set of rate-payers as any in
this county. Your hearts are sound
to the core! No man had better try
to thrust his cant and hypocrisy down
your throats. You're used to wash..them with liquor of a better flavor..-This is the proudest moment in my;own life, and I think I may say in.that of my..colleaguea, in which I


have to tell you that our exertions in
the cause of sound religion and manly morality have been crowned with
success. Yes, my fellow-townsmen!
I have the gratification of announcing to you thus formally what you
have already learned indirectly. The
pulpit from which our venerable pastor has fed us with sound doctrine for
half a century is not to be invaded
by a fanatical, sectarian, doubledfaced, Jesuitical interloper! We are
not to have our young people demoralized and corrupted by the temptations
to vice, notoriously connected with
Sunday-evening lectures! We are not
to have a preacher obtruding himself
upon us, who decries good works,
and sneaks into our homes, perverting
the faith of our wives and daughters!
We are not to be poisoned with doctrines which damp every innocent enjoyment, and pick a poor man's
pocket of the sixpence with which he
might buy himself a cheerful glass
after a hard day's work, under pretence of paying for Bibles to send to
the Chicktaws!
" But I'm not going to waste your
valuable time with unnecessary words.
I am a man of deeds." (" Ay, damn
you, that you are, and you charge
well for 'em too," said a voice from
the crowd, probably that of a gentleman who was immediately afterwards
observed with his hat crushed over
his head.) " I shall always be at the
service of my fellow-townsmen, and
whoever dares to hector over you, or
interfere with your innocent pleasures, shall have an account to settle
with Robert Dempster.
"Now, my boys! you can't do better than disperse and carry the good 
news to all your fellow- townsmen,
whose hearts are as sound as your
own. Let some of you go one way
and some another, that every man,
woman, and child in Milby may know
what you know yourselves. But before we part, let us 'have three cheers
for True Religion, and down with
Cant!" 
When the last cheer was d4ying  r Mi 
1'I




JANET'S REPENTANCE. 


D)empster closed the window, and the
judiciously instructed placards and
caricatures moved off in divers directions, followed by larger or smaller
divisions of the crowd. The greatest
attraction apparently lay in the direction of Dog Lane, the outlet towards
Paddiford Common, whither the caricatures were moving; and you foresee,
of course, that those works of symbolical art were consumed with a liberal expenditure of dry gorse-bushes
and vague shouting.
After these great public exertions,
it was natural that Mr. Dempster and
his colleagues should feel more in need
than usual of a little social relaxation;
and a party of their friends were already beginning to assemble in the
large parlor of the Red Lion, convened partly by their own curiosity,
and partly by the invaluable Mat
Paine. The most capacious punchbowl was put in requisition; and that
born gentleman, Mr. Lowme, seated
opposite Mr. Dempster as "Vice,"
undertook to brew the punch, defying
the criticisms of the envious men out
of office, who, with the readiness of
irresponsibility, ignorantly suggested
more lemons. The social festivities
were continued till long past midnight,
when several friends of sound religion
were conveyed home with some difficulty, one of them showing a dogged
determination to seat himself in the
gutter.
Mr. Dempster had done as much
justice to the punch as any of the
party; and his friend Boots, though
aware that the lawyer could "carry
his liquor like Old Nick," with whose
social demeanor Boots seemed to be
particularly well acquainted, nevertheless thought it might be as well to
see so good a customer in safety to
his own door, and walked quietly behind his elbow out of the inn-yard.
Dempster, however, soon became
aware of him, stopped short, and,
turning slowly round upon him, recognized the well-known drab waistcoat sleeves, conspicuous enough in
the starlight.


"Yon twopenny scoundrel! What
do you mean by dogging a professional man's footsteps in this way?
I '11 break every bone in your skin if
you attempt to track me, like a beastly cur sniffing at one's pocket. Do
you think a gentleman will make his
way home any the better for having
the scent of your blacking- bottle
thrust up his nostrils? "
Boots slunk back, in more amusement than ill-humor, thinking the
lawyer's "rum  talk" was doubtless
part and parcel of his professional
ability; and Mr. Dempster pursued
his slow way alone.
His house lay in Orchard Street,
which opened on the prettiest outskirt
of the town, -the church, the parsonage, and a long stretch of green
fields. It was an old-fashioned house,
with an overhanging upper story;
outside, it had a face of rough stucco,
and casement windows with green
frames and shutters; inside, it was
full of long passages, and rooms with
low ceilings. There was a large,
heavy knocker on the green door, and
though Mr. Dempster carried a latchkey, he sometimes chose to use the
knocker. He chose to do so now. The
thunder resounded through Orchard
Street, and, after a. single minute,
there was a second clap louder than
the first. Another minute, and still
the door was not opened; whereupon
Mr. I)empster, muttering, took out
his latch-key, and, with less difficulty
than might have been expected, thrust
it into the door. When he opened
the door the passage was dark.
"Janet!" in the loudest rasping
tone, was the next sound that rang
through the house.
"Janet! " again, - before a slow
step was heard on the stairs, and a
distant light began to flicker on the
wall of the passage.
"Curse you! you creeping idiot!
Come faster, can't you? "
Yet a few seconds, and the figure
of a tall woman, holding aslant a
heavy-plated drawing-room candlestick, appeared at the turning of the




256


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


passage that led to the broader entrance.
She had on a light dress which sat
loosely about her figure, but did not
disguise its liberal, graceful outline.
A heavy mass of straight jet-black
hair had escaped from its fastening,
and hung over her shoulders. Her
grandly cut features, pale with the
natural paleness of a brunette, had
premature lines about them, telling
that the years had been lengthened by
sorrow, and the delicately curved nostril, which seemed made to quiver
with the proud consciousness of power and beauty, must have quivered to
the heart-piercing griefs which had
given that worn look to the corners
of the mouth. Her wide-open black
eyes had a strangely fixed, sightless
gaze, as she paused at the turning,
and stood silent before her husband.
" I '11 teach you to keep me waiting
in the dark, you pale, staring fool! "
he said, advancingwith his slow drunken step. " What, you've been drinking again, have you? I '11 beat you
into your senses."
He laid his hand with a firm gripe
on her shoulder, turned her round,
and pushed her slowly before him
along the passage and through the
dining-room door, which stood open
on their left hand.
There was a portrait of Janet's
mother, a gray-haired, dark-eyed old
woman, in a neatly fluted cap, hanging over the mantel-piece. Surely the
aged eyes take on a look of anguish
as they see Janet, - not trembling,
no! it would be better if she trembled,
- standing stupidly unmoved in her
great beauty, while the heavy arm is
lifted to strike her. The blow falls
- another - and another.  Surely
the mother hears that cry, - "
Robert! pity! pity I "
Poor gray-haired woman I Was it
for this you suffered a mother's pangs
-in your lone widowhood five-and-thirty years ago? Was it for this you
kept the little worn morocco shoes
Janet had first run in, and kissed




them day by day when she was away
from you, a tall girl at school? Was
it for this you looked proudly at her
when she came back to you in her rich
pale beauty, like a tall white arum
that has just unfolded its grand pure
curves to the sun?
'he mother lies sleepless and praying in hePi lonely house, weeping the
difficult tears of age, because she
dreads this may be a cruel night for
her child.
She too has a picture over her mantel-piece, drawn in chalk by Janet
long years ago. She looked at it belore she went to bed. It is a head
bowed beneath a cross, and wearing
a crown of thorns.
CHAPTER V.
IT was half past nine o'clock in
the morning. The midsummer sun
was already warm on the roofs and
weathercocks of Milby. The churchbells were ringing, and many families
were conscious of Sunday sensations,
chiefly referable to the fact that the
daughters had come down to breakfast in their best frocks, and with
their hair particularly well dressed.
For it was not Sunday, but Wednesday; and though the Bishop was going to hold a Confirmation and to
decide whether or not there should
be a Sunday-evening lecture in Milby, the sunbeams had the usual working-day look to the haymakers already
long out in the fields, and to laggard
weavers just "setting up" their
week's "'piece." The notion of its
being Sunday was the strongest in
young ladies like Miss Phipps, who
was going to accompany her younger sister to the confirmation, and to
wear a " sweetly pretty " transparent
bonnet with marabout feathers on the
interesting occasion, thus throwing
into relief the suitable simplicity of
her sister's attire, who was, of course,
to appear in a new white frock; or in
the pupils at Miss Townley's, who



JANET'S REPENTANCE.


257


were absolved from all lessons, and Milby and a distant relation of the
were going to church to sec the Bish- Miss Linnets. Her pale lanky hair
op, and to hear the Honorable and could never he coaxed into permaReverend Mr. Prendergast, the rec- nent curl, and this morning the heat
tor, read prayers, -a high intel- had brought it down to its natural
lectual treat, as Miss Townley assured condition of lankiness earlier than
them. It seemed only natural that a usual. But that was not what made
rector, who was honorable, should her sit melancholy and apart at the
read better than old Mr. Crewe, who lower end of the form. Her parents
was only a curate, and not honor- were admirers of Mr. Tryan, and
able; and when little Clara Robins had been persuaded, by the Miss Linwondered why some clergymen were nets' influence, to insist that their
rectors and others not, Ellen Marriott daughter should be prepared for conassured her with great confidence that firmation by him, over and above the
it was only the clever men who were preparation given to Miss Townlev's
made rectors.   Ellen Marriott was pupils by Mr. Crewe. Poor Mary
going to be confirmed. She was a Dunn! I am afraid she thought it
short, fair, plump girl, with blue eyes too heavy a price to pay for these
and sandy hair, which was this morn- spiritual advantages, to be excluded
ing arranged in taller cannon curls from every game at ball, to be obliged
than usual, for the reception of the to walk with none but little girls, -
Episcopal benediction, and some of in fact, to be the object of an aversion
the young ladies thought her the pret- that nothing short of an incessant
tiest girl in the school; but others supply of plum-cakes would have neugave the preference to her rival, Ma- tralized. And Mrs. Dunn was of
ria Gardner, who was much taller, opinion that plum-cake was unwholeand had a lovely "crop " of dark- some. The anti-Tryanite spirit, you
brown ringlets, and who, being also perceive, was very strong at Miss
about to take upon herself the vows Townley's, imported probably by day
made in her name at her baptism, scholars, as well as encouraged by the
had oiled and twisted her ringlets fact that that clever woman was herwith especial care. As she seated self strongly opposed to innovation,
herself at the breakfast-table before and remarked every Sunday that Mr.
Miss Townley's entrance to dispense Crewe had preached an " excellent
the weak coffee, her crop excited so discourse." Poor Mary Dunn dreaded
strong a sensation that Ellen Marriott the moment when school-hours would
was at length impelled to look at it, he over, for then she was sure to be
and to say with suppressed but bitter the butt of those very explicit resarcasm, "Is that Miss Gardner's marks which, in young'ladies' as well
head?"   "Yes," said Maria, amia- as young     gentlemen's seminaries,
ble and stuttering, and no match for constitute the most subtle and deliEllen in retort; "th-th-this is my cate form of the innuendo.   "I'd
head."  " Then I don't admire it at never be a Tryanite, would you? "
all!" was the crushing rejoinder of El- " 0, here comes the lady that knows
len, followed by a murmur of approval so much more about religion than we
among her friends. Young ladies, I do!"  " Some people think themsuppose, exhaust their sac of venom  selves so very pious! "
in this way at school. That is the   It is really surprising that young
reason why they have such a harm- Indies should not be thought compeless tooth for each other in after tent to the same curriculum as young
life.                              gentlemen. I observe that their powThe only other candidate for con- ers of sarcasm are quite equal; and
firmation at Miss Townley's was if there had been a-genteel academy
Mary Dunn, a draper's daughter ink for young gentlemen at Milby, I am
Q




258


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


inclined to think that, notwithstanding
Euclid and the classics, the party
spirit there would not have exhibited
itself in more pungent irony, or more
incisive satire, than was heard in Miss
Townley's seminary. But there was
no such academy, the existence of the
grammar-school under Mr. Crewe's
superintendence  probably  discouraging speculations of that kind; and
the genteel youth of Milby were chiefly come home for the Midsummer holidays from distant schools. Several
of us had just assumed coat-tails, and
the assumption of new responsibilities
apparently following as a matter of
course, we were among the candidates
for confirmation. I wish I could say
that the solemnity of our feelings was
on a level with the solemnity of the
occasion; but unimaginative boys
find it difficult to recognize apostolic
institutions in their developed form,
and I fear our chief emotion concerning the ceremony was a sense of
sheepishness, and our chief opinion,
the speculative and heretical position,
that it ought to be confined to the
girls. It was a pity, you will say;
but it is the way with us men in other
crises, that come a long while after
confirmation. The golden moments
in the stream of life rush past us, and
we see nothing but sand; the angels
come to visit us, and we only know
them when they are gone.
But, as I said, the morning was
sunny, the bells were ringing, the ladies of Milhy were dressed in their
Sunday garments.
And who is this bright-looking
woman walking with hasty step along'
Orchard Street so early, with a large
nosegay in her hand?    Can it be
Janet Dempster, on whom we looked
with such deep pity, one sad midnight,
hardly a fortnight ago? Yes; no
other woman in Milby has those
searching black eyes, that tall, graceful, unconstrained figure, set off by
her simple muslin dress and black lace
shawl, that massy black hair now so
neatly braided in glossy contrast with
the white satin ribbons of her modest


cap and bonnet. No other woman
has that sweet speaking smile, with
which she nods to Jonathan Lamb, the
old parish clerk. And ah - now she
comes nearer, - there are those sad
lines about the mouth and eyes on
which that sweet smile plays like sunbeams on the storm-beaten beauty of
the full and ripened corn.
She is turning out of Orchard Street,
and making her way as fast as she
can to her mother's house, a pleasant
cottage facing a roadside meadow, from
which the. hay is being carried. Mrs.
Raynor has had her breakfast, and is
seated in her arm-chair reading, when
Janet opens the door, saying in her
most playful voice: -
" Please, mother, I'm come to show
myself to you before I go to the Parsonage. Have I put on my pretty cap
and bonnet to satisfy you '
Mrs. Raynor looked over her spectacles, and met her daughter's glance
with eyes as dark and loving as her
own. She was a much smaller woman
than Janet, both in figure and feature,
the chief resemblance lying in the
eyes and the clear brunette complexion. The mother's hair had long been
gray, and was gathered under the
neatest of caps, made by her own
clever fingers, as all Janet s caps and
bonnets were too. They were wellpractised fingers, for Mrs. Raynor had
supported herself in her widowhood
by keeping a millinery establishment,
and in this way had earned money
enough to give her daughter what was
then thought a first-rate education, as
well as to save a sum which, eked out
by her son-in-law, sufficed to support
her in her solitary old age. Always
the same clean, neat old lady, dressed 
in black silk, was Mrs. Raynor; a i
patient, brave woman, who bowed 
with resignation under the burden of
remembered sorrow, and bore with
meek fortitude the new load that the
new days brought with them.
"Your bonnet wants pulling a trifle
forwarder, my child," she said, smiling, and taking off her spectacles,
while Janet at once knelt down before 




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


hei, and waited to be " set to rights,"
as she would have done when she was
a child. "You're going straight to
Mrs. Crewe's, I suppose? Are those
flowers to garnish the dishes?"
' No, indeed, mother. This is a
nosegay for the middle of the table.
I 're sent up the dinner-service and
the ham we had cooked at our house
yesterday, and Betty is coming directy13 with the garnish and the plate.
We shall get our good Mrs. Crewe
through her troubles famously. Dear
tifly woman! You should have seen
her lift up her hands yesterday, and
prav Heaven to take her before ever
she should have another collation to
get ready for the Bishop. She said,
'It 's bad enough to have the Archdeacon, though he does n't want half
so many jelly-glasses.  I would n't
mind, Janet, if it was to feed all the
old hungry cripples in Milby; but so
miich trouble and expense for people
vho eat too much every day of their
lives!' We had such a cleaning and
furbishing up of the sitting-room yesterda! Nothing will ever do away
with the smell of Mr. Crewe's pipes,
you know; hut we have thrown it
into the background, with yellow
soap and dry lavender. And now I
nmust run away. You will come to
church, mother?"
"Yes, my dear, I wouldn't lose
such a pretty sight. It does my old
eyes gord to see so many fresh
young faces. Is your husband going  "
"Yes, Robert will be there. I 've
made him as neat as a new pin this
morning, and he says the Bishop will
think him too buckish by half. I
took him into Mammy Dempster's
room to show himself We hear
Tryan is making sure of the Bishop's
support; but we shall see. I would
give my crooked guinea, and all the
iltk it will ever bring me, to have
him beaten, for I can't endure the
sight of the man coming to harass
dear old Mr. and Mrs. Crewe in their
last days. Preaching the Gospel indeed   That is the best Gospel that


makes everybody happy and comfortable, is n't it, mother? "
" Ah, child, I'm afraid there 's no
Gospel will do that here below."
" Well, I can do something to comfort Mrs. Crewe, at least; so give me
a kiss, and good by till church time."
The mother leaned back in her
chair when Janet was gone, and sank
into a painful revery. When our
life is a continuous trial, the moments
of respite seem only to substitute the
heaviness of dread for the heaviness
of actual suffering; the curtain of
cloud seems parted an instant only
that we may measure all its horror as
it hangs low, black, and imminent, in
contrast with the transient brightness;
the water-drops that visit the parched
lips in the desert bear with them only
the keen imagination of thirst. Janet
looked glad and tender now, —but
what scene of misery was coming
next? She was too like the cistusflowers in the little garden before the
window, that, with the shades of evening, might lie with the delicate white
and glossy dark of their petals trampled in the roadside dust. When the
sun had sunk, and the twilight was
deepening, Janet might be sitting
there, heated, maddened, sobbing out
her griefs with selfish passion, and
wildly wishing herself dead.
Mrs. Raynor had been reading
about the lost sheep, and the joy there
is in heaven over the sinner that repenteth. Surely the eternal love she
believed in through all the sadness of
her lota would not leave her child to
wander farther and farther into the
wilderness till there was no turning,
-the child so lovely, so pitiful to
others, so good, - till she was goaded
into sin by woman's bitterest sorrows I
Mrs. Ravnor had her faith and her
spiritual comforts, though she was
not in the least evangelical and knew
nothing of doctrinal zeal. I fear
most of Mr. Tryan's hearers would
have considered her destitute of saving
knowledge, and I am quite sure she
had no well-defined views on justification. Nevertheless, she read her Bible




260


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


a great deal, and thought she found the laying on of hands were like the
divine lessons there, - how to bear theatrical embrace, - part of the play,
the cross meekly, and be merciful. and not to be really believed in. Ton
Let us hope that there is a saving ig- be sure, there were a great many heads,
norance, and that Mrs. Raynor was and the Bishop's time was limited.
justified without knowing exactly Moreover, a wig can, under no cirhow.                               cumstances, be affecting, except in
She tried to have hope and trust, rare cases of illusion; and copious
though it was hard to believe that the lawn-sleeves cannot be expected to go
future would be anything else than the directly to any heart except a washer?
harvest of the seed that was being woman's.
sown before her eyes. But always     I know, Ned Phipps, who knelt
there is seed being sown silently and against me, and I am sure made me
unseen, and everywhere there come behave much worse than I should
sweet flowers without our foresight or have done without him, whispered
labor. We reap what we sow, but that he thought the Bishop was a
Nature has love over and above that " guy," and I certainly remember:
justice, and gives us shadow and blos- thinking that Mr. Prendergast lookedr
som and fruit that spring from no much more dignified with his plain/
planting of ours.                  white surplice and black hair. He.
was a tall, commanding man, and read
~ —*e-  ~     the Liturgy in a strikingly sonorous
and uniform voice, which I tried toe
CHAPTER VI.               imitate the next Sunday at home, unuttil my little sister began to cry, and4:
MOST people must have agreed with said I was "yoaring at her.":
Mrs. Raynor that the Confirmation    Mr. Tryan sat in a pew near the
that day was a pretty sight, at least pulpit with several other clergymen.
when those slight girlish forms and He looked pale, and rubbed his hand
fair young faces moved in a white over his face and pushed back his'
rivulet along the aisles, and flowed hair oftener than usual. Standing
into kneeling semicircles under the in the aisle close to him, and repeatlight of the great chancel window, ing the responses with edifying loudsoftened by patches of dark old paint- ness, was Mr. Budd, churchwarden
ed glass; and one would think that and delegate, with a white staff in his:
to look on while a pair of venerable hand, a backward bend of his small
hands pressed such young heads, and head and person, such as, I suppose,
a venerable face looked upward for a he considered suitable to a friend of
blessing on them, would be very like- sound religion. Conspicuous in the,
ly to make the heart swell gently, and gallery, too, was the tall figure of Mr..
to moisten the eyes. Yet I remem- Dempster, whose professional avoca,ber the eyes seemed very dry in, Mil- tions rarely allowed him to occupy,
by Church that day, notwithstanding his place at church.
that the Bishop was an old man, and  " There 's Dempster," said Mrs.
probably venerable (for though he Linnet to her daughter Mary, "lookwas not an eminent Grecian, he was ing more respectable than usual, I de.
the brother of a Whig lord); and I clare.  He's got a fine speech by
think the eyes must have remained heart to make to the Bishop, I '11 andry, because he had small delicate swer for it. But he'll be pretty well
womanish hands adorned with ruffles, sprinkled with snuff before service is,
and, instead of laying them on the over, and the Bishop won't be able to
girls' heads, just let them hover over listen to him for sneezing, that 's one
each in quick succession, as if it were comfort."
not etiquette to touch them, and as if  At length the last stage in the long




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


261.


ceremony was over, the large assembly streamed warm and weary into
the open afternoon sunshine, and the
Bishop retired to the Parsonage,
where, after honoring Mrs. Crewe's
collation, he was to give audience to
the delegates and Mr. Tryan on the
great question of the evening lecture.
Between five and six o'clock the
Parsonage was once more as quiet as
usual under the shadow of its tall
elms, and the only traces of the Bishop's recent presence there were the
wheel-marks on the gravel, and the
long table with its garnished dishes
awry, its damask   sprinkled with
crumbs, and its decanters without
their stoppers. Mr. Crewe was already calmly smoking his pipe in the
opposite sitting-room, and Janet was
agreeing with Mrs. Crewc that some
of the blanc-mange would be a nice
thing to take to Sally Martin, while
thelittlc old lady herself had a spoon in
her hand ready to gather the crumbs
into a plate, that she might scatter
ithem on the gravel for the little birds.
Before that time, the Bishop's carriage had been seen driving through
the High Street on its way to Lord
Trufford's, where he was to dine.
The question of the lecture was decided, then 
The nature of the decision may be
gathered from the following conversation which took place in the bar of
the Red Lion that evening.
"So you're done, eh, Dcmpster?"
was Mr. Pilgrim's observation, uttered
with some gusto. IHe was not glad
Mr. Tryan had gained his point, but
he was not sorry Dempster was disappointed.
"Done, sir? Not at all. It is
what I anticipated. I knew we had
nothing else to expect in these days,
when the Church is infested by a set
of men who are only fit to give out
hymns from an empty cask, to tunes
set by a journeyman cobbler. But I
was not the less to exert myself in the
cause of sound Churchmanship for
the good of the town. Any coward
can fight a battle when he's sure of


winning; but give me the man who
has pluck to fight when he's sure of
losing. That's my way, sir; and there
are many victories worse than a defeat,
as Mr. Tryan shall learn to his cost."
"He must be a poor shuperanny-.
ated sort of a bishop, that's my opinion," said Mr. Tomlinson, "to go
along with a sneaking Methodist like
Tryan. And, for my part, I think
we should be as well wi'out bishops, if they 're no wiser than that.
Where's the use o' hayin' thousands
a year an' livin' in a pallis, if they
don't stick to the Church "
"No. There you 're going out of
your depth, Tomlinson," said Mr.
D)empster. " No one shall hear me say
a word against Episcopacy,- it is a
safeguard of the Church; we must
have ranks and dignities there as well
as everywhere else. No, sir! Episcopacy is a good thing; but it may
happen that a bishop is not a good
thing.  Just as brandy is a -good
thing, though this particular brandy
is British, and tastes like sugared
rain-water caught down the chimney.
Here, Ratcliffe, let me have something
to drink, a little less like a decoction
of sugar and soot."
"I said nothing again' Episcopacy," returned Mr. Tomlinson. "I
only said I thought we should do as
well wi'out bishops; an' I'll say it
again for the matter o' that. Bishops
never brought any grist to my mill."
"Do you know when the lectures
are to begin? " said Mr. Pilgrim.
"They are to begin on Sunday
next," said Mr. Denmpster, in a significant tone; "but I think it will not
take a long-sighted prophet to foresee
the end of them. It strikes me Mr.
Tryan will be looking out for another
curacy shortly."
"He '11 not get many Milby people
to go and hear his lectures after a
while, I '11 bet a guinea," observed Mr.
Budd. "I know I '11 not keep a single
workman on my ground who either
goes to the lecture himself or lets anybody belonging to him go."
"Nor me nayther," said Mr. Tom



SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


linson. "No Tryanite shall touch a
sack or drive a wagon o' mine, that
you may depend on. An' I know
more besides me as are o' the same
mind."
"Tryan has a good many friends in
the town, though, and friends that are
likely to stand by him too," said Mr.
Pilgrim. " I should say it would be
as well to let him and his lectures
alone. If he goes on preaching as he
does, with such a constitution as his,
he '11 get a relaxed throat by and by,
and you '11 be rid of him without any
trouble."
"We '11 not allow him to do himself that injury," said Mr. Dempster.
"Since his health is not good, we '11
persuade him to try change of air.
Depend upon it, he '11 find the climate
of Milby too hot for him."
CHAPTER VII.
MR. DEMPSTER did not stay long at
the lied Lion that evening. He was
summoned home to meet Mr. Armstrong, a wealthy client, and as he
was kept in consultation till a late
hour, it happened that this was one
of the nights on which Mr. Dempster
went to bed tolerably sober. Thus
the day, which had been one of Janet's
happiest, because it had been spent by
her in helping her dear old friend Mrs.
Crewe, ended for her with unusual
quietude; and as a bright sunset
promises a fair morning, so a calm
lying down is a good augury for a
calm waking. Mr. Dempster, on the
Thursday morning, was in one of his
best humors, and though perhaps
some of the good-humor might result from the prospect of a lucrative
and exciting bit of business in Mr.
Armstrong's probable lawsuit, the
greater part of it was doubtless due to
those stirrings of the more kindly,
healthy sap of human feeling, by
which goodness tries to get the upper
hand in us whenever it seems to have
Sthe slightest chance, -on Sunday


mornings, perhaps, when we are set
free from the grinding hurry of the
week, and take the little three-yearold on our knee at breakfast to share
our egg and muffin; in moments of
trouble, when death visits our roof,
or illness makes us dependent on the
tending hand of a slighted wife; in
quiet talks with an aged mother, of
the days when we stood at her knee
with our first picture-book, or wrote
her loving letters from school. In
the man whose childhood has known
caresses there is always a fibre of
memory that can be touched to gentle
issues, and Mr. Dempster, whom you
have hitherto seen only as the orator
of the Red Lion, and the drunken
tyrant of a dreary midnight home,
was the first-born darling son of a fair
little mother. That mother was living still, and her own large black
easy-chair, where she sat knitting
through the livelong day, was now
set ready for her at the breakfast-table,
by her son's side, a sleek tortoise-shell
cat acting as provisional incumbent.
"Good morning, Mamsey! why,
you 're looking as fiesh as a daisy
this morning. You 're getting young
again," said Mr. Dempster, looking
up from his newspaper when the little
old lady entered. A very little old
lady she was, with a pale, scarcely
wrinkled face, hair of that peculiar
white which tells that the locks have:
once been blond, a natty pure white,
cap on her head, and a white shawl 
pinned over her shoulders. You saw.'
at a glance that she had been a mig- 
nonne blonde, strangely unlike her 
tall, ugly, dingy-complexioned son;'
unlike her daughter-in-law, too, whose 
large-featured brunette beauty seemed O,
always thrown into higher relief by 
the white presence of little Mamsey.!
The unlikeness between Janet and:
her mother-in-law went deeper than 
outline and complexion, and indeed 
there was little sympathy between 
them, for old Mrs. Dempster had not
yet learned to believe that her son
Robert would have gone wrongif
he had married the right woman, -a




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


*,      2.68


meek woman like herself, who would
have borne him children, and been a
deft, orderly housekeeper. In spite
of Janet's tenderness and attention to
her, she had had little love for her
daughterlin-law from the first, and
had witnessed the sad growth of home
misery through long years, always
with a disposition to lay the blame on
the wife rather than on the husband,
and to reproach Mrs. Raynor for encouraging her daughter's faults by
a too exclusive sympathy. But old
Mrs. Dempster had that rare gift
of silence and passivity which often
supplies the absence of mental
strength; and, whatever were her
thoughts, she said no word to aggravate
the domestic discord.  Patient and
mute she sat at her knitting through
many a scene of quarrel and anguish;
resolutely she appeared unconscious
of the sounds that reached her ears,
and the facts she divined after she had
retired to her bed; mutely she witnessed poor Janet's faults, only registering them as a balance of excuse on
the side of her son. The hard, astute,
domineering attorney was still that
little old woman's pet, as he had been
when she watched with triumphant
pride his first tumbling effort to march
alone across the nursery floor. "See
i what a good son he is to me!" she
often thought. "Never gave me a
harsh word. And so he might have
been a good husband."
0, it is piteous,- that sorrow of
aged women I n early youth, perhaps, they said to themselves, "I
shall be happy when I have a husband to love me best of all "; then,
when the husband was too careless,
" My child will comfort me"; then,
through the mother's watching and
toil, "My child will repay me all
when it grows up." And at last,
after the long journey of years has
been wearily travelled through, the
mother's heart is weighed down by a
heavier burden, and no hope remains
but the grave.
But this morning old Mrs. Dempster sat down in her easy-chair with

out any painful, suppressed remembrance of the preceding night.
"I declare mammy looks younger
than Mrs. Crewe, who is only sixtyfive," said Jan:t. " Mrs. Crewe will
come to see you to-day, mammy, and
tell you all about her troubles with
the Bishop and the collation. She '11
bring her knitting, and you '11 have a
regular gossip together."
"The gossip will be all on one
side, then, for Mrs. Crewe gets so
very deaf, I can't make her hear a
word. And if I motion to her she
always understands me wrong."
" 0, she will have so much to tell
you to-day, you will not want to
speak yourself. You, who have patience to knit those wonderful col-nterpanes, mammy, must not be ilnpatient with dear Mrs. Crewe. Good
old lady! I can't bear her to think
she's ever tiresome to people, and
you know she's very ready to fa::cy
herself in the way. I think she would
like to shrink up to the size of a
mouse, that she might run about and
do people good without their noticing
her."
"It is n't patience I want, God
knows; it's lungs to speak loud
enough.  But you '11 be at home
yourself, I suppose, this morning;
and you can talk to her for me."
"No, mammy; I promised poor
Mrs. Lowme to go and sit with her.
She's confined to her room, and both
the Miss Lowmes are out; so I'm
going to read the newspaper to her
and amuse her."
" Couldn't you go another morning? As Mr. Armstrong and that
other gentleman are coming to dinner, I should think it would be better
to stay at home.   Can you trust
Betty to see to everything '  She 's
new to the place."
"O, I couldn't disappoint Mrs.
Lowme; I promised her. Betty will
do very well, no fear."
Old Mrs. Dempster was silent after
this, and began to sip her tea. The
breakfast went on without further
conversation for some time, Mr.




264


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


Dempster being absorbed in the papers. At length, when he was running over the advertisements, his eye
seemed to be caught by something
that suggested a new thought to him.
He presently thumped the table with
an air of exultation, and said, turning
to Janet:"I've a capital idea, Gypsy!"
(that was his name for his dark-eyed
wife when he was in an extraordinarily good humor,) " and you shall help
me. It's just what you're up to."
' What is it? " said Janet, her face
beaming at the sound of the pet name,
now heard so seldom.  "Anything
to do with conveyancing "
"It's a bit of fun worth a dozen
fees, -a plan for raising a laugh
against Tryan and his gang of hypocrites."
"What is it? Nothing that wants
a needle and thread, I hope, else I
must go and tease mother."
"No, nothing sharper than your
wit, - except mine.  I'11 tell you
what it is.  We '11 get up a programmeof the Sunday-evening lecture,
like a play-bill, you know, — ' Grand
Performance of the celebrated Mountebank,' and so on. We 'll bring in the
Tryanites, - old Landcr and the rest,
in appropriate characters.  Proctor
shall print it, and we '11 circulate it
in the town. It will be a capital
hit."
"Bravo!" said Janet, clapping
her hands. She would just then have
pretended to like almost anything, in
her pleasure at being appealed to by
her husband, and she really did like
to laugh at the Tryanites. "We '11
set about it directly, and sketch it out
before you go to the office. I've got
Tryan's sermons up stairs, but I don't
think there's anything in them we
can use. I've only just looked into
them; they're not at all what I expected, - dull, stupid things, - nothing of the roaring fire-and-brimstone
sort that I expected."
" Roaring? No; Tryan 's as soft
as a sucking dove, -one of your
honey-mouthed hypocrites.  Plenty


of devil and malice in him, though, I
could see that, while he was talking
to the Bishop; but as smooth as a
snake outside.  He's beginning a
single-handed fight with me, I can see,
-persuading my clients away from
me. We shall see who will be the
first to cry peccuvi. Milby will do
better without Mr. Tryan than without Robert Dempster, I fancy! and
Milby shall never be flooded with
cant as long as I can raise a breakwater against it. But now, get the
breakfast things cleared away, and
let us set about the play-bill. Come,
mamsey, come and have a walk with
me round the garden, and let us see
how the cucumbers are getting on.
I 've never taken you round the garden
for an age. Come, you don't want
a bonnet. It's like walking in a
greenhouse this morning."
" But she will want a parasol," said
Janet. " There's one on the stand
against the garden-door, Robert."
The little old lady took her son's
arm with placid pleasure. She could
barely reach it so as to rest upon it,
but he inclined a little towards her,
and accommodated his heavy longlimbed steps to her feeble pace. The
cat chose to sun herself too, and
walked close beside them, with tail
erect, rubbing her sleek sides against 
their legs, —too well fed to be cx-i
cited by the twittering birds. The
garden was of the grassy, shady kind
often seen attached to old houses in
provincial towns; the apple-trees had 
had time to spread their branches:i
very wide, the shrubs and hardy peren- J
nial plants had grown into a luxuri-,S
ance that required constant trimming ij
to prevent them from intruding on i
the space for walking. But the far- l
ther end, which united with green
fields, was open and sunny.      4
It was rather sad, and yet pretty, 
to see that little group passing out of 
the shadow into the sunshine, and i
out of the sunshine into the shadow 
again: sad, because this tenderness
of the son for the mother was hardly
more than a nucleus of healthy life in




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


265


an organ hardening by disease, because the man who was linked in this
w.y with an innocent past, had become callous in worldliness, fevered
by sensuality, enslaved by chance impulses; pretty, because it showed how
hard it is to kill the deep-down fibrous roots of human love and goodness, - how the man from whom we
make it our pride to shrink has yet a
close brotherhood with us through
some of our most sacred feelings.
As they were returning to the
house, Janet met them, and said:
"Now, Robert, the writing-things are
ready. I shall be clerk, and Mat
Paine can copy it out after."
Mammy once more deposited in
her arm-chair, with her knitting in
her hand, and the cat purring at her
elbow, Janet seated herself at the
table, while Mr. Dempster placed
himself near her, took out his snuffbox, and, plentifully suffusing himself
with the inspiring powder, began to
dictate.
What he dictated, we shall see by
and by.
CHAPTER     VIIL
THE next day, Friday, at five o'clock by the sun-dial, the large bowwindow of Mrs. Jerome's parlor was
open; and that lady herself was seated
within its ample semicircle, having a
table before her on which her best teatray, her best china, and her best urnrug had already been standing in
readiness for half an hour.  Mrs.
Jerome's best tea-service was of delicate white fluted china, with gold
sprigs upon it, -as pretty a teaservice as you need wish to see, and
quite good enough for chimney
ornaments; indeed, as the cups were
without handles, most visitors who
had the distinction of taking tea out
of them, wished that such charming
china had already been promoted to
that honorary position. Mrs. Jerome
was like her china, handsome and
12




old-fashioned.  She was a buxom
lady of sixty, in an elaborate lace cap
fastened by a frill under her chin, a
dark, well-curled front concealing her
forehead, a snowy neckerchief exhibiting its ample folds as far as her waist,
and a stiff gray silk gown. She had
a clean damask napkin pinned before
her to guard her dress during the
process of tea-making; her favorite
geraniums in the bow-window were
looking as healthy as she could desire;
her own handsome portrait, painted
when she was twenty years younger,
was smiling down on her with agreeable flattery; and altogether she
seemed to be in as peaceful and pleasant a position as a buxom, well-dressed
elderly lady need desire. But, as in
so many other cases, appearances were
deceptive.  Her mind was greatly
perturbed and her temper ruffled by
the fact that it was more than a
quarter past five even by the losing
timepiece, that it was half past by
her large gold watch, which she held
in her hand as if she were counting
the pulse of the afternoon, and that,
by the kitchen clock, which she felt
sure was not an hour too fast, it had
already struck six.  The lapse of
time was rendered the more unendurable to Mrs. Jerome by her wonder
that Mr. Jerome could stay out in
the garden with Lizzie in that thoughtless way, taking it so easily that teatime was long past, and that, after all
the trouble of getting down the best
tea-things, Mr. Tryan would not
come.
This honor had been shown to Mr.
Tryan, not at all because Mrs. Jerome
had any high appreciation of his doctrine or of his exemplary activity as
a pastor, but simply because he was a
" Church clergyman," and as such
was regarded by her with the same
sort of exceptional respect that a white
woman who had married a native of
the Society Islands might be supposed
to feel towards a white-skinned visitor
from the land of her youth. For
Mrs. Jerome had been reared a
Churchwoman, and having attained




266                SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
the age of thirty before she was mar- Tell him it's goin' on for six, an' 
ried, had felt the greatest repugnance Mr. Tryan 'ull niver think o' comin'
in the first instance to renouncing the now, an' it's time we got tea over.
religious forms in which she had been An' lhe's lettin' Lizzie stain her frock, 
brought up. "You know," she said I expect, among them     strawberryin confidence to her Church acquaint- beds. Make her come in this minances, "I would n't give no ear at ute."
all to Mr. Jerome at fust; but after  No wonder Mr. Jerome was tempted 
all, I, begun to think as there was to linger in the garden, for though the i
a many things worse nor goin' to house was pretty and well deserved
chapel, an' you 'd better do that nor its name —" the White House," the 
not pay your way. Mr. Jerome had   tall damask roses that clustered over
a very pleasant manner with him, an' the porch being thrown into relief by 
there was niver another as kept a gig, rough stucco of the most brilliant
an' 'ud make a settlement on me like white, yet the garden and orchards
him, chapel or no chapel. It seemed  were Mr. Jerome's glory, as well they
very odd to me for a long while, the might be; and there was nothing in 
preachin' without book, an' the stan- whicli he had a more innocent pride,
nin' up to one long prayer, istid o' -peace to a good man's memory!
changin' your postur. But la! there all his pride was innocent, — than in
's nothin' as you may n't get used to conducting a hitherto uninitiated visiti' time; you can al'ys sit down, vou or over his grounds, and making him
know, before the prayer's done. the  in some degree aware of the inconmministers say pretty nigh the same parable advantages possessed by the
things as the Church   parsons, by inhabitants of the White House in
what I could iver make out, an' we 're the matter of ed - streaked apples,
out o' chapel i' the mornin' a deal russets, northern greens (excellent for
sooner nor they 're out o' church. baking), swan-egg pears, and early
An' as for pews, ours is a deal con- vegetables, to say nothing of flowerfortabler nor any i' Milby Church."  ing " shrubs," pink hawthorns, lavenMrs. Jerome, you perceive, had not der-bushes more than ever Mrs. Jea keen susceptibility to shades of rome could use, and, in short, a superdoctrine, and it is probable that, after abundance of everything that a perlistening to Dissenting eloquence for son retired from business could desire
thirty years, she might safely have to possess himself or to share with his
re-entered the Establishment without friends. The garden was one of those 
performing any spiritual quarantine. old-fashioned paradises which hardly 
Her mind, apparently, was of that exist any longer except as memories 
non-porous, flinty character which is of our childhood: no finical separa- 
not in the leastdanger from surround- tion between flower and kitchen gar- 
ing damp. But on the question of den there; no monotony of enjoy- i
getting start of the sun on the day's ment for one sense to the exclusion
business, and clearing her conscience of another; but a charming para- >
of the necessary sum of meals and the disiacal mingling of all that was 
consequent "washing up" as soon as pleasant to the eves and good for 
possible, so that the family might be food.  The rich flower-border runwell in bed at nine, Mrs. Jerome was ning along every walk, with its endsusceptible; and the present lingering less succession of spring flowers,
pace of things, united with Mr. Je- anemones, auriculas, wall - flowers,
rome's unaccountable obliviousness, sweet - williams, campanulas, snapwas not to be borne any longer. So dragons, and tiger-lilies, had its taller
she rang the bell for Sally.       beauties, such as moss and Provence
"Goodness me, Sally! go into the roses, varied with espalier apple-trees;
garden an' see after your master. the crimson of a carnation was car-'. i




JANETrE'S REPENTFANCE.


267


ried out in the lurking crimson of the
neighboring strawberry-beds; you
gathered a moss-rose one moment
and a bunch of currants the next;
you were in a delicious fluctuation
between the scent of jasmine and the
juice of gooseberries. Then what a
high wall at one end, flanked by a
summer-house so lofty that after ascending its long flight of steps you
could see perfectly well there was no
view worth looking at; what alcoves
and garden-seats in all directions;
and along one side, what a hedge, tall,
and firm, and unbroken, like a green
wall!
It was near this hedge that Mr.
Jerome was standing when Sally
found him. He had set down th3
basket of strawberries on the gravel,
and had lifted up little Lizzie in his
arms to look at a hird's-nest. Lizzie
peeped, and then looked at her grandpa with round blue eyes, and then
peepel again.
"D' ye see it, Lizzie?" he whispered.
"Yes," she whispered in return,
putting her lips very near grandpa's
face.  At this moment Sally appeared.
"Eh, eh, Sally, what's the matter?
Is Mr. Tryan come? "
" No, sir, an' missis says she's sure
he won't come now, an' she w:nts
you to come in an' hev tea. Dear
i heart, Miss Lizzie, you 've stained
your pinafore, an' I should n't wonder if it 's gone through to your frock.
There'll be fine work! Come alonk
wi' me, do."
"Nay, nay, nay, we've done no
harm, we've done no harm, hev we,
Lizzie? The wash-tub '11 make all
right again."
Sally, regarding the wash-tub from
a different point of view, looked sourly
serious, and hurried away with Lizzie, who trotted submissively along,
her little head in eclipse under a large
nankin bonnet, while Mr. Jerome followed- leisurely with his full broad
shoulders in rather a stooping posture,
and his large good-natured features


and white locks shaded by a broadbrimmed hat.
"Mr. Jerome, I wonder at you,"
said Mrs. Jerome, in a tone of indignant remonstrance, evidently sustained by a deep sense of injury, as
her husband opened the parlor door.
When will you leave off invitin'
people to meals an' not lettin' 'em
know the time? I '11 answer for't,
i you niver said a word to Mr. Try an
as we should take tea at five o'clock.
It's just like you! "
"Nay, nay, Susan," answered the
husband in a soothing tone, " there 's
nothin' amiss. I told Mr. Tryan as
we took tea at five punctial; mayhap
summat 's a detainin' on him. le's a
deal to do, an' to think on, remember."
" Why, it's struck six i' the kitchen a'ready.  It 's nonsense to look
for him comin' now. So you may 's
well ring for th' urn. Now Sally's
got th' heater in the fire, we may 's
well hev th' urn in, though he does n't
come. I niver see'd the like o' you,
Mr. Jerome, for axin' people an' givin'
me the trouble o' gettin' things down
an' hevin' crumpets made, an' after
all they don't come. I shall hev to
wash every one o' these tea-things myself, for there's no trustin' Sally,she'd break a fortin i' crockery i' no
time!"
"But why will you give yourself
sich trouble, Susan? Our every day
tea-things would ha' done as well for
Mr. Tryan, an' they're a deal convenenter to hold."
"Yes, that's just your way, Mr.
Jerome, you 're al'ys a findin' faut wi'
my chany, because I bought it myself
afore I was married. But let me tell
you, I knowed how to choose chany
if I did n't know how to choose a
husband. An' where's Lizzie 2 You
've niver left her i' the garden by herself, with her white frock on an' clean
stockins?"
"Be easy, my dear Susan, be easy;
Lizzie's come in wi' Sally. She's
hevin' her pinafore took off, I '11 be
bound. Ah! there's Mr. Tryan a
comin' through the gate."




268


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


Mrs. Jerome began hastily to adjust her damask napkin and the expression of her countenance for the
reception of the clergyman, and Mr.
Jerome went out to meet his guest,
whom he greeted outside the door.
"Mr. Trvan, how do you do, Mr.
Tryan?   Welcome to the White
House! I 'm glad to see you, sir, -
I 'm glad to see you."
If you had heard the tone of
mingled good-will, veneration, and
condolence in which this greeting was
uttered, even without seeing the face
that completely harmonized with it,
you would have no difficulty in inferring the ground-notes of Mr. Jerome's
character.. To a fine car that tone
said as plainly as possible: " Whatever recommends itself to me, Thomas
Jerome, as piety and goodness, shall
have my love and honor. Ah, friends,
this pleasant world is a sad one, too,
isn't it? Let us help one another,
let us help one another." And it was
entirely owing to this basis of character, not at all from any clear and precise doctrinal discrimination, that Mr.
Jerome had very early in life become
a Dissenter. In his boyish days he had
been thrown where Dissent seemed to
have the balance of piety, purity, and
good works on its side, and to become
a Dissenter seemed to him identical
with choosing God instead of mammon. That race of Dissenters is extinct in these days, when opinion has
got far ahead of feeling, and every
chapel going youth can fill our ears
with the advantages of the Voluntary
system, the corruption of a State
(Church, and the Scriptural evidence
that the first Christians were Congregationalists.  Mr. Jerome knew
nothing of this theoretic basis for
Dissent, and in the utmost extent of
his polemical discussion he had not
gone further than to'question whether
a Christian man was bound in conscience to distinguish Christmas and
Easter by any peculiar observance beyond the eating of mince-pies and
cheese-cakes. It seemed to him that
all seasons were alike good for thank

ing God, departing from  evil and
doing well, whereas it might be desirable to restrict the period for indulging in unwholesome forms of
pastry. Mr. Jerome's dissent being
of this simple, non-polemical kind, it
is easy to understand that the report
he heard of Mr. Tryan as a good man
and a powerful preacher, who was
stirring the hearts of the people, had
been enough to attract him to the
Paddiford Church, and that having
felt himself more edified there than
he had of late been under Mr. Stickncy's discourses at Salem, he had
driven thither repeatedly in the Sun(lay afternoons, and had sought an
opportunity of making Mr. Tryan's
acquaintance. The evening lecture
was a subject of warm interest with
him, and the opposition Mr. Tryan
met with gave that interest a strong
tinge of partisanship; for there was
a store of irascibility in Mr. Jcrome's
nature which must find a vent somewhere, and in so kindly and upright
a man could only find it in indignation against those whom he held to
be enemies of truth and goodness.
Mr. Tryan had not hitherto been
to the White House, but yesterday,
meeting Mr. Jerome in the street,
he had at once accepted the invitation
to tea, saying there was something
he wished to talk about. He appeared
worn and fatigued now, and after
shaking hands with Mrs. Jerome, 
threw himself into a chair and looked
out on the pretty garden with an air
of relief.
"What a nice place you have here,  v
Mr. Jerome! I 've not seen anything
so quiet and pretty since I came to 
Milby. On Paddiford Common, where 
I live, you know, the bushes are all
sprinkled with soot, and there's never
anv quiet except in the dead of night."
"Dear heart! dear heart I That's
very bad, - and for you, too, as hev
to study. Would n't it be better for
you to be somewhere more out i' the
country like?"
"0 no! I should lose so much
time in going to and fro, and besides


I.




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


I like to be among the people. I 've
no face to go and preach resignation
to those poor things in their smoky
air and comfortless homes, when I
come straight from every luxury myself. There are many things quite
lawful for other men, which a clergyman must forego if he would do any
good in a manufacturing population
like this."
Here the preparations for tea were
crowned by the simultaneous appearance of Lizzie and the crumpet. It
is a pretty surprise, when one visits
an elderly couple, to see a little figure
enter in a white frock with a blond
head as smooth as satin, round blue
eyes, and a cheek like an apple-blossom. A toddling little girl is a centre
of common feeling which makes the
most dissimilar people understand
each other; and Mr. Tryan looked
at Lizzie with that quiet pleasure
which is always genuine.
"Here we are, here we are!" said
proud grandpapa.   "You did n't
think we 'd got such a little gell as
this, did you, Mr. Tryan? Why, it
seems but th' other day since her
mother was just such another. This
is our little Lizzie, this is. Come an'
shake hands wi' Mr. Tryan, Lizzie;
come."
Lizzie advanced without hesitation,
and put out one hand, while she fingered her coral necklace with the
other, and looked up into Mr. Tryan's face with a reconnoitrintr gaze.
He stroked the satin head, and said
in his gentlest voice: " How do you do,
Lizzie? Will you give me a kiss?"
She put up her little bud of a mouth,
and then retreating a little and glancing down at her frock said: —
"Dit id my noo fock. I put it on
'tod you wad toming. Tally taid you
would n't 'ook at it.
"Hush, hush, Lizzie, little gells
must be seen and not heard," said
Mrs. Jerome; while grandpapa, winking signiticantly, and looking radiant
with delight at Lizzie's extraordinary
romise of cleverness, set her up on
her high cane-chair by the side of


grandma, who lost no time in shielding the beauties of the new frock with
a napkin.
"Well now,. Mr.,Tryan," said Mr.
Jerome, in a very serious tone, when
tea had been distributed, " let me
hear how you 're a goin' on about
the lectur. When I was i' the town
yisterday, I heared as there was pessecutin' schemes a bein' laid again'
you. I fear me those raskills'll mek'
things very onpleasant to you."
"I've no doubt they will attempt
it; indeed, I quite expect there will'
be a regular mob got up on Sunday
evening, as there was when the delegates returned, on purpose to annoy
me and the congregation on our way
to church."
"Ah, they're capible o' anything,
such men as Dempster an' Budd;
an' Tomlinson backs 'em wi' money,
though he can't wi' brains. Howiver, I)empster 's lost one client by
his wicked doins, an' I 'm deceived if
he won't lose more nor one. I little
thought, Mr. Tryan, when I put my
affairs into his hands twenty 'ear ago
this Michaelmas, as he was to turn
out a pessecutor o' religion. I niver
lighted on a cliverer, promisiner young
man nor he was then. They talked
of his bein' fond of a extry glass now
an' then, but niver nothin' like what
he's come to since. An' it's headpiece you may look for in a lawyer,
Mr. 'ryan, it's head-piece.   His
wife, too, was al'ys an uncommon
favorite o' mine,-poor thing! I
hear sad stories about her now. But
she's druv to it, she's druv to it, Mr.
Tryan. A tender-hearted woman to
the poor, she is, as iver lived; an' as
pretty-spoken a woman as you need
wish to talk to. Yes! I'd al'ys a
likin' for Dempster an' his wife, spite
o' iverything. But as soon as iver [
heared o' that dilegate business, I
says, says I, that man shall hev no
more to do wi' my affairs. It may
put me t' inconvenience, but I '11
encourage no man as pessecutes religion."
"He is evidently the brain and




270


SCENES OF'CLERICAL LIFE.


hand of the persecution," said Mr.
Tryan.  " There may he a strong
feeling against me in a large number
of the inhabitants, -it must be so
from the great ignorance of spiritual
things in this place. But I fancy
there would have been no formal
opposition to the lecture, if Dempster
had not planned it.  I am not myself
the least alarmed at anything he can
do; he will find I am not to be
cowed or driven away by insult or
personal danger. God has sent me
'to this place, and, by his blessing,
I '11 not shrink fiom anything I may
have to encounter in doing his work
among the people.  But I feel it
right to call on all those who know
the value of the Gospel, to stand by me
publicly. I think- and Mr. Landor
agrees with me - that it will be well
for my friends to proceed with me in a
body to the church on Sunday evening.. )empster, you know, has pretended that almost all the respectable
inhabitants are opposed to the lecture.
Now, I wish that falsehood to be
visibly contradicted. What do you
think of the plan?  I have today been to see several of my
friends, who will make a point of
being there to accompany me, and
will communicate with others on the
subject.
"I'll make one, Mr. Tryan, I'll
make one. You shall not be wantin'
in any support as I can give. Before
you come to it, sir, Milby was a dead
an' dark place; you are the fust man
i' the Church to my knowledge as
has brought the word o' God home
to the people; an' I'11 stan' by you,
sir, I.'ll stan' by you. I'm a Dissenter, Mr. Tryan; I 've been a Dissenter
ever sin' I was fifteen 'ear old; but
show me good i' the Church, an' I 'm
a Churchman too. When I was a
boy I lived at Tilston; you may n't
know the place; the best part o' the
land there belonged to Squire Sandeman; he'd a club-foot, had Squire
Sandeman, - lost a deal o' money by
canal shares. Well, sir, as I was
sayin', I lived at Tilston, an' the


rector there was a terrible drinkin',
fox-huntin' man; you never see'd
such a parish i' your time for wickedness; Milby's nothin' to it. Well,
sir, my father was a workin'-man, an'
could n't afford to gi' me ony eddication, so I went to a night-school as
was kep by a Dissenter, one Jacob
Wright; an' it was from that man,
sir, as I got my little schoolin' an' my
knowledge o' religion.  I went to
chapel wi' Jacob,-he was a good
man was Jacob, - an' to chapel I 've
been iver since. But I'm no enemy
o' the Church, sir, when the Church
brings light to the ignorant and the
sinful; an' that 's what you 're a doin',
Mr. 'ryan. Yes, sir, I '11 stan' by
you. I'll go to church wi' you o'
Sunday evenin'."
"You 'd far better stay at home,
Mr. Jerome, if I may give my opinion,"
interposed Mrs. Jerome. "It's not
as I hev n't ivery respect for you, Mr.
Tryan, but Mr. Jerome 'ull do you no
good by his interferin'. l)issenters
are not at all looked on i' Milby, an'
he's as nervous as iver he can be;
he '11 come back as ill as ill, an' niver
let me hev a wink o' sleep all night."
Mrs. Jerome had been frightened at
the mention of a mob, and her retrospective regard for the religious communion of her youth by no means
inspired her with the temper of a
martyr. Her husband looked at her
with an expression of tender and
grieved remonstrance, which might
have been that of the patient patriarch
on the memorable occasion when he
rebuked his wife.
" Susan, Susan, let me beg on you
not to oppose me, and put stumblin'blocks i' the way o' doin' what's
right. I can't give up my conscience,
let me give up what else I may."
" Perhaps," said Mr. Tryan, feeling
slightly uncomfortable, " since you
are not very strong, my dear sir, it
will be well, as Mrs. Jerome suggests,
that you should not run the risk of
any excitement."
"Say no more, Mr. Tryan. I '11
stan' by you, sir. It's my duty. It 'a




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


271


the cause o' God, sir; it's the cause
o' God."
Mr. Tryan obeyed his impulse of
admiration and gratitude, and put out
his hand to the white-haired old man,
saying, "Thank you, Mr. Jerome,
thank you."
Mr. Jerome grasped the proffered
hand in silence, and then threw himself back in his chair, casting a
regretful look at his wife, which
seemed to say, "Why don't you feel
with me, Susan?"
The sympathy of this simple-minded old man was more precious to Mr.
Tryan than any mere on-looker could
have imagined. To persons possessing a great deal of that facile psychology which prejudges individuals by
means of formulae, and casts them,
without further trouble, into duly lettered pigeon-holes, the Evangelical
curate might seem to be doing simply
what all other men like to do, -carrying out objects which were identified
not only with his theory, which is but
a kind of secondary egoism, but also
with the primary egoism of his feelings. Opposition may become sweet
to a man when he has christened it
persecution: a self-obtrusive, overhasty reformer complacently disclaiming all merit, while his friends call
him a martyr, has not in reality a
career the most arduous to the fleshly
mind. But Mr. Tryan was not cast
in the mould of the gratuitous martyr.
With a power of persistence which
had been often blamed as obstinacy,
he had an acute sensibility to the very
hatred or ridicule he did not flinch
from provoking. Every form of disapproval jarred him painfully; and,
though he fronted his opponents manfully, and often with considerable
warmth of temper, he had no pugnacious pleasure in the contest. It was
one of the weaknesses of his nature to
be too keenly alive to every harsh
wind of opinion; to wince under the
frowns of the foolish; to be irritated
by the injustice of those who could
not possibly have the elements indispensable for judging him rightly; and


with all this acute sensibility to blame,
this dependence on sympathy, he had
for years been constrained into a
position of antagonism. No wonder,
then, that good old Mr. Jerome's
cordial words were balm to him. He
had often been thankful to an old woman for saying, " God bless you "; to a
little child fir smiling at him; to a dog
for submitting to be patted by him.
Tea being over by this time, Mr.
Tryan proposed a walk in the garden
as a means of dissipating all recollection of the recent conjugal dissidence. Little Lizzie's appeal: "Me
go, grandpa!" could not be rejected,
so she was duly bonneted and pihafored, and then they turned out into
the evening sunshine. Not Mrs. Jerome, however; she had a deeply
meditated plan of retiring ad interiml
to the kitchen and washing up the
best tea-things, as a mode of getting
forward with the sadly retarded business of the day.
" This way, Mr. Tryan, this way,"
said the old gentleman; " I must take
you to my pastur fust, an' show you
our cow, -the best milker i' the
county. An' see here at these backbuildins, how convencnt the dairy is;
I planned it ivery bit myself. An'
here I 've got my little carpenter's
shop an' my blacksmith's shop;
I do no end o' jobs here myself.
I niver could bear to he idle, Mr.
Tryan; I must al'ys be at somethin' or other. It was time for me to
lay by business an' mek room for
younger folks. I'd got money enough,
wi' only one daughter to leave it to,
an' I says to mystlfays ys I, it 's time
to leave off moitherin' myself wi' this
world so much, an' give more time to
thinkin' of another.  But there 's a
many hours atween getting up an'
lyin' down, an' thoughts are no
cumber; you can move about wi' a
good many on 'em in your head.
See, here 's the pastur."
A very pretty pasture it was, where
the large-spotted short-horned cow
quietly chewed the cud as she lay and
looked sleepily at her admirers,- a




272


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


daintily trimmed hedge all round,
dotted here and there with a mountain-ash or a cherry-tree.
"I 've a good bit more land besides this, worth your while to look at,
but mayhap it's further nor you 'd
like to walk now. Bless you! I 've
welly an acre o' potato-ground yonders; I've a good big family to supply, you know." (Here Mr. Jerome
winked and smiled   significantly.)
"An' that puts me i' mind, Mr.
Tryan, o' summat I wanted to say to
you. Clergymen like you, I know,
see a deal more poverty an' that, than
other folks, an' hev a many claims on
'em more nor they can well meet;
an' if you '11 mek use o' my purse any
time, or let me know where I can be o'
any help, I '11 tek it very kind on you."
"Thank you, Mr. Jerome, I will
do so, I promise you. I saw a sad
case yesterday; a collier -a fine
broad-chested fellow about thirtywas killed by the falling of a wall in
the Paddiford colliery. I was in one
of the cottages near, when they
brought him home on a door, and the
shriek of the wife has been ringing in
my ears ever since. There are three
little children. Happily the woman
has her loom, so she will be able to
keep out of the workhouse; but she
looks very delicate."
" Give me her name, Mr. Tryan,"
said Mr. Jerome, drawing out his
pocket-book. "I '11 call an' see her."
Deep was the fountain of pity in
the good old man's heart! He often
ate his dinner stintingly, oppressed by
the thought that there were men,
women, and children with no dinner
to sit down to, and would relieve his
mind by going out in the afternoon to
lQok for some need that he could supply, some honest struggle in which he
could lend a helping hand. That
any living being should want, was
his chief sorrow; that any rational
being should waste, was the next.
Sally, indeed, having been scolded by
master for a too lavish use of sticks
in lighting the kitchen fire, and various instances of recklessness with re

gard to candle-ends, considered him
"as mean as aenythink"; but he had
as kindly a warmth as the morning
sunlight, and, like the sunlight, his
goodness shone on all that came in his
way, from the saucy rosy-cheeked lad
whom he delighted to make happy
with a Christmas box, to the pallid sufferers up dim entries, languishing under the tardy death of want and misery.
It was very pleasant to Mr. Tryan
to listen to the simple chat of the old
man, -to walk in the shade of the
incomparable orchard, and hear the
story of the crops yielded by the redstreaked apple-tree, and the quite embarrassing plentifulness of the summer pears, —to drink in the sweet
evening breath of the garden, as they
sat in the alcove, — and so, for a
short interval, to feel the strain of his
pastoral task relaxed.
Perhaps he felt the return to that
task through the dusty roads all the
more painfully, perhaps something in
that quiet shady home had reminded
him of the time before he had taken
on him the yoke of self-denial. The
strongest heart will faint sometimes
under the feeling that enemies are bitter, and that friends only know half
its sorrows. The most resolute soul
will now and then cast back a yearning look in treading the rough mountan-path, away from the greensward
and laughing voices of the valley.
However it was, in the nine o'clock
twilight that evening, when Mr. Tryan had entered his small study and
turned the key in the door, he threw
himself into the chair before his writing-table, and, heedless of the papers
there, leaned his face low on his hand,
and moaned heavily.
It is apt to be so in this life, I think.
While we are coldly discussing a
man's career, sneering at his mistakes,
blaming his rashness, and labelling
his opinions, - " Evangelical and narrow,' or "Latitudinarian and Pantheistic," or " Anglican and supercilious," -that man, in his solitude, is
perhaps shedding hot tears because his
sacrifice is a hard one, because strength




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


273


and patience are failing him to speak
the difficult word and do the difficult
deed.
CHAPTER IX.
MR. TRYAN showed no such symptoms of weakness on the critical Sunday. He unhesitatingly rejected the
suggestion that he should be taken to
church in Mr. Landor's carriage,a proposition which that gentleman
made as an amendment on the original plan, when the rumors of meditated insult became alarming. Mr.
Tryan declared he would have no
precautions taken, but would simply
trust in God and his good cause.
Some of his more timid friends thought
this conduct rather defiant than wise,
and reflecting that a mob has great
talents for impromptu, and that legal
redress is imperfect satisfaction for
having one's head broken with a brickbat, were beginning to question their
consciences very closely as to whether
it was not a duty they owed to their
families to stay at hom3 on Sunday
evening.  These timorous persons,
however, were in a small minority,
and the generality of Mr. Tryan's
friends and hearers rather exulted in
an opportunity of braving insult for
the sake of a preacher to whom they
were attached on personal as well as
doctrinal grounds. Miss Pratt spoke
of Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer,
and observed that the present crisis
afforded an occasion for emulating
their heroism even in these degenc

rate times; while less highly instructed
persons, whose memories were not
well stored with precedents, simply
expressed their determination, as Mr.
Jerome had done, to "stan' by" the
preacher and his cause, believing it to
be the "cause of God."
On Sunday evening, then, at a
quarter past six, Mr. Tryan, setting
out from Mr. Landor's with a party
of his friends who had assembled
there, was soon joined by two other
groups from Mr. Pratt's and Mr.
Dunn's; and stray persons on their
way to church naturally falling into
rank behind this leading file, by the
time they reached the entrance of
Orchard Street, Mr. Tryan's friends
formed a considerable procession, walking three or four abreast. It was in
Orchard Street, and towards the
church gates, that the chief crowd was
collected; and at Mr. Dempster's
drawing-room window, on the upper
floor, a more select assembly of AntiTryanites were gathered to witness the
entertaining spectacle of the Tryanites
walking to church amidst the jeers and
hootings of the crowd.
To prompt the popular wit with appropriate sobriquets, numerous copies
of Mr. Dempster's play-bill were posted
on the walls, in suitably large and
emphatic type. As it is possible that
the most industrious collector of mural literature may not have been fortunate enough to possess himself of
this production, which ought by all
means to be preserved amongst the
materials of our provincial religious
history, I subjoin a faithful copy.


GRAND      ENTERTAINMENT!!!
To be given at Milby on Sunday evening next, by the
FAMOUS COMEDIAN, TRY-IT-ON 
And his first-rate company, including not only an
UNPARALLELED CAST FOR COMEDY!
But a Large Collection of reclaimed and converted Animals;
Among the rest
A Bear, who used to dance I
A Parrot, once given to swearing! I
A Polygamous Pig!!!
and
A Monkey who used to catch fleas on a Sunday!! I I
Together with a
Pair of regenerated LINNETS!
With an entirely new song, and plumage.


12 *


i




274


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


MR. TRY-IT-ON
Will first pats through the streets, in procession, with his unrivalled Company, warranted
to have their eyes turned up higher, and the corners of their mouths turned down
lower, than any other company of Mountebanks in this circuit!
AFTER WHICH
The Theatre will be opened, and the entertainment will
commence at HALF PAST Six,
When will be presented
A piece, never before performed on any stage, entitled,
THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING;
or,
THE METHODIST IN A MASK.
Mr. Boanerges Soft Sawder,....MR. TRY-IT-OW.
Old Ten-per-cent Godly,....   MR. GANDER.
Dr. Feedemup,.......     MR. ToNI.
Mr. Lime-Twig Lady-winner,.....   MR. TRY-IT-OW.
Miss Piety Bait-the-hook,.....     Miss TONIC.
Angelica,.......  MISS SERAPIINA TONIC.
After which
A miscellaneous Musical Interlude, commencing with
The Lamentations of Jerom-iah!
In nasal recitative.
To be followed by
The favorite Cackling Quartette,
by
Two Hen-birds who are no chickens!
The well-known counter-tenor, Mr. Done, and a Gander,
lineally descended from the Goose that laid golden eggs!
To conclude with a
GRAND CHORUS by the
Entire Orchestra of Converted Animals!!
But owing to the unavoidable absence (from illness) of the Bulldog, who has left af
fighting, Mr. Tonic has kindly undertaken, at a moment's notice, to supply the " bark! 
The whole to conclude with a
Screaming Farce of
THE    PULPIT-SNATCHER.


Mr. Saintly 8moo
Mr. Worming Sn
Mr. All-rrace N(
Mr. Elect-and-C1
Mr. Malevolent 1
Mr. Foist-himsel
Mr. Flout-the-ag


_.'L - --


MR TaR


Aoln-tas,. 
leaker,.... M  T
o-works,.....     MRTRI
hosen Apewell,.....   MR TR'
Prayerful,...            MR. TR'
f-everywhere,..            *         MR. TR'
~ed Upstart,...                  M   T
Adnission free. A Collection will be made at the Doors.
Vivat Rex!


YITr-ON!
Y-IT-ON!!
r-IT-ON! I!
r-IT-ON!!!!
r-IT-ON!!!!!
Y-IT-ON!!!!!!
rY-ITON!!!!!!!


This satire, though it presents the
keenest edge of Milbv wit, does not
strike you as lacerating, I imagine.
But hatred is like fire, -it makes
even light rubbish deadly. And Mr.
Dempster's sarcasms wire not merely
visible on the walls; they were reflected in the derisive glances, and
audible in the jeering voices of the
crowd. Through this pelting shower
of nicknames and bad puns, with an
ad libitum accompaniment of groans,
howls, hisses, and hee-haws, but of no
heavier missiles, Mr. Tryan walked


pale and composed, giving his arm to
old Mr. Landor, whose step was feeble. On the other side of him was
Mr. Jerome, who still walked firmly,
though his shoulders were slightly
bowed.
Outwardly Mr. Tryan was composed, but inwardly he was suffering
acutely from these tones of hatred and
scorn.  However strong his consciousness of right, he found it no
stronger armor against such weapons
as derisive glances and virulent words,
than against stones and clubs: his




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


conscience was in repose, but his sensibility was bruised.
Once more only did the Evangelical curate pass up Orchard Street
followed by a train of friends; once
more only was there a crowd assembled to witness his entrance through
the church gates. But that second
time no voice was heard above a
whisper, and the whispers were words
of sorrow and blessing. That second
time, Janet Dempstcr was not looking on in scorn and merriment; her
eyes were worn with grief and watching, and she was following her beloved friend and pastor to the grave.
CHAPTER X.
HISTORY, we know, is apt to repeat herself, and to foist very old
incidents upo)n us with only a slight
change of costume. From the time
of Xerxes downwards, we have seen
generals playin, the braggadocio at
the outset of their campaigns, and
conquering the enemy with the greatest ease in after-dinner speeches. But
events are apt to be in disgusting
discrepancy with the anticipations
of the most ingenious tacticians;
the difficulties of the expedition are
ridiculously at variance with able calculations; the enemy has the impudence not to fall into confusion, as
had been reasonably expected of him;
the mind of the gallant general begins
to be distracted by news of intrigues
against him at home, and, notwithstanding the handsome compliments
he paid to Providence as his undoubted patron before setting out,
there seems every probability that the
Te Deums will be all on the other
side.
So it fell out with Mr. Dempster
in his memorable campaign against
the Anti-Tryanites.  After all the
premature triumph of the return
from Elmstroke, the battle of the
Evening Lecture had been lost; the
enemy was in possession of the field;


aud the utmost hope remaining was,,
that by a harassing guerilla warfiare
he might be driven to evacuate the
country.
For some time this sort of warfare
was kept up with considerable spirit.
The shafts of Milby ridicule were
made more formidable by being poisoned with calumny; and very ugly
stories, narrated with circumstantial
minuteness, were soon in circulation
concerning Mr. Tryan and his hearers, from which stories it was plainly
deducible that Evangelicalism led by
it necessary consequence to hypocrit-e
ical indulgence in vice.  Some old
fiiendships were broken asunder, and
there were near relations who felt that
religious differences, unmitigated by
any prospect of a legacy, were a sufficient ground for exhibiting their
family antipathy.  Mr. Budd harangued his workmen, aud threatened
them with dismissal if they or their
families were known to attend the
evening lecture; and Mr. Tomlinson,
on discovering that his foreman was a
rank Tryanite, blustered to a great
extent, and would have cashiered that
valuable functionary on the spot, if
such a retributive procedure had not
been inconvenient.
On the whole, however, at the end
of a few months, the balance of substantial loss was on the side of the
Anti-Tryanites. Mr. Pratt, indeed,
had lost a patient or two besides Mr.
Dempster's family; but as it was evident that Evangelicalism  had not
dried up the stream of his anecdote,
or in the least altered his view of any
lady's constitution, it is probable that
a change accompanied by so few outward and visible signs, was rather the
pretext than the ground of his dismissal in those additional cases. Mr.
Dunn was threatened with the loss
of several good customers, Mrs.
Phipps and Mrs. Lowme having set
the example of ordering him to send
in his bill; and the draper began to
look forward to his next stock-taking
with an anxiety which was but slightly mitigated by the parallel his wife




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


suggested between his own case and
that of Shadrach, Meshach, and
Abednego, who were thrust into a
burning fiery furnace.  For, as he
observed to her the next morning,
with that perspicacity which belongs
v to the period of shaving, whereas
their deliverance consisted in the fact
that their linen and woollen goods
were not consumed, his own deliverance lay in precisely the opposite result. But convenience, that admirable branch system fiom the main
line of self-interest, makes us all fellow-helpers in spite of adverse resolutions. It is probable that no speculative or theological hatred would be
ultimately strong enough to resist the
persuasive power of convenience:
that a latitudinarian baker, whose
bread was honorably free from alum,
would command the custom of any
dyspeptic Puseyite; that an Arminian with the toothache would prefer
a skilful Calvinistic dentist to a
bungler stanch against the doctrines
of Election and Final Perseverance,
who would be likely to break the
tooth in his head; and that a Plymouth Brother, who had a well-furnished grocery shop in a favorable
vicinage, would occasionally have the
pleasure of furnishing sugar or vinegar to orthodox families that found
themselves unexpectedly "out of"
those indispensable commodities. In
this persuasive power of convenience
lay Mr. Dunn's ultimate security
from martyrdom. His drapery was
the best in Milby; the comfortable
use and wont of procuring satisfactory articles at a moment's notice
proved too strong for Anti-Tryanite
zeal; and the draper could soon look
forward to his nextstock-taking without the support of a Scriptural parallel.
On the other hand, Mr. Dempster
had lost his excellent client, Mr. Jerome, -a loss which galled him out
of proportion to the mere monetary
deficit it represented. The attorney
loved money, but he loved power still
better. He had always been proud I


of having early won the confidence
of a conventicle-goer, and of being
able to " turn the prop of Salem
round his thumb." Like most other
men, too, he had a certain kindness
towards those who had employed him.
when he was only starting in life;
and just as we do not like to part
with an old weather-glass from our
study, or a two-feet ruler that we have
carried in our pocket ever since we
began business, so Mr. Dempster did
not like having to erase his old client's
name from the accustomed drawer in
the bureau. Our habitual life is like
a wall hung with pictures, which has
been shone on by the suns of many
years: take one of the pictures away,
and it leaves a definite blank space,
to which our eyes can never turn
without a sensation of discomfort.
Nay, the involuntary loss of any familiar object almost always brings
a chill as from an evil omen; it seems
to be the first finger-shadow of advancing death.
From all these causes combined,
Mr. I)empster could never think of
his lost client without strong irritation, and the very sight of Mr. Jerome passing in the street was wormwood to him.
One day when the old gentleman
was coming up Orchard Street on his
roan mare, shaking the bridle, and
tickling her flank with the whip as
usual, though there was a perfect mutual understanding that she was not
to quicken her pace, Janet happened
to be on her own door-step, and he
could not resist the temptation of
stopping to speak to that "nice little
woman," as he always called her,
though she was taller than all the rest
of his feminine acquaintances. Janet,
in spite of her disposition to take her
husband's part in all public matters,
could bear no malice against her old
friend; so they shook hands.
" Well, Mrs. D)empster, I'm sorry
to my heart not to see you sometimes, that I am," said Mr. Jerome,
in a plaintive tone. "But if you've
got. any poor people as wants help,




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


277


and you know's deservin', send 'em  tune, until people are in danger of
to me, send 'em to me just the same." crying out that the melody itself is
"Thank you, Mr. Jerome, that I detestable. It may be that some of
will. Good by."                    Mr. Tryan's hearers had gained a reJanet made the interview as short ligious vocabulary rather than religas she could, but it was not short ious experience; that here and there
enough to escape the observation of a weaver's wife, who, a few months
her husband, who, as she feared, was before, had been siumply a silly slaton his midday return from  his of tern, was converted into that more
fice at the other end of the street, and complex nuisance, a silly and sancthis offence of hers, in speaking to Mr. timonious slattern; that the old
Jerome, was the frequently recurring Adam, with the pertinacity of middle
theme of Mr. Dempster's objurgato- age, continued to tell fibs behind the
ry domestic eloquence.             counter, notwithstanding  the  new
Associating the loss of his old cli- Adam's addiction to Bible-reading
ent with  Mr. Tryan's influence, and family prayer; that the children
)empster began to know more dis- in the Paddiford Sunday-school had
tinctly why he hated the obnoxious their memories crammed with phrases
curate.  But a passionate hate, as about the blood of cleansing, imputed
well as a passionate love, demands righteousness, and justification by
some leisure and mental freedom. Per- faitlh alone, which an experience lysecution and revenge, like courtship ing  principally in chuck-farthing,
and toadyism, will not prosper with- hop-scotch, parental slappings, and
out a considerable expenditure of longings after unattainable lollipop,
time and ingenuity, and these are not served rather to darken than to illusto spare with a man whose law-busi- trate; and that at Milby, in those
ness and liver are both beginning to distant days, as in all other times and
show unpleasant symptoms. Such places where the mental atmosphere
was the disagreeable turn affairs were is changing, and men are inhaling the
taking with Mr. Dcmpster, and, like stimulus of new ideas, folly often misthe general distracted by home in- took itself for wisdom, ignorance
trigues, he was too much harassed gave itself airs of knowledge, and
himself to lay ingenious plans for selfishness, turning its eyes upward,
harassing tho enemy.              called itself religion.
Meanwhile, the evening lecture    Nevertheless, Evangelicalism  had
drew  larger and larger congrega- brought into palpable existence and
tions; not perhaps attracting many operation in Milby society that idea
from that select aristocratic circle in of duty, that recognition of somewhich the Lowmes and Pittmans thing to be lived for beyond the mere
were predominant, but winning the satisfaction of self, which is to the
larger portion of Mr. Crewe's morn- moral life what the addition of a
ing and afternoon hearers, and thin- great central ganglion is to animal
ning Mr. Stickney's evening audi- life. No man can begin to mould
ences at Salem. Evangelicalism was himself on a faith or an idea without
making its way in Milby, and grad- rising to a higher order of experiually diffusing its subtle odor into ence: a principle of subordination,
chambers that were bolted and barred of self-mastery, has been introduced
against it. The movement, like all into his nature; he is no longer a
other religious " revivals,"  had a mere bundle of impressions, desires,
mixed effect.  Religious ideas have and impulses. Whatever might be
the fate of melodies, which, once set the weaknesses of the ladies who
afloat in the world, are taken up by pruned the luxuriance of th l lace
all sorts of instruments, some of and ribbons, cut out garments or the
them' wofully coarse, feeble, or out of poor, distributed tracts, quoted Scrip.




278


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


ture, and defined the true Gospel,
they had learned this,-that there
was a divine work to be done in life,
a rule of goodness higher than the
opinion of their neighbors; and if the
notion of a heaven in reserve for themselves was a little too prominent, yet
the theory of fitness for that heaven
consisted in purity of heart, in
Christ-like compassion, in the subduing of selfish desires. They might give
the name of piety to much that was
only puritanic egoism; they might call
many things sin that were not sin; but
they had at least the feeling that sin
was to be avoided and resisted, and color-blindness, which may mistake drab
for scarlet, is better than total blindness, which sees no distinction of
color at all. Miss Rebecca Linnet,
in quiet attire, with a somewhat excessive solemnity of countenance,
teaching at the Sunday-school, visiting the poor, and striving after a
standard of purity and goodness, had
surely more moral loveliness than in
those flaunting peony-days, when she
had no other model than the costumes
of the heroines in the circulating library. Miss Eliza Pratt, listening in
rapt attention to Mr. Tryan's evening lecture, no doubt found evangelical channels for vanity and egoism;
but she was clearly in moral advance
of Miss Phipps giggling under her
feathers at old Mr. Crewe's peculiarities of enunciation. And even
elderly fathers and mothers, with
minds, like Mrs. Linnet's, too tough
to imbibe much doctrine, were the
better for having their hearts inclined
towards the new preaeher as a messenger from  God.   They became
ashamed, perhaps, of their evil tempers, ashamed of their worldliness,
ashamed of their trivial, futile past.
The first condition of human goodness is something to love; the second, something to reverence. And this
latter precious gift was brought to Milby by Mr. Tryan and Evangelicalism.
YqB 'the movement was good,
though it had that mixture of folly
and evil which often makes what is


good an offence to feeble and fastidious
minds, who want human actions and
characters riddled through the sieve
of their own ideas, before they can
accord their sympathy or admiration.
Such minds, I dare say, would have
found Mr. Tryan's character very
much in need of that riddling process.
The blessed work of helping the world
forward happily does not wait to be
done by perfect men; and I should
imagine that neither Luther nor John
Bunyan, for example, would have
satisfied the modem demand for an
ideal hero, who believes nothing but
what is true, feels nothing but what is
exalted, and does nothing but what is
graceful. The real heroes, of God's
making, are quite different; they have
their natural heritage of love and
conscience which they drew in with
their mother's milk; they know one
or two of those deep spiritual truths
which are only to be won by long
wrestling with their own sins and
their own sorrows; they have earned
faith and strength so far as they have
done genuine work; but the rest is
dry barren theory, blank prejudice,
vague hearsay.   Their insight is
blended with mere opinion; their
sympathy is perhaps confined in narrow conduits of doctrine, instead of
flowing forth with the freedom of a
stream that blesses every weed in its
course; obstinacy or self-assertion will
often interfuse itself with their grandest impulses; and their very deeds of
self-sacrifice are sometimes only the
rebound of a passionate egotism. So
it was with Mr. Tryan: and any one
looking at him  with the bird's-eye
glance of a critic might perhaps say 
that he made the mistake of identify- "
ing Christianity with a too narrow
doctrinal system; that he saw God's
work too exclusively in antagonism 
to the world, the flesh, and the devil;
that his intellectual culture was too
limited,-and so on; making Mr.
Tryan the text for a wise discourse on
the characteristics of the Evangelical
school in his day.
But I am not poised at that lofty 




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


279


height. I am on the level and in the
press with him, as he struggles his
way along the stony road, through the
crowd of unloving fellowmen. He is
stumbling, perhaps; his heart now
beats fast with dread, now heavily
with anguish; his eyes are sometimes
dim with tears, which he makes haste
to dash away; he pushes manfully
on, with fluctuating faith and courage,
with a sensitive failing body; at last
he falls, the struggle is ended, and the
crowd closes over the space he has left.
"One of the Evangelical clergy, a
disciple of Venn," says the critic from
his bird's-eye station.  "Not a remarkable specimen; the anatomy and
habits of his species have been determined long ago."
Yet surely, surely the only true
knowledge of our fellowman is that
which enables us to feel with him, -
which gives a fine ear for the heartpulses that are beating under the mere
clothes of circumstance and opinion.
Our subtlest analysis of schools and
sects must miss the essential truth,
unless it be lit tup by the love that sees,
in all forms of human thought and
work, the life and death struggles of
separate human beings.
CIHAPTER XI.
MR. TRYAN'S most unfriendly observers were obliged to admit that he
gave himself no rest. Three sermons
on Sunday, a night-school for young
men on Tuesday, a cottage-lecture on
rhursday, addresses to school-teachers, and catechising of school-children,
with pastoral visits, multiplying as his
influence extended beyond his own
district of Paddiford Common, would
have been enough to tax severely the
powers of a much stronger man. Mr.
Pratt remonstrated with him on his
imprudence, but could not prevail on
him so far to economize time and
strength as to keep a horse. On some
ground or other, which his friends


found difficult to explain to themselves, Mr. Tryan seemed bent on
wearing himself out. His enemies
were at no loss to account for such a
course. The Evangelical curate's selfishness was clearly of too bad a kind
to exhibit itself after the ordinary
manner of a sound, respectable selfishness. " He wants to get the reputation of a saint," said one; "He's
eaten up with spiritual pride," said
another; "He 's got his eye on some
fine living, and wants to creep up the
Bishop's sleeve," said a third.
Mr. Stickney, of Salem, who considered all voluntary discomfort as a
remnant of the legal spirit, pronounced a severe condemnation on
this self-neglect, and expressed his
fear that Mr. Tryan was still far
from having attained true Christian
liberty. Good Mr. Jerome eagerly
seized this doctrinal view of the subject as a means of enforcing the suggestions of his own benevolence; and
one cloudy afternoon, in the end ofJ
November, he mounted his roan mare
with the determination of riding to
Paddiford and " arguying " the point
with Mr. Tryan.
The old gentleman's face looked
very mournful as he rode along the
dismal Paddiford lanes, between
rows of grimy houses, darkened with
hand-looms, while the black dust was
whirled about him by the cold
November wind. He was thinking
of the object which had brought him
on this afternoon ride, and his
thoughts, according to his habit
when alone, found vent every now and
then in audible speech. It seemed
to him, as his eyes rested on this
scene of Mr. Tryan's labors, that he
could understand the clergyman's
self-privation without resorting to
Mr. Stickney's theory of defective
spiritual enlightenment.  Do not
philosophic doctors tell us that we
are unable to discern so much as a
tree, 'except by an unconscious cunning which combines many past and
separate sensations; that no one
sense is independent of another, so




280


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 


that in the dark we can hardly taste
a fricassee, or tell whether our pipe is
alight or not, and the most intelligent boy, if accommodated with claws
or hoofs instead of fingers, would be
likely to remain on the lowest form?
If so, it is easy to understand that
our discernment of men's motives
must depend on the completeness of
the elements we can bring from our
own susceptibility and our own experience.  See to it, friend, before
you pronounce a too hasty judgment,
that your own moral sensibilities are
not of a hoofed or clawed character.
The keenest eye will not serve, unless you have the delicate fingers,
with their subtle nerve filaments,
which elude scientific lenses, and lose
themselves in the invisible world of
human sensations.
As for Mr. Jerome, he drew the
elements of his moral vision from the
depths of his veneration and pity.
If he himself felt so much for these
poor things to whom life was so dim
and meagre, what must the clergyman feel who had undertaken before
God to be their shepherd?
"Ah!" he whispered, interruptedly, "it's too big a load for his con
science, poor man I  He wants to
mek himself their brother, like; can't
abide to preach to the fastin' on a
full stomach. Ah! he's better nor
we are, that's it, — he's a deal better nor we are."
Here Mr. Jerome shook his bridle
violently, and looked up with an air
of moral courage, as if Mr. Stickney
had been present, and liable to take
offence at this conclusion. A few
minutes more brought him in front
of Mrs. Wagstaffs. where      Mr.
Tryan lodged. He had often been
here before, so that the contrast between this ugly square brick house,
with its shabby bit of grass-plot,
stared at all round by cottage windows, and his own pretty white
home, set in a paradise of orchard
and garden and pasture was not new
to him; but he felt it with fresh force
to-day, as he slowly fastened his roan


by the bridle to the wooden paling,
and knocked at the door. Mr. Tryan was at home, and sent to request
that Mr. Jerome would walk up into
his study, as the fire was out in the
parlor below.
At the mention of a clergyman's
study, perhaps, your too active imagination conjures up a perfect snuggery, where the general air of comfort is rescued from a secular character by strong ecclesiastical suggestions in the shape of the furniture,
the pattern of the carpet, and the
prints on the wall; where, if a nap is
taken, it is in an easy-chair with a
Gothic back, and the very feet rest on
a warm and velvety simulation of
church windows; where the pure art
of rigorous English Protestantism
smiles above the mantel-piece in the
portrait of an eminent bishop, or a refined Anglican taste is indicated by a
German print from Overbeck; where
the walls are lined with choice div inity in sombre binding, and the light
is softened by a screen of boughs
with a gray church in the background.
But I must beg you to dismiss all
such scenic prettiness, suitable as
they may be to a clergyman's character and complexion; for 1 have to
confess that Mr. Tryan's study was a
very ugly little room indeed, with an
ugly slap-dash pattern on the walls,
an ugly carpet on the floor, and an
ugly view of cottage roofs and cabbage-gardens from the window. His
own person, his writing-table, and his
bookcase, were the only objects in
the room that had the slightest air of
refinement; and the sole provision
for comfort was a clumsy straightbacked arm-chair, covered with faded
chintz. The man who could live,
such a room, unconstrained by poverty, must either have his vision fed
from within by an intense passion, or
he must have chosen that least attractive form of self-mortification which
wears no haircloth and has no
meagre days, but accepts the vulgar,
the commonplace, and the ugly,




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


281


whenever the highest duty seems to
lie among them.
"Mr. Tryan, I hope you '11 excuse
me disturbin' on you," said Mr. Jerome. " But I 'd summat partickler
to sav."
" You don't disturb me at all, Mr.
Jerome; I 'm very glad to have a
visit from you," said Mr. Tryan,
shaking him heartily by the hand,
and offering him the chintz-covered
"easy " chair; " it is some time since
I 've had an opportunity of seeing
you, except on a Sunday."
" Ah, sir! your time 's so taken up,
I 'm well aware o' that; it's not only
what you hev to do, but it 's goin'
about from place to place; an' vou
don't keep a hoss, Mr. Tryan. You
don't take care enough o' yourself, -
you don't indeed, an' that 's what I
come to talk to y' about."
"That 's very good of you, Mr.
Jerome; but I assure you I think
walking does me no harm.   It is
rather a relief to me after speaking
or writing. You know I have no
great circuit to make. The farth'-st
distance I have to walk is to Milby
Church, and if ever I want a horse
on a Sunday, I hire Radley's, who
lives not many hundred yards from
me."
" Well, but now! the winter 's cornin' on, an' you '11 get wet i' vour feet,
an' Pratt tells me as your constitution 's di'.icate, as anybody may see,
for the matter o' that, wi'out bein' a
doctor. An' this is the light I look
at it in, Mr. Tryan: who 's to fill up
your place, if you was to be disabled,
as I may say?    Consider what a
valyable life yours is. You 've begun a great work i' Milby, and so
'oa might carry it on, if vou 'd your
health and strength. The more care
you take o' yourself, the longer you '11
live, belike, God willing, to do good
to your fellow-creaturs."
" Why, my dear Mr. Jerome, I
think I should not be a long-lived
man in any case; and if I were to
take care of myself under the pretext
of doing more good, I should very


likely die and leave nothing done
after all."
" Well! but keepin' a hoss would n't
hinder you from workin'.  It 'ud
help you to do more, though Pratt
says as it's usin' your voice so constant as does you the most harm.
Now, is n't it, -I 'm no scholard,
Mr. Tryan, an' I 'm not a goin' to
dictate to you, - but is n't it a'most
a killin' o' yourself, to go on a' that
way beyondl your strength?   We
must n't fling our lives away."
"No, not fling them away lightly,
but we are permitted to lay down our
lives in a right cause.  There are
many duties, as you know, Mr. Jerome,
which stand before taking care of our
own lives."
"Ah! I can't arguy wi' you, Mr.
Tryan; but what I wanted to say 's
this, - There 's my little chacenut
hoss; I should take it quite a kindness
if you 'd hev him through the winter
an' ride him. I 've thought o' sellin'
him a many times, for Mrs. Jerome
can't abide him; and what do I want
wi' two nags? But I 'm fond o' the
little chacenut, an' I should n't like
to sell him. So if you '11 only ride
him for me, you 'll do me a kindness, - you will, indeed, Mr. Tryan."
" Thank you, Mr. Jerome. I promise you to ask for him, when I feel
that I want a nag. There is no man
I would more gladly be indebted to
than you; but at present I would
rather not have a horse. I should
ride him very little, and it would be
an inconvenience to me to keep him
rather than otherwise."
Mr. Jerome looked troubled and
hesitating, as if he had something on
his mind that would not readily shape
itself into words. At last he said,
"You '11 excuse me, Mr. Tryan, I
would n't be takin' a liberty, but I
know what great claims you hev on
you as a clergyman. Is it the expense, Mr. Tryan? is it the money?"
"No, my dear sir. I have much
more than a single man needs. My
way of living is quite of my owda




282


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


choosing, and I am doing nothing but
what I feel bound to do, quite apart
from money considerations. We cannot judge for one another, you know;
we have each our peculiar weaknesses
and temptations. I quite admit that
it might be right for another man to
allow himself more luxuries, and I
assure you I think it no superiority
in myself to do without them. On
the contrary, if my heart were less
rebellious, and if I were less lfable to
temptation, I should not need that
sort of self-denial. But," added Mr.
Tryan, holding out his hand to Mr.
Jerome, "I understand your kindness, and bless you for it. If I want
a horse, I shall ask for the chestnut."
Mr. Jerome was obliged to rest contented with this promise, and rode
home sorrowfully, reproaching himself with not having said one thing
he meant to say when setting out, and
with having " clean forgot" the arguments he had intended to quote from
Mr. Stickney.
Mr. Jerome's was not the only
mind that was seriously disturbed by
the idea that the curate was overworking himself. There were tender
women's hearts in which anxiety about
the state of his affections was beginning to be merged in anxiety about
the state of his health. Miss Eliza
Pratt had at one time passed through
much sleepless cogitation on the possibility of Mr. Tryan's being attached
to some lady at a distance, - at Laxeter, perhaps, where he had formerly
held a curacy; and her fine eyes kept
close watch lest any symptom of engaged affections on his part should
escape her. It seemed an alarming
fact that his handkerchiefs were beautifully marked with hair, until she reflected that he had an unmarried sister of whom he spoke with much affection as his father's companion and
comforter. Besides, Mr. Tryan had
never paid any distant visit, except
one for a few days to his father, and
no hint escaped him of his intending
to take a house, or change his mode


of living. No! he could not be engage(l, though he might have been
disappointed. But this latter misfortune is one from which a devoted clergyman has been known to recover, by
the aid of a fine pair of gray eyes that
beam on him with affectionate reverence. Before Christmas, however, her
cogitations began to take another
turn. She heard her father say very
confidently that "Tryan was consumptive, and if he did n't take more
care of himself, his life would not be
worth a year's purchase "; and shame
at having speculated on suppositions
that were likely to prove so false sent
poor Miss Eliza's feelings with all the
stronger impetus into the one channel
of sorrowful alarm at the prospect of
losing the pastor who had opened to
her a new life of piety and self-subjection. It is a sad weakness in us, after
all, that the thought of a man's death
hallows him anew to us; as if life
were not sacred too, -as if it were
comparatively a light thing to fail in
love and reverence to the brother who
has to climb the whole toilsome steep
with us, and all our tears and tenderness were due to the one who is
spared that hard journey.
The Miss Linnets, too,. were beginning to take a new view of the future,
entirely uncolored by jealousy of Miss
Eliza Pratt.
" Did you notice," said Mary, one
afternoon when Mrs. Pettifer was
taking tea with them, -" did you
notice that short dry cough of Mr.
Tryan's yesterday? I think he looks
worse and worse every week, and I
only wish I knew his sister; I would
write to her about him. I'm sure
something should be done to make
him give up part of his work, and he
will listen to no one here."
"Ah," said Mrs. Pettifer, "it's a
thousand pities his father and sister
can't come and live with him, if he
is n't to marry. But I wish with all
my heart he could have taken to some
nice woman as would have made a
comfortable home for him. I used to
think he might take to Eliza Pratt;




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


283


she's a good girl, and very pretty;
but I se- no likelihood of it now."
"No, indeed," said Rebecca, with
some emphasis; " Mr. Tryan's heart is
not for any woman to win; it is all
given to his work; and I could never
wish to see him with a young inexperienced wife who would be a drag
on him instead of a helpmate."
"He 'd need have somebody, young
or old," observed Mrs. Linnet, " to
see as he wears a flannel wescoat,
an' changes his stockins when he
comes in. It's my opinion he's got
that cough wi' sittin' i' wet shoes and
stockins; an' that Mrs. Wagstaff 's
a poor addle-headed thing; she does
n't half tek care on him."
" 0 mother! " said Rebecca, " she 's
a very pious woman. And I'm sure
she thinks it too great a privilege to
have Mr. Tryan with her, not to do
the best she can to make him comfortable. She can't help her rooms
being shabby."
"I've nothing to say again' her
piety, my dear; but I know very well
Ishould n't like her to cook my victual. When a man comes in hungry
an' tired, piety won't feed him, I
reckon. Hard carrots 'ill lie heavy
on his stomach, piety or no piety. I
called in one day when she was dishin' up Mr. Tryan's dinner, an' I could
se3 the pota'oes was as watery as
watery.  It 's right enough to be
speritial,- I'm no enemy to that;
but I like my potatoes m'aly. I
don't see as anybody 'ull go to heaven the sooner for not digestin' their
dinner, -providin' they don't die
sooner, as mayhap Mr. Tryan will,
poor dear man "
" It will be a heavy day for us all
when that comes to pass," said Mrs.
Pettifer. "We shall never get anybody to fill up'that gap. There's the
new clergyman that's just come to
Shepperton, -Mr. Parry; I saw him
the other day at Mrs. Bond's. He
may be a very good man, and a fine
preacher; they say he is; but I
thought to myself, What a difference
between him and Mr. Tryan! He's


a sharp-sort-of-lookincr man, and
has n't that feeling way with him that
Mr. Tryan has. What is so wonderful to ine, in Mr. Tryan is the way he
puts himself on a level with one, and
talks to one like a brothers Fm never afraid of telling hirn anything. He
never seems to look down on anybody.
He knows how to lift up those that
are cast down, if ever man dil."
" Yes '"said Mary. "Arid when.I
see all the faces turned up to him in
Paddiford Church, I often think how
hard it would be for any clergyman
who had to come after I;im; he has
made the people love him so."'
4
CHAPTE R XII.
I-,q her occasional 'visits to her
near neighbor Mrs. Pettifiar, too old a
friend to be shunned because she was
a Tryanite, Janet was obliged some.
tim-s to hear allusions to Mr. Tryan,
and even to listen to his praises, which
site usually met with playful ineredulity.
" Ah, well, ).' she answered one day,
I like dear old Mr. Crewe and his
pi es a great d-?al better than your
Mr. Tryan and h' G    el. When I
was a little toddle,     and Mrs.
Crewe used to let me play about in
their garden, and have a swing between the great elm-trees, because
mother had no garden. I like people
whD are, kind; kindness is my relig
ion; and that 's the reason I like
you, dear Mrs. Pettifer, though you
are a Tryanite."
11 But that's Mr. Tryan's religion
too, -at least  artly. There 's nobody can give tims-elf up more to
doing good amongst the poor; and he
thinks of their bodies too, as well as
their souls."
" 0 ves, yes; but then he talks
about fith, and grace, and all that,
making people believe they are better
than others, and that God loves them
more than he does the rest of the
world. I know he has put a great


a sharp-sort-of-looking man, and
has n't that feeling way with him that
Mr. Tryan has. What is so wonderful to me in Mr. Tryan is the way he
puts himself on a level with one, and
talks to one like a brother. I'm never afraid of telling him anything. He
never seems to look down on anybody.
He knows how to lift up those that
are cast down, if ever man did."
"Yes," said Mary. "And when.I
see all the faces turned up to him in
Paddiford Church, I often think how
hard it would be for any clergyman
who had to come after him; he has
made the people love him so."
CHAPTER XII.
IN  her occasional visits to her
near neighbor Mrs. Pettifer, too old a
friend to be shunned because she was
a Tryanite, Janet was obliged sometimes to hear allusions to Mr. Tryan,
and even to listen to his praises, which
she usually met with playful incredulity.
" Ah, well," she answered one day,
"I like dear old Mr. Crewe and his
pipes a great deal better than your
Mr. Tryan and his Gospel. When I
was a little toddle, Mr. and Mrs.
Crewe used to let me play about in
their garden, and have a swing between the great elm-trees, because
mother had no garden. I like people
who are kind; kindness is my religion; and that 's the reason I like
you, dear Mrs. Pettifer, though you
are a Tryanite."
" But that's Mr. Tryan's religion
too,- at least partly. There 's nobody can give himself up more to
doing good amongst the poor; and he
thinks of their bodies too, as well as
their souls."
"0 yes, yes; but then he talks
about faith, and grace, and all that,
making people believe they are better
than others, and that God loves them
more than he does the rest of the
world. I know he has put a great




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


deal of that into Sally Martin's head,
and it has done her no good at all.
She was as nice, honest, patient a girl
as need be before; and now she fancies
she has new light and new wisdom.
I don't like those notions."
" You mistake him, indeed you do,
my dear Mrs. Dempster; I wish
you 'd go and hear him preach."
"Hear him   preach! Why, you
wicked woman, you would persuade
me to disobey my husband, would
you? O, shocking! I shall run away
from you. Good by."
A few days after this conversation,
however, Janet went to Sally Martin's
about three o'clock in the afternoon.
The pudding that had been sent in
for herself and " Mammy " struck her
as just the sort of delicate morsel the
poor consumptive girl would be likely
to fancy, and in her usual imnulsive
way she had started up from the dinner-table at onc(e, put on her bonnet,
and set off with a covered plateful to
the neighboring street. When she
entered the house there was no one to
be seen; but in the little sideroom
where Sally lay, Janct heard a voice.
It was one she had not heard before,
but she immediately guessed it to be
Mr. Tryan's. Her first impulse was
to set down her plate and go away,
but Mrs. Martin might not be in, and
then there would be no one to give
Sally that delicious bit of pudding.
So she stood still, and was obliged to
hear what Mr. Tryan was saying. He
was interrupted by one of the invalid's
violent fits of coughing.
" It is very hard to bear, is it not? "
he said when she was still again.
" Yet God seems to support you under
it wonderfully. Pray for me, Sally,
that I may have strength too when
the hour of great suffering comes. It
is one of my worst weaknesses to
shrink from bodily pain, and I think
the time is perhaps not far off when
I shall have to bear what you are
bearing. But now I have tired you.
We have talked enough. Good by."
Janet was surprised, and forgot her
wish not to encounter Mr. Tryan;


the tone and the words were so unlike what she had expected to hear.
There was none of the self-satisfied
unction of the teacher, quoting, or exhorting, or expounding, for the benefit
of the hearer, but a simple appeal for
help, a confession of weakness. Mr.
Tryan had his deeply felt troubles,
then? Mr. Tryan, too, like herself,
knew what it was to tremble at a
foreseen trial, - to shudder at an impending burden, heavier than he felt
able to bear?
The most brilliant deed of virtue
could not have inclined Janet's goodwill towards Mr. Tryan so much as
this fellowship in suffering, and the
softening thought was in her eyes
when he appeared in the door-way,
pale, weary, and depressed.  The
sight of Janet standing there with the
entire absence of self-consciousness
which belongs to a new and vivid im*
pression made him start and pause a
little. Their eyes met, and they.
looked at each other gravely for a
few moments. Then they bowed, and
Mr. Tryan passed out.
There is a power in the direct
glance of a sincere and loving human
soul, which will do more to dissipate
prejudice and kindle charity than the
most elaborate arguments. The fullest exposition of Mr. Tryan's doctrine
might not have sufficed to convince
Janet that he had not an odious selfcomplacency in believing himself- a
peculiar child of God; but one direct,
pathetic look of his dissociated him
with that conception forever.
This happened late in the autumn,
not long before Sally Martin died.
Janet mentioned her new impression
to no one, for she was afraid of arriving at a still more complete contradiction of her former ideas. We have
all of us considerable regard for our
past self, and are not fond of casting
reflections on that respected individual
by a total negation of his opinions.
Janet could no longer think of Mr.
Tryan without sympathy, but she
still shrank from the idea of becoming
his hearer and admirer. That was a




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


285.


reversal of the past which was as
little accordant with her inclination
as her circumstances.
And indeed this interview with Mr.
Tryan was soon thrust into the background of poor Janet's memory by the
daily thickening miseries of her life.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE loss of Mr. Jerome as a client
proved o;ly the beginning of annoyances to Dempster. That old gentleman had in him the vigorous remnant
of an energy and perseverance which
had created his own fortune; and being, as I have hinted, given to chewing the cud of a righteous indignation
with considerable relish, he was determined to carry on his retributive war
against the persecuting attorney.
Having some influence with Mr.
Pryme, who was one of the most substantial rate-payers in the neighboring
parish of Dingley, and who had himself a complex and long-standing private account with Dempster, Mr.
Jerome stirred up this gentleman to
an investigation of some suspicious
points in the attorney's conduct of
the parish affairs. The natural consequence was a personal quarrel between Dempster and Mr. Pryme; the
client demanded his account, and then
followed the old story of an exorbitant
lawyer's bill, with the unpleasant anticlimax of taxing.
These disagreeables, extending over
many months, ran along side by side
with the pressing business of Mr. Armstrong's lawsuit, which was threatening to take a turn rather depreciatory
of Dempster's professional prevision;
and it is not surprising that, being
thus kept in a constant state of irritated excitement about his own affairs,
he had little time for the further exhibition of his public spirit or for rallying the forlorn hope of sound churchmanship against cant and hypocrisy.
Not a few persons who had a grudge
against him began to remark, with


satisfaction, that "Dempster's luck
was forsaking him"; particularly
Mrs. Linnet, who thought she saw distinctly the gradual ripening of a
providential scheme, whereby a just
retribution would be wrought on the
man who had deprived her of Pye's
Croft. On the other hand, Dempster's
well-satisfied clients, who were of
opinion that the punishment of his
wickedness might conveniently be deferred to another world, noticed with
some concern that he was drinking
more than ever, and that both his
temper and his-driving were becoming
more furious. Unhappily those additional glasses of brandy, that exasperation of loud-tongued abuse, had
other effects than any that entered
into the contemplation of anxious clients; they were the little superadded
symbols that were perpetually raising
the sum of home misery.
Poor Janet! how heavily the months
rolled on for her, laden with fresh sorrows as the summer passed into autumn, the autumn into winter, and
the winter into spring again.  Every
feverish morning, with its blank listlessness and despair, seemed more
hateful than the last; every coming
night more impossible to brave without arming herself in leaden stupor.
The morning light brought no gladness to her; it seemed only to throw
its glare on what had happened in the
dim candle-light,-on the cruel man
seated immovable in drunken obstinacy by the dead fire and dying lights
in the dining-room, rating her in harsh
tones, reiterating old reproaches, - or
on a hideous blank of something unremembered, something that must
have made that dark bruise on her
shoulder, which ached as she dressed
herself.
Do you wonder how it was that
things had come to this pass, -what
offence Janet had committed in the
early years of marriage to rouse the
brutal hatred of this man? The seeds
of things are very small: the hours
that lie between sunrise and the gloom
of midnight are travelled through by




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


tiniest markings of the clock: and
Janet, looking back along the fifteen
years of her married life, hardly knew
how or where this total misery began;
hardly knew when the sweet wedded
love and hope that had set forever
had ceased to make a twilight of memory and relenting, before the oncoming of the utter dark.
Old Mrs. l)empster thought she saw
the true beginning of it all in Janet's
want of housekeeping skill and exactness. " Janet," she said to herself,
"was always running about doing
things for other people, and neglecting
her own house.   That provokes a
man: what use is it for a woman to
be loving, and making a fuss with her
husband, if she does n't take care and
keep his home just as he likes it; if
she is n't at hand when he wants anything done; if she does n't attend to
all his wishes, let them be as small as
they may? That was what I did
when I was a wife, though I did n't
make half so much fuss about loving
my husband. Then, Janet had no
children.".... Ah! there Mammy) Dempster had touched a true
spring, not perhaps of her son's cruelty, but of half of Janet's misery.
If she had had babes to rock to sleep,
— little ones to kneel in their nightdresses and say their prayers at her
knees, -sweet boys and girls to put
their young arms round her neck and
kiss away her tears, her poor hungry
heart would have been fed with strong
love, and might never have needed
that fiery poison to still its cravings.
Mighty is the force of motherhood!
says the great tragic poet to us across
the ages, finding, as usual, the simplest
words for the sublimest fact,- 8sEvov
7- TerKELV Ec-rv.  It transforms all
things by its vital heat: it turns timidity into fierce courage, and dreadless
defiance into tremulous submission; it
turns thoughtlessness into foresight,
and yet stills all anxiety into calm
content; it makes selfishness become
self-denial, and gives even to hard
vanity theglance of admiring love.
Yes! if Janet had been a mother, she




might have been saved from much
sin, and therefore from much of her
sorrow.
But do not believe that it was anything either present or wanting in
poor Janet that formed the motive of
her husband's cruelty. Cruelty, like
every other vice, requires no motive
outside itself, - it only requires opportunity.  You do not suppose
Dempster had any motive for drinking beyond the craving for drink; the
presence of brandy was the only necessary condition. And an unloving,
tyrannous, brutal man needs no motive to prompt his (ruelty; he needs
only the perpetual presence of a
woman   he can call his own. A
whole park full of tame or timideyed animals to torment at his will
would not serve him so well to glut
his lust of torture; they could not
fcel as one woman does; they could
not throw out the keen retort which
whets the edge of hatred.
Janet's bitterness would overflow in
ready words; she was not to be made
meek by cruelty; she would repent
of nothing in the face of injustice,
though she was subdued in a moment
by a word or a look that recalled the
old days of fondness; and in times
of comparative calm would often recover her sweet woman's habit of caressing playful affection. But such
days were become rare, and poor
Janet's soul was kept like a vexed
sea, tossed by a new storm before the
old waves have fallen. Proud, angry
resistance and sullen endurance were
now almost the only alternations she
knew. She would bear it all proudly
to the world, but proudly towards him
too; her woman's weakness might
shriek a cry for pity under a heavy
blow, but voluntarily she would do
nothing to mollify him, unless he first
relented. What mad she ever done to
him but love him too well, - but believe in him too foolishly? He had
no pity on her tender flesh; he could
strike the soft neck he had once asked
to kiss. Yet she would not admit her
wretchedness; she had married him




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


287


blindly, and she would bear it out to
the terrible end, whatever that might
be. Better this misery than the blank
that lay for her outside her married
home.
But there was one person who
heard all the plaints and all the outbursts of bitterness and despair which
Janet was never tempted to pour into
any other ear; and alas! in her worst
moments, Janet would throw out wild
reproaches against that patient listener. For the wrong that rouses our
angry passions finds only a mediium
in us; it passes through us like a
vibration, and we inflict what we
have suffered.
Mrs. Raynor saw too clearly all
through the winter that things were
getling worse in Orchard Street. She
had evidence enough of it in Janet's
visits to her; and, though her own
visits to her daughter were so timed
that she saw little of Denmpster personally, she noticed many indications,
not only that he was drinking to
greater excess, but that he was beginning to lose that physical power of supporting excess which had long been the
admiration of such fine spirits as Mr.
Tomlinson. It seemed as if Dempster had some consciousness of this,
-some new distrust of himself; for,
before winter wvas over, it was observed that he had renounced his habit
of driving out alone, and was never
seen in his gig without a servant by
his side.
Nemesis is lame, but she is of colossal stature, like the gods; and sometimes, while her sword is not yet unsheathed, she stretches out her huge
left arm and grasps her victim. The
mighty hand is invisible, but the victim totters under the dire clutch.
The various symptoms that things
were getting worse with the Dempsters afforded Milby gossip something
new to say on an old subject. Mrs.
Dempster,   every  one   remarked,
looked more miserable than ever,
though she kept up the old pretence
of being happy and satisfied. She
was scarcely ever seen, as she used to


be, going about on her good-natured
errands; and even old Mrs. Crewe,
who had always been wilfully blind
to anything wrong in her favorite
Janet, was obliged to admit that she
had not seemed like herself lately.
"The poor thing's out of health,"
said the kind little old lady, in answer
to all gossip about Janet; "her headaches always were bad, and I know
what headaches are; whv, they make
one quite delirious sometimes." Mrs.
Phipps, for her part, declared she
would never accept an invit:tiion to
Dempster's again; it was getting so
very disagreeable to go there, Mrs.
D)mpster was often " so strange."
To be sure, there were dreadful
stories about the way Dempster used
his wife; but in Mrs. Phipp's opinion, it was six of one and half a dozen
of the other. Mrs. Dempster had
never been like other women; she had
always a flighty way with her, carrying parcels of snuff to old Mrs.
'ooke, and going to drink tea with
Mrs. Brinley, the carpenter's wife;
and then never taking care of her
clothes, always wearing the same
things week-day or Sunday. A man
has a poor lookout with a wife of that
sort. Mr. Phipps, amiable and laconic, wondered how it was women
were so fond of running each other
down.
Mr. Pratt having been called in
provisionally to a patient of Mr. Pilgrim's in a case of compound fracture,
observed in a friendly colloquy with
his brother surgeon the next day:" So Dempster has left off driving
himself, I see; he won't end with a
broken neck after all. You '11 have a
case of meningitis and delirium tremens instead."
"Ah," said Mr. Pilgrim, "he can
hardly stand it much longer at the
rate he's going on, one would think.
He's been confoundedly cut up about
that business of Armstrong's, I fancy.
It may do him some harm, perhaps,
but Dempster must have feathered his
nest pretty well; he can afford to lose
a little business."




288


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


"IHis business will outlast him,
that 's pretty clear," said Pratt;
"he'l1 run down like a watch with a
broken spring one of these days."
Another prognostic of evil to Dempster came at the beginning of March.
For then little "Mamsey" died -
died suddenly. The housemaid found
her seated motionless in her arm-chair,
her knitting fallen down, and the tortoise-shell cat reposing on it unreproved. The little white old woman
had ended her wintry age of patient
sorrow, believing to the last that
"Robert might have been a good
husband as he had been a good son."
When the earth was thrown on
Mamsey's coffin, and the son, in crape
scarf and hatband, turned away homeward, his good angel, lingering with
outstretched wing on the edge of the
grave, cast one despairing look after
him, and took flight forever.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE last week in March- three
weeks after old Mrs. l)cmpster died
-occurred the unpleasant winding
up of affairs between Dempstcr and
Mr. Pryme, and under this additional
source of irritation the attorney's diurnal drunkenness had taken on its
most ill-tempered and brutal phase.
On the Friday morning, before setting
out for Rotherby, he told his wife
that he had invited "four men to dinner at half past six that evening.
The previous night had been a terrible
one for Janet, and when her husband
broke his grim morning silence to say
these few words, she was looking so
blank and listless that he added in a
loud sharp key, " Do you hear what I
say? or must I tell the cook?" She
started, and said, " Yes, I hear."
"Then mind and have a dinner
provided, and don't go mooning about
like crazy Jane."
Half an hour afterwards Mrs. Raynor, quietly busy in her kitchen with
her household labors, -for she had


only a little twelve-year-old girl as a
servant, - heard with trembling the
rattling of the garden gate and the
opening of the outer door. She knew
the step, and in one short moment she
lived beforehand through the coming
scene. She hurried out of the kitchen,
and there in the passage, as she had
felt, stood Janet, her eyes worn as if
by night-long watching, her dress
careless, her step languid. No cheerful morning greeting to her mother,
- no kiss. She turned into the parlor, and, seating herself on the sofa
opposite her mother's chair, looked
vacantly at the walls and furniture
until the corners of her nouth began
to tremble, and her dark eyes filled
with tears that fell unwiped down her
cheeks. The mother sat silently opposite to her, afraid to speak. She
felt sure there was nothing new the
matter, -sure that the torrent of
words would come sooner or later.
" Mother! why don't you speak to
me " Jane burst out at last; " you
don't care about my suffering; you
are blaming me because I feel-because I am miserable."
"My child, I am not blaming you,
-my heart is bleeding for you.
Your head is bad this morning,you have had a bad night. Let me
make you a cup of tea now. Perhaps you did n't like your breakfast."
"Yes, that is what you always
think, mother. It is the old story,
you think. You don't ask me what
it is I have had to bear. You are
tired of hearing me. You are cruel,
like the rest; every one is cruel in
this world. Nothing but blame —
blame- blame; never any pity. God
is cruel to have sent me into the world
to bear all this misery."
"Janet, Janet, don't say so. It is
not for us to judge; we must submit;
we must be thankful for the gift of
life."
"Thnnkful for life! Why should
I be thankful?  God has made me
with a heart to feel,, and he has sent
me nothing but misery. How could




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


289


I help itt  How could I know what
would come? Why did n't you tell
me, mother?-why did you let me
marry? You knew what brutes men
could be; and there's no help for me,
- no hope. I can't kill myself; I've
tried; but I can't leave this world
and go to another. There may be no
pity for me there, as there is none
here."
"Janet, my child, there is pity.
Have I ever done anything but love
you? And there is pity in God.
Has n't he put pity into your heart
for many a poor sufferer? Where
did it come from, if not from him? "
Janet's nervous irritation now
broke out into sobs instead of complainings; and her mother was thankful, for after that crisis there would
very likely come relenting, and tenderness, and comparative calm. She
went out to make some tea, and
when she returned with the tray in
her hands, Janet had dried her eyes
and now turned them towards her
mother with a faint attempt to smile;
but the poor face, in its sad blurred
beauty, looked all the more piteous.
" Mother will insist upon her tea,"
she said, "and I really think I can
drink a cup. But I must go home
directly, for there are people coming
to dinner. Could you go with me
and help me, mother? "
Mrs. Raynor was always ready to
do that. She went to Orchard Street
with Janet, and remained with her
through the day, - comforted, as
evening approached, to see her become more cheerful and willing to attend to her toilet. At half past five
everything was in order; Janet was
dressed; and when the mother had
kissed her and said good by, she could
not help pausing a moment in sorrowful admiration at the tall rich
figure, looking all the grander for the
plainness of the deep mourning dress,
and the noble face with its massy
folds of black hair, made matronly
by a simple white cap. Janet had
that enduring beauty which belongs
to pm'r majestic outline and depth of
18


tint. Sorrow and neglect leave their
traces on such beauty, but it thrills
us to the last, like a glorious Greek
temple, which, for all the loss it has
suffered fiom  time and barbarous
hands, has gained a solemn history,
and fills our imagination the more because it is incomplete to the sense.
It was six o'clock before Dempster
returned from Rotherby. He had evidently drunk a great deal, and was in
an angry humor; but Janet, who had
gathered some little courage and forbearance from the consciousness that
she had done her best to-day, was determined to speak pleasantly to him.
" Robert," she said gently, as she
saw him seat himself in the diningroom in his dusty snuffy clothes, and
take some documents out of his pocket, "will you not wash and change
your dress? It will refresh you."
"Leave me alone, will you? " said
Dempster, in his most brutal tone.
"Do change your coat and waistcoat, they are so dusty. I've laid
all your things out ready."
"0 you have, have you? "  After
a few minutes he rose very deliberately and walked up stairs into his bedroom. Janet had often been scolded
before for not laying out his clothes,
and she thought now, not without
some wonder, that this attention of
hers had brought him to compliance.
Presently he called out, "Janet!"
and she went up stairs.
"Here! Take that! " he said, as
soon as she reached the door, flinging
at her the coat she had laid out.
"Another time, leave me to do as I
please, will you? "
The coat, flung with great force,
only brushed her shoulder, and fell
some distance within the drawingroom, the door of which stood open
just opposite. She hastily retreated
as she saw the waistcoat coming, and
one by one the clothes she had laid
out were all flung into the drawingroom.
Janet's face flushed with anger, and
for the first time in her life her resentment overcame the long-cherished
8




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


pride that made her hide her griefs
from the world. There are moments
when by some strange impulse we
contradict our  past selves,-fatal
moments, when a fit of passion, like
a lava stream, lays low the work of
half our lives. Janet thought: "I
will not pick up the clothes; they
shall lie there until the visitors come,
and he shall be ashamed of himself."
There was a knock at the door,
and she made haste to seat herself in
the drawing-room, lest the servant
should enter and remove the clothes,
which were lying half on the table
and half on the ground. Mr. Lowme
entered with a less familiar visitor, a
client of Dempster's, and the next
moment Dempster himself came in.
His eye fell at once on the clothes,
and then turned for an instant with
a devilish glance of concentrated
hatred on Janet, who, still flushed
and excited, affected unconsciousness.
After shaking hands with his visitors,
he immediately rang the bell.
"Take those clothes away," he
said to the servant, not looking at
Janet again.
During dinner, she kept up her assumed air of indifference, and tried
to seem in high spirits, laughing and
talking more than usual. In reality,
she felt as if she had defied a wild
beast within the four walls of his den,
and he was crouching backward in
preparation for his deadly spring.
Dempster affected to take no notice
of her, talked obstreperously, and
drank steadily.
About eleven the party dispersed,
with the exception of Mr. Budd, who
had joined them after dinner, and appeared disposed to stay drinking a little longer. Janet began to hope that
he would stay-long enough for Dempster to become heavy and stupid, and
so to fall asleep down stairs, which
was a rare but occasional ending of
his nights. She told the servants to
sit up no longer, and she herself undressed and went to bed, trying to
cheat her imagination into the belief
that the day was ended for her. But


when she lay down, she became more
intensely awake than ever. Everything she had taken this evening
seemed only to stimulate her senses,
and her apprehensions to new vivid-'
ness. Her heart beat violently, and
she heard every sound in the house.
At last, when it was twelve, she
heard Mr. Budd go out; she heard
the door slam. Dempster had not
moved. Was he asleep? Would he
forget? The minute seemed long,
while, with a quickening pulse, she
was on the stretch to catch every
sound.
"Janet!"   The loud jarring voice
seemed to strike her like a hurled
weapon.
"Janet! " he called again, moving
out of the dining-foom to the foot of
the stairs.
There was a pause of a minute.
" If you don't come, I '11 kill you."
Another pause, and she heard him
turn back into the dining-room. He
was gone for a light, - perhaps for a
weapon. Perhaps he would kill her.
Let him. Life was as hideous as
death. For years she had been rushing on to some unknown but certain
horror; and now she was close upon
it. She was almost glad. She was
in a state of flushed feverish defiance
that neutralized her woman's terrors.
She heard his heavy step on the
stairs; she saw the slowly advancing
light. Then she saw the tall massive
figure, and the heavy face, now fierce
with drunken rage. He had nothing
but the candle in his hand. He set
it down on the table, and advanced
close to the bed.
" So you think you '11 defy me, do
you? We'll see how long that will
last. Get up, madam; out of bed
this instant!"
In the close presence of the dreadful man, - of this huge crushing force,
armed with savage will, -poor Janet's
desperate defiance all forsook her, and
her terrors came back. Trembling
she got up, and stood helpless in her
nightdress before her husband.
'ie seized her with his heavy grasp




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


291


by the shoulder, and pushed her before him.
"I '11 cool your hot spirit for you!
I 'll teach you to brave me!"
Slowly he pushed her along before
him, down stairs and through the
passage, where a small oil lamp was
still flickering. What was he going
to do to her? She thought every moment he was going to dash her before
him on the ground. But she gave no
scream, - ste only trembled.
He pushed her on to the entrance,
and held her firmly in his grasp while
he lifted the latch of the door. Then
he opened the door a little way,
thrust her out, and slammed it behind her.
For a short space, it seemed like a
deliverance to Janet.  The harsh
northeast wind, that blew through
her thin nightdress, and sent her
long heavy black hair streaming,
seemed like the breath of pity after
the grasp of that threatening monster. But soon the sense of release
from  an overpowering terror gave
way before the sense of the fate that
had really come upon her.
This, then, was what she had been
travelling towards through her long
years of misery! Not yet death. Oh!
if she had been brave enough for it,
death would have been better. The
servants slept at the back of the house;.
it was impossible to make them hear,
so that they might let her in again
quietly, without her husband's knowledge. And she would not have tried.
He had thrust her out, and it should
be forever.
There would have been dead silence
in Orchard Street but for the whistling of the wind and the swirling of
the March dust on the pavement.
Thick clouds covered the sky; every
door was closed; every window was
dark. No ray of light fell on the tall
white figure that stood in lonely misery on the door-step; no eye rested
on Janet as she sank down on the
cold stone, and looked into the dismal niight. She seemed to be looking into her own blank future.


CHAPTER XV.
THE stony street, the bitter northeast wind and darkness, - and in the
midst of them a tender woman thrust
out from her husband's home in her
thin nightdress, the harsh wind cutting her naked feet, and driving her
long hair away from her half-clad
bosom, where the poor heart is
crushed with anguish and despair.
The drowning man, urged by the
supreme agony, lives in an instant
through all his happy and unhappy
past: when the dark flood has fallen
like a curtain, memory, in a single
moment, sees the drama acted over
again. And even in those earlier crises, which are but types of death, 
when we are cut off abruptly from the
life we have known, when we can no
longer expect to-morrow to resemble
yesterday, and find ourselves by some
sudden shock on the confines of the unknown, - there is often the same sort
of lightning-flash through the dark
and unfrequented chambers of memory.
When Janet sat down shivering on
the door-stone, with the door shut upon her past life, and the future black
and unshapen before her as the night,
the scenes of her childhood, her youth,
and her painful womanhood, rushed
back upon her consciousness, and
made one picture with her present desolation. The petted child taking her
newest toy t4 bed with her, —the
young girl, proud in strength and
beauty, dreaming that life was an easy
thing, and that it was pitiful weakness
to be unhappy, - the bride, passing
with trembling joy from the outer
court to the inner sanctuary of woman's life, - the wife, beginning her
initiation into sorrow, wounded, resenting, yet still hoping and forgiving,
-the poor bruised woman, seeking
through weary years the one refuge
of despair, oblivion:- Janet seemed
to herself all these in the same moment that she was conscious of being
seated on the cold stone under the
shock of a new misery. All her early




292


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


gladness, all her bright hopes and illusions, all her gifts of beauty and affection, served only to darken the riddle of her life; they were the betraying promises of a cruel destiny which
had brought out those sweet blossoms
only that the winds and storms might
have a greater work of desolation,
which had nursed her like a pet fawn
into tenderness and bfnd expectation,
only that she might feel a keener terror in the clutch of the panther. Her
mother had sometimes said that troubles were sent to make us better and
draw us nearer to God. What mockery that seemed to Janet! Her troubles had been sinking her lower irom
year to year, pressing upon her like
heavy fever-laden vapors, and perverting the very plenitude of her nature
into a deeper source of disease. Her
wretchedness had been a perpetually tightening instrument of torture,
which had gradually absorbed all the
other sensibilities of her nature into
the sense of pain and the maddened
craving for relief. 0, if some ray of
hope, of pity, of consolation, would
pierce through the horrible gloom, she
might believe then in a Divine love, -
in a Heavenly Father who cared for his
children I But now she had no faith,
no trust. There was nothing she
could lean on in the wide world, for
her mother was only a fellow-sufferer
in her own lot. The poor patient woman could do little more than mourn
with her daughter: she had humble
resignation enough to sustain her own
soul, but she could no more give comfort and fortitude to Janet, than the
withered ivy-covered trunk can bear
up its strong, full-boughed offspring
crashing down under an Alpine storm.
Janet felt she was alone: no human
soul had measured her anguish, had
understood her self-despair, had entered into her sorrows and her sins
with  that deep-sighted  sympathy
which is wiser than all blame, more
potent than all reproof, - such sympathy as had swelled her own heart
for many a sufferer. And if there was I
any Divine Pity, she could not feel it; 


it kept aloof from her, it poured no
balm into her wounds, it stretched
out no hand to bear up her weak resolve, to fortify her fainting courage.
Now, in her utmost loneliness, she
shed no tear: she sat staring fixedly
into the darkness, while inwardly she
gazeil at her own past, almost losing
the sense that it was her own, or that
she was anything more than a spectator at a strange and dreadful play.
The loud sound of the church
clock, striking one, startled her. She
had not been there more than half an
hour, then? And it seemed to her as
iv she had been there half the night.
She was getting benumbed with cold.
With that strong instinctive dread of
pain and death which had made her
recoil from suicide, she started up,
and the disagreeable sensation of resting on her benumbed feet helped to
recall her completely to the sense of
the present. The wind was beginning
to make rents in the clouds, and there
came every now and then a dim light
of stars that frightened her more than
the darkness; it was like a cruel finger pointing her out in her wretchedness and humiliation; it made her
shudder at the thought of the morning twilight. What could she do?
Not go to her mother, -not rouse
her in the dead of night to tell her
this. Her mother would think she
was a spectre, it would be enough
to kill her with horror And the
wav there was so long.... if she
should  meet some one... yet
she must seek some shelter, somewhere to hide herself. Five doors off
there was Mrs. Pettifer's; that kind
woman would take her in. It was of
no use now to be proud and mind
about the world's knowing; she had
nothing to wish for, nothing to care
about; only she could not help shuddering at the thought of braving the
morning light, there in the street,she was frightened at the thought of
spending long hours in the cold.
Life might mean anguish, might
mean despair; but - 0, she must
clutch it, though with bleeding fin



JANET'S REPENTANCE.


293


gers; her feet must cling to the firm
earth that the sunlight would revisit,
not slip into the untried abyss, where
she might long even for familiar
pains.
Janet trod slowly with her naked
feet on the rough pavement, trembling at the fitful gleams of starlight,
and supporting herself by the wall,
as the gusts of wind drove right
against her.  The very wind was
cruel: it tried to push her back from
the door where she wanted to go and
knock and ask for pity.
Mrs. Pettifer's house did not look
into Orchard Street: it stood a little
way up a wide passage which opened
into the street through an archway.
Janet turned up the archway, and
saw a faint light coming from Mrs.
Pettifer's bedroom window.   The
glimmer of a rushlight from a room
where a friend was lying was like a
ray of mercy to Janet, after that
long, long time of darkness and loneliness; it would not be so dreadful to
awake Mrs. Pettifer as she had
thought. Yet she lingered some minutes at the door before she gathered
courage to knock; she felt as if the
sound must betray her to others besides Mrs. Pettifer, though there was
no other dwelling that opened into
the passage, - only warehouses and
out-buildings. There was no gravel
for her to throw up at the window,
nothing but heavy pavement; there
was no door-bell; she must knock.
Her first rap was very timid,- one
feeble fall of the knocker; and then
she stood still again for many minutes; but presently she rallied her
courage and knocked several times
together, not loudly, but rapidly, so
that Mrs. Pettifer, if she only heard
the sound, could notmistake it. And
she had heard it, for by and by the
casement of her window was opened,
and Janet perceived that she was
bending out to try and discern who it
was at the door.
"It is I, Mrs. Pettifcr; it is Janet
Dempster.   Take me in, for pity's
sake.


"Merciful God! what has happened?"
" Robert has turned me out. I
have been in the cold a long while."
Mrs. Pettifer said no more, but
hurried away from the window, and
was soon at the door with a light in
her hand.
" Come in, my poor dear, come in,"
said the good woman in a tremulous
voice, drawing Janet within the door.
" Come into my warm bed, and may
God in heaven save and comfort
you."
The pitying eyes, the tender voice,
the warm touch, caused a rush of new
feeling in Janet. Her heart swelled,
and she burst out suddenly, like a
child, into loud passionate sobs. Mrs.
Pettifer could not help crying with
her, but she said, " Come up stairs,
my dear, come. Don't linger in the
cold."
She drew the poor sobbing thing
gently up stairs, and persuaded her
to get into the warm bed. But it
was long before Janet could lie down.
She sat leaning her head on her
knees, convulsed by sobs, while the
motherly woman covered her with
clothes and held her arms round her
to comfort her with warmth. At last
the hysterical passion had exhausted
itself, and she fell back on the pillow;
but her throat was still agitated by
piteous after-sobs, such as shake a
little child even when it has found a
refuge from its alarms on its mother's lap.
Now Janet was getting quieter,
Mrs. Pettifer determined to go down
and make a cup of tea, the first thing
a kind old woman thinks of as a sol.
ace and restorative under all calamities. Happily there was no danger
of awaking her servant, a heavy girl
of sixteen, who was snoring blissfully
in the attic, and might be kept ignorant of the way in which Mrs.
Dempster had come in. So Mrs.
Pettifer busied herself with rousing
the kitchen fire, which was kept in
under a huge " raker," - a possibility by which the coal of the midland




294


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


counties atones for all its slowness
and white ashes.
When she carried up the tea, Janet
was lying quite still; the spasmodic
agitation had ceased, and she seemed
lost in thought; her eyes were fixed
vacantly on the rushlight shade, and
all the lines of sorrow were deepened
in her face.
"Now, my dear," said Mrs Pettifer, " let me persuade you to drink a
cup of tea; you '11 find it warm you
and soothe you very much. Why,
dear heart, your feet are like ice still.
Now, do drink this tea, and I '11
wrap 'em up in flannel, and then
they '11 get warm."
Janet turned her dark eyes on her
old friend and stretched out her arms.
She was too much oppressed to say
anything; her suffering lay like a
heavy weight on her power of speech;
but she wanted to kiss the good kind
woman. Mrs. Pettifer, setting down
the cup, bent towards the sad beautiful face, and Janet kissed her with
earnest;acramental kisses, - such
kisses as seal a new and closer bond
between the helper and the helped.
She drank the tea obediently. "It
does warm  me," she said.   "But
now you will get into bed. I shall
lie still now."
Mrs Pettifer felt it was the best
thing she could do to lie down quietly
and say no more. She hoped Janet
might go to sleep. As for herself,
with that tendency to wakefulness
common to advanced years, she found
it impossible to compose herself to
sleep again after this agitating surprise. She lay listening to the clock,
wondering what had led to this new
outrage of Dempster's, praying for
the poor thing at her side, and pitying the mother who would have to
hear it all to-morrow.
CHAPTER XYI.
JANET lay still, as she had promised; but the tea, which had warmed


her and given her a sense of greater
bodily ease, had only heightened the
previous excitement of her brain.
Her ideas had a new vividness, which
made her feel as if she had only seen
life through a dim haze before; her
thoughts, instead of springing from
the action of her own mind, were
external existences, that thrust themselves imperiously upon her like
haunting visions. The future took
shape after shape of misery before
her, always ending in her being dragged back again to her old life of terror,
and stupor, and fevered despair. Her
husband had so long overshadowed
her life that her imagination could
not keep hold of a condition in which
that great dread was absent; and
even  his absence-what was it?
only a dreary vacant flat, where there
was nothing to strive after, nothing
to long for.
At last, the light of morning quenched the rushlight, and Janet's thoughts
became more and more fragmentary
and confused.  She was every moment slipping off the level on which
she lay thinking, down, down into
some depth from which she tried to
rise again with a start. Slumber was
stealing over her weary brain: that
uneasy slumber which is only better
than wretched waking, because the
life we seemed to live in it determines
no wretched future, because the things
we do and suffer in it are but hateful shadows, and leave no impress
that petrifies into an irrevocable
past.
She had scarcely been asleep an
hour when her movements became
more violent, her mutterings more
frequent and agitated, till at last she
started up with a smothered cry, and
looked wildly round her, shaking with
terror.
" Don't be frightened, dear Mrs.
Dempster," said Mrs. Pettifer, who
was up and dressing, "you are with
me, your old friend, Mrs. Pettifer.
Nothing will harm you."
Janet sank back again on her
pillow, still trembling. After lying




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


295


silent a little while, she said: "It was
a horrible dream. Dear Mrs. Pettifer, don't let any one know I am here.
Keep it a secret. If he finds out,
he will come and drag me back
again."
"No, my dear, depend on me. I 've
just thought I shall send the servant
home on a holiday, -I 've promised
her a good while.   I'1  send her
away as soon as she's had her breakfast, and she'll have no occasion to
know you're here. There's no holding servants' tongues, if you let 'em
know anything. What they don't
know, they won't tell; you may
trust 'em so far. But shouldn't you
like me to go and fetch your mother?"
"No, not yet, not yet. I can't
bear to see her yet."
" Well, it shall be just as you like.
Now try and get to sleep again. I
shall leave you for an hour or two,
and send off Phoebe, and then bring
you some breakfast. I'11 lock the
door behind me, so that the girl
may n't come in by chance."
The daylight changes the aspect of
misery to us, as of everything else.
In the night it presses on our imagination,-the forms it takes are false,
fitful, exaggerated; in broad day it
sickens our sense with the dreary persistence of definite measurable reality.
The man who looks with ghastly
horror on all his property aflame in
the dead of night has not half the
sense of destitution he will have in
the morning, when he walks over the
ruins lying blackened in the pitiless
sunshine. That moment of intensest
depression was come to Janet, when
the daylight which showed her the
walls, and chairs, and tables, and all
the commonplace reality that surrounded her, seemed to lay bare the
future too, and bring out into oppressive distinctness all the details of a
weary life to be lived from day to day,
with no hope to strengthen her against
that evil habit, which she loathed in
retrospect and yet was powerless to
resist.  Her husband would never


consent to her living away from him:
she was become necessary to his
tyranny; he would never willingly
loosen his grasp on her. She had a
vague notion of some protection the
law might give her, if she could prove
her life in danger fron him; but she
shrank utterly, as she had always
done, from any active, public resistance or vengeance: she felt too crushed, too faulty, too liable to reproach,
to have the courage, even if she had
had the wish, to put herself openly in
the position of a wronged woman
seeking redress. She had no strength
to sustain her in a course of selfdefence and independence: there was
a darker shadow over her life than the
dread of her husband, —it was the
shadow of self-despair. The easiest
thing would be to go away and hide
herself from him. But then there was
her mother: Robert had all her little
property in his hands, and that little
was scarcely enough to keep her in
comfort without his aid. If Janet
went away alone he would be sure to
persecute her mother; and if she did
go away, - what then? She must
work to maintain herself; she must
exert herself, weary and hopeless as
she was, to begin life afresh. How
hard that seemed to her! Janet's
nature did not belie her grand face
and form: there was energy, there
was strength in it; but it was the
strength of the vine, which must
have its broad leaves and rich clusters
borne up by a firm stay. And now
she had nothing to rest on, —no
faith, no love. If her mother had
been very -feeble, aged, or sickly,
Janet's deep pity and tenderness might
have made a daughter's duties an
interest and a solace; but Mrs. Raynor had never needed tendance; she
had always been giving help to her
daughter; she had always been a
sort of humble ministering spirit; and
it was one of Janet's pangs of memory,
that instead of being her mother's
comfort, she had been her mother's
trial. Everywhere the same sadness I
Her life was a sun-dried, barren




296


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


tract, where there was no shadow,
and where all the waters were bitter.
No! She suddenly thought- and
the thought was like an electric shock
- there was one spot in her memory
which seemed to promise her an untried spring, where the waters might
be sweet. That short interview with
Mr. Tryan had come back upon her,
- his voice, his words, his look, which
told her that he knew sorrow. His
words had implied that he thought his
death was near; yet he had a faith
which enabled him to labor, — enabled
him to give comfort to others. That
look of his came back on her with a
vividness greater than it had had for
her in reality: surely he knew more
of the secrets of sorrow than other
men; perhaps he had some message
of comfort, different from the feeble
words she had been used to hear from
others. She was tired, she was sick
of that barren exhortation,- Do right,
and keep a clear conscience, and God
will reward you, and your troubles
will be easier to bear. She wanted
strength to do right, - she wanted something to rely on besides her own resolutions; for was not the path behind
her all strewn with broken resolutions I
How could she trust in new ones?
She had often heard Mr. Tryan
laughed at for being fond of great
sinners. She began to see a new
meaning in those words; he would
prhaps understand her helplessness,
er wants. If she could pour out her
heart to him! if she could for the
first time in her life unlock all the
chambers of her soul!
The impulse to confession almost
always requires the presence of a fresh
car and a fresh h8hrt; and in our
moments of spiritual need, the man to
whom we have no tie but our common
nature seems nearer to us than mother,
brother, or fiend. Our daily familiar
life is but a hiding of ourselves from
each other behind a screen of trivial
words and deeds, and those who sit
with us at the same hearth are often
the farthest off from tbe deep human


soul within us, full of unspoken evil
and unacted good.
When Mrs. Pettifer came back to
her, turning the key and opening the
door very gently, Janet, instead of
being asleep, as her good friend had
hoped, was intensely occupied with
her new thought. She longed to ask
Mrs. Pettifer if she could see Mr.
Tryan; but she was arrested by doubts
and timidity. He might not feel for
her, -he might be shocked at her
confession,- he might talk to her of
doctrines she could not understand or
believe. She could not make up her
mind yet; but she was too restless
under this mental struggle to remain
in bed.
" Mrs. Pettifer," she said, "I can't
lie here any longer; I must get up.
Will you lend me some clothes?
Wrapped in such drapery as Mrs.
Pettifer could find for her tall figure,
Janet went down into the little parlor,
and tried to take some of the breakfast her friend had prepared for her.
But her effort was not a successful
one; her cup of tea and bit of toast
were only half finished. The leaden
weight of discouragement pressed upon
her more and more heavily. The
wind had fallen, and a drizzling rain
had come on; there was no prospect
from Mrs. Pcttifer's parlor but a blank
wall; and as Janet looked out at the
window, the rain and the smokeblackened bricks seemed to blend
themselves in sickening identity with
her desolation of spirit and the headachy weariness of her body.
Mrs. Pettifer got through her household work as soon as she could, and
sat down with her sewing, hoping
that Janet would perhaps be able to
talk a little of what had passed, and
find some relief by unbosoming herself
in that way. But Janet could not
speak to her; she was importuned
with the longing to see Mr. Tryan,
and vet hesitating to express it.
Two hours passed in this way.
The rain went on drizzling, and
Janet sat still, leaning her aching
head on her hand, and looking alter



JANET'S RI
nately at the fire and out of the window. She felt this could not last, -
this motionless, vacant misery. She
must determine on something, she
must take some step; and yet everything was so difficult.
It was one o'clock, and Mrs. Pettifer rose from her seat, saying, "I
must go and see about dinner."
Tile movement and the sound
startled Janet from her revery. It
seemed as if an opportunity were escaping her, and she said hastily: "Is
Mr. Tryan in the town to-day, do you
think "
"No, I should think not, being
Saturday, you know," said Mrs. Pettifer, her face lighting up with pleasure; "but he would come, if he was
sent for. I can send Jesson's boy
with a note to him any time. Should
you like to see him? "
" Yes, I think I should."
"Then I'11 send for him this instant."
CHAPTER     XVII.
WHEN Dempster awoke in the
morning, he was at no loss to account
to himself for the fact that Janet was
not by his side. His hours of drunkenness were not cut off from his other
hours by any blank wall of oblivion;
he remembered what Janet had done
to offend him the evening before, he
remembered what he had done to her
at midnight, just as he would have
remembered if he had been consulted
about a right of road.
The remembrance gave him a definite ground for the extra ill-humor
which had attended his waking every
morning this week, but he would not
admit to himself that it cost him any
anxiety. " Pooh," he said inwardly,
"she would   go  straight to her
mother's. She's as timid as a hare;
and she '11 never let anybody know
about it. She '1 be back again before
night."
But it would be as well for the servants not to know anything of the
13*


EPENTANCE.


297


affair; so he collected the clothes she
had taken off the night before, and
threw them into a fire-proof closet, of
which he always kept the key in his
pocket. When he went down stairs
he said to the housemaid: "Mrs.
Dempster is gone to her mother's;
bring in the breakfast."
The servants, accustomed to hear
domestic broils, and to see their mistress put on her bonnet hastily and go
to her mother's, thought it only something a little worse than usual that
she should have gone thither in consequence of a violent quarrel, either
at midnight, or in the early morning
before they were up. The housemaid
told the cook what she supposed had
happened; the cook shook her head
and said, " Eh, dear, dear!" but they
both expected to see their mistress
back again in an hour or two.
Dempster, on his return home the
evening before, had ordered his man,
who lived away from the house, to
bring up his horse and gig from the
stables at ten. After breakfast he
said to the housemaid, " No one need
sit up for me to-night; I shall not be
at home till to-morrow evening "; and
then he walked to the office to give
some orders, expecting, as he returned, to see the man waiting with
his gig. But though the church
clock had struck ten, no gig was
there. In Dempster's mood this was
more than enough to exasperate him.
He went in to take his accustomed
glass of branay before setting out,
promising himself the satisfaction of
presently thundering at Dawes for
being a few minutes behind his time.
An outbreak of temper towards his
man was not commen with him; for,
Dempster, like most tyrannous people, had that dastardly kind of selfrestraint which enabled him to control his temper where it suited his own
convenience to do so; and feeling the
value of Dawes, a steafv, punctual
fellow, he hot only gave him high
wages, but usually treated him with
exceptional civility. This morning,
however, ill-humor got the better of




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


prudence, and Dempster was determined to rate him soundly; a resolution for which Dawes gave him much
better ground than he expected. Five
minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an
hour, had passed, and Dempster was
setting off to the stables in a back street
to see what was the cause of the delay,
when Dawes appeared with the gig.
"What the devil do you keep me
here for?" thundered Dempster,
"kicking my heels like a beggarly
tailor waiting for a carrier's cart?
I ordered you to be here at ten. We
might have driven to Whitlow by
this time."
" Why, one o' the traces was welly
i' two, an' I had to take it to Brady's
to be mended, an' he didn't get it
done i' time."
" Then why did n't you take it to
him last night? Because of your
damned laziness, I suppose. Do you
think I give you wages for you to
choose your own hours, and come
dawdling up a quarter of an hour after my time? "
" Come, give me good words, will
yer " said Dawes, sulkily.  "I'm
not lazy, nor no man shall call me
lazy. I know well anuff what vou gi'
me wages for; it's for doin' what yer
won't find many men as 'ull do."
"What, you impudent scoundrel,"said Dempster, getting into the gig,
"you think you 're necessary to me, do
you? As if a beastly bucket-carrying
idiot like you wasn't to be got any
day. Look out for a new master,
then, who '11 pay you for not doing as
you 're bid."
Dawes's blood was now fairly up.
"I'll look out for a master as has
got a better charicter nor a lvin',
bletherin' drunkard, an' I should n't
hey to go fur."
Dempster, furious, snatched the
whip from the socket, and gave
Dawes a cut which he meant to fall
across his slpulders, saying, "Take
that, sir, and go to hell with you!"
Dawes was in the act of turning
with the reins in his hand when the
lash fell, and the cut went across his


face. With white lips, he said, "I '1l
have the law on yer for that, lawyer
as y' are," and threw the reins on the
horse's back.
Dempster leaned forward, seized
the reins, and drove off.
" Why, there's your friend Dempster driving out without his man
again," said Mr. Luke Byles, who was
chatting with Mr. Budd in the Bridge
Way. " What a fool he is to drive
that two-wheeled thing! he '11 get
pitched on his head one ofthese days."
"Not he," said Budd, nodding to
Dempster as he passed; "he's got
nine lives, Dempster has."
CHAPTER XVIII.
IT was dusk, and the candles were
lighted, before Mr. Tryan knocked at
Mrs. Pettifer's door. Her messenger
had brought back word that he was not
at home, and all the afternoon Janet
had been,agitated by the fear that he
would not come; but as soon as that
anxiety was removed by the knock at
the door, she felt a sudden rush of
doubt and timidity; she trembled and
turned cold.
Mrs. Pettifer went to open the
door, and told Mr. Tryan, in as few
words as possible, what had happened
in the night. As he laid down his
hat and prepared to enter the parlor,
she said: " 1 won't go in with you,
for I think perhaps she would rather
see you go in alone."
Janet, wrapped up in a large white
shawl which threw her dark face into
startling relief, was seated with her
eyes turned anxiously towards the
door when Mr. Tryan entered. He
had not seen her since their interview
at Sally Martin's long months ago;
and he felt a strong movement of
compassion at the sight of the painstricken face which seemed to bear
written on it the signs of all Janet's
intervening misery. Her heart gave
a great leap, as her eyes met his once
more. No I she had not deceived her



JANET'S RK
self: there was all the sincerity, all
the sadness, all the deep pity in them,
her memory had told her of; more
than it had told her, for in proportion as his face had become thinner
and more worn, his eyes appeared to
have gathered intensity.
He came forward, and, putting out
his hand, said, "I am so glad you
sent for me, - I am so thankful you
thought I could be any comfort to
you." Janet took his hand in silence.
She was unable to utter any words of
mere politeness, or even of gratitude;
her heart was too full of other words
that had welled up the moment she
met his pitying glance, and felt her
doubts fall away.
They sat down opposite each other,
and she said in a low voice, while
slow, difficult tears gathered in her
aching eyes: -
"I want to tell you how unhappy
I am, —how weak and wicked. I
feel no strength to live or die. I
thought you could tell me something
that could help me." She paused.
" Perhaps I can," Mr. Tryan said,
for in speaking to,ne you are speaking to a fellow-sinner who has needed
just the comfort and help you are
needing."
" And you did find it?"
" Yes; and I trust you will find it."
" 0, I should like to be good and to
do right,"-Janet burst forth; "but
indeed, indeed, my lot has been a very
hard one. I loved my husband very
dearly when we were married, and I
meant to make him happy, —I
wanted nothing else. But he began
to be angry with me for little things
and.... I don't want to accuse
him.... but he drank and got
more and more unkind to me, and
then very cruel, and he beat me.
And that cut me to the heart. It
made me almost mad sometimes to
think all our love had come to that. I couldn't bear up against
it. I had never been used to drink
anything but water. I hated wine
and spirits because Robert drank
them so; but one day when I was


EPENTANCE.


299




very wretched, and the wine was
standing on the table, I suddenly.... I can hardly remember how
I came to do it.... I poured
some wine into a large glass and
drank it. It blunted my feelings,
and made me more indifferent. After
that, the temptation was always coming, and it got stronger and stronger.
I was ashamed, and I hated what I
did; but almost while the thought was
passing through my mind that I would
never do it again, I did it. It seemed
as if there was a demon in me always
making me rush to do what I longed
not to do. And I thought all the
more that God -was cruel; for if he
had not sent me that dreadful trial,
so much worse than other women
have to bear, I should not have done
wrong in that way. I suppose it is
wicked to think so.... I feel
as if there must be goodness and
right above us, but I can't see it, I
can't trust in it. And I have gone on
in that way for years and years. At
one time it used to be better now and
then, but everything has got worse
lately; I felt sure it must soon end
somehow. And last night he turned
me out of doors.... I don't
know what to do. I will never go
hack to that life again if I can help
it; and yet everything else seems so
miserable. I feel sure that demon will
be always urging me to satisfy the
craving that comes upon me, and the
days will go on as they have done
through all those miserable years. I
shall always be doing wrong, and
hating myself after, - sinking lower
and lower, and knowing that I am
sinking. 0, can you tell me any
way of getting strength? Have you
ever known any one like me that got
peace of mind and power to do right?
Can you give me any comfort, - any
hope 
'While Janet was speaking, she had
forgotten everything but her misery
and her yearning for comfort. Her
voice had risen from the low tone of
timid distress to an intense pitch of
imploring anguish. She clasped hae




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


hands tightly, and looked at Mr.
Tryan with eager questioning eyes,
with parted, trembling lips, with the
deep horizontal lines of overmastering pain on her brow. In this artificial life of ours, it is not often we see
a human face with all a heart's agony
in it, uncontrolled by self-consciousness; when we do see it, it startles us
as if we had suddenly waked into the
real world of which this every-day one
is but a puppet-show copy. For some
moments Mr. Tryan was too deeply
moved to speak.
"Yes, dear Mrs. Dempster," he
said at last, "there is comfort, there
is hope for you. Believe me there is,
for I speak from my own deep and
hard experience."  He paused, as if
he had not made up his mind to utter
the words that were urging themselves
to his lips. Presently he continued:
"Ten years ago, I felt as wretched as
you do. I think my wretchedness was
even worse than yours, for I had a
heavier sin on my conscience. I had
suffered no wrong from others as you
have, and I had injured another irreparably in body and soul. The image
of the wrong I had done pursued me
everywhere, and I seemed on the brink
of madness. I hated my life, for 1
thought, just as you do, that I should
go on falling into temptation and doing more harm in the world; afid I
dreaded death, for with that sense of
guilt on my soul, I felt that whatever state I entered on must be one
of misery. But a dear friend to whom
I opened my mind showed me it was
just such as I -the helpless who feel
themselves helpless- that God specially invites to come to him, and offers all the riches of his salvation:
not forgiveness only; forgiveness
would be worth little if it left us
under the powers of our evil passions; but strength, —that strength
which enables us to conquer sin."
"But," said Janet, "I can feel no
trust in God. He seems always to
have left me to myself. I have sometimes prayed to him to help me, and
yet everything has been just the same


as before. If you felt like me, how
did you come to have hope and
trust ' "
' Do not believe that God has left
you to yourself. How can you tell
but that the hardest trials you have
known have been only the road by
which he was leading you to that
complete sense of your own sin and
helplessness, without which you would
never have renounced all other hopes,
and trusted in his love alone?  I
know, dear Mrs. Dempster, I know
it is hard to bear. I would not speak
lightly of your sorrows. I feel that
the mystery of our life is great, and
at one time it seemed as dark to me
as it does to you." Mr. Tryan hesitated again.  He saw that the first
thing Janet needed was to be assured
of sympathy. She must be made to
feel that her anguish was not strange
to him; that he entered into the only
half-expressed secrets of her spiritual
weakness, before any other message
of consolation could find its way to
her heart. The tale of the Divine
Pity was never yet believed from lips
that were not felt to be moved by human pity. And Janet's anguish was
not strange to Mr. Tryan. He had
never been in the presence of a sorrow and a self-despair that had sent
so strong a thrill through all the recesses of his saddest experience; and
it is because sympathy is but a living
again through our own past in a new
form, that confession often prompts a
response of confession. Mr. Tryan
felt this prompting, and his judgment,
too, told him that in obeying it he
would be taking the best means of
administering comfort to Janet. Yet
he hesitated; as we tremble to let in
the daylight on a chamber of relics
which we have never visited except
in curtained silence. But the first
impulse triumphed, and he went on.
"I had lived all my life at a distance
from God. My youth was spent in
thoughtless self-indulgence, and all
my hopes were of a vain worldly
kind. l had no thought of entering
the Church; I looked forward to a




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


301 


political career, for my father was
private secretary to a man high in the
Whig Ministry, and had been promised strong interest in my behalf. At
college I lived in intimacy with the
gayest men, even adopting follies and
vices for which I had no taste, out of
mere pliancy and the love of standing
well with my companions. You see,
1 was more guilty even then than you
have been, for I threw away all the
rich blessings of untroubled youth
and health; I had no excuse in my
outward lot. But while I was at college that event in my life occurred,
which in the end brought on the state
of mind I have mentioned to you, -
the state of self-reproach and despair,
which enables me to understand to
the full what you are suffering; and
1 tell you the facts, because I want
you to be assured that I am not uttering mere vague words when I say that
I have been raised from as low a depth
of sin and sorrow as that in which you
feel yourself to be. At college I hal
an attachment to a lovely girl of
seventeen; she was very much below
my own station in life, and I never
contemplated marrying her; but I induced ier to leave her father's house.
I did not mean to forsake her when I
left college, and I quieted all scruples
of conscience by promising myself
that I would always take care of poor
Lucy. But on my return from a vacation spent in travelling, I found
that Lucy was gone,-gone away
with a gentleman, her neighbors said.
I was a good deal distressed, but I
tried to persuade myself that no harm
would come to her. Soon afterwards
I had an illness which left my health
delicate, and made all dissipation distasteful to me.  Life seemed very
wearisome and empty, and I looked
with envv on every one who had some
great and absorbing object, -even on
my cousin who was preparing to go
out as a missionary, and whom I had
been used to think a dismal, tedious
person, because he was constantly
urging religious subjects upon me.
We were living in London then; it


was three years since I had lost sight
of Lucy; and one summer evening,
about nine o'clock, as I was walking
along Gower Street, I saw a knot of
people on the causeway before me.
As I came up to them, I heard one
woman say, 'I tell you, she is dead.'
This awakened my interest, and I
pushed my way within the circle. The
body of a woman, dressed in fine
clothes, was lying against a door-step.
Her head was bent on one side, and
the long curls had fallen over her
cheek. A tremor seized me when I
saw the hair: it was light chestnut,
-the color of Lucy's. I knelt down
and turned aside the hair; it was
Lucy - dead - with paint on her
cheeks. I found out afterwards that
she had taken poison, - that she was
in the power of a wicked woman, -
that the very clothes on her back were
not her own. It was then that my
past life burst upon me in all its
hideousness. I wished I had never
been born. I could n't look into the
future.  Lucy's dead painted face
would follow me there, as it did when
I looked back into the past, -as it
did when I sat down to table with my
friends, when I lay down in my bed,
and when I rose up. There was only
one thing that could make life tolerable to me; that was, to spend all the
rest of it in trying to save others from
the ruin I had brought on one. But
how was that possible for me? I had
no comfort, no strength, no wisdom
in my own soul; how could I give
them to others? My mind was dark,
rebellious, at war with itself and with
God."
Mr. Tryan had been looking away
from Janet. His face was towards
the fire, and he was absorbed in the
images his memory was recalling.
But now he turned his eyes on her,
and they met hers, fixed on him with
the look of rapt expectation, with
which one clinging to a slippery summit of a rock, while the waves are
rising higher and higher, watches the
boat that has put from shore to his
rescue




302


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


"You see, Mrs. Dempster, how deep it is as if we shut ourselves up in
my need was. I went on in this way a crowded, stifling room, where we
for months.  I was convinced that if breathe only poisoned air; but we
I ever got health and comfort, it must have only to walk out under the inbe from religioit. I went to hear cele- finite heavens, and we breathe the
brated preachers, and I read religious pure free air that gives us health, and
books.  But I found nothing that strength, and gladness. It is just so
fitted my own need. The faith which with God's spirit: as soon as we subputs the sinnerin possession of salva- mit ourselves to his will, as soon as
tion seemed, as I understood it, to be we desire to be united to him, and
quite out of my reach.  I had no made pure and holy, it is as if the
faith; I only felt utterly wretched, walls had fallen down that shut us
under the power of habits and dispo- out from God, and we are fed with
sitions which had wrought hideous his spirit, which  gives us new
evil. At last, as I told you, I found strength."
a friend to whom I opened all my    "That is what I want," said Janet;
feelings, - to whom I confessed every- " I have left off minding about pleasthing. He was a man who had gone ure. I think I could be contented in
through very deep experience, and the midst of hardship, if I felt that
could understand the different wants God cared for me, and would give me
of different minds. He made it clear strength to lead a pure life. But tell
to me that the only preparation for me, did you soon find peace and
coming to Christ and partaking of his strength "
salvation was that very sense of guilt  " Not perfect pence for a long while,
and helplessness which was weighing but hope and trust, which is strength.
me down. lie said, You are weary No sense of pardon for myself could
and heavy-laden; well, it is you Christ do away with the pain I had in thinkinvites to come to him and find rest. ing what I had helped to bring on
Hie asks you to cling to him, to lean another. My friend used to urge upon him; he does not command you on me that my sin against God was
to walk alone without stumbling. He greater than my sin against her; but
does not tell you, as your fellowmen - it may be from want of deeper
do, that you must first merit his love; spiritual feeling- that has remained
he neither condemns nor reproa hes to this hour the sin which causes me
you for the past, he only bids you the bitterest pang. I could never
come to him that you may have life: rescue Lucy; but by God's blessing I
he bids you stretch out your hands, might rescue other weak and falling
and take of the fulness of his love. souls; and that was why I entered
You have only to rest on him as a the Church. I asked for nothing
child rests on its mother's arms, and through the rest of my life but that I
you will be upborne by his divine might be devoted to God's work, withstrength. That is what is meant by out swerving in search of pleasure
faith. Your evil habits, you feel, are either to the right hand or to the left.
too strong for you; you are unable to It has been often a hard struggle, -
wrestle with them; you know before- but God has been with me, - and
hand you shall fall. But when once perhaps it may not last much longer."
we feel our helplessness in that way,  Mr. Tryan paused. For a moment
and go to the Saviour, desiring to be he had forgotten Janet, and for a mofreed from the power as well as the ment she had forgotten her own sorpunishment of sin, we are no longer rows. When she recurred to herself,
left to our own strength. As long as it was with a new feeling.
we live in rebellion against God, de-  "Ah, what a difference between our
airing to have our own will, seeking lives! you have been choosing pain,
happiness in the things of this world, and working, and denying yourself;




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


303


and I have been thinking only of myself. I was only angry and discontented because I had pain to bear.
You never had that wicked feeling
that I have had so often, did you? that
God was cruel to send me trials and
temptations worse than others have."
"Yes, I had; I had very blasphemous thoughts, and I know that spirit
of rebellion must have made the worst
part of your lot. You did not feel
how impossible it is for us to judge
rightly of God's dealings, and you
opposed yourself to his will. But
what do we know? We cannot foretell the working of the smallest event
in our own lot; how can we presume
to judge of things that are so much
too high for us? There is nothing
that becomes us but entire submission,
perfect resignation. As long as we
set up our own will and our own wisdom against God's, we make that wall
between us and his love which I have
spoken of just now. But as soon as
we lay ourselves entirely at his feet,
we have enough light given us to
guide our own steps; as the foot-soldier, who hears nothing of the councils that determine the course of the
great battle he is in, hears plainly
enough the word of command which
he must himself obey. I know, dear
Mrs. Dempster, I know it is hard -
the hardest thing of all, perhaps -
to flesh and blood. But carry that
difficulty to the Saviour along with
all your other sins and weaknesses,
and ask him to pour into you a spirit
of submission. He enters into your
struggles; he has drunk the cup of
our suffering to the dregs; he knows,he hard wrestling it costs us to say,
'Not my will, but Thine, be done.'"
"Pray with me," said Janet,"pray now that I may have light and
strength."
CHAPTER XIX.
BEFORE leaving Janet, Mr. Tryan
urged her strongly to send for her
mother.


"Do not wound her," he said, "by
shutting her out any longer from your
troubles. It is right that you should
be with her."
"Yes, I will send for her," said
Janet. "But I would rather not go to
my mother's yet, because my husband
is sure to think I am there, and he
might come and fetch me. I can't go
back to him.... at least not yet.
Ought I to go back to him? "
" No, certainly not at present.
Something should be done to secure
you from violence. Your mother, I
think, should consult some confidential friend, some man of character and
experience, who might mediate between you and your husband."
"Yes, I will send for my mother
directly. But I will stay here, with
Mrs. Pettifer, till something has been
done. I want no one to know where
I am, except you. You will come
again, will you not? you will not
leave me to myself?"
"You will not be left to yourself.
God is with you. If I have been able
to give you any comfort, it is because
his power and love have been present
with us. But I am very thankful that
he has chosen to work through me.
I shall see you again to-morrow, - not
before evening, for it will be Sunday,
you know; but after the evening
lecture I shall be at liberty. You will
be in my prayers till then. In the
mean time, dear Mrs. Dcmpster, open
your heart as much as you can to
your mother and Mrs. Pettifer Cast
away from you the pride that makes
us shrink from  acknowledging our
weakness to our friends. Ask them
to help you in guarding yourself from
the least approach of the sin you most
dread.  Deprive yourself as far as
possible of the very me   ans and opportunity of committing it. Every
effort of that kind made in humility
and dependence is a prayer. Promise
me you will do this.
"Yes, I promise you. I know I
have always been too proud; I could
never bear to speak to any one about
myself. I have been proud towards




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


my mother, even; it has always made
me angry when she has seemed to
take notice of my faults."
" Ah, dear Mrs. l)empster, you will
never say again that life is blank, and
that there is nothing to live for, will
you? See what work there is to be
done in life, both in our own souls
and for others.  Surely it matters
little whether we have more or less of
this world's comfort in these short
years, when God is training us for the
eternal enjoyment of his love. Keep
that great end of life before you, and
your troubles here will seem only the
small hardships of a journey. Now I
must go."
Mr. Tryan rose and held out his
hand. Janet took it and said: " God
has been very good to me in sending
you to me. I will trust in him. I
will try to do everything you tell me."
Blessed influence of one true loving
human soul on another! Not calculable by algebra, not deducible by
logic, but mysterious, effectual, mighty
as the hidden process by which the
tiny seed is quickened, and bursts
forth into tall stem and broad leaf,
and glowing tasselled flower. Ideas
are often poor ghosts; our sun-filled
eyes cannot discern them; they pass
athwart us in thin vapor, and cannot make themselves felt. But sometimes they are made flesh; they
breathe upon us with warm breath,
they touch us with soft responsive
hands, they look at us with sad sincere
eyes, and speak to us in appealing
tones; they are clothed in a living
human soul, with all its conflicts, its
faith, and its love. Then theirpresence
is a power, then they shake us like a
passion, and we are drawn after them
with gentle compulsion, as flame is
drawn to flame.
Janet's dark grand face, still fatigued, had become quite calm, and
looked up, as she sat, with an humble
childlike expression at the thin blond
face and slightly sunken gray eyes
which now shone with hectic brightness. She might have been taken for
an image of passionate strength beaten


and worn with conflict; and he fot
an image of the self-renouncing faith
which has soothed that conflict into
rest. As he looked at the sweet submissive face, he remembered its look
of despairing anguish, and his heart
was very full as he turned away from
her. " Let me only live to see this
work confirmed, and then.... "
It was nearly ten o'clock when Mr.
Tryan left, but Janet was bent on
"sending for her mother; so Mrs. Pettifer, as the readiest plan, put on her
bonnet and went herself to fetch Mrs.
Raynor. The mother had been too
long used to expect that every fresh
week would be more painful than the
last, for Mrs. Pettifer s news to come
upon her with the shock of a surprise.
Quietly, without any show of distress,
she made up a bundle of clothes, and,
telling her little maid that she should
not return home that night, accompanied Mrs. Pettifer back in silence.
When they entered the parlor, Janet,
wearied out, had sunk to sleep in the
large chair, which stood with its back
to the door. The noise of the opening door disturbed her, and she was
looking round wonderingly, when
Mrs. Raynor came up to her chair,
and said, " It's your mother, Janet."
"Mother, dear mother!" Janet
cried, clasping her closely. "I have
not been a good tender child to you,
but 1 will be, - I will not grieve you
any more."
The calmness which had withstood
a new sorrow was overcome by anew
joy, and the mother burst into tears.
CHAPTER XX.
ON Sunday morning the rain had
ceased, and Janet, looIing out of the
bedroom window, saw above the
house-tops a shining mass of white
cloud rolling under the far-away blue
sky. It was going to be a lovely April
day. The fresh sky, left clear and
calm after the long vexation of wind
and-rain, mingled its mild influence




JANET'S R
with Janet's new thoughts and prospects. She felt a buoyant courage that
surprised herself, after the cold crushing weight of despondency which had
oppressed her the day before: she
could think even of her husband's rage
without the old overpowering dread.
For a delicious hope- the hope of
purification and inward peace -had
entered into Janet's soul, and made it
springtime there as well as in the
outer world.
While her mother was brushing and
co;ling up her thick black hair, - a
favorite task, because it seemed to
renew the days of her daughter's girlhood, -Janet told how she came to
send for Mr. Tryan, how she had remembered their meeting at Sally Martin's in the autumn, and had felt an
irresistible desire to see him, and tell
him her sins and her troubles.
"I see God's goodness now, mother,
in ordering it so that we should meet
in that way, to overcome my prejudice against him, and make me feel
that he was good, and then bringing
it back to my mind in the depth of
my trouble. You know what foolish
things I used to say about him, knowing nothing of him  all the while.
And yet he was the man who was to
give me comfort and help when everything else failed me. It is wonderful
how I feel able to speak to him as I
never have done to any one before;
and how every word he says to me
enters my heart and has a new meaningfor me. I think it must be because
he has felt life more deeply than
others, and has a deeper faith. I
believe everything he says at once.
His words come to me like rain on
the parched ground. It has always
seemed to me before as if I could see
behind people's words, as one sees
behind a screen; but in Mr. Tryan it
is his very soul that speaks."
"Well, my dear child, I love and
bless him for your sake, if he has given
you any comfort. I never believed
the harm people said of him, though
I had no desire to go and hear him,
for s am contented with old-fashioned:EPENTANCE.


305




* ways.  I find more good teaching
than I can practise in reading my
Bible at home, and hearing Mr. Crewe
at church. But your wants are different, my dear, and we are not all led
by the same road. That was certainly
good advice of Mr. Tryan's you told
me of last night, - that we should
consult some one that may interfere
for you with your husband; and I
have been turning it over in my mind
while I've been lying awake in the
night. I think nobody will do so
well as Mr. Benjamin Landor, for we
must have a man that knows the law,
and that Robert is rather afraid of.
And perhaps he could bring about an
agreement for you to live apart. Your
husband's bound to maintain you,
you know; and, if you liked, we could
move away from Milby and live somewhere else."
"0.mother, we must do nothing
yet; I must think about it a little
longer.  I have a different feeling
this morning from what I had yesterday. Something seems to tell me
that I must go back to Robert some
time, - after a little while. I loved
him once better than all the world,
and I have never had any children to
love. There were things in me that
were wrong, and I should like to make
up for them if I can."
" Well, my dear, I won't persuade
you. Thinkof it alittlelonger. But
something must be done soon."
"How I wish I had my bonnet, and
shawl, and black gown here!" said
Janet, after a few minutes' silence.
"I should like to go to Paddiford
Church and hear Mr. Tryan. There
would be no fear of my meeting
Robert, for he never goes out on a
Sunday morning."
' I 'm afraid it would not do for me
to go to the house and fetch your
clothes," said Mrs. Raynor.
"   no, no! I must stay quietly
here while you two go to church. I
will be Mrs. Pettifer's maid, and get
the dinner ready for her by the time
she comes back. Dear good woman I
She was so tender to me when she took
T




806


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


me in, in the night, mother, and all
the next day, when I could n't speak
a word to her to thank her."
CHAPTER XXI.
THE servants at Dempster's felt
some surprise when the morning,
noon, and evening of Saturday had
passed, and still their mistress did not
reappear.
"t 's very odd," said Kitty, the
housemaid, as she trimmed her next
week's cap, while Betty, the middleaged cook, looked on with folded
arms.  ' Do you think as Mrs. Raynor was ill, and sent for the missis
afbre we was up? "
" Oh," said Betty, "if it had been
that, she'd ha' been back'ards an' for'ards three or four times afore now;
leastways, she'd ha' sent little Ann
to let us know."
"There's summat up more nor
usal between her an' the master, that
you may depend on," said Kitty. "I
know those clothes as was lying i' the
drawing-room yesterday, when the
company was come, meant summat.
I should n't wonder if that was what
they 've had a fresh row about. She 's
p'raps gone away, an's made up her
mind not to come back again."
"An' i' the right on't, too," said
Betty. "I'd ha' overrun him long
afore now, if it had been me.   I
would n't stan' bein' mauled as she is
by no husband, not if he was the biggest lord i' the land. It's poor work
bein' a wife at that price: 'd sooner
be a cook wi'out perkises, an' hev
roast, an' boil, an fry, an' bake, all
to mind at once. She may well do
as she does. I know I 'm glad
enough of a drop o' summat myself
when I'm plagued. I feel very low,
like, to-night; I think I shall put
my beer i' the saucepan an' warm it."
" What a one you are for warmin'
your beer, Betty! I could n't abide
it, - nasty bitter stuff!"
"It ' fine talkin'; if you was a


cook you 'd know what belongs to
bein' a cook. It's none so nice to
hev a sinkin' at your stomach, I can
tell you. You wouldn't think so
much o' fine ribbins i' your cap
then."
" Well, well, Betty, don't be grumpy. Liza Thomson, as is at Phipps's,
said to me last Sunday, ' I wonder
you '11 stay at Dempster's,' she says,
'such goins-on as there is.' But I
says: ' There's things to put up wi'
in ivery place, an' you may change,
an' change, an' not better yourself
when all's said an' done. Lors!
why, Liza told me herself as Mrs.
Phipps was as skinny as skinny i' the
kitchen, for all they keep so much
company; and as for follyers, she's
as cross as a turkey-cock if she finds
'emr out. There's nothin' o' that
sort i' the missis. How pretty she
come an' spoke to Job last Sunday!
There is n t a good-natur'der woman
i' the world, that's my belief, -an'
handsome too. 1 al'ys think there's
nobody looks half so well as the
missis when she's got her 'air done
nice. Lors! I wish I'd got long 'air
like her,-my 'air's a comin' off
dreadful."
"T'here '11 be fine work to-morrow,
I expect," said Betty, "when the
master comes home, an' Dawes a
swearin' as he '11 niver do a stroke o'
work for him again. It '11 be good
fun if he sets the justice on him for
cuttin' him wi' the whip; the master
'11 p'raps get his comb cut for once
in his life 1"
" Why, he was in a temper like a
fi-end this morning," said Kitty. "I
dare say it was along o' what had
happened wi' the missis. We shall
hev a pretty house wi' him if she
doesn't come back, -he'll want to
be leatherin' us, I should n't wonder.
He must hev somethin' t' ill use when
he's in a passion."
" I 'd tek care he did n't leather me,
- no, not if he was my husban' ten
times o'er; I'd pour hot drippin' on
him sooner. But the missis has n't a 
sperrit like me. He 'll mek her come. 




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


307


back, you '11 sec; he '11 come round
her somehow. There 's no likelihood
of her coming back to-night, though;
so I should think we might fasten the
doors and go to bed when we like."
On Sunday    morning, however,
Kitty's mind became disturbed by
more definite and alarming conjectures about her mistress.   While
Betty, encouraged by the prospect of
unwonted leisure, was sitting down
to continue a letter which had long
lain unfinished between the leaves of
her Bible, Kitty came running into
the kitchen and said: -
" Lor! Betty, I 'Il all of a tremble;
you might knock me down wi' a
feather.  I've just looked into the
missis's wardrobe, an' there's both
her bonnets. She must ha' gone
wi'out her bonnet. An' then I remember as her night-clothes wasn't
on the bed yisterday mornin'; I
thought she'd put 'em away to be
washed; but she hed n't, for I 've
been lookin'.  It's my belief he 's
murdered her, and shut her up i' that
closet as he keeps locked al'ys. He 's
capible ol 't."
"Lors-ha'-massy, why you 'd better
run to Mrs. Raynor's an' see if she 's
there, arter all. It was p'raps all a
lie."
Mrs. Raynor had returned home to
give directions to her little maiden,
when Kitty, with the elaborate manifestation of alarm which servants delight in, rushed in without knocking
and, holding her hands on her heart
as if the consequences to that organ
were likely to be very serious, said:"If you please 'm, is the missis
here "
" No, Kitty; why are you come to
ask."
"Because 'm, she's niver been at
home since yesterday mornin', since
afore we was up; an' we thought
somethin' must ha' happened to her."
"No, don't b3 frightened, Kitty.
Your mistress is quite safe; I know
where she is. Is your master at
home? "
i"No 'm; he went out yesterday


mornin', an' said he should n't be
back afore to-night."
" Well, Kitty, there's nothing the
matter with  your mistress.  You
need n't say anything to any one
about her being away from home. I
shall call presently and fetch her
gown and bonnet. She wants them
to put on."
Kitty, perceiving there was a mystery she was not to inquire into,
returned to Orchard Street, really
glad to know that her mistress was
safe, but disappointed, nevertheless, at
being told that she was not to be
frightened. She was soon followed
by Mrs. Raynor in quest of the gown
and bonnet. The good mother, on
learning that Dempster was not at
home, had at once thought she could
gratify Janet's wish to go to Paddiford Church.
"See, my dear," she said, as she
entered Mrs. Pettifer's parlor; "I 've
brought you your black clothes. Robert's not at home, and is not coming
till this evening. 1 could n't find your
best black gown, but this will do. I
would n't bring anything else, you
know; but there can't be any ohjection to my fetching clothes to cover
you. You can go to Paddiford Church,
now, if you like; and I will go with
you."
"That's a dear mother! Then
we'l1 all three go together. Come
and help me to get ready. Good little Mrs. Crewe! It will vex her sadly
that I should go to hear Mr. Tryan.
But I must kiss her, and make it up
with her."
Many eyes were turned on Janet
with a look of surprise as she walked
up the aisle of Paddiford Church.
She felt a little tremor at the notice
she knew she was exciting, but it was
a strong satisfaction to her that she
had been able at once to take a step
that would let her neighbors know her
change of feeling towards Mr. Tryan:
she had left herself now no room for
proud reluctance or weak hesitation.
The walk through the sweet spring air
had stimulated all her fresh hopes,




308


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


all her yearning desires after purity,
strength, and peace. She thought she
should find a new meaning in the
prayers this morning; her full heart,
like an overflowing river, wanted those
readv-made channels to pour itself
into; and then she should hear Mr.
Tryan again, and his words would
fall on her like precious balm, as they
had done last night. There was a
liquid brightness in her eyes as they
rested on the mere walls, the pews,
the weavers and' colliers in their Sunday clo:hes. The commonest things
seemed to touch the spring of love
within her, just as, when we are suddenly released from an acute absorbing bodily pain, our heart and senses
leap out in new fieedom; we think
even the noise of streets harmonious,
and arc ready to hug the tradesman
who is wrapping up our change. A
door had been opened in Janet's cold
dark prison of self-despair, and the
golden light of morning was pouring
in its slanting beams through the
blessed opening. There was sunlight
in the world; there was a divine love
caring for her; it had given her an
earnest of good things; it had been
preparing comfort for her in the very
moment when she had thought herself
most forsaken.
Mr. Tryan might well rejoice when
his eye restdd on her as he entered his
desk; but be rejoiced with trembling.
Hle could nmt look at the sweet hopeful face without remembering its yesterday's look of agony; and there was
the possibility that that look might
return.
Janet's appearance at church was
greeted not only by wondering eyes,
but by kind hearts, and after the service several of Mr. Tryan's hearers,
with whom she had been on cold terms
of late, contrived to come up to her
and take her by the hand.
"Mother," said Miss Linnet, "do
let us go and speak to Mrs. Dempster.
I'm  sure there's a great change in
her mind towards Mr. Tryan. I noticed how eagerly she listened to the
sermon, and she's come with Mrs.




Pettifer, you see. We ought to go
and give her a welcome among us."
" Why, my dear, we 've never spoke
friendly these five year. You know
she's been as haughty as anything
since I quarrelled with her husband.
However, let bygones be bygones;
I 've no grudge again' the poor thing,
more particular as she must ha' flew
in her husband's face to (ome an' hear
Mr. Tryan. Yes, let us go an' speak
to her."
The friendly words and looks touched Janet a little too keenly, and Mrs.
P'ettifer wisely hurried her home by
the least-frequented road. When they
reached home, a'violent fit of weeping,
followed by continuous lassitude,
showed that the emot;ons of the norning hlad overstrained her nerves. She
was suffering, too, from the absence
of the long-accustomed stimulus wHich
she had promised Mr. Tryan not to
touch again. The poor thing was
conscious of this, and dreaded her
o, n weakness, as the victim of intermittent insanity dreads the oncoming
of the old illusion.
"Mother," she whispered, when
Mrs. lipynor urged her to lie down
and rest all the afternoon, that sho
might be the better prepared to seC
Mr. Tryan in the evening, -" mother, donit let me have anything if I ask
for it."
In the mother's mind there was the
same anxiety, and in her it was mingled with another fear,- the fear lest
Janet, in her present excited state of
mind, should take some premature
step in i elation to her husband, which
might lead back to all the former
troubles. The hint she had thrown
out in the morning of her wish to return to him after a time showed a
new eagerness for difficult duties, that
only made the long-saddened sober
mother tremble.
But as evening approached, Janet's
morning heroism all forsook her:
her imagination, influenced by physical depression as well as by mental
habits, was haunted by the vision of
her husband's return home, and she




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


309


began to shudder with the yesterday's
dread. She heard him calling her,
she saw him going to her mother's to
4ook for her, she felt sure he would
find her out, and burst in upon her.
"Pray, pray, don't leave me, don't
go to church," she said to Mrs. Pettifer.  "You and mother both stay
with me till Mr. Tryan comes."
At twenty minutes past six the
church bells were ringing for the
evening service, and soon the congregation was streaming along Orchard
Street in the mellow sunset. The
street opened toward the west. The
red half-sunken sun shed a solemn
splendor on the every-day houses, and
crimsoned the windows of Dempster's
projecting upper story.
Suddmnly a loud murmur arose and
spread along the stream of churchgoers, and one group after another
aused and looked backward. At the
ar end of the street, men, accompanied by a miscellaneous group of onlookers, were slowly carrying something, -a body stretched on a door.
Slowly they passed along the middle
of the street, lined all the way with
awe-struck faces, till they turned aside
and paused in the red sunlight before
Dempster's door.
It was Dempster's body. No one
knew whether he was alive or dead.
CHAPTER XXII.
IT was probably a hard saying to
the Pharisees, that " there is more joy
in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just
persons that need no repentance."
And certain ingenious philosophers
of our own day must surely take offence at a joy so entirely out of correspondence with arithmetical proportion. But a heart that has been
taught by its own sore struggles to
bleed for the woes of another, - that
has " learned pity through suffering,"
-is likely to find very imperfect satisfaction in the "balance of happi

ness," " doctrine of compensations,"
and other short and easy methods of
obtaining thorough complacency in
the presence of pain; and for such a
heart that saying will not be alto.
gether dark. The emotions, I have
observed, are but slightly influenced
by arithmetical considerations: the
mother, when her sweet lisping little
ones have all been taken from her one
after another, and she is hanging over
her last dead babe, finds small consolation in the fact that, the tiny dimpled corpse is but one of a necessary
average, and that a thousand other
babes brought into the world at the
same time are doing well, and are
likely to live; and if you stood beside that mother, -if you knew her
pang and shared it, - it is probable
you would be equally unable to see a
ground of complacency in statistics.
Doubtless a complacency resting on
that basis is highly rational; but emotion, I fear, is obstinately irrational:
it insists on caring for individuals; it
absolutely refuses to adopt the quantitative view of human anguish, and
to admit that thirteen happy lives are
a set-off against twelve miserable lives,
which leaves a clear balance on the
side of satisfaction. This is the inherent imbecility of feeling, and one
must be a great philosopher to have
got quite clear of all that, and to
have emerged into the serene air of
pure intellect, in which it is evident
that individuals really exist for no
other purpose than that abstractions
may be drawn from them, - abstractions that may rise from heaps of ruined lives like the sweet savor of a
sacrifice in the nostrils of philosophers, and of a philosophic Deity.
And so it comes to pass that for the
man who knows sympathy because
he has known sorrow, that old, old
saying about the joy of angels over
the repentant sinner outweighing
their joy over the ninety-ni;! just,
has a meaning which does got jar
with the language of his ov  heart.
It only tells him, that for antis too
there is a transcendent value'  u'%.




810


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


man pain, which refuses to be settled
by equations; that the eyes of angels
too are turned away from the serene
happiness of the righteous to bend
with yearning pity on the poor erring
soul wandering in the desert where no
water is; that for angels too the misery of one casts so tremendous a
shadow as to eclipse the bliss of ninety-nine.
Mr. Tryan had gone through the
initiation of suffering: it is no wonder, then, that Janet's restoration was
the work that lay nearest his heart;
and that, weary as he was in body
when he entered the vestry after the
evening service, he was impatient to
fultil the promise of seeing her. His
experience enabled him to divinewhat was the fact-that the hopefulness of the morning would be followed by a return of depression and
discouragement; and his sense of the
inward and outward difficulties in the
way of her restoration was so keen,
that he could only find relief from the
foreboding it excited by lifting up his
heart in prayer. There are unseen
elements which often firustrate our
wisest calculations, - which raise up
the sufferer from the edge of the
grave, contradicting the prophecies of
the clear-sighted physician, and fulfilling the blind clinging hopes of
affection; such unseen elements Mr.
Tryan called the Divine Will, and
filled up the margin of ignorance
which surrounds all our knowledge
with the feelings of trust and resignation. Perhaps the profoundest philosophy could hardly fill it up better.
His mind was occupied in this way
as he was absently taking off his gown,
when Mr. Landor startled him by
entering the vestry and asking abruptly: -
" Have you heard the news about
Dempster? "
I "No," said Mr. Tryan, anxiously;
"what is it?"
"He has been thrown out of his
gig in the Bridge Way, and he was
taken up for dead. They were carrying him home as we were coming to


church, and I stayed behind to see
what I could do. I went in to speak
to Mrs. Dempster, and prepare her a
little, but she was not at home.
Dempster is not dead, however; he
was stunned with the fall. Pilgrim
came in a few minutes, and he says
the right leg is broken in two places.
It's likely to be a terrible case, with
his state of body. It seems he was
more drunk than usual, and they say
he came along the Bridge Way flogging his horse like a madman, till at
last it gave a sudden wheel, and he
was pitched out. The servants said
they did n't know where Mrs. Dempster was: she had been away from
home since yesterday morning; but
Mrs. Raynor knew."
"I know where she is," said Mr.
Tryan; "but I think it will he better
for her not to be told of this just
yet."
" Ah, that was what Pilgrim srid,
and so I did n't go round to Mrs.
Raynor's. IIe said it would be all
the better if Mrs. Dempster could be
kept out of the house for the present.
Do you know if anything new has
happened between Dempster and his
wife lately? I was surprised to hear
of her being at Paddiford Church this
morning."
" Yes, scmething has happened;
but I believe she is anxious that the
particulars of his behavior towards
I;er should not be known. She is at
Mrs. Pettifer's, - there is no reason
for concealing that, since what has
happened to her husband; and yesterday, when she was in very deep
trouble, she sent for me. I was very
thankful she did so: I believe a great
change of feeling has begun in her.
But she is at present in that excitable
state of mind, - she has been shaken
by so many painful emotions during
the last two days, that I think it would
be better, for this evening at least, to
guard her from a new shock, if possible. But I am going now to call
upon her, and I shall see how she
is."
"Mr. Tryan," said Mr. Jerome,




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


311


who had entered during the dialogue, in your old ene-ny's quarters," he said
and had been standing by, listening to Mr. Tryan. "However, it will be
with a distressed face, "I shall take a good while before poor )Dempster
it as a favor if you '11 let me know if shows any fight again."
iver there's anything I can do for  "I came on Mrs. Dempster's acMrs. Dempster. Eh, dear, what a count," said Mr. Tryan. "She is
world this is! I think I see 'en fif- staying at Mrs. Pettifcr's; she has had
teen year ago, -as happy a young a great shock from some severe docouple as iver was; and now, what mestic trouble lately, and I think it
it's all come to! I was in a hurry, will be wise to defer telling her of this
like, to punish Dempster for pessecut- dreadful event for a short time."
in', but there was a stronger hand at  "Why, what has been up, eh "
work nor mine."                   said Mr. Pilgrim, whose curiosity was
"Yes, Mr. Jerome; but don't let at once awakened. "She used to be
us rejoice in punishment, even when no friend of yours. Has there been
the hand of God alone inflicts it. some split between them? It 's a new
The best of us are but poor wretches thing for her to turn round on him."
just saved from shipwreck: can we   "Oh, merely an exaggeration of
feel anythling but awe and pity when scenes that must often have happened
we see a fellow-passenger swallowed before.  But the question now  is,
by the waves '?"                  whether you think there is any imi"Right, right, Mr. Tryan. I'm   mediate danger of her husband's
over hot and hasty, that I am. But death; for in that case, I think, from
I beg on you to tell Mrs. Demnpster, -  what I have observed of her feelings,
I mean, in course, when you 've an she would be pained afterwards to
opportunity, - tell her she 's a friend have been kept in ignorance."
at the White House as she may send  " Well, there 's no telling in these
for any hour o' the day."         cases, you know. I don't apprehend
" Yes; I shall have an opportunity, speedy death, and it is not absolutely
I dare say, and I will remember your impossible that we may bring him
wish. I think," continued Mr. Tryan, round again. At present he's in a
turning to Mr. Landor, " I had better state of apoplectic stupor; but if that
see Mr. Pilgrim on my way, and learn subsides, delirium is almost sure to
what is exactly the state of things by supervene, and we shall have some
this time. What do you think?"   painful scenes. It's one of those
"By all means: if Mrs. Dempster complicated cases in which the deliriis to know, there 's no one can break um is likely to be of the worst kind.
the news to her so well as you. I'll -meningitis and delirium tremens
walk with you to Dempster's door. together, - and we may have a good
I dare say Pilgrim is there still. deal of trouble with him. If Mrs.
Come, Mr. Jerome, you 've got to go Dempster were told, I should say it
our way too, to fetch your horse."  would be desirable to persuade her to
Mr. Pilgrim  was in the passage remain out of the house at present.
giving some directions to his assistant, She could do no good, you know.
when, to his surprise, he saw Mr. I 've got nurses."
Tryan enter. They shook hands; for  " Thank you," said Mr. Tryan.
Mr. Pilgrim, never having joined the " That is what I wanted t9 know.
party of the Anti-Tryanites, had no Good by."
ground for resisting the growing con-  When Mrs. Pettifer opened the
viction, that the Evangelical curate door for Mr. Tryan, he told her in a
was really a good fellow, though he few words what had happened, and
was a fool for not taking better care begged her to take an opportunity of
of  ms.elf.                       letting Mrs. Raynor know, that, they:',bWy, I did n't expect to see you might, if possible, concur in prevent.




312


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


ing a premature or sudden disclosure
of the event to Janet.
" Poor thing!" said Mrs. Pettifer.
"She's not fit to hear any bad news;
she 's very low this evening,- worn
out with feeling; and she's not had
anything to keep her up, as she 's
been used to. She seems frightened
at the thought of being tempted to
take it."
"Thank God for it; that fear is
her greatest security."
When Mr. Tryan entered the parlor this time, Janet was again awaiting him eagerly, and her pale sad face
was lighted up with a smile as she
rose to meet him. But the next moment she said, with a look of anxiety:
"How very ill and tired you look!
You have been working so hard all
day, and yet you are come to talk to
me. 0, you are wearing yourself
out! I must go and ask Mrs. Pettifer to come and make you have some
supper. But this is my mother; you
have not seen her before, I think."
While Mr. Tryan was speaking to
Mrs. Raynor, Janet hurried out, and
he, seeing that this good-natured
thoughtfulness on his behalf would
help to counteract her depression, was
not inclined to oppose her wish, but
accepted the supper Mrs. Pettifer
offered him, quietly talking the while
about a clothing-club he was going to
establish in Paddiford, and the want
of provident habits among the poor.
Presently, however, Mrs. Raynor
said she must go home for an hour, to
see how her little maiden was going
on, and Mrs. Pettifer left the room
with her to take the opportunity of
telling her what had happened to
Dempster.  When Janet was left
alone with Mr. Tryan, she said:"I feel so uncertain what to do
about nmy husband. I am so weak,
- my feelings change so from hour
to hour. This morning, when I felt
so hopeful and happy, I thought I
should like to go back to him, and try
to make up for what has been wrong
in me. I thought, now God would
help me, and I should have you to


teach and advise me, and I could bear
the troubles that would come. But
since then- all this afternoon and
evening - I have had the same feelings I used to have, the same dread
of his anger and cruelty, and it seems
to me as if I should never be able to
bear it without falling into the same
sins, and doing just what I did before.  Yet, if it were settled that I
should live apart from him, I know it
would always be a load on my mind
that I had shut myself out from going back to him. It seems a dreadful
thing in life, when any one has been
so near to one as a husband for fifteen
years, to part and be nothing to each
other any more. Surely that is a
very strong tie, and I feel as if my
duty can never lie quite away from it.
It is very difficult to know what to
do: what ought I to do? "
"I think it will be well not to take
any decisive step yet.  Wait until
your mind is calmer. You might remain with your mother for a little
while; I think you have,no real
ground for fearing any annoyance
from your husband at present; he
has put himself too much in the
wrong; he will very likely leave you
unmolested for some time. Dismiss
this difficult question fromyour mind
just now, if you can. Every new
day may bring you new grounds for
decision, and what is most needful for
your health of mind is repose from
that haunting anxiety about the future which has been preying on you.
Cast yourself on God, and trust that
he will direct you; he will make your
duty clear to you, if you wait submissively on him."
"Yes; I will wait a little, as you
tell me. I will go to my mother's tomorrow, and pray to be guided rightly. You will pray for me, too."
CHAPTER XXMI.


THE next morning Janet was so
much calmer, and at breakfast spoke




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


313


so decidedly of going to her mother's
that Mrs. Pettifer and Mrs. Raynoi
agreed it would be wise to let hei
know by degrees what had befaller
her husband, since as soon as sh(
went out there would be danger oi
her meeting some one who would
betray the fact. But Mrs. Raynor
thought it would be well first to call
at Dempster's, and ascertain how he
was; so she said to Janet: -
" My-dear, I '11 go home first, and
see to things, and get your room
ready. You needn't come yet, you
know. I shall be back again in an
hour or so, and we can go together."
" 0 no," said Mrs. Pettifer. "Stay
with me till evening. I shall be lost
without you. You needn't go till
quite evening."
Janet had dipped into the "Life
of IIenry Martyn," which Mrs. Pettifer had from the Paddiford Lending
Library, and her interestwas so arrested by that pathetic missionary story,
that she readily acquiesced in both
propositions, and Mrs. Raynor set out.
She had been gone more than an
hour, and it was nearly twelve o'clock, when Janet put down her book;
and after sitting meditatively for some
minutes with her eyes unconsciously
fixed on the opposite wall, she rose,
went to her bedroom, and, hastily
putting on her bonnet and shawl,
came down to Mrs. Pettifer, who was
busy in the kitchen.
"Mrs. Pettifer," she said, "tell
mother, when she comes back, I 'm
gone to see what has become of those
poor Lakins in Butcher Lane. I know
they 're half starving, and I 've neglected them so, lately. And then, I
think, I'11 go on to Mrs. Crewe. I
want to see the dear little woman, and
tell her myself about my going to
hear Mr. Tryan. She won't feel it
half so much if I tell her myself."
" Won't you wait till your mother
comes, or put it off till to-morrow? "
said Mrs. Pettifer, alarmed. " You '11
hardly be back in time for dinner, if
you get talking to Mrs. Crewe. And
you '11 have to pass by your hus14,band's, you know; and yesterday,
r you were so afraid of seeing him."
r   " Oh, Robert will be shut up at the
i office now, if he 's not gone out of
e the town. I must go, - I feel I must
f be doing something for some one, -
I not be a mere useless log any longer.
I 've been reading about that wonderful Henry Martyn; he's just like Mr.
Tryan,- wearing himself out for
other people, and I sit thinking of
nothing  but myself.  I must go.
Good by; I shall be back soon."
She ran off before Mrs. Pettifer
could utter another word of dissuasion, leaving the good woman in considerable anxiety lest this new impulse of Janet's should frustrate all
precautions to save her from a sudden
shock.
Janet, having paid her visit in
Butcher Lane, turned again into
Orchard Street on her way to Mrs.
Crewe's, and was thinking, rather
sadly, that her mother's economical
housekeeping would leave no abundant surplus to be sent to the hungry
Lakins, when she saw Mr. Pilgrim
in advance of her on the other side of
the street.  He was walking at a
rapid pace, and when he reached
lDempster's door he turned and entered without knocking.
Janet was startled. Mr. Pilgrim
would never enter in that way unless
there was some one very ill in the
house. It was her husband; she felt
certain of it at once. Something had
happened to him. Without a moment's
pause, she ran across the street, opened
the door, and entered. There was no
one in the passage. The dining-room
door was wide open, -no one was
there. Mr. Pilgrim, then, was already
up stairs She rushed up at once to
1)empster's room, - her own room.
The door was open, and she paused
in pale horror at the sight before
her, which seemed to stand out only
with the more appalling distinctness
because the ioonday light was darkened to twilight in the chamber.
Two strong nurses were using
their utmost force to huld Dempster




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


in bed, while the medical assistant
was applying a sponge to his head,
and Mr. Pilgrim was busy adjusting
some apparatus in the background.
)empster's face was purple and swollen, his eyes dilated, and fixed with a
look of dire terror onl something he
seemed to see approaching him from
the iron closet. He trembled violently,
and struggled as if to jump out of bed.
"Let me go, let me go," he said in
a loud, hoarse whisper; "she's coming.... she 's cold.... she 's
dead.... she'll strangle me with
her black hair. Ah!" he shrieked
aloud, "her hair is all serpents....
they 're black serpents.... they
hiss.... they hiss... let me go.... let me go.... she wants to
drag me with her cold arms.... her
arms are serpents.... they are
great white serpents.... they '11
twine round me.... she wants to
drag me into the cold water.... her
bosom is cold..  it is black.... it
is all serpents..   "
"No, Robert," Janet cried, in tones
of yearning pity, rushing to the side
of the bed, and stretching out her
arms towards him, "no, here is Janet.
She is not dead, - she forgives you."
Dempster's   maddened    senses
seemed to receive some new impression from her appearance. The terror gave way to rage.
" Ha! you sneaking hypocrite!"
he burst out in a grating voice, "you
threaten me.... you mean to have
your revenge on me, do you? Do
your worst! I 've got the law on my
side.... I know the law.... I '11
hunt you down like a hare....
prove it.... prove that I was tampered with... prove that I took
the money..   prove it.... you
can prove nothing.... you damned
psalm-singing maggots 1 I '11 make
a fire under you, and smoke off the
whole pack of you.... I '11 sweep you
up.... I'11 grind you to powder....
small powder.... (here his voice
dropped to a low tone of shuddering disgust).... powder on the bedclothes.... running about..... black lice.... they are coming in swarms....
Janet! come and take them away.... curse you! why don't you come?
Janet!"
Poor Janet was kneeling by the bed
with her face buried in her hands.
She almost wished her worst moment
back again rather than this. It
seemed as if her husband was already
imprisoned in misery, and she could
not reach him, -his ear deaf forever
to the sounds of love and forgiveness.
His sins had made a hard crust round
his soul; her pitying voice could not
pierce it.
" Not there, is n't she?" he went on
in a defiant tone. " Whv do you ask me
where she is? I'11 have every drop of
yellow blood out of your veins if you
come questioning me. Your blood is
yellow.... in your purse.... running
out of your purse... What! you're
changing it into toads, are you? They
're crawling.... they 're flying....
they 're flying about my head....
the toads are flying about. Ostler!
ostler! bring out my gig.... bring
it out, you lazy beast.... ha! you
'11 follow me, will you.... you '11
fly about my head.... you 've got
fiery tongues... Ostler! curse you!
why don't you come? Janet! come
and take the toads away.... Janet!"
This last time he uttered her name
with such a shriek of terror, that Janet involuntarily started up from her
knees, and stood as if petrified by the
horrible vibration. Dempster stared
wildly in silence for some moments;
then he spoke again in a hoarse
whisper: -
"Dead.. is she dead?   She
did it, then. She buried herself in
the iron chest.... she left her
clothes out, though.... she is n't
dead.... why do you pretend she
's dead?.... she's coming....
she 's coming out of the iron closet.... there are the black serpents.... stop her.... let me go....
stop her.... she wants to drag me
away into the cold black water....
her bosom is black.... it is all serpents.... they are getting longer




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


315.... the great white serpents are
getting longer... 
Here Mr. Pilgrim  came forward
with the apparatus to bind him, but
Dempster's struggles became more
and more violent. "Ostler! ostler!"
he shouted, " bring out the gig....
give me the whip " - and bursting
loose from the strong hands that held
him, he began to flog the bedclothes
furiously with his right arm.
"Get along, you lame brute! -
sc - sc - sc! that's it! there you go!
They think they've outwitted me, do
they? The sneaking idiots! I'll be
up with them by and by. I '11 make
them say the Lord's Prayer backwards.... I '11 pepper them   so
that the Devil shall eat them raw....
sc - sc - sc - we shall see who '11
be the winner yet.... get along, you
damned limping beast.... I '11 lay
your back open.... I '11...."
He raised himself with a stronger
effort than ever to flog the bedclothes,
and fell back in convulsions. Janet
gave a scream, and sank on her knees
again. She thought he was dead.
As soon as Mr. Pilgrim was able
to give her a moment's attention, he
came to her, and, taking her by the
arm, attempted to draw her gently
out of the room.
"Now, my dear Mrs. Dempster, let
me persuade you not to remain in the
room at present. We shall soon relieve these symptoms, I hope; it is
nothing but the delirium that ordinarily attends such cases."
" Oh! what is the matter? what
brought it on "
" He fell out of the gig; the right
leg is broken. It is a terrible accident, and I don't disguise that there
is considerable danger attending it,
owing to the state of the brain. But
Mr. Dempster has a strong constitution, you know; in a, few days these
symptoms may be allayed, and he
may do well. Let me beg of you to
keep out of the room at present: you
can do no good until Mr. Dempster
is better, and able to know you. But
you ought not to be alone; let me


advise you to have Mrs. Raynor with
you."
" Yes, I will send for mother. But
you must not object to my being in
the room. I shall be very quiet now,
only just at first the shock was so
great; I knew nothing about it. I
can help the nurses a great deal;. I
can put the cold things to his head.
He may be sensible for a moment and
know me. Pray do not say any more
against it: my heart is set on being
with him."
Mr. Pilgrim gave way, and Janet,
having sent for her mother and put
off her bonnet and shawl, returned to
take her place by the side of her husband's bed.
CHAPTER XXIV.
DAY after day, with only short intervals of rest, Janet kept her place
in that sad chamber. No wonder the
sick-room and the lazaretto have so
often been a refuge from the tossings
of intellectual doubt, - a place of repose for the worn and wounded spirit.
Here is a duty about which all creeds
and all philosophies are at one: here,
at least, the conscience will not be
dogged by doubt, the benign impulse
will not be checked by adverse theory:
here you, may begin to act without
settling one preliminary question. To
moisten the sufferer's parched lips
through the long night-watches, to
hear up the drooping head, to lift the
helpless limbs, to divine the want that
can find no utterance beyond the feeble motion of the hand or beseeching
glance of the eye, - these are offices
that demand no self-questionings, no
casuistry, no assent to propositions,
no weighing of consequences. Within
the four walls where the stir and glare
of the world are shut out, and every
voice is subdued,-where a human
being lies prostrate, thrown on the
tender mercies of his fellow, the moral
relation of man to man is reduced to
its utmost clearness and simplicity:
bigotry cannot confuse it, theory can



316


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


not pervert it, passion, awed into quiescence, can neither pollute nor perturb it. As we bend over the sickbed, all the forces of our nature rush
towards  the channels of pity, of
patience, and of love, and sweep
down the miserable choking drift of
our quarrels, our debates, our wouldbe wisdom, and our clamorous selfish
desires. This blessing of serene freedom from the importunities of opinion
lies in all simple direct acts of mercy,
and is one source of that sweet calm
which is often felt by the watcher in
the sick-room, even when the duties
there ire of a hard and terrible kind.
Something of that benign result
was felt by Janet during her tendance
in her husband's chamber.   When
the first heart-piercing hours were
over, -when her horror at his delirium was no longer fresh, she began
to be conscious of her relief from the
burden of decision as to her future
course. The question that agitated
her, about returning to her husband,
had been solved in a moment; and
this illness, after all, might be the
herald of another blessing, just as that
dreadful midnight when she stood an
outcast in cold and darkness had been
followed by the dawn of a new hope.
Robert would get better; this illness
might alter him; he would be a long
time feeble, needing help,.walking
with a crutch, perhaps. She would
wait on him with such tenderness,
such all-forgiving love, that the old
harshness and cruelty must melt
away forever under the heart-sunshine
she would pour around him. Her
bosom heaved at the thought, and delicious tears fell. Janet's was a nature in which hatred and revenge
could find no place; the long bitter
years drew half their bitterness from
er ever-living remembrance of the too
short years of love that went before;
and the thought that her husband
would ever put her hand to his lips
again, and recall the days when they
sat on the grass together, and he laid
scarlet poppies on her black hair, and
called her his gypsy queen, seemed to


send a tide of loving oblivion over all
the harsh and stony space they had
traversed since. The Divine Love
that had already shone upon her
would be with her; she would lift
up her soul continually for help; Mr.
Tryan, she knew, would pray for her.
If she felt herself failing, she would
confess it to him at once; if her feet
began to slip, there was that stay for
her to cling to. Oh, she could never
be drawn back into that cold damp
vault of sin and despair again; she
had felt the morning sun, she had
tasted the sweet pure air of trust and
penitence and submission.
These were the thoughts passing
through Janet's mind as she hovered
about her husband's bed, and these
were the hopes she poured out to Mr.
Tryan when he called to see her. It
was so evident that they were strengthening her in her new struggle, - they
shed such a glow of calm enthusiasm
over her face as she spoke of them,
that Mr. Tryan could not bear to
throw on them the chill of premonitory doubts, though a previous conversation he had had with Mr. Pilgrim
had convinced him that there was not
the faintest probability of Dempster's
recovery. Poor Janet did not know
the significance of the changing symptoms, and when, after the lapse of a
week, the delirium began to lose some
of its violence, and to be interrupted
by longer and longer intervals of
stupor, she tried to think that these
might be steps on the way to recovery,
and she shrank from questioning Mr.
Pilgrim lest he should confirm the
fears that began to get predominance
in her mind. But before many days
were past, he thought it right not to
allow her to blind herself any longer.
One day, -it was just about noon,
when bad news always seems most
sickening, - he led her from her husband's chamber into the opposite
drawing-room, where Mrs. Raynor
was sitting, and said to her, in that
low tone of sympathetic feeling which
sometimes gave a sudden air of gentleness to this rough man: -




JANET S REPENTANCE.


817


"My dear Mrs. Dempster, it is
right in these cases, you know, to be
prepared for the worst. I think I
shall be saving you pain by preventing you from entertaining any false
hopes, and Mr. Dempster's state is
now such that I fear we must consider
recovery impossible.  The affection
of the brain might not have been
hopeless, but, you see, there is a terrible complication; and I am grieved
to say the broken limb is mortifying."
Janet listened with a sinking heart.
That future of love and forgiveness
would never come, then: he was
going out of her sight forever, where
her pity could never reach him. She
turned cold, and trembled.
"But do you think he will die,"
she said, "without ever coming to
himself? without ever knowing me?"
"One cannot say that with certainty. It is not impossible that the cerebral oppression may subside, and that
he may become conscious. If there
is anything you would wish to be said
or done in that case, it would be well
to be prepared. I should think,"
Mr. Pilgrim  continued, turning to
Mrs. Raynor, " Mr. Dempster's affairs
are likely to be in order, -his will
is...
" 0, I would n't have him troubled
about  those things," interrupted
Janet, "he has no relations but quite
distant ones, -no one but me. I
would n't take up th6 time with that.
I only want to.. "
She was unable to finish; she felt
her sobs rising, and left the room.
"0 God!" she said, inwardly, "is
not thy love greater than mine?
Have mercy on him! have mercy on
him!"
This happened on Wednesday, ten
days after the fatal accident. By the
following Sunday, Dempster was in a
state of rapidly increasing prostration; and when Mr. Pilgrim, who, in
turn with his assistant, had slept in
the house from the beginning, came
in, about half past ten, as usual, he
scarcely believed that the feebly struggling life would last out till morning.




For the last few days he had been administering stimulants to relieve the
exhaustion which had succeeded the
alternations of delirium and stupor.
This slight office was all that now remained to be done for the patient; so
at eleven o'clock Mr. Pilgrim went to
bed, having given directions to the
nurse, and desired her to call him if
any change took place, or if Mrs.
Dempster desired his presence.
Janet could not be persuaded to
leave the room. She was yearning
and watching for a moment in which
her husband's eyes would rest consciously upon her, and he would know
that she had forgiven him.
How changed he was since that
terrible Monday, nearly a fortnight
ago! He lay motionless, but for the
irregular breathing that stirred his
broad chest and thick muscular neck.
His features were no longer purple
and swollen; they were pale, sunken,
and haggard.  A cold perspiration
stood in beads on the protuberant
forehead, and on the wasted hands
stretched  motionless on the bedclothes.  It was better to see the
hands so, than convulsively picking
the air, as they had been a week ago.
Janet sat on the edge of the bed
through the long hours of candlelight, watching the unconscious halfclosed eyes, wiping the perspiration
from the brow and cheeks, and keeping her left hand on the cold unanswering right hand that lay beside her
on the bedclothes. She was almost
as pale as her dying husband, and
there were dark lines under her eyes,
for this was the third night since she
had taken off her clothes; but the
eager straining gaze of her dark eyes,
and the acute sensibility that lay in
every line about her mouth, made a
strange contrast with the blank unconsciousness and emaciated animalism of the face she was watching.
There was profound stillness in the
house. She heard no sound but her
husband's breathing and the ticking
of the watch on the mantel-piece. The
candle, placed high up, shed a soft




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


light down on the one object she cared
to see. There was a smell of brandy
in the room; it was given to her husband from time to time; but this
smell, which at first had produced in
her a faint shuddering sensation, was
now becoming indifferent to her: she
did not even perceive it; she was too
unconscious of herself to feel either
temptations or accusations. She only
felt that the husband of her youth
was dying; far, far out of her reach,
as if she were standing helpless on
the shore, while he was sinking in the
black storm-waves; she only yearned
for one moment in which she might
satisfy the deep forgiving pity of her
soul by one look of love, one word of
tenderness.
Her sensations and thoughts were
so persistent that she could not measure the hours, and it was a surprise
to her when the nurse put out the
candle, and let in the faint morning
light. Mrs. Raynor, anxious about
Janet, was already up, and now
brought in some fresh coffee for her;
and Mr. Pilgrim, having awaked, had
hurried'on his clothes, and was coming in to see how Dempster was.
This change from candle-light to
morning, this recommencement of the
same round of things that had happened yesterday, was a discouragement rather than a relief to Janet.
She was more conscious of her chill
weariness; the new light thrown on
her husband's face seemed to reveal
the still work that death had been doing through the night; she felt her
last lingering hope that he would
ever know her again forsake her.
But now, Mr. Pilgrim, having felt
the pulse, was putting some brandy
in a teaspoon between Dempster's
lips; the brandy went down, and his
breathing became freer. Janet noticed the change, and her heart beat
faster as she leaned forward to watch
him. Suddenly a slight movement,
like the passing away of a shadow,
was visible in his face, and he opened
his eyes full on Janet.
It was almost like meeting him


again on the resurrection morning,
after the night of the grave.
" Robert, do you know me?"
He kept his eyes fixed on her, and
there was a faintly perceptible motion of the lips, as if he wanted to
speak.
But the moment of speech was forever gone, - the moment for asking
pardon of her, if he wanted to ask it.
Could he read the full forgiveness
that was written in her eyes? She
never knew; for, as she was bending
to kiss him, the thick veil of death
fell between them, and her lips touched a corpse.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE faces looked very hard and
unmoved that surrounded Dempster's
grave, while old Mr. Crewe read the
burial-service in his low, broken
voice. The pall-bearers were such
men as Mr. Pittman, Mr. Lowme,
and Mr. Budd, -men whom I)empster had called his friends while he
was in life; and worldly faces never
look so worldly  as at a funeral.
They have the same effect of grating
incongruitv as the sound of a coarse
voice breaking the solemn silence of
night.
The one face that had sorrow in it
was covered by a thick crape veil, and
the sorrow was suppressed and silent.
No one knew how deep it was; for
the thought in most of her neighbors'
minds was that Mrs. Dempster could
hardly have had better fortune than
to lose a bad husband who had left
her the compensation of a good income. They found it difficult to conceive that her husband's death could
be felt by her otherwise than as a deliverance. The person who was
most thoroughly    convinced that
Janet's grief was deep and real was
Mr. Pilgrim, who in general was not
at all weakly given to a belief in disinterested feeling.
"That woman has a tender heart,"
he was frequently heard to observe in




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


$19


his morning rounds about this time.
"I used to think there was a great
deal of palaver in her, but you may
depend upon it there 's no pretence
about her. If he 'd been the kindest
husband in the world she couldn't
have felt more.  There's a great
deal of good in Mrs. Dempster, - a
great deal of good."
"I always said so," was Mrs.
Lowme's reply, when he made the observation to her; ""she was always so
very full of pretty attentions to me
when I was ill. But they tell me
now she's turned Tryanite; if that's
it we sha'n't agree again.   It's
very inconsistent in her, I think,
turning round in that way, after being  the foremost to laugh at the
Tryanite cant, and especially in a
woman of her habits; she should
cure herself of them before she pretends to be over-religious."
"Well, I think she means to cure
herself, do you know?" said Mr. Pilgrim, whose good-will towards Janet
was just now quite above that temperate point at which he could indulge his feminine patients with a
little judicious detraction. " I feel
sure she has not taken any stimulants
all through her husband's illness;
and she has been constantly in the
way of them. I can see she sometimes suffers a good deal of depression for want of them, -it shows all
the more resolution in her. Those
cures are rare; but I 'e known
them happen sometimes with people
of strong will."
Mrs. Lowme took an opportunity
of retailing Mr. Pilgrim's conversation to Mrs. Phipps, who, as a victim of Pratt and plethora, could
rarely enjoy that pleasure at firsthand. Mrs. Phipps was a woman of
decided opinions, though of wheezy
utterance.
"For my part," she remarked,
"I 'm glad to hear there's any likelihood of improvement in Mrs. Dempster, but I think the way things have
turned out seems to show that she was
more to blame than people thought


she was; else, why should she feel so
much about her husband?      And
Dempster, I understand, has left his
wife pretty nearly all his property to
do as she likes with; that is n't behaving like such a very bad husband. I
don't believe Mrs. Dempster can have
had so much provocation as they pretended. I've known husbands who 've
laid plans for tormenting their wives
when they're underground, - tying
up their money and hindering them
from  marrying again.  Not that I
should ever wish to marry again; I
think one husband in one's life is
enough in all conscience "; - here she
threw a fierce glance at the amiable
Mr. Phipps, who was innocently delighting himself with the facetite in
the "Rotherby Guardian," and thinking the editor must be a droll fellow,
-" but it's aggravating to be tied up
in that way. Why, they say Mrs.
I)empster will have as good as six
hundred a year at least. A fine thing
for her, that was a poor girl without
a farthing to her fortune. It's well
if she does n't make ducks and drakes
of it somehow."
Mrs. Phipps's view of Janet, however, was far from being the prevalent
one in Milby. Even neighbors who
had no strong personal interest in her
could hardly see the noble-looking
w6man in her widow's dress, with a
sad sweet gravity in her face, and not
be touched with fresh admiration for
her, - and not feel, at least vaguely,
that she had entered on a new life in
which it was a sort of desecration to
allude to the painful past. And the
old friends who had a real regard for
her, but whose cordiality had been repelled or chilled of late years, now
came round her with hearty demonstrations of affection.  Mr. Jerome
felt that his happiness had a substantial addition now he could once
more call on that " nice little woman
Mrs. Dempster," and think of her
with rejoicing instead of sorrow. The
Pratts lost no time in returning to the
footing of old-established friendship
with Janet and her mother; and Miss




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


Pratt felt it incumbent on her, on all
suitable occasions, to deliver a very
emphatic approval of the remarkable
strength of mind she understood Mrs.
Dempster to be exhibiting. The Miss
Linnets were eager to meet Mr.
Tryan's wishes by greeting Janet as
one who was likely to be a sister in
religious feeling and good works; and
Mrs. Linnet was so agreeably surprised by the fact that Dempster had
left his wife the money "in that handsome way, to do what she liked with
it," that she even included Dempster
himself, and his villanous discovery
of the flaw in her title to Pye's Croft,
in her magnanimous oblivion of past
otffences. She and Mrs. Jerome agreed
over a friendly cup of tea that there
were " a many husbands as was very
fine spoken an' all that, an' yet all the
while kep' a will locked up from you,
as tied you up as tight as anything.
I assure you," Mrs. Jerome continued,
dropping her voice in a confidential
manner, " I know no more to this day
about Mr. Jerome's will, nor the child
as is unborn. I've no fears about a
income, - I'm well aware Mr. Jerome
'ud niver leave me stret for that; but
I should like to hev a thousand or
two at my own disposial; it makes a
widow a deal more looked on."
Perhaps this ground of respect to
widows might not be entirely without
its influence on the Milby mind, and
might do something towards conciliating those more aristocratic acquaintances of Janet's, who would otherwise
have been inclined to take the severest
view of her apostasy towards Evangelicalism. Errors look so very ugly
in persons of small means, - one feels
they are taking quite a liberty in going astray; whereas people of fortune
may naturally indulge in a few delinquencies. " They've got the money
for it," as the girl said of her mistress
who had made herself ill with pickled
salmon. However it may have been,
there was not an acquaintance of
Janet's, in Milby, that did not effer
her civilities in the early days of her
widowhood.   Even the severe Mrs.


Phipps was not an exception; for
Heaven knows what would become of
our sociality if we never visited people
we speak ill of; we should live, like
Egyptian hermits, in crowded solitude.
Perhaps the attentions most grateful to Janet were those of her old
fiiend Mrs. Crewe, whose attachment
to her favorite proved quite too strong
for any resentment she might be supposed to feel on the score of Mr.
rrvan.   The little deaf old lady
could n't do without her accustomed
visitor, whom she had seen grow up
from child to woman, always so willing to chat with her and tell her all
the news, though she was deaf; while
other people thought it tiresome to
shout in her ear, and irritated her by
recommending ear-trumpets of various
construction.
All this friendliness was very precious to Janet. She was conscious of
the aid it gave her in the self-conquest
which was the blessing she prayed for
with every fiesh morning. The chief
strength of her nature lay in her affection, which colored all the rest of
her mind; it gave a personal sisterly
tenderness to her acts of benevolence;
it made her cling with tenacity to
every object that had once stirred
her kindly emotions. Alas! it was
unsatisfied, wounded affection that
had made her trouble greater than she
could bear. And now there was no
check to thefull flow of that plenteous
current in her nature, - no gnawing
secret anguish, - no overhanging terror,-no inward shame.     Friendly
faces beamed on her; she felt that
friendly hearts were approving her,
and wishing her well, and that mild
sunshine of good-will fell beneficently
on her new hopes and efforts, as the
clear shining after rain falls on the
tender leaf-buds of spring, and wins
them from promise to fulfilment.
And she needed these secondary
helps, for her wrestling with her past
self was not always easy. The strong
emotions from which the life of a
human being receives a new bias win
their victory as the sea wins his:




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


821


though their advance may be sure,
they will often, after a mightier wave
than usual, seem to roll back so far as
to lose all the ground they had made.
Janet showed the strong bent of her
will by taking every outward precaution against the occurrence of a temptation. Her mother was now her constant companion, having shut up her
little dwelling and come to reside in
Orchard Street; and Janet gave all
dangerous keys into her keeping, entreating her to lock them away in
some secret place. Whenever the too
well-known depression and craving
threatened her, she would seek a
refuge in what had always been her
urest enjoyment,- in visiting one of
her poor neighbors, in carrying some
food or comfort to a sick-bed, in cheering with her smile some of the familiar
dwellings up the dingy back-lanes.
But the great source of courage, the
great help to perseverance, was the
sense that she had a friend and teacher
in Mr. Tryan: she could confess her
difficulties to him; she knew he prayed
for her; she had always before her the
prospect of soon seeing him, and hearing words of admonition and comfort,
that came to her charged with a divine
powver such as she had never found in
human words before.
So the time passed, till it was far
on in May, nearly a month after her
husband's death, when, as she and her
mother were seated peacefully at breakfast in the dining-room, looking
through the open window at the oldfashioned garden, where the grass-plot
was now whitened with apple-blossoms, a letter was brought in for Mrs.
Raynor.
" Why, there 's the Thurston postmark on it," she said. "It must be
about your aunt Anna. Ah, so it is,
poor thing! she's been taken worse
this last day or two, and has asked
them to send for me. That dropsy is
carryingt her off at last, I dare say.
Poor thing! it will be a happy release.
I must go, my dear, -she's your
father's last sister, - though I am
sorry to leave you. However, per14 *


haps I shall not have to stay more
than a night or two."
Janet looked distressed as she said:
"Yes, you must go, mother. But I
don't know what I shall do without
you. I think I shall run in to Mrs.
Pettifer, and ask her to come and stay
with me while you're away. I'm
sure she will."
At twelve o'clock, Janet, having
seen her mother in the coach that
was to carry her to Thurston, called,
on her way back, at Mrs. Pettifer's,
but found, to her great disappointment, that her old friend was gone out
for the day. So she wrote on a leaf
of her pocket-book an urgent request
that Mrs. Pettifer would come and
stay with her while her mother was
away; and, desiring the servant-girl
to give it to her mistress as soon as
she came home, walked on to the
vicarage to sit with Mrs. Crewe,
thinking to relieve in this way the
feeling of desolateness and undefined
fear that was taking possession of her
on being left alone for the first time
since that great crisis in her life. And
Mrs. Crewe, too, was not at home!
Janet, with a sense of discouragement for which she rebuked herself as
childish, walked sadly home again;
and when she entered the vacant
dining-room, she could not help bursting into tears. It is such vague undefinable states of susceptibility as
this - states of excitement or depression, half.mental, half physical - that
determine many a tragedy in women's
lives. Janet could scarcely eat anything at her solitary dinner: she tried
to fix her attention on a book in vain;
she walked about the garden, and
felt the very sunshine melancholy.
Between four and five o'clock, old
Mr. Pittman called, and joined her
in the garden, where she had been
sitting for some time under one of
the great apple-trees, thinking how
Robert, in his best moods, used to
take little Mamsey to look at the cucumbers, or to see the Alderney cow
with its calf in the paddock. The
tears and sobs had come again at these
u




322


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


thoughts; and when Mr. Pittman approached her, she was feeling languid
and exhausted. But the old gentleman's sight and sensibility were
obtuse, and, to Janet's satisfaction, he
showed no consciousness that she was
in grief.
" I have a task to impose upon you,
Mrs. Dempster," he said, with a
certain toothless pomposity habitual
to him: "I want you to look over
those letters again in Dempster's
bureau, and see if you can find one
from Poole about the mortgage on
those houses at Dingley. It will be
worth twenty pounds, if you can find
it; and I don't know where it can be,
if it is n't among those letters in the
bureau. I've looked everywhere at
the office for it. I'm going home
now, but I'11 call again to-morrow, if
you '11 be good enough to look in the
mean time."
Janet said she would look directly,
and turned with Mr. Pittman into the
house. But the search would take
her some time, so he bade her good
by, and she went at once to a bureau
which stood in a small back-room,
where Dempster used sometimes to
write letters and receive people who
came on business out of office hours.
She had looked through the contents
of the bureau more than once; but
to-day, on removing the last bundle
of letters from one of the compartments, she saw what she had never
seen before, a small nick in the wood,
made in the shape of a thumb-nail,
evidently intended as a means of
pushing aside the movable back of
the compartment. In her examination hitherto she had not found such
a letter as Mr. Pittman had described,
- perhaps there might be more letters
behind this slide. She pushed it back
at once, and saw - no letters, but a
small spirit-decanter, half full of pale
brandy, Dempster's habitual drink.
An impetuous desire shook Janet
through all her members; it seemed
to master her with the inevitable force
of strong fumes that flood our senses
before we are aware. Her hand was




on the decanter; pale and excited, she
was lifting it out of its niche, when,
with a start and a shudder, she dashed
it to the ground, and the room was
filled with the odor of the spirit.
Without staying to shut up the
bureau, she rushed out of the room,
snatched up her bonnet and mantle
which lay in the dining- room, and
hurried out of the house.
Where should she go? In what
place would this demon that had reentered her be scared back again?
She walked rapidly along the street
in the direction of the church. She
was soon at the gate of the churchyard; she passed through it, and
made her way across the graves to a
spot she knew,- a spot where the
turf had been stirred not long before,
where a tomb was to be erected soon.
It was very near the church wall, on
the side which now lay in deep shadow
quite shut out from the rays of the
westering sun by a projecting buttress.
Janet sat down on the ground. It
was a sombre spot. A thick hedge,
surmounted by elm-trees, was in front
of her; a projecting buttress on each
side. But she wanted to shut out
even these objects. Her thick crape
veil was down; but she closed her
eyes behind it, and pressed her hands
upon them. She wanted to summon
up the vision of the past; she wanted
to lash the demon out of her soul
with the stinging memories of the bygone misery; she wanted to renew
the old horror and the old anguish,
that she might throw herself with the
more desperate clinging energy at the
foot of the cross, where the Divine
Sufferer would impart divine strength.
She tried to recall those first bitter
moments of shame, which were like
the shuddering discovery of the leper
that the dire taint is upon him; the
deeper and deeper lapse; the oncoming of settled despair; the awful moments by the bedside of her self-maddened husband. And then she tried
to live through, with a remembrance
made more vivid by that contrast, the




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


323


blessed hours of hope and joy and    "Mr. Tryan 's just come in," she
peace that had come to her of late, said. "If you'11 step into the parlor,
since her whole soul had been bent I '11 go up and tell him you 're here.
towards the attainment of purity and i-e seemed very tired and poorly."
holiness.                            At another time Janet would have
But now, when the paroxysm of felt distress at the idea that she was
temptation was past, dread and de- disturbing Mr. Tryan when he respondency began to thrust themselves quired rest; but now her need was too
like cold, heavy mists between her great for that; she could feel nothing
and the heaven to whict she wanted but a sense of coming relief, when she
to look for light and guid.nce. The heard his step on the stair and saw
temptation would come again, - that him enter the room.
rush of desire might overmaster her  He went towards her with a look
the next time, -she would slip back of anxiety, and said: "I fear someagain into that deep slimy pit from  thing is the matter. I fear you are
which she had been once rescued, and in trouble."
there might be no deliverance for her  Then poor Janet poured forth her
more. Her prayers did not help her, sad tale of temptation and despondfor fear predominated over trust; she ency; and even while she was conhad no confidence that the aid she fessing she felt half her burden resought would be given; the idea of moved. The act of confiding in huher future fall had grasped her mind man sympathy, the consciousness that
too strongly. Alone, in this way, she a fellow-being was listening to her
was powerless. If she could see Mr. with patient pity, prepared her soul
Tryan, if she could confess all to for that stronger leap by which faith
him, she might gather hope again. grasps the idea of the Divine sympaShe must see him; she must go to him. thy. When Mr. Tryan spoke words
Janet rose from the ground, and of consolation and encouragement,
walked away with a quick resolved she could now believe the message
step.  She had been seated there a of mercy; the water-floods that had
long while, and the sun had already threatened to overwhelm  her rolled
sunk. It was late for her to walk to back again, and life once more spread
Paddiford and go to Mr. Tryan's, its heaven-covered space before her.
where she had never called before; She had been unable to pray alone;
but there was no other way of seeing but now his prayer bore her own soul
him that evening, and she could not along with it, as the broad tongue of
hesitate about it.  She walked to- flame carries upwards in its vigorous
wards a footpath through the fields, leap the little flickering fire that could
which would take her to Paddiford hardly keep alight by itself.
without obliging her to go through   But Mr. Tryan was anxious that
the town. The way was rather long, Janet should not linger out at this
but she preferred it, because it left less late hour. When he saw that she
probability of her meeting acquaint- was calmed, he said: "I will walk
ances, and she shrank from having to home with you now; we can talk on
speak to any one.                 the way."   But Janet's mind was
The evening red had nearly faded now sufficiently at liberty for her to
by the time Janet knocked at Mrs. notice the signs of feverish weariness
Wagstaff's door. The good woman in his appearance, and she would not
looked surprised to see her at that hear of causing him  any further
hour; but Janet's mourning weeds fatigue.
and the painful agitation of her face  "No, no," she said, earnestly, "you
quickly brought the second thought, will pain me very much, -indeed, you
that some urgent trouble had sent her will, by going out again to-night on
there.                            my account. There is no real reason




324:               SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.
why I should not go alone."  And father, as its frail limbs make their
when he persisted, fearing that for her way over the rough ground; if it
to be seen out so late alone might ex- should stumble, the father will not
cite remark, she said imploringlv, let it go.
with half a sob in her voice: " What  That walk in the dewy starlight reshould I —what would others like mained forever in Janet's memory
me (lo, if you went from us?  Why as one of those baptismal epochs,
will you not think more of that, and when the soul, dipped in the sacred
take care of yourself?"           waters of joy and peace, rises from
lIe had often had that appeal made them with new energies, with more
to him before, but to-night - from  unalterable longings.
Janet's lips - it seemed to have a new  When she reached home she found
force for him, and he gave way. At Mrs. Pettifer there, anxious for her
first, indeed, he only did so on con- return. After thanking her for comdition that she would let Mrs. Wag- ing, Janet only said: " I have been to
staff go with her; but Janet had de- Mr. Tryan's; I wanted to speak to
termined to walk home alone. She him"; and then remembering how
preferred solitude; she wished not to she had left the bureau and papers,
lave her present feelings distracted she went into the back-room, where,
by any conversation.               apparently, no one had been since she
So she went out into the dewy star- quitted it; for there lay the fragments
light; and as Mr. Tryan turned away of glass, and the room was still full
from her, he felt a stronger wish than of the hateful odor. How feeble and
ever that his fragile life might last miserable the temptation seemed to
out for him to see Janet's restoration her at this moment! She rang for
thoroughly established, - to see her Kitty to come and pick up the fragno longer fleeing, struggling, cling- ments and rub the floor, while she
ing up the steep sides of a precipice herself replaced the papers and locked
whence she might be any moment up the bureau.
hurled back into the depths of de-   The next morning, when seated at
spair, but walking firmly on the level breakfast with Mrs. Pettifer, Janet
ground of habit. He inwardly re- said: -
solved that nothing but a peremptory  "What a dreary, unhealthy-looking
duty should ever take him from Mil- place that is where Mr. Tryan lives I
by, - that he would not cease to I 'm sure it must be very bad for him
watch over her until life forsook him. to live there. Do you know, all this
Janet walked on quickly till she morning, since I 've been awake, I've
turned into the fields; then she been turning over a little plan in my
slackened her pace a little, enjoying mind. I think it a charming one, -
the sense of solitude which a few  all the more, because you are conhours before had been intolerable to cerned in it."
her. The Divine Presence did not     "Why, what can that be "
now seem far off, where she had not  "You know that house on the Redwings to reach it; prayer itself seemed hill road they call Holly Mount; it
superfluous in those moments of calm  is shut up now. That is Robert's
trust. The temptation which had so house; at least, it is mine now, and
lately made her shudder before the it stands on one of the healthiest spots
possibilities of the future was now a about here. Now, I 've been settling
source of confidence; for had she not in my own mind, that if a dear good
been delivered from  it?  Had not woman of my     acquaintance, who
rescue come in the extremity of dan- knows how to make a home as comger?  Yes; Infinite Love was caring fortable and cosey as a bird's-nest,
for her. She felt like a little child were to take up her abode there, and
whose hand is firmly grasped by its have Mr. Tryan as a lodger, she




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


" 325


would be doing one of the most use- order, and then we '11 get you snugly
ful decds in all her useful life."  settled in it. I shall see Mr. Pittman
"You've such a way of wrapping to-day, and I will tell him what I
up things in pretty words.   You mean to do. I shall say I wish to
must speak plainer."              have you for a tenant. Everybody
"In plain words, then, I should knows I'm very fond of that naughty
like to settle you at Holly Mount. person, Mrs. Pettifer; so it will seem
You would not have to pay any more the most natural thing in the world.
rent than where vou are, and it would And then I shall by and by point out
be twenty times pleasanter for you to Mr. Tryan that he will be doing
than living up that passage where you you a service as well as himself by
see nothing but a brick wall. And taking up his abode with you.   I
then, as it is not far from Paddiford, think I can prevail upon him; for
I think Mr. Trvan might be persuad- last night, when he was quite bent on
ed to lodge with you, instead of in coming out into the night air, I perthat musty house, among delid cab- suaded him to give it up."
bages and smoky cottages. I know    "Well, I only hope you may, my
you would like to have him live with dear. I don't desire anything better
you, and you would be such a mother than to do something towards proto him."                          longing Mr. Tryan's life, for I 've
" To be sure I should like it; it sad fears about him."
would be the finest thing in the    "Don't speak of them, - I can't
world for me. But there '11 be furni- bear to think of them. We will only
ture wanted. My little bit of furni- think about getting the house ready.
ture won't fill that house."      We shall be as busy as bees. How
" 0, I can put some in out of this we shall want mother's clever fingers!
house; it is too full; and we can buy I know the room up stairs that will
the rest. They tell mi I'm to have just do for Mr. Tryan's study.
more money than I shall know what There shall be no seats in it except a
to do with."                      very easy chair and a very easy sofa,
"I 'm  almost afraid," said Mrs. so that he shall be obliged to rest himPettifer, doubtfully, " Mr. Tryan will self when he comes home."
hardly be persuaded.   He 's been
talked to so much about leaving that           _
place; and he always said he must
stay there, - he must be among the       CHAPTER XXVI.
people, and there was no other place
for him in Paddiford. It cuts me to  THAT was the last terrible crisis of
the heart to see him getting thinner temptation Janet had to pass through.
and thinner, and I 've noticed him  The good-will of her neighbors, the
quite short o' breath sometimes. helpful sympathy of the friends who
Mrs. Linnet will have it, Mrs. Wag- shared her religious feelings, the ocstaff half poisons hin^rwith bad cook- cupations suggested to her by Mr.
ing. I don't know about that, but Tryan, concurred, with her strong
he can't have many comforts. I ex- spontaneous impulses towards works
pect he '11 break down all of a sudden of love and mercy, to fill up her days
some day, and never be able to preach with quiet social intercourse and
any more."                        charitable exertion.  Besides, her
" Well, I shall try my skill with constitution, naturally healthy. and
him by and by. I shall be very cun- strong, was every week tending, with
ning, and say nothing to him till all the gathering force of habit, to reis ready.  You and I and mother, cover its equipoise, and set her free
when she comes home, will set to from   those  physical solicitations
work directly and get the house in which the smallest habitual vice al



326 '


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


ways leaves behind it. The prisoner
feels where the iron has galled him,
long after his fetters have been loosed.
There  were  always neighborly
visits to be paid and received; and as
the months wore on, increasing familiarity with Janet's present self began
to efface, even from minds as rigid as
Mrs. Phipps's, the unpleasant impressions that had been left by recent
years. Janet was recovering the popularity which her beauty and sweetness of nature had won for her when
she was a girl; and popularity, as
every one knows, is the most complex
and self-multiplying of echoes. Even
anti-Tryanite prejudice could not resist the fact that Janet Dempster was
a changed woman, - changed as the
dusty, bruised, and sun-withered plant
is changed when the soft rains of
heaven have fallen on it, - and
that this change was due to Mr.
Tryan's influence. The last lingering sneers against the Evangelical
curate began to die out; and though
much of the feeling that had prompted
them remained behind, there was an
intimidating consciousness that the
expression of such feeling would not
be effective, —jokes of that sort had
ceased to tickle the Milby mind.
Even Mr. Budd and Mr. Tomlinson,
when they saw Mr. Tryan passing
pale and worn along the street, had a
secret sense that this man was somehow not that very natural and comprehensible thing, a humbug, - that,
in fact, it was impossible to explain
him from the stomach-and-pocket
point of view. Twist and stretch
their theory as they might, it would
not fit Mr. Tryan; and so, with that
remarkable resemblance as to mental
processes which may frequently be
observed to exist between plain men
and philosophers, they concluded that
the less they said about him the better.
Among all Janet's neighborly pleasures, there was nothing she liked better than to take an early tea at the
White House, and to stroll with Mr.
Jerome round the old-fashioned gar

den and orchard. There was endless matter for talk between her and
the good old man, for Janet had that
genuine delight in human 'ellowship
which gives an interest to all personal details that come warm from
truthful lips; and, besides, they had a
common interest in good-natured
plans for helping their poorer neighbors. One great object of Mr. Jerome's charities was, as he often said,
" to keep industrious men an' women
off the parish. I'd rether given ten
shillin' an' help a man to stand on
his own legs, nor pay half a crown to
buy him a parish crutch; it's the ruination on him if he once goes to the
parish. I 've see'd many a time, if
you help a man wi' a present in a
neeborly way, it sweetens his blood, -
he thinks it kind on you; but the parish shillins turn it sour, -he niver
thinks 'em enough." In illustration
of this opinion Mr. Jerome had a large
store of details about such persons as
Jim Hardy the coal-carrier, " as lost
his hoss," and Sally Butts, " as hed to
sell her mangle, though she was as
decent a woman' as need to be "; to
the hearing of which details Janet seriously inclined; and you would hardly desire to see a prettier picture than
the kind-faced, white-haired old man
telling these fragments of his simple
experience as he walked, with shoulders slightly bent, among the mossroses and espalier apple-trees, while
Janet in her widow's cap, her dark
eyes bright with interest, went listening by his side, and little Lizzie, with
her nankin bonnet hanging down her
back, toddled on before them. Mrs.
Jerome usuallyodeclined these lingering strolls, and often observed: "I niver see the like to Mr. Jerome when
he's got Mrs. Dempster to talk to; it
sinnifies nothin' to him whether we 've
tea at four or at five o'clock; he'd go
on till six, if you 'd let him alone, -
he's like off his head." However,
Mrs. Jerome herself could not deny
that Janet was a very pretty-spoken
woman: "She al'ys says, she niver
gets sich pikelets as mine nowhere; I




JANET'S R]




know that very well, -other folks
buy 'cm at shops, - thick, unwholesome things, you might as well eat a
sponge."
The sight of little Lizzie often
stirred in Janet's mind a sense of the
childlessness which had made a fatal
blank in her life. She had fieeting
thoughts that perhaps among her husband's distant relatives there might
be some children whom she could help
to bring up, some little girl whom she
might adopt; and she pro:nised herself
one day or other to hunt out a second
cousin of his, - a married woman,
of whom he had lost sight for many
years.
But at present her hands and heart
were too full for her to carry out that
scheme. To her great disappointtnent,
her project of settling Mrs. Pettifcr at
Holly Mount had been delayed by the
discovery that some repairs were necessary in order to make the house habitable, and it was not till September
had set in that she had the satisfaction
of seeing her old friend comfortably
installed, and the rooms destined for
Mr. Tryan looking pretty and cosey to
her heart's content. She had taken
several of his chief friends into her
confidence, and they were warmly
wishing success to her plan for inducing him to quit poor Mrs. WagstatFs
dingy house and dubious cookery.
That lie should c nsent to some such
change was becoming more and more a
matter of anxiety to his hearers; for
though no more decided symptomns
were yet observable in him than increasing emaciation, a dry hacking
cough, and an occasional shortness
of breath, it was felt that the fuilfilment of Mr. Pratt's prediction could
not long be deferred, and that this
obstinate persistence in labor and selfdisregard must soon be peremptorily
cut short by a total failure of strength.
Any hopes that the influence of Mr.
Tryan's father and sister would prevail on him to change his mode of
life - that they would perhaps come
to live with him, or that his sister at
least might como to see him, and that




EPENTANCE.                    327
the arguments which had failed from
other lips might be more persuasive
frotm hers -were now quite dissipated. His father had lately had an attack of paralysis, and could not spare
his only daughter's tendance. On Mr.
Tryan's return from a visit to his father, Miss Linnet was very anxious
to know whether his sister had not
urged him to try change of air. From
his answers she gathered that Miss
Tryan wished him to give up his
curacy and travel, or at least go to
the south l)evonshire coast.
"And why will you not do so?"
Miss Linnet said; "you might come
back to us well and strong, and
have many years of usefulness before
you."
"No," he answered quietly, "I
think people attach more importance
to suchi measures than is warranted.
I don't see any good end that is to be
served by going to die at Nice, instead
of dying amongst one's friends and
one's work. I cannot leave Milby,
- at least I will not leave it voluntarily."
But though he remained immovable
on this point, he had been compelled
to give up hlis afternoon service on
the Sunday, and to accept Mr. Parry's offer of aid in the evening service,
as well as to curtail his weekiday
labors; and he had even written to
Mr. Prendcrgast to request that he
would appoint another curate to the
Paddiford district, on the understanding that the new curate should receive
the salary, but that Mr. Tryan should
co-operato with him as long as he was
able.  The hopefulness which is an
almost constant attendant on consumption had not the effect of deceiving him as to the nature of his
malady, or of making him look forward to ultimate recovery. He believed himself to be consumptive, and he
had not yet felt any desire to escape
the early death which he had for some
time contemplated as probable. Even
diseased hopes will take their direction from the strong habitual bias of
the mind, and to Mr. Tryan, death




328


SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


had for years seemed nothing else
than the laying down of a burden,
under whchi hie sometimes felt himself fainting. He was only sanguine
about his powers of work: he flattered
himself that what he was unable to do
one week he should be equal to the
next, and he would not admit that in
desisting from aly part of his labor he
was renouncing it permanently. He
had lately delighted Mr. Jerome by
accepting his long-proHlered loan of
the " little chacenut hoss"; and he
found so much benefit from substituting constant riding exercise for walking, that he began to think he should
soon be able to resume some of the
work he had dropped.
That was a happy afternoon for
Janet, when, after exerting herself
busily for a week with her mother and
Mrs. Pettifer, she saw Holly Mount
looking orderly and comfortable from
attic to cellar. It was an old redbrick house, with two gables in front,
and two clipped holly-trees flanking
the garden-gate; a simple, homelylooking place, that quiet people might
easily get fond of; and now it was
scoured and polished and carpeted
and furnished so as to look really
snug within. When there was nothing more to he done, Janet delighted
herself with contemplating Mr. Tryan's study, first sitting down in the
easy-chair. and then lying for a moment on the sofa, that she might have
a keener sense of the repose he would
get from those wel'-stuffed articles of
furniture, which she had gone to
Rotherhy on purpose to choose.
"Now, mother," she said, when
she had finished her survey, "you
have done your work as well as any
fsirv-mother or godmother that ever
turned a pumpkin into a coach and
horses. You stay and have tea coseyly
with Mrs. Pettifer while I go to Mrs.
Linnet's. I want to tell Mary and
Rebecca the good news, that I 've got
the exciseman to promise that he will
take Mrs. Wagstaff's lodgings when
Mr. Tryan leaves. They '11 be so
pleased to hear it, because they


thought he would make her poverty
an objection to his leaving her."
"But, my dear child," said Mrs.
Raynor, whose face, always calm, was
now a happy one, " have a cup of tea
with us first. You '11 perhaps miss
Mrs. Linnet's tea-time."
"No, I feel too excited to take tea
vet. I'm like a child with a new
baby-house. Walking in the air will
do nme good."
So she set out. Holly Mount was
about a mile from that outskirt of
Paddiford Common where Mrs. Linnet's house stood nestled among its
laburnums, lilacs,  and  syringas.
Janet's way thither lay for a little
while along the high-road, and then
led her into a deep-rutted lane, which
wound through a flat tract of meadow
and pasture, while in front lay smoky
Paddiford, and away to the left the
mother-town of Milby. There was no
line of silvery willows marking the
course of a stream, -no group of
Scotch firs with their trunks reddening in the level sunbeams, -nothing
to hreak the flowerless monotony of
grass and hedgerow but an occasional
oak or elm, and a few cows sprinkled
here and there. A very commonplace
scene, indeed. But what scene was
ever commonplace in the descending
sunlight, when color has awakened
from its noonday sleep, and the long
shadows awe us like a disclosed
presence? Above all, what scene is
commonplace to the eye that is filled
with serene gladness, and brightens
all things with its own joy?
And Janet just now was very happy. As she walked along the rough
lane with a buoyant step, a half smile
of innocent, kindly triumph played
about her mouth. She was delighting beforehand in the anticipated success of her persuasive power, and for
the time her painful anxiety about
Mr. Tryan's health was thrown into
abeyance. But she had not gone far
along the lane before she heard the
sound of a horse advancing at a walking pace behind her. Without looking back, she turned aside to make




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


329


way for it between the ruts, and did
not notice that for a moment it had
stopped, and had then come on with
a slightly quickened pace. In less
than a minute she heard a well-known
voice say, " Mrs. Dempster"; and,
turning, saw Mr. Tryan close to her,
holding his horse by the bridle. It
seemed very natural to her that he
should be there. Her mind was so
full of his presence at that moment,
that the actual sight of him was only
like a more vivid thought, and she
behaved as we are apt to do when
feeling obliges us to be genuine, with
a total forgetfulness of polite forms.
She only looked at him with a slight
deepening of the smile that was already on her face. He said gently,
"Take my arm"; and they walked
on a little way in silence.
It was lie who broke it. " You are
going to Paddiford, I suppose? "
The question recalled Janet to the
consciousness that this was an unexpected opportunity for beginning her
work of persuasion, and that she was
stupidly neglecting it.
"Yes," she said, " I was going to
Mrs. Linnet's. I knew Miss Linnet
would like to hear that our friend
Mrs. Pettifer is quite settled now in
her new house. She is as fond of
Mrs. Pettifer as I am-almost; I
won't admit that any one loves her
quite as well, for no one else has such
good reason as I have. But now the
dear woman wants a lodger, for you
know she can't afford to live in so
large a house by herself. But I knew
when I persuaded her to go there that
she would be sure to get one, - she 's
such a comfortable creature to live
with; and I did n't like her to spend
all the rest of her days up that dull
passage, being at every one's beck
and call who wanted to make use of
her."
"Yes," said Mr. Tryan, "I quite
understand your feeling; I don't
wonder at your strong regard for
her."
" Well, but now I want her other
friends to second me. There she is,




with three rooms to let, ready furnished, everything in order; and I
know some one, who thinks as well
of her as I do, and who would be
doing good all round, - to every one
that knows him, as well as to Mrs.
Pettifer, if he would go to live with
her. He would leave some uncomfortable lodgings, which another person is already coveting and would
take immediately; and he would go
to breathe pure air at Holly Mount,
and gladden Mrs. Pettifer's heart by
letting her wait on him; and comfort
all his friends, who are quite miser
able about him."
Mr. Tryan saw it all in a moment,
— he saw that it had all been done for
his sake. He could not be sorry; he
could not say no; he could not resist
the sense that life had a new sweetness
for him, and that he should like it to
be prolonged a little- only a little,
for the sake of feeling a stronger
security about Janet.  When she
had finished speaking,.she looked at
him with a doubtful, inquiring glance.
He was not looking at her; his eyes
were cast downwards; but the expression of his face encouraged her,
and she said, in a half-playful tone of
entreaty: -
" You will go and live with her?
I know you will. You will come
back with me now and see the house."
He looked at her then, and smiled.
There is an unspeakable blending of
sadness and sweetness in the smile of
a face sharpened and paled by slow
consumption.  That smile of Mr.
Tryan's pierced poor Janet's heart:
she felt in it at once the assurance of
grateful affection and the prophecy
of coming death. Her tears rose;
they turned round without speaking,
and went back again along the lane.
4
CHAPTER XXVII.
IN less than a week Mr. Tryan was
settled at Holly Mount, and there was
not one of his many attached hearers




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


who did not sincerely rejoice at the
event.
The autumn that year was bright
and warm, and at the beginning of
October, Mr. Walsh, the new curate,
came. The mild weather, the relaxation from excessive work, and perhaps another benignant influence, had
for a few weeks a visibly favorable
effect on Mr. Tryan.  At least he
began to feel new hopes, which sometimes took the guise of new strength.
He thought of the cases in which consumptive patients remain nearly
stationary for years, without suffering
so as to make their life burdensome
to themselves or to others; and he
began to struggle with a longing that
it might be so with him. He struggled with it, because he felt it to he
an indication that earthly affection
was beginning to have too strong a
hold on him, and he prayed earnestly
for more perfect submission, and for
a more absorbing delight in the
Divine Presence as the chief good.
HIe was conscious that he did not
wish for prolonged life solely that he
might reclaim  the wanderers and
sustain the feeble; he was conscious
of a new yearning for those pure
human joys which he had voluntarily
and determinedly banished from his
life, -for a draught of that deep affection from which he had been cut
off by a dark chasm of remorse.
For now, that affection was within
his reach; he saw it there, like a
palm-shadowed well in the desert; he
could not desire to die in sight of
it.
And so the autumn rolled gently
by in its " calm decay." Until November, Mr. Tryan continued to preach
occasionally, to ride about visiting his
flock, and to look in at his schools;
but his growing satisfaction in Mr.
Walsh as his successor saved him from
too eager exertion and from worrying
anxieties. Janet was with him a great
deal now, for she saw that he liked her
to read to him in the lengthening evenings, and it became the rule for her
and her mother to have tea at Holly


Mount, where, with Mrs. Pettifer, and
sometimes another friend or two, they
brought Mr. Tryan the unaccustomed
enjoyment of companionship by his
own fireside.
Janet did not share his new hopes,
for she was not only in the habit of
hearing Mr. Pratt's opinion that Mr.
Tryan could hardly stand out through
the winter, but she also knew that it
was shared by Dr. Madely of Rotherby, whom, at her request, he had
consented to call in.  It was not
necessary or desirable to tell Mr. Tryan what was revealed by the stethoscope, but Janet knew the worst.
She felt no rebellion under this
prospect of bereavement, but rather a
quiet submissive sorrow. Gratitude
that his influence and guidance had
been given her, even if only for a little
while, - gratitude that she was permitted to be with him, to take a deeper and deeper impress from daily
communion with him, to be something
to him in these last months of his life,
was so strong in her that it almost silenced  regret.  Janet had  lived
through the great tragedy of woman's
life. Her keenest personal emotions
had been poured forth in her early
love, -her wounded affection with
its years of anguish, - her agony of
unavailing pity over that death-bed
seven months ago. The thought of
Mr. Tryan was associated for her
with repose from that conflict of emotion, with trust in the unchangeable,
with the influx of a power to subdue
self. To have been assured of his
sympathy, his teaching, his help, all
through her life, would have been to
her like a heaven already begun, - a
deliverance from fear and danger;
but the time was not yet come for her
to be conscious that the hold he had
on her heart was any other than that
of the heaven-sent friend who had
come to her like the angel in the prison, and loosed her bonds, and led her
by the hand till she could look back
on the dreadful doors that had once
closed her in.
Before November was over, Mr.




JANET'S REPENTANCE.


3381


Tryan had ceased to go out. A new  gently about the room, in the fire-lit
crisis had come on: the cough had dusk, arranging some things that
changed its character, and the worst would be wanted in the night. There
symptoms developed themselves so was no one else in the room, and his
rapidly that Mr. Pratt began to think eyes followed her as she moved with
the end would arrive sooner than ie the firm grace natural to her, while
had expected. Janet became a con- the bright 'ire every now and then lit
stant attendant on him now, and no up her face, and gave an unusual
one could feel that she was performing glow to its dark beauty. Even to
anything but a sacred office. She follow her in this way with his eyes
nlAde Holly Mount her home, and, was an exertion that gave a painful
wital hr mother and Mrs. Pettifer to tension to his fiace; while she looked
help her, she filled the painful days like al image of life and strength.
and nights with every soothing intlu-  "Janet," he said presently in his
enca that care and tenderness could faint voice, —he always called her
devise. There were many visitors to Janet now. In a moment she was
the sick-room, led thither by venerat- close to him, bending over him. He
ing affection; anl there could hardly  opened his hand as he looked up at
be one who did not retain in after years her, and she placed hers within it.
a vivid rem3embrance of the scene there,  "Janet," he said again, "you will
-of the pale wasted form in the easy- have a long while to live utter I am
chair (for he sat up to the last), of die gone."
gray eyes so full even yet of inquiring  A sudden pang of fear shot through
kindness, as the thin, almost trans- her. She thought he felt himself dyparent hand was held out to give the ing, and she sank on her knees at his
pressure of welcome; and of the swet feet, holding his hand, while she
woman, too, whose dark watchful eyes looked up at him, almost breathless.
detected every want, and who supplied  " But you will not feel the need of
the wvant with a ready hand.      me as you have done....     You
There were others who would have have a sure trust in God... I
had the heart and the skill to fill this shall not look for you in vain at the
place by Mr. Tryan's side, and who last."
would have accepted it as an honor;  "No.... no.... I shall be
but they could not help feeling that there.... God will not forsake
God had given it to Janet by a train me."
of events which were too impressive  She could hardly utter the words,
not to shame all jealousies into si- though she was not weeping. She
lence.                             was waiting with trembling eagerness
That sad history which most of us for anything else he might have to
know too well lasted more than three say.
months. He was too feeble and suf-   " Let us kiss each other before we
fering for the last few weeks to see part."
any  visitors, but he still sat up   She lifted up her face to his, and
through the day. The strange hallu- the full life-breathing lips met the
cinations of the disease which had wasted dying ones in a sacred kiss of
seemed to take a more decided hold promise.
on him just at the fatal crisis, and had
made him think he was perhaps getting better at the very time when        CHAPTER XXVIII.
death had begun to hurry on with
more rapid movement, had now given  IT soon came, -the blessed day of
way, and left him calmly conscious of deliverance, the sad day of bereavethe reality. One afternoon, near the ment; and in the second week of
end of February, Janet was moving March they carried him to the grave.




SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE.


He was buried as he had desired: pleasure; she craved no worldly good.
there was no hearse, no mourning- She saw the years to come stretch
coach; his coffin was borne by twelve before her like an autumn afternoon,
of his humbler hearers, who relieved filled with resigned memory. Life to
each other by turns. But he was fol- her could nevermore have any eagerlowed by a long procession of mourn- ness; it was a solemn service of gratiing friends, women as well as men.  tude and patient effort. She walked
Slowly, amid deep silence, the dark in the presence of unseen witnesses,
stream passed along Orchard Street, - of the Divine love that had rescued
where eighteen months before the her, of the human love that waited
Evangelical curate had been saluted for its eternal repose until it had seen
with hooting and hisses. Mr. Jcrome her endure to the end.
and Mr. Landor were the eldest pallbearers; and behind the coffin, led by  Janet is living still. Her black hair
Mr. Trvan's cousin, walked Janet, in is gray, and her step is no longer
quiet submissive sorrow. She could buoyant; but the sweetness of her
not feel that he was quite gone from  smile remains, the love is not gone
her; the unseen world lay so very from her eyes; and strangers somenear her, - it held all that had ever times ask, Who is that noble-looking
stirred the depths of anguish and joy elderly woman, that walks about
within her.                         holding a little boy by the hand?
It was a cloudy morning, and had Thec little boy is the son of Janet's
been raining when they left Holly adopted daughter, and Janet in her
Mount; but as they walked, the sun old age has children about her knees,
broke out, and the clouds were rolling and loving young arms round her
off in large masses when they entered neck.
the churchyard, and Mr. Walsh's      There is a simple gravestone in
voice was heard saying, "I am the Milby Churchyard, telling that in
Resurrection  and the Life."  The this spot lie the remains of Edgar
faces were not hard at this funeral; Tryan, for two years officiating curate
the burial-service was not a hollow  at the Pnaddiford Chapel-of-Ease, in
form. Every heart there was filled this parish. It is a meagre memorial,
with the memory of a man who, and tells you simply that the man
through a self-sacrificing life and in a who lies there took upon him, faithpainful death, had been sustained by fully or unfaithfully, the office of
the faith which fills that form with guide and instructor to his fellowbreath and substance.               men.
When Janet left the grave, she did  But there is another memorial of
not return to Holly Mount; she went Edgar Tryan, which bears a fuller
to her home in Orchard Street, where record: it is Janet Dempster, rescued
her mother was waiting to receive her. from self-despair, strengthened with
She said quite calmly, " Let us walk divine hopes, and now looking back
round the garden, mother."    And on years of purity and helpful labor.
they walked round in silence, with The man who has left such a memotheir hands clasped together, looking rial behind him must have been one
at the golden crocuses bright in the whose heart beat with true compasspring sunshine. Janet felt a deep sion, and whose lips were moved by
stillness within. She thirsted for no fervent faith.


Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, 8 Co.








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