L I B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 82 3 
 
 n 3|6me
 
 .X
 
 MEADOWLEIGH 
 
 A TALE OF ENGLISH COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE LADIES OF BEVER HOLLOW.' 
 
 " Give me again my hollow tree. 
 My crust of bread and liberty ! 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 mCHARI) BENTLEY. NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1863. 
 
 [The Author reserves the Right of Translation.]
 
 LONDON 
 
 Printed by A. Schuke, 13, Poland Street.
 
 
 ^ TO 
 
 FRANCES AND LYDIA, 
 
 THIS TALE OF ENGLISH COUNTRY LIFE 
 
 IS DEDICATED 
 
 WITH THEIR SISTERS TRUE AFFECTION. 
 
 REIGATE HILL, 
 OrCEMBER 13, 18CS.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 If I must want those beams I wish, yet grant 
 That I at least may wish those beams I want. 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLE. 
 
 *• In short, you need not fear for me," she 
 said quietly, as they paced the platform of 
 the Paddington terminus. 
 
 " Certainly not," said her companion. " You 
 are not pretty enough to be run away with, 
 you know ; you won't set the world on fire, 
 Nelly 1" 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 But the carelessness of his words and tone 
 covered real tenderness. 
 
 " And oh, George ! do be very, very — '* 
 she did not say what, nor did he seem to 
 need it; for after a moment's pause, he 
 answered with a shght laugh — 
 
 " Oh yes, I'll be very very. And do you 
 be very good too. Mind you write." 
 
 " No fear of that ! and you ?" 
 
 *' Trust me.'' 
 
 " Two first-class opposites, sir ?" said a 
 porter, passing. 
 
 " No, one first-class corner, back to the 
 engine," said George ; and in another instant 
 he had put his sister into a carriage which 
 had already two gentlemen in it whom he 
 scanned at a glance, busy with the Times 
 and Athenoeum. 
 
 "Got your ticket?" said George, sotto 
 voce, as he stood looking in at her. 
 
 " Yes ; in my glove." 
 
 " All right,"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 3 
 
 She looked wistfully at him, and her eyes 
 began to shine with tears. 
 
 " Suppose that's her !" whispered George 
 suddenly, as a fat woman, with very short 
 skirts and a cotton umbrella, bustled past. 
 
 " George ! how can you be so disagree- 
 able?" 
 
 "Well, but suppose it should be, you 
 know ! It might be." 
 
 " I shall not suppose any such thing." 
 
 Here the engine began to sputter like a 
 great roasting apple ; and the train moved 
 a few inches. George disappeared. Two 
 minutes afterwards, he thrust Punch into 
 his sister's hand ; saying, " Affection's gift." 
 
 " You extravagant fellow," said she ; " could 
 not you have saved that three-pence ?" 
 
 " No, miss, I couldn't. Well, but Eleanor, 
 can't you look a wee bit brighter? Don't 
 let your last look be a dismal one, you 
 know." 
 
 " Certainly not ; I don't feel dismal at all ; 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 and you know the journey will be a positive 
 treat. I only wish you were going too." 
 
 " Mills grazie r with a wry face. " Come, 
 you really are off now." And they exchanged 
 a hearty kiss. The train moved oflp with a 
 brisk pit-pit-pat. The large tears with which 
 her eyelids were overcharged, rolled quietly 
 down and were vviped away. Then she looked 
 at Punch ; but she was not in humour for 
 it ; she shut it into her little, steel-clasped, 
 , morocco bag, and looked out at the passing 
 scene, pre-occupied, and yet taking a second- 
 ary kind of interest in it. 
 
 " I suppose you've seen what old Vindex 
 says," remarked one gentleman to the other. 
 
 " No ! Is he at it again ?" 
 
 A few words were exchanged, of no in- 
 terest to Eleanor ; and the Times was trans- 
 ferred from one to the other. 
 
 She thought to herself with a kind of pen- 
 sive luxury — 
 
 " The battle of life is now beginning with
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 me. I have long felt a strong desire to be 
 useful, I have also a liking for novelty, as 
 I suppose all young people have ; therefore 
 I ought to be particularly thankful that in 
 the present case, usefulness and novelty will 
 be combined. I shall be useful to dear mam- 
 ma in earning money, and, I hope, useful 
 also to Miss Clairvaux, though I have not 
 the least idea in what my duties will consist. 
 Probably they will confine me a good deal 
 to the house. Society, on terms of equality, 
 of course I must not expect. I must know 
 my place, as mamma says, and keep it ; 
 if I do not put myself forward, I shall not 
 need to be put back. Nor must I give myself 
 the airs of a heroine in distress, or of decayed 
 gentility, w^hich would be ridiculous indeed, 
 seeing that I am in no way a heroine, and 
 that though we are quite respectable, we are 
 nothing more. Dear mamma commended me 
 to * the grace of God and my own good sense., 
 O God, let thy grace be vouchsafed me 1"
 
 b MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 With this little prayer, the young girl fell 
 into a pleasing train of thought that uncon- 
 sciously imparted its sweetness and tran- 
 quillity to her looks. Though she would not, 
 as her brother phrased it, set the world on 
 fire, she was yet a pretty brunette, with a 
 countenance that united gentleness with de- 
 cision. 
 
 The gentlemen were now talking on the 
 prospects of the coming spring, and the sport 
 they had during the winter ; and one of them 
 said : 
 
 " Do you hunt now ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 *' Quite given it up ?" 
 
 " Quite. I went out, the beginning of 
 April last year, the last meet of the season, 
 and that was the last time. I went, because 
 I wanted to see a man I knew would be 
 there, so I just slipped on a red coat and 
 went. The fox led us all along the range 
 of hills to Provis Court, and then it made
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 7 
 
 a circuit and came back again over the very 
 same ground. T thought, ' well, this is con- 
 venient, for it is bringing me straight home.' 
 Instead of that, he turned again and led us 
 all the way back to Provis Court, where he 
 was killed." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! he led you a pretty dance. 
 The scent does not lie well in this county." 
 
 "No, very bad. And birds have been 
 scarce this winter. What a lot of them died 
 last summer. My man frequently came on 
 four or five young partridges, all of them 
 dead together." 
 
 " Owing to the heat, I suppose. It was a 
 very hot summer.'* 
 
 "I don't know what it was. My man 
 thought it was owing to their eating the 
 blights. Are you fond of your gun ?" 
 
 *' Oh, very. I am a busy man, but I 
 always contrive to find time for that." 
 
 " If you come over to me next season, I 
 think I can give you a good day's sport."
 
 8 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "Thank you. I sent a brace of birds 
 yesterday evening to Miss Clairyaux," 
 (Eleanor could not help starting,) " the lad got 
 there at a quarter to ten, and found the house 
 shut up for the night — mistress and maids in 
 bed." 
 
 " No ?" said the other ; and then there was 
 a merry " ho, ho, ho !" 
 
 " Does she always go to bed at nine ?" 
 
 " No ; I believe ten is her hour, unless she 
 has a cold or anything of that sort — then 
 hatches are closed, all hands piped to ham- 
 mocks." 
 
 Another " ho, ho, ho !" of course. 
 
 "She doesn't seem afraid, living there all 
 by herself," said the second reflectively. 
 
 "Oh, no,'' said the first. "She says 
 there's nothing to be afraid of." 
 
 "Well," said the other, "I don't know 
 that there is." And continued his reading. 
 
 How Eleanor wished they would go on ! 
 Her busy fancy immediately conjured up the
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. V 
 
 picture of a bustling little woman, seeing to 
 the fastenings, and looking to the fires herself, 
 instead of trusting to the maids. Or, what 
 if a weary invalid, unable to feel her strength 
 equal to her day, and glad of the day's close ? 
 She was not a coward at any rate; and she hked 
 early hours. Two good points to begin with. 
 
 "What do you think," said one of the 
 gentlemen presently, " of this Church Expan- 
 sion question ?" 
 
 "Well, I think there are some grave 
 objections to it." 
 
 " Have you read Archbishop Whateley's 
 charge ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 « Or Dr. Vaughan ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Oh ! but then you can't judge." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 " If I pull out a brick here and a brick 
 there from an old wall, I can judge whether 
 it will come down or not."
 
 10 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Well, I think we might just as well get 
 those acts repealed which hamper consciences 
 and impede liberty of thought." 
 
 Pause. 
 
 " If we once begin, there's no knowing 
 where it will stop." 
 
 " Oh ! you may say that of so many 
 things." 
 
 Pause again. 
 
 " Men are not ao-reed on what thev want 
 altered. Every one wants to pull out his own 
 brick ; and, of course, down will come the 
 wall." 
 
 " Oh no ! not so bad as that. There are 
 certain things that all are pretty much of a 
 mind about ; the chief thing is, that at a certain 
 point some would stop, others would go on.'' 
 
 " Just so ; and, of course, the latter would 
 carry their point. You should hear ]\Iiss 
 Clairvaux." 
 
 ** Is she very strong upon it ?" 
 
 *' Oh, wonderful."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 11 
 
 No more said. Eleanor began to take a 
 sudden interest in the question of Church 
 Expansion, and to wish she were not so pro- 
 foundly ignorant of it. It was something 
 that interested Miss Clairvaux, whose opinion 
 seemed valued. Perhaps she was wdiat is 
 called a strong-minded woman, with loud 
 voice, and masculine gait. The idea was 
 not very reassuring. 
 
 By and by, one of the speakers resumed : 
 
 " Do you know what view Dr. Hurst takes 
 of it?" 
 
 " Oh ! poor man, I doubt if he takes any. 
 No viewiness about him. I only wish that 
 man's head were equal to his heart." 
 
 At which they both laughed. 
 
 " The circus people are here, I see,'' said 
 one of the gentlemen, letting down the glass ; 
 and a board, inscribed *' Meadowleigh" in 
 large letters, informed Eleanor, to her surprise, 
 that she had already reached her destination. 
 The gentlemen scrambled out of the carriage,
 
 12 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 one of them snatched up a little hamper of 
 fish, and made his way to a phaeton in wait- 
 ing, the other politely handed Eleanor out ; 
 and she was looking about for a porter, when 
 a shabby lad touched his hat, and accosted 
 her with : 
 
 "Be you for Miss Clairvaux?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then you must come alonger me." 
 
 " I must look after my boxes first," said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Ticket, miss," said the porter. 
 
 Her boxes were soon carried through the 
 station-house to a little hack poney- carriage, 
 with a remarkably rusty poney, awaiting her 
 at the door. The boy assumed the conduct of 
 it when she had stepped in, and they were 
 soon trotting along a straight piece of road, 
 which presently joined another much older, 
 more sinuous, and more picturesque. 
 
 " Do you belong to Miss Clairvaux ?" said 
 Eleanor to the boy.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 13 
 
 " No ; I belongs to the Crown/* answered 
 he. 
 
 " I dare say you like driving/' said 
 Eleanor; on which he looked up at her, as 
 much as to say, do you really suppose I am 
 going to knock up a little chat, instead of 
 attending to the poney's ears ? 
 
 *' Driving requires a deal of thought,'* 
 remarked he, after carefully transferring his 
 small change into the safest corner of his 
 purse — which was his mouth. 
 
 A turn in the road brought them suddenly 
 in sight of a white cottage, with three 
 ancient gables facing the approach, which was 
 over a very jolting piece of common. A dark 
 background of tall trees with rooks' nests, 
 threw out the white cottage in strong relief, 
 though the branches at present were leafless ; 
 it looked seclusion itself. There were three 
 large lattices immediately under the eaves, 
 and, on the basement, an oak-grained door 
 with a heavy porch, and two bay-windows.
 
 14 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 This Doric siaiplicity would have made you 
 fancy you saw the ground plan of the building 
 at a glance, had it not been for certain quaint 
 abutments and projections at the sides, the 
 design of which it was impossible to deter- 
 mine. These were evidently mantled in 
 summer time in honeysuckle, passion-flower, 
 and Wisteria Cinensis, which now only spread 
 out their bare and fettered limbs against the 
 walls, as if in mute protest. 
 
 "Them's the Peaks," said the boy, 
 nodding at the cottage. " Some calls it the 
 Peaked House." 
 
 " It's very pretty," said Eleanor, looking 
 earnestly at it ; " only rather lonely." 
 
 " We don't take no count o' that, we 
 don't," said the boy. 
 
 Saying which, he violently whirled the little 
 vehicle up to the gate, reckless of its being 
 Crown property, jumped out, ran up to 
 the door, and loudly rang the bell. A pretty 
 young maid servant came out, who smiled
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 16 
 
 welcome ; and in the background stood a tall 
 lady, drawing a China crape shawl around 
 her, to protect herself from the draught. 
 
 "Welcome to the Peaks, my dear," said 
 she very kindly, as she shook hands with 
 Eleanor. " Go into the dining-room and 
 warm yourself. I'll settle with the boy." 
 
 Saying which, she put one shilling and 
 threepence into his hand. 
 
 " Please, mum, I ought to have one and 
 six," said the boy. 
 
 " Oh ! ought you ?" said Miss Clairvaux 
 coolly. " I think I know what you ought 
 to have by this time. The gratuity is entirely 
 optional, and you know very well you go 
 more than twice the distance for sixpence." 
 
 "Nobody gives me coppers," murmured 
 he. 
 
 " If that is all, give me back the halfpence, 
 and here is a threepenny piece. No, it is 
 fourpence — I will give it you, but not because 
 you have a right to it. No wonder you
 
 16 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 object to coppers if you keep your money in 
 your mouth 1 Would you like me to give you 
 an old purse ? Very well, here is one, 
 (taking it out of the side-board drawer,) 
 which has only a small hole in it ; it will do 
 very well for halfpence, and then you need not 
 object to coppers." 
 
 The purse was fully w^orth sixpence, and 
 the servant of the Crown departed with a 
 broad smile of joy irradiating his face. 
 Eleanor was quite taken by surprise at this 
 winding up of the scene. Miss Clairvaux did 
 not give it a second thought ; but leaving her 
 neat maids (the youngest of whom had a 
 mouth too much crowded with teeth,) to 
 carry up the boxes, she returned to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 She looked much nearer fifty than forty ; 
 but her dark hair had neither changed colour 
 nor lost its brightness. She was erect with- 
 out being in the least stiff, which, probably, 
 was owing in some measure to her wearing
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 17 
 
 neither whalebone nor steel. Her com- 
 plexion was clear brown, without any rose- 
 tint ; her features regular, though somewhat 
 attenuated, and at times there were certain 
 lines in her face that made it rather haggard. 
 But her smile was sweetness itself, and her 
 dark blue-grey eyes were large, soft, and 
 bright. 
 
 As for her dress, it must be owned she 
 wanted a hoop, or, at any rate, did not wear 
 one; but her steel-coloured silk dress fitted 
 well, and reached the ground in ample folds. 
 At least half her hair was covered by a 
 transparent lace cap, with just a soupgon of 
 ribbon. Caps and carpets should never force 
 themselves on attention. 
 
 " Those boys," said she good-humouredly, 
 " will always encroach when they can ; but I 
 know exactly what is their due. Well, my 
 dear, are you tired with your journey? I 
 did not know whether you would dine before 
 you started, and I always dine early myself, 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 SO I have ordered what people call a severe 
 tea, which will suit you in either case, and 
 it will be ready when you are. I will show 
 you your room." 
 
 '* Oh, don't trouble yourself, ma'am, pray," 
 said Eleanor hastily ; but she led the way 
 without taking notice. They crossed a very 
 pretty, irregular-shaped hall, which, having 
 a bureau, china shelf, some large china jars, 
 and other pieces of old-fashioned furniture in 
 it, had a quaint, comfortable look. It had a 
 glass-door, with steps into the garden at the 
 back, which, being full of evergreens, looked 
 cheerful in winter. 
 
 Miss Clairvaux led the way up some 
 shallow stairs carpetted with crimson 
 drugget, into a pretty country bed-room 
 with white furniture fringed with blue. 
 
 " Oh ! what a nice bed-room 1" exclaimed 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " This is my best bed-room, as you may 
 suppose," said Miss Clairvaux. *' Adjoining
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 19 
 
 it is a smaller one, where you may sleep upon 
 occasion ; but, meanwhile, there is no reason 
 why you should not have the best room and 
 keep it aired. On the other side of the 
 landing is ray own room, with dressing-room 
 attached ; the servants have an attic at the 
 back. There is also another room halfway 
 up the stairs ; but it is seldom or never 
 occupied, and no need it should be ! With 
 all these rooms filled, and that, too, my 
 house would not be the Three Peaks, but 
 Peak Inn 1"
 
 20 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Like as my parloure so my hall 
 
 And kitclien's small ; 
 A little buttery, and therein 
 
 A little bin ; 
 Some little sticks of thorn or briar 
 
 Make me a fire, 
 Close by whose living coal I sit 
 
 And glow like it ; 
 The threshold of my doore 
 
 Is worn by the poore 
 Who thither come, and freely get 
 Good words or meate. — heerick. 
 
 What a curious feeling ojie sometimes 
 has, on entering as a stranger a dwelling 
 stamped with the impress of another's in- 
 dividuality, and bearing the marks of long
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 21 
 
 and comfortable occupation, where we are 
 probably destined to make a permanent stay ! 
 Those chairs, tables, curtains, now so un- 
 familiar, will hereafter form the accessories of 
 a picture to which we shall revert in many 
 a lonely night-watch with pleasure or 
 pain. Our hand may become acquainted 
 with every book on those shelves, our eye 
 with every shade in those pictures ; we may 
 come to have our favourite seat and footstool, 
 our recognized corner, where now all looks so 
 new and strange. 
 
 Miss Clairvaux's sitting-room was more of 
 the morning-room than drawing-room ; with 
 nothing of that company look which one sees 
 in a room seldom used except to receive 
 visitors. It was plain that she occupied it the 
 greater part of the day : it was nearly square, 
 and had a bow-window looking into the 
 garden at the side of the house, as well as a 
 window to the front. Books had accumulated 
 on various tables, but without untidiness, and
 
 22 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 there were a good many ranged on shelves 
 and in niches. A davenport near the fire, 
 a handsome piano, and plenty of music books 
 and portfolios, gave promise of pleasant in- 
 door resom'ces. 
 
 The severe tea included a hot partridge ; 
 and Miss Clairvaux seemed to give only 
 two strokes to the bird, and thereby di- 
 vide it in three as easily as if it were 
 orange-peel. 
 
 *' You must be hungry, my dear," said 
 she, helping her young guest to gravy and 
 bread-sauce, and then pouring rich cream 
 into the teacups. " You like milk and sugar, 
 I suppose. No sugar? neither do I. Well, 
 and was the water much out over the 
 country ?'* 
 
 "In some parts, ma'am," said Eleanor; 
 " but nowhere so much as in this neighbour- 
 hood.'' 
 
 " Just what I expected to hear," said Miss 
 Clairvaux with evident satisfaction. "I am
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 23 
 
 deteriuined not to pay my highway-rate while 
 the road to the parish church is under 
 water." 
 
 "Can it be helped, then?" 
 
 " Helped ? yes ! if men would but exert 
 themselves instead of sitting by their fires 
 reading the Times. The county is full of 
 day-labourers out of work, eager for some- 
 thing to do and something to eat. It wears 
 my heart out. I give them food as long as 
 there is anything in the pantry, and I have 
 invented little odd jobs for them, and paid 
 them for their work as far as I could do it, 
 which is a man's business, not mine; but 
 who can sit still and see labourers starve ? 
 All last summer, water was wanting — water 
 for the table, water for cows and horses, 
 water for the laundresses, water for the 
 gardens. I know people who paid a shilling 
 a dav to have water fetched. I made all 
 welcome to my spring who liked to come to 
 it, and if I had had a farthing a pail, I should
 
 24 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 have cleared a pretty penny. Now they come 
 round for a water-rate ; and, with water 
 all across the road, they lay on a highway- 
 rate. Next, I suppose, there'll be lighting 
 and paving, and, though I detest gas, they 
 will stick up a hideous lamp at my gate, and 
 make me pay for it !" 
 
 Though Miss Clairvaux's brow contracted 
 while she spoke of these enormities, it cleared 
 directly afterwards ; and there was remarkable 
 kindUness in her look and manner as she did 
 the simple honours of her table. As they 
 rose from it, she said : 
 
 " The postman calls for the letters at eight 
 o'clock, so we have no time to lose ;" and 
 without another word sat down to her 
 davenport. 
 
 Eleanor, finding herself at liberty to follow 
 the example, fetched her writing-case, and 
 began as follows : —
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 25 
 
 The Peaked House. 
 
 " Meadowleigh. 
 
 " Thursday evening. 
 
 " My dearest, dearest mother ! 
 " How long it already seems since I saw 
 you ! but I am not in the least low-spirited. 
 On the contrary, I am quite cheerful and 
 being made much of, hke a favoured guest 
 rather than a poor companion My journey 
 did not seem at all long, and was without the 
 smallest incident. A little hired carriage was 
 waiting for me at the station, and the boy 
 soon drove me here, where Miss Clairvaux 
 gave me the kindest reception conceivable. 
 I like her very much already. She is not in 
 the least like what I expected — indeed I drew 
 so many imaginary pictures of her that she 
 could not resemble them all, and she 
 resembles none. She is rather older than 
 you, I think ; taller, darker, and thinner. I 
 might almost call her handsome ; she reminds
 
 26 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 me of the Melpomene on the cameo Maurice 
 gave me. She made me eat some partridge 
 at tea ; and chatted so pleasantly that it 
 seemed to me as if we were old friends ; and 
 yet we could scarcely know less of one another ; 
 for Mrs. Mapleson seems to have told her as 
 little of us as she told us of her. Miss Clair- 
 vaux said to me at tea-time, * My dear, all I 
 know of you is, that your mother is a widow, 
 and that you are a good daughter, and were 
 looking out for a situation/ I wonder what 
 my situation here is to be ! Probably she will 
 tell me my duties to-morrow. I do not 
 expect them to be very arduous. It is very 
 pleasant her calling me ' my dear,' and she 
 says she does not like to be frequently called 
 * ma'am.* Thus, you see, we are on a 
 pleasant footing from the first; and she says 
 that when I have spent one day with her, I 
 may guess what all the days in the year will 
 be — there is not the least variety. 
 
 " As for the house, which is a white cottage
 
 MEADOWLEIGH, 27 
 
 with three peaks, it is comfort itself, and 
 seems built to accord with the line, 
 
 * Mine be a cot beside a hill;' 
 
 for there is a rising ground in front, covered 
 with turf and patches of heath and furze, and 
 full of dents and dimples — such as Hobbima 
 and Ruysdael loved. Miss Clairvaux says 
 her father and mother spent their honeymoon 
 in this cottage, and that is one reason why 
 she is fond of it. Her estabhshment consists 
 of two maid-servants, nice-looking girls from 
 eighteen to twenty-two, very neat and 
 pleasant mannered. 
 
 " And now, what more have I to say ? 
 There are a good many old prints, crayon- 
 drawings, and a few pictures about the 
 house. A very fair copy of Gainsborough's 
 ' Girl and Pitcher' hangs opposite to me now. 
 In my room are some httle heads by Cipriani 
 and Bartolozzi — graceful, of course, but 
 rather feeble.
 
 28 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Good-bye, my dearest, dearest mother ! 
 I long to know how you get on in the 
 evenmgs, and whether George comes home 
 early and reads to you, as he said he would. 
 I hope Mary will be a good girl, and save 
 you all the trouble she can. When I come 
 home again, I hope to find her quite a nice 
 little cook. Do not over-tire yourself, dearest 
 mamma. My dear love to George. May 
 God's blessing be on you both, and on me, 
 too. I know we shall always be thinking of 
 one another. 
 
 " Your ever afi'ectionate daughter, 
 
 "Eleanor Graydon." 
 
 " So now we have drawn each other's 
 pictures," said Miss Clairvaux, finishing her 
 note as Eleanor folded hers. 
 
 " Pictures ?" repeated Eleanor, rather con- 
 sciously. 
 
 " Why, of course you have told your 
 mamma what you think of me; at any
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 29 
 
 rate, I have given Mrs. Mapleson my first 
 impressions of you. Shall we exchange 
 likenesses ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no ; I think we had better not," 
 said Eleanor hastily. 
 
 "I think so, too," said Miss Clairvaux 
 laughing. " I only meant to give you a 
 fright. I have not the least curiosity. 
 Curiosity is the vice of an unoccupied 
 mind." And she began another letter, 
 pausing from time to time, and reflecting 
 deeply. The only remark with which she 
 broke a long silence, was while directing 
 one of her letters. 
 
 *' Don't you think Foljambe an ugly 
 name ?" 
 
 " Certainly I do not admire it,*' said 
 Eleanor ; " but it is new to me.'' 
 
 *' Oh ! but it is an old name — old as the 
 hills." And she resumed her pen. 
 
 " Here comes Trim," observed she, as the 
 postman's firm tread was heard on the gravel
 
 30 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 walk. " Why does not he blow his horn, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 She took up her letters and Eleanor's note, 
 and carried them out herself, and on the 
 house door being opened, the following 
 colloquy ensued. 
 
 **Why, Trim, why don't you blow your 
 horn ?" 
 
 " Oh ! bless you ma'am," Twith a jolly, 
 deep-toned laugh,) **the boys and girls do 
 make such a row about it." 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to say a great, 
 strong man like you minds the boys and girls ?" 
 
 " Oh ! faith, but I do, though. Why, 
 they call out, ' Little boy blue, come blow 
 your horn.' " 
 
 "Well, and if they do?" said Miss Clair- 
 vaux laughing. 
 
 "Oh, hang it! 1 can't stand that. Why 
 it makes even you laugh — " 
 
 " T laugh at your minding being laughed 
 at—"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 31 
 
 " Mind it ? Why, when they begin to 
 laugh, I begin to laugh ; and then, instead 
 of a blow, there comes out a sort of a bray." 
 
 This upset Miss Clairvaux and her house- 
 maid at one and the same moment, and the 
 little hall rang with such irrepressible merri- 
 ment, that Trim, a fine, stalwart, handsome 
 man, could stand it no longer, but, bagging 
 the letters, strode off into the dark, saying : 
 
 " Catch me blowing the horn any more. 
 If I do, rU be blowed." 
 
 " There's a specimen of our rusticity," said 
 Miss Clairvaux, coming back. " Who would 
 have thought of such sharaefacedness in a 
 navvy that has had his hand shattered in the 
 Crimea ?" 
 
 She shivered a little, and drawing her easy 
 chair close to the fire, placed herself in it, 
 with her back to the lights, and fell into a 
 deep reverie. 
 
 A long silence ensued, which Eleanor 
 accidentally broke by dropping her scissors
 
 32 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 on the table. Miss Clairvaux gave a violent 
 start. 
 
 " My dear/' said she, " I had utterly 
 forgotten you were here. You must forgive 
 my absence-fits. I have so long lived alone 
 that I hardly know how to behave in society. 
 That is one reason why it will be good for me 
 to have you here — you will keep me up to 
 the mark." 
 
 *' Oh, dear !" said Eleanor, laughing at 
 what appeared to her a whimsical notion. 
 
 *' I am quite serious, I assure you," said 
 Miss Clairvaux. "And now come closer 
 to the fire, and let us be sociable. I shall 
 not be easy, though, unless you take that 
 footstool. Are you quite comfortable now ?" 
 
 " Quite, ma'am, thank you," said Eleanor ; 
 and then there was another pause. 
 
 **Do you ever write your letters twice 
 over ?" said Miss Clairvaux presently. 
 
 " Oh, no !" said Eleanor with surprise. 
 
 " I do, not unfrequently — twice, thrice.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 33 
 
 I am apt to put things too strongly at first. 
 It is better to tone them down, than to 
 run the chance of giving pain.'' 
 
 " My few letters are calculated to give 
 no pain — and little pleasure." 
 
 '' That will not be the case henceforth, I 
 fancy. Your letters will be your mother's daily 
 treat — her one great pleasure." 
 
 "Mamma does not expect me to write 
 more than once or twice a week ; it would 
 be too expensive." 
 
 "True; it is surprising how much one 
 muddles away in stamps, just because they 
 are only a penny each. When one wrote 
 seldomer, one perhaps gave as much pleasure 
 and did as much good. Half the chit-chat 
 letters that are posted, might as well or bet- 
 ter be left unwritten, for a single useful or 
 wise thought to be found in them. With 
 regard to business-letters, however, the 
 benefit of the penny-post is great. A lengthy 
 correspondence with a lawyer at the old 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 rate would half ruin a woman of small in- 
 come." 
 
 " I hope never to have such a correspond- 
 ence," said Eleanor laughing, "for more rea- 
 sons than one." 
 
 " Of course ; but if, for example, your 
 little income were in jeopardy, and you were 
 obhged to take legal advice lest you should 
 lose it all, you would be glad to have it even 
 at the cost of a penny postage. Do you 
 think me fond of money ?" said she, in- 
 terupting herself and smiling. "No, I am 
 not." 
 
 " It is difficult, sometimes, not to wish 
 for a little more than one has," said Eleanor. 
 
 ** But the rich do so quite as much as the 
 poor. All who live quite up to their means, 
 feel the want of more, whenever an emer- 
 gency occurs. And then, again, when people 
 acquire the habit of setting something by 
 for an emergency, it is difficult, sometimes 
 to convince them that the emergency has
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 35 
 
 really arrived. They become hoarders. I 
 have sometimes been pressed, as perhaps you 
 have, to collect for some charitable pur- 
 pose — for the Jews, for the Irish, for ever 
 so many things — I always do so reluctantly, 
 for I would far rather give my trifle and 
 have done with it. But we must not al- 
 ways consider what we had rather do ; so, 
 from time to time, I find myself undertaking 
 a house to house visitation. I have always 
 found the people who have least to give, 
 give most readily. Your wadow^s, hving on 
 next to nothing — your single gentlewomen 
 that can just keep up appearances — your 
 married people who have just worked their 
 heads above water — these are the persons 
 who give of their little with a simply ex- 
 pressed regret that they can do no more, 
 and their hope that you will find more liberal 
 contributors. But when fine ladies tell me 
 they really have had such an expensive sea 
 son, they have nothing in their purses — or 
 
 D 2
 
 36 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 perhaps a smart footman comes to me with 
 ' my mistress says she already subscribes to 
 the National Benevolent' — I know it is only 
 what I had to expect, and regret having 
 wasted my time." 
 
 The clock struck nine, and Miss Clairvaux 
 rang for prayers. 
 
 *' T read a chapter, verse and verse about, 
 with my maids," said she, "and find it a 
 very good plan. It keeps up their attention 
 and improves their reading." 
 
 Eleanor readily joined in the quaint little 
 service, and was surprised to find how inter- 
 esting it could be made. Supper followed, 
 and they went up to bed at ten. 
 
 The weather was still cold, and Eleanor 
 felt truly grateful for the brisk little wood- 
 fire burning on her hearth. She was tempted 
 to sit over it, musing over the events of the 
 day. 
 
 "How well we seem to understand one 
 another already," thought she, "and how
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 37 
 
 completely ignorant we are of each other's 
 antecedents ! I am glad it is not just the 
 other way." She had yet to learn that there 
 were many sides to Miss Clairvaux's cha- 
 racter. 
 
 She indulged in reverie so long, and then 
 unpacked in such a leisurely manner that 
 the old clock on the stairs struck eleven be- 
 fore she was in bed. " dear," thought 
 she, " I am abusing my privileges ! My 
 candle will tell tales." And she extinguished 
 it and said her prayers in the dark. 
 
 Next morning, Eleanor was roused from 
 dreamless sleep such as she had not lately 
 enjoyed, by a sharply rung bell ; and soon 
 after, a tap at her door was followed by the 
 announcement, " your hot water, miss." She 
 sprang up and took it in, then peeped be- 
 tween the curtains to see how the country 
 looked. How peaceful and cheerful it ap- 
 peared ! Though the trees were leafless, their 
 fine, intersecting branches formed delicate
 
 38 MEADOWLETGH. 
 
 tracery against the cold grey sky. Foot- 
 tracks here and there, across the undulating 
 common, led to inviting uplands; a few 
 thatched roofs peered here and there out of 
 hollows, betokening rustic neighbours. The 
 front garden of the Peaked House was nar- 
 row, and at present only boasted crocuses 
 and a few early spring flowers. Eleanor look- 
 ed long and too long about her ; then hurried 
 her toilette, and presently heard the bell 
 again ring smartly ; after which, the house- 
 maid outside her door said, "Please, miss, 
 mistress is waiting for you to come to 
 prayers." 
 
 Eleanor, quite ashamed, hastened down 
 stairs as soon as she could, looking very 
 guilty. 
 
 Miss Clairvaux was rather put out. " Good 
 morning, my dear," said she shortly, " we 
 are early people here — you will learn to be 
 early too when you have been here a little 
 while. We w^ill now have prayers.''
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 39 
 
 By the time prayers were over, Miss Clair- 
 vaux was all serenity and kindliness. After 
 breakfast, she disappeared ; and Eleanor took 
 out her work. Miss Clairvaux, after spend- 
 ing some time in the supervision of her 
 household affairs, came in and prepared to 
 write. 
 
 ** Can I do anything for you, ma'am ?" 
 said Eleanor. 
 
 "Nothing, thank you," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. Some time later, Miss Clairvaux sud- 
 denly said — 
 
 " By the by, would not you like to walk 
 somewhere ?" 
 
 " Just as you please, ma'am — " 
 
 " My dear ! you have only to please your- 
 self. This is Liberty Hall." 
 
 *' Perhaps," said Eleanor, hesitating a little, 
 " you will be kind enough, when more at 
 leisure, to tell me what are my duties." 
 
 " Your duties, my dear ! You have only 
 to employ and amuse yourself as you like
 
 40 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 — I have nothing to set you about. Why, 
 you look disappointed ! — " 
 
 "Ono!— only — " 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 " As nothing was defined in our engage- 
 ment, 1 thought there had been something 
 to be done — " 
 
 " Why, you advertised to live with an 
 elderly lady, did not you ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, you are living with an elderly lady," 
 said Miss Clairvaux laughing, and resuming 
 her pen. She only wrote a few words, how- 
 ever, and then seemed to reflect. 
 
 " Poor girl," said she, " you are doubtless 
 disappointed, as I should have been in your 
 place, to find no active course of usefulness 
 immediately provided for you. My dear, I 
 had none such to offer. I heard of you 
 through Mrs. Mapleson, who told me that 
 your father, a very meritorious artist, had 
 died after a few days of intense suffering,
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 41 
 
 in consequence of a poisonous rngredient used 
 in his art having been accidentally communi- 
 cated to a slight crack on his lip. Was it 
 so?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Eleanor, with filhng 
 eyes. 
 
 '* She added/* continued Miss Clairvaux 
 very compassionately, "that, your brother 
 having shown a decided predilection for sur- 
 gery, your parents had put themselves to 
 great straits in order to give him a good 
 professional education and enable him to 
 walk the hospitals, and that you yourself had, 
 by your industry and talent, contributed to- 
 wards this — " 
 
 " Very little — not worth mentioning, I as- 
 sure you," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Well, it appeared that your mother and 
 you were left nearly unprovided for, and 
 your brother was as yet unable to do any- 
 thing for you — on the contrary, an expense 
 to you."
 
 42 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "Oh, you should not say that, indeed, 
 ma'am !" cried Eleanor, *' you cannot think 
 how economical and self-denying he is !*' 
 
 '* I am very glad to hear it. Mrs. Maple- 
 son gave me to understand as much, which 
 interested me in him and in you all. I felt 
 a great desire to serve you. Mrs. Mapleson 
 said you were willing to go out as governess 
 to young children, or companion to an elderly 
 lady ; or, in short, do anything that would 
 prevent your burthening your mother, and 
 enable you to contribute a little to her com- 
 fort. I inquired for you, but without suc- 
 cess; no one among my acquaintance hap- 
 pened to be in want of a governess or com- 
 panion. I was grieved, too, almost shocked, 
 to find what low salaries were given. I have 
 known governesses who received eighty and 
 a hundred guineas a year in affluent, but by 
 no means aristocratic families. I knew a 
 lady who was offered two hundred a year 
 to complete the education of a single pupil,
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 43 
 
 with the assistance of masters. I was quite 
 disappointed, therefore, to hear people talk 
 of forty, thirty, and ev^en twenty guinea sa- 
 laries. At length, I heard of a lady who 
 wanted an instructress for her three little 
 children, and who would give twenty-five 
 guineas. This seemed to me quite below 
 your deserts, but I asked Mrs. Mapleson 
 whether she thought it worth ofi'ering you. 
 She replied, that, nothing better having 
 occurred, you were prepared to accept it. 
 I had to write word to her by the next post, 
 that the situation was filled ! It so disap- 
 pointed me to do this, and I pictured to 
 myself your disappointment in such lively 
 colours, that I reflected whether, by closely 
 regulating my expenses in other matters, I 
 might not afford myself a companion on the 
 same terms ; and I found that I could. I 
 had never thought of having a companion, 
 for I have learnt to enjoy soHtude ; but it 
 is a selfish indulgence, and I had already
 
 44 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 had a very fair allowance of it. Therefore 
 I briefly wrote to Mrs. Mapleson to engage you 
 for rayself, as the other situation was gone.*' 
 
 "Oh, how good of you l" exclaimed 
 Eleanor, starting up to kiss her, and then 
 stopping short. 
 
 "Pray kiss me if you will," said Miss 
 Clairvaux smiling, and meeting her halfway — 
 " I would have kissed you last night, when 
 you went to bed, only I am not very de- 
 monstrative, and I did not know how you 
 might take it.'' 
 
 " But, dear Miss Clairvaux, how very, 
 very kind of you !" said Eleanor, between 
 laughing and crying. " Only I am so sorry 
 to have come to be but an incumbrance !" 
 
 " Oh, you will not be that ; and besides, 
 there is no necessity for your staying, if we 
 don't get on together. In fact, it only oc- 
 curred to me at first, as a stop-gap, which 
 would take you off your mother's hands 
 while you looked about for something better."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 45 
 
 " I am sure I shall not find anything 
 better." 
 
 " Oh yes, yon may, if you do it at leisure." 
 
 " I shall not want to do so, unless you 
 want to part with me. I feel sure we shall 
 be happy together, though it seems very 
 conceited of me to say so." 
 
 " Not at all. I think so too." 
 
 " Only I am so sorry I should be a need- 
 less expense to you — " 
 
 " 0, pray do not trouble yourself about 
 that. I counted the cost before I engaged 
 you, and would not have done so if I had 
 found I could not afford it. Besides, though 
 I did not want you, I may learn to like 
 having you. I used to be sociable enough. 
 It is well for me not to live too completely 
 out of the eye of my fellow-creatures ; there 
 is no knowing what misdemeanours they might 
 lay to my charge without my being able to 
 refute them. They might accuse me of 
 coining 1"
 
 46 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " But is there not anything you can set 
 me about ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, a variety of things, when I have 
 had time to look about me a httle. See all 
 these books — they are new acquisitions — 
 surplus copies of Mudie's, which I have had 
 half-bound. I must have room for them on 
 those shelves, where I think you may pack 
 them away if you are skilful ; but those 
 already on the upper shelf must come down 
 first. Will you undertake it ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, gladly." 
 
 " Perhaps those on the top shelf may be 
 dusty — Claudia shall bring you a soft duster. 
 What do you think of that name for a 
 housemaid ? Some of my neighbours wonder 
 how I can use it, and say they should call 
 her Mary or Lizzy ; but I tell them there 
 is Scripture warrant for the name — and I 
 doubt if there be any for caUing her out 
 of it. Surely tyranny could hardly be more 
 captiously exerted than in denying poor
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 47 
 
 people the choice of their children's names, 
 or refusing to call them by them ! They 
 might as well limit them to wearing ugly 
 colours or singing ugly tunes, as to choosing 
 ugly names T'
 
 48 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate — 
 A duel in the form of a debate. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Miss Clairvaux had left the room, and 
 Eleanor, standing on a chair was busily oc- 
 cupied in arranging the books, and now and 
 then reading a pleasant snatch in them, 
 when Claudia opened the door and an- 
 nounced Mr. Debenham. 
 
 Lightly as a bird from a spray did Elea- 
 nor descend from her perch, and shyly bow 
 as a gentleman entered whom she at once 
 recognised as one of her fellow-travellers of
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 49 
 
 the preceding day. He, too, seemed, after 
 a second look, to have a dim perception of 
 having recently seen her, and said rather 
 awkwardly, " oh ! good morning, ma'am." 
 
 Eleanor was about to retreat, when she 
 upset a row of the British Essayists, which 
 were not yet replaced. With an exclamation 
 at her own awkwardness, she began hastily 
 to scramble them together ; and Mr. Deben- 
 ham, laying aside his hat and stick, was 
 preparing to assist her, when Miss Clairvaux 
 entered the room. 
 
 " Oh, good morning, Mr. Debenham," 
 said she cheerfully. " Eleanor, you need not 
 run away. Mr. Debenham, I have to thank 
 you for a beautiful brace of birds ; but I have 
 a bone to pick with you too. How came 
 you to wrap them up in a copy of the Brow- 
 beater, a paper that I never allow to come 
 into my house ? Oh fie, Mr. Debenham ! I 
 am ashamed of you for taking it in." 
 
 " Why, Miss Clairvaux, a man must have 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 something to keep himself awake on Sun- 
 days — " 
 
 '^ Worse and worse ! much worse ! Now 
 you are out of the frying-pan into the fire ! 
 If I were the licenser, and obliged to license 
 such papers at all, they should come out 
 on Monday, instead of desecrating the sab- 
 bath/' 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 " Ah, you may laugh, but it should be 
 so. It should, indeed." 
 
 "You are too hard on a paper you never 
 read." 
 
 " Nay, I looked through the number you 
 sent, just to see of what stamp it was/' 
 
 " Why, the readers of the worst book that 
 ever was written might make that excuse," 
 said Mr. Debenham laughing, *' and pretend 
 they only ran through it just to see of what 
 stamp it was." 
 
 "Exactly so, and a great many do, I'm 
 afraid."
 
 MEADOWIiEIGH. 51 
 
 '*Well, but what harm did you find in 
 the Browbeater?" 
 
 " I found in it a defence of sabbath-break- 
 ing, with a sneer at the Pharisaical people 
 who keep the Lord's day holy." 
 
 *' Oh, but there are so many ways of keep- 
 ing it." 
 
 " That is quite true ; but we may be quite 
 sure that those who open shops, and keep 
 oflScials at their desks, and send haymakers 
 to work on Sundays, don't keep it at all. And 
 with all their cry about not robbing the 
 poor man of his amusements, they are rob- 
 bing the poor man of his only day's rest." 
 
 " Well, at any rate you'll own I don't 
 do any of those things." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not speaking against any one in 
 particular, only against the Browbeater." 
 
 " But if you dislike it so much, why did 
 you read it ?" said he, still laughing. 
 
 " It is my duty to see what comes into 
 the honse. If I see a phial, or a little packet 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 of some unknown powder, lying on the 
 kitchen dresser, do not I test it, or at 
 least inquire into it? otherwise we might 
 all be poisonel. Just the same with what is 
 in print. Why, your Browbeater might 
 have found its way into the kitchen -drawer, 
 to hght the fires, and Claudia might have 
 read it, had I not taken it off the birds — and 
 beautiful birds they were !'' 
 
 " I'm afraid they're the last you '11 have 
 this year, for partridge-shooting ends to- 
 morrow. Next autumn, I'll recollect, if I 
 can, to send you a brace in the Record, or 
 say the Illustrated News, or say in no paper at 
 all — that's the best way. But now I want to 
 know. Miss Clairvaux, why you won't pay your 
 highway rate ?" 
 
 " Just use your eyes as to the state of the 
 highways ! you know you were obliged to 
 ride here." 
 
 " Oh, but there are stepping-stones." 
 
 "I can't cross water on stepping-stones;
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 63 
 
 it turas me giddy. At any rate I won't pay 
 for a highway when there is none/' 
 
 "You'll get yourself into trouble, I'm 
 afraid. We shall be obliged to have you up 
 before the magistrates." 
 
 " Then they must send a fly for me. 
 There are several things I shall be glad to 
 draw their attention to in a friendly way." 
 
 "But they are not answerable for the 
 weather ! only think what rains we have 
 had ! and then the frost ! and then the 
 thaw !" 
 
 " And consider how many poor men were 
 necessarily out of work during the frost, and 
 would have been thankful for a job, and you 
 and your brother magnates would not give 
 them one, and preferred sending them to the 
 Union, which is not a worthy place of refuge 
 for the honest and the good, nor for the very 
 old, nor the very young ; but which has pur- 
 posely been made a place that even the idle 
 and dissolute will not stay in a day longer
 
 54 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 than they can. Oh, Mr. Debenham ! I assure 
 you I could cry about it !" 
 
 " Well, Miss Clairvaux, this is a long way 
 from your highway -rate 1" 
 
 " But not a long way from the poor men 
 you might have set, first to break up the ice 
 and sweep off the snow on that highway, and 
 scrape the mud off it afterwards. Blessed is 
 he that considereth the " 
 
 " Well, I am quite aware you did consider 
 the poor and needy, and lightened the parish 
 burthens to the utmost of your ability ; and if 
 everybody had done as much, according to 
 their means, there would not be such a heavy 
 poor-rate as we are likely to have some of 
 these days." 
 
 *'Mr. Debenham, I am not praising my- 
 self nor depreciating others. What I did, I 
 did partly to relieve my own aching heart, 
 and partly because I could not endure to turn 
 men from my door who were willing to work. 
 I never grudge the poor-rate, though I
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 55 
 
 disapprove the way it is applied. I said to 
 Mr. Joss, the last time he came for it, now, 
 tell me, Mr. Joss, if a decent labourer, (you 
 may distinguish him readily enough from a 
 tramp) comes to you and asks for relief, and 
 you say ' why don't you work ?* and he says 
 * I would if I could, but where am I to get 
 it ?' what do you say next ? ' Well, ma'am,' 
 said he, (these were his very words) * I tell 
 you what I often do, put ray hand in my 
 pocket and give him something. May be I 
 should send him to the Union, hd I cant do 
 it, though I was born in a Union, bred in a 
 Union, and my father has kept a Union 
 thirty-seven years.' Those were the words 
 of Mr. Joss. Now, what do you think of 
 that ?" 
 
 " Well, Miss Clairvaux, I'm afraid you 
 won't mend it by not paying your " 
 
 " We talk of our public charities, and we 
 carry our heads high, we EngHsh, and we 
 boast of our fine yeomanry and peasantry,
 
 56 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 and how do we treat them ? An industrious 
 old couple, whose well brought up children 
 are dead or dispersed, are at last past work, 
 with no one to look after them ; and what is 
 the fruit of the poor-rates we have cheerfully 
 paid to provide for the aged and needy? 
 They are carted off to the Union, and there 
 separated. * Whom God has joined, man puts 
 asunder/ Mr. Joss used those very words. 
 The old woman is shut up in a ward with a 
 number of other old women, some deaf, 
 some bhnd, some stupid, some peevish, 
 some full of aches and pains, all of them re- 
 quiring the aid and cheerfulness of younger, 
 brisker companions, none of them able to be 
 of much use to one another, or to take much 
 interest in one another, and there they are 
 left to do nothing. Instead of the cheap and 
 comfortable cup of tea which they used to 
 enjoy twice a day all their hves, they have to 
 breakfast on gruel, which is not only unpalat- 
 able to them, but which weakens and often
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 57 
 
 disagrees with them. You may laugh, but 
 try it !" 
 
 ** No, thank you, I'll take your word for 
 it." 
 
 ** You may, for it is a known fact. Medi- 
 cal men will tell you that gruel is lowering. 
 We give it in feverish colds. Poor old 
 people want keeping up, not lowering, but in 
 the Union they must have gruel for breakfast 
 or nothing. With nothing to do, nothing to 
 think of but their food, and that food distaste- 
 ful, how can their minds do otherwise than 
 prey upon themselves? they have nothing 
 better to look for, they are to live thus till 
 they die, they have nothing to amuse or in- 
 terest the mind, not even a child, or the 
 twiddling over a baby's cap ; the past can 
 only, as far as their fading memories can recall 
 it, afford bitter regrets. What wonder that 
 many should become imbecile or insane? 
 They do ! See the returns from the Belfast 
 Union. They are frightful."
 
 58 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 *' Well, this is all very bad, of course; but — " 
 
 " Yes, it is all very bad, but it need not be 
 of course. Even supposing that the poor in 
 the Unions should only be supplied with the 
 bare necessaries of life, it need not be in the 
 most distasteful form, nor should casual treats, 
 casual alleviations, in the visits and little 
 presents of sympathizing persons be denied 
 them. But it is very difficult to obtain access 
 to the inmates, unless you be related to one 
 of them. And their relations, poor people 
 like themselves, have no time for visiting, nor 
 money to supply their little comforts, such as 
 tea and snuflp. The affections, the tastes, are 
 absolutely v^ithout nutriment, and you might 
 as well expect silk-worms to live without 
 mulberry leaves. The end will be that they 
 will become imbecile or insane." 
 
 " Oh, ho, ho !'' 
 
 "It is no laughing matter," said Miss 
 Clairvaux with great energy, " it's a deep 
 wrong."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 59 
 
 " I see I've no chance, you've completely 
 taken the whip-hand of me. Well, Miss 
 Clairvaux, your feelings do you great honour, 
 I assure you I mean it ; and your conduct has 
 been quite consistent with them. I see you 
 are determined to be a village Hampden in 
 the matter, and make a ship-money affair of 
 it. All I can say is, I wish you safely through 
 it ; and when you find yourself in the hands 
 of justice, send for me and I'll try to get you 
 out." 
 
 ** Thank you for your promise. I don't 
 doubt I shall keep out of harm, but I am 
 obliged to you all the same. I hope Mrs. 
 Debenham is well — " 
 
 " Quite, thank you. She desired her com- 
 pUments — " 
 
 " It is a long time since I have seen her, 
 but you know it is impossible for me to go 
 into the town. I can't venture on those step- 
 ping stones." 
 
 "Why not have a fly?"
 
 60 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Where's the money to come from ? you 
 think I'm made of money, 1 believe.'' 
 
 ** Well, you have eveiy thing so nice about 
 you, that certainly there seems no want of 
 it." 
 
 " I must save it to mend the roads. Here's 
 my young friend come down from London, 
 and just now I proposed to her a walk some- 
 where, but really on second thoughts I could 
 not tell where she could go, except ancle deep. 
 We ought to have stilts, like the peasants of 
 the Landes." 
 
 *' Oh, what dreadful exaggeration ! Do 
 come out and make your own observations. 
 You sit over the fire with a good novel in this 
 pretty room till you fancy things outside worse 
 than they are." 
 
 " I scorn to read novels by daylight, at any 
 time. In the evening they are well enough 
 now and then, if I have nothing better to do. 
 Oh no, I never trust to other persons' reports 
 when I can use my own eyes. I have only
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 61 
 
 to go up the slope in front of the house and 
 take a panoramic observation/' 
 
 "The summer is coming, and panoramic 
 observations will then be agreeable enough. 
 I have to thank the state of the roads for 
 having kept you at home, and thereby enabled 
 me to see you. The waters will soon subside 
 between you and the church, and then you 
 will no longer be in this alarming state of 
 spiritual destitution." 
 
 And with a bow and a laugh, he went 
 off. 
 
 " I really believe," said Miss Clairvaux, 
 " that he only sent the partridges to soften 
 me about the highway-rate. Much obliged 
 to him I am ! I have not yielded him an inch, 
 that's one comfort." 
 
 " Are you not in danger of getting into 
 some trouble, ma'am ?" said Eleanor rather 
 uneasily. 
 
 " Tut ! no, my dear, or, if I do, I shall 
 doubtless get out of it again. Nothing would
 
 62 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 trouble me more than not to carry my point. 
 He only said what he did in order to frighten 
 me ; however, I am not so easily frightened. 
 Justice, indeed !"
 
 MEADOWIiEIGH. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Ham. — Why did you laugh, then, when I Baid, Man 
 delights not me ? 
 
 Bos. — To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, 
 what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from 
 
 you 
 
 [^Flov/rish of trwnypets within.'] 
 
 Gml, — There are the players. 
 
 HAilLET, PEINCE OF DENMARK. 
 
 " It is a fine afternoon/' said Miss Clairvaux, 
 after their early dinner, "and, in spite of what 
 I said, perhaps rather strongly to Mr. Deben- 
 ham, I think we may manage a walk if we 
 keep to the high grounds ; where, indeed, the 
 view is finest, and the air always freshest."
 
 64 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 Accordingly they equipped themselves, and 
 were soon on their way to the upland ridge, 
 attended by a minute specimen of the canine 
 race, answering to the name of Fly. 
 
 When they had gained the summit of a 
 gently rising ground, diversified by not a 
 few mole-hills and rabbit-holes, in the latter 
 of which Fly often buried his head at the 
 apparent peril of his existence, they reached 
 a spot where they had a pretty extensive view 
 over the adjacent country. 
 
 " There !" said Miss Clairvaux, stopping 
 short, and looking with evident complacence 
 at several large patches of water on the lower 
 ground, *' is it not as 1 say ? just see the state 
 of the country ! especially the road between, 
 me and the church. The idea of paying a 
 highway-rate !" 
 
 ^*The country is improved in an artistic 
 point of view," observed Eleanor, "by the 
 introduction of a little water, the only thing it 
 would otherwise want.*'
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 65 
 
 " Yes, that is true," said Miss Clairvaiix, 
 looking at it with more pleasure ; and she 
 directed Eleanor's attention to a tar-off cathe- 
 dral, and to several scattered villages and 
 country-seats, a Roman bath, and a battle- 
 field in the wars of the Roses. There was a 
 curious old house, nearer at hand, which 
 struck Eleanor with its air of gloomy seclusion. 
 The garden was inclosed with high stone 
 walls, capped here and there with great balls 
 and funereal-looking urns ; over the walls rose 
 dark, sombre ever-greens and spiry poplars. 
 The only glimpse they permitted of the 
 garden shewed a great aloe in a square wooden 
 box near a formal summer-house. The house 
 itself had half the windows blocked up on 
 the side next the road ; and, facing the north, 
 had a dreary aspect. 
 
 " Who lives in that dismal house ?" said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Do you call it dismal ?" said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " Yes, I beheve you may, though I 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 am used to it. A very good, though ecceu- 
 tric man hves tliere, his name is Newland ; an 
 old bachelor, a Nonconformist, a great stu- 
 dent, a man of good parts but weak nerves ; 
 a very valetudinarian who fancies himself 
 unable to stir from his fireside, and who yet, 
 in his day, led an active life, hunted all the 
 morning, danced all the evening, and was a 
 useful man in public life." 
 
 "What is he like?" 
 
 " He is never seen, except by his doctor, 
 his minister, and his servants. Now and 
 then, some one gets access to him on busi- 
 ness, and comes away with very round eyes 
 and raised eyebrows, to give all the petty 
 details of the wild beast in his den — his 
 slippers, his waste-paper basket — nothings, in 
 short. There is nothing to tell ; his life is 
 perfectly monotonous. I can understand his 
 love of soUtude well enough, for I have some- 
 thing of it, too ; but not his shutting himself 
 up from the face of nature, unless upon com- 
 pulsion. You know —
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 67 
 
 * The man, to solitude accustomed long 
 Perceives in everything that lives, a tongue — ' 
 
 finds sermons in stones and good in every- 
 thing — companionship in everything. But I 
 believe that if I were shut up from the free air 
 which seems needful to my very life, I should 
 be ready to beat myself against the bars of 
 my cage." 
 
 After a pause, during which Miss Clairvanx 
 seemed drinking in the pure air she was 
 praising, Eleanor said, *' What could make 
 him shut himself up so ?" 
 
 " Mr. Newland, do you mean ? I had for- 
 gotten all about him. Oh, his health, or the 
 want of it. People talk, at least Mrs. Plover 
 does, about some disappointment of the 
 affections. I believe she knows no more of 
 the matter than you do. Mrs. Plover must 
 talk — every neighbourhood has its Mrs. Plover. 
 Some day, she will talk of you and me." 
 
 ** Dear me, I hope not \" said Eleanor. 
 " What should she say ?" 
 
 F 2
 
 68 MEADOWLEIGTT. 
 
 " What, indeed," said Miss Clairvaux, 
 amused. " Mrs. Plovers are seldom at a loss 
 for sometlung to say; but sometimes they 
 content themselves with things that are not 
 hurtful, only foohsh." 
 
 *' I hope it will be long before she finds it 
 worth her while to have either to say about 
 me," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Never mind : we are all used to her. 
 It is one of the disadvantages of small 
 neighbourhoods, that foolish people will talk 
 of their neighbours' affairs.'* 
 
 There were other country- houses, with 
 a good deal to say about each ; and the keen 
 air which rufHed their garments, and made 
 them speak in raised voices, w^as very inspi- 
 riting. At some little distance, three child- 
 ren were playing on tlie brow of the hill ; 
 one of them, a little fellow, suddenly separ- 
 ated from the others, and converting his 
 arms and legs into the spokes of a wheel, 
 began trundling down the slope with incredible
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 69 
 
 rapidity, while his two playmates stood 
 aghast. Having reached the door of a cot- 
 tage he went in. 
 
 "That child must be professional!" ex- 
 claimed Miss Clairvaux. " I never saw any- 
 thing like it, except in a regular tumbler. 
 Who on earth can he be ? I must go and 
 see." 
 
 Eleanor had just been about to inquire 
 why a bright scarlet pennon was streaming 
 from a tent, or marquee, on the skirts of 
 the town ; and she now pointed it out to 
 Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 " Ah ! ' that explains," said she. " I re- 
 member, a bill printed in large letters was 
 thrown over the gate, — which I took posses- 
 sion of after a glance at it, lest it should be 
 seen by the servants. There is no need to 
 tantalize them with invitations to amuse- 
 ments they are not allowed to indulge in, 
 and I do not patronize the circus-people. 
 Doubtless this young rogue has learnt to
 
 70 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 imitate them ; but yet I don't think he looked 
 like one of the Dicks." 
 
 While Miss Clairvaux thus discoursed, they 
 were briskly descending the slope ; at the 
 foot of which stood the crumbling old 
 cottage. On Miss Clairvaux raising the 
 latch, the door was suddenly flung open 
 with the exclamation : " here we all are !" 
 and she started as if electrified at finding 
 herself within two inches of a clown in red 
 and white paint. 
 
 "Why, how in the world comes this?" 
 said she hastily. 
 
 " Oh, bless 'ee, ma'am," said an old man 
 between laughing and crying, stumping to- 
 wards her from the chimney corner, "here 
 he's our Toby come back, that we gave up 
 for dead, and I do be so glad, I can't tell 
 'ee." 
 
 " Toby ? are you Toby ?" said Miss Clair- 
 vaux turning short round on the clown. 
 
 "Toby Tumble-down Dick," answered
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 71 
 
 that eminent personage with a ducking bow, 
 '* come home to see old feyther.'* 
 
 " Why, Toby, you've gone near to break 
 your father's heart. I'm ashamed of you. 
 Is this manly conduct ?'* 
 
 "Oh law now, if you're going to talk 
 serious, miss, I must wash off my paint — 
 and chalk's expensive. I shall be all smeary 
 if I begins to cry ..." and here he pretended 
 to whimper. 
 
 " Toby, you disgust me," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " Why have you come back to dis- 
 grace your poor old father's grey hairs ?" 
 
 " I disgrace him ?" " He disgrace me ?" 
 said they both together. " Why, dear ma'am," 
 cried the old man, '* he's brought me back 
 a stocking full of money ! only look !" and 
 he shook and chinked it — " he's a kind 
 heart, is Toby, and a dutiful fellow." 
 
 "Aye, aye, I know what's what," said 
 Toby, spitting upon his hands, and then 
 turning his head round as if it were loose
 
 72 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 in the socket, " rm a good boy, am I, like 
 little Jack Horner. Make a back, father — " 
 
 " Stop, stop ! what profanation 1" inter- 
 posed Miss Clairvaux, interposing her um- 
 brella to prevent his leaping over the old 
 man's head. Old Dick, meanwhile, who 
 was toothless, half bhnd, and half silly, 
 laughed childishly, and tottered back to his 
 seat, chinkinoj his monev. 
 
 *'Toby/' said Miss Clairvaux sorrowfully, 
 " how could you ever choose such a trade ?" 
 
 " Well, miss, perhaps the trade chose 
 me." 
 
 " Don't call me miss, I'm an old lady." 
 
 " Bless your heart, no, ma'am ! you're — " 
 
 *' Toby !— " 
 
 " Beg pardon, miss — you see, there must 
 be some of all sorts — parsons is parsons, 
 and clowns is clowns." 
 
 "I fear I must not expect you to talk 
 rationally — " 
 
 " Quite past my abilities, miss. Buy a bill
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 73 
 
 of the play?" and out he pulled a dirty 
 bill of the performances, and a handfull of 
 tickets. 
 
 " no, thank you — such things are quite 
 out of my line." 
 
 "But won't you treat the young lady, 
 ma'am ?" 
 
 " Treat !" repeated Miss Clairvaux with 
 supreme contempt. " You have curious 
 ideas of treats, Toby." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I has, miss. I thought 
 it would be a treat to bring that stocking- 
 fuU of coppers to old father." 
 
 " That was kind of you, I admit. I give 
 you credit for it." 
 
 " I wish the publicans would," said Toby, 
 with a w^aggish wink at Eleanor. 
 
 " You had better confine your attention 
 to ladies of your acquaintance, Toby." 
 
 "All in the way of business, ma'am. 
 Perhaps the young lady will treat you — " 
 
 " Is that Httle boy yours ?"
 
 74 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " He belongs to our troop, miss. He*s 
 an orphant, he is — child of the woman that 
 was eat up by the lion." 
 
 "Sad! sad! — and you have adopted 
 him ?" 
 
 " For better, for worse, miss." 
 
 " For worse, Tm afraid. It is a shocking 
 training for him." 
 
 " Why now, miss, how can I give him 
 a better ? I do for him what I do for my- 
 self ; do all folks do as much ?" 
 
 " They do not." 
 
 " No, miss, indeed they don't." 
 
 " Toby ! show the ladies that trick — " 
 feebly cried the old man. Miss Clairvaux 
 went on. 
 
 "It's a serious thing to undertake the 
 charge of a child, Toby. He has a soul, you 
 know. Come and talk to me to-morrow 
 evening, Toby — I really can't say anything 
 to you in all that paint, it upsets me. You 
 don't look like a man, but an idol."
 
 MEAPOWLEIGH. 75 
 
 " Everybody says that's what I am," mur- 
 murs Toby, " but as for idle, it's just the other 
 way, as you'd know if you'd cut a few somer- 
 sets/' 
 
 " Hush, no foolery !" 
 
 '' What, not from a Tom fool ? There now, 
 don't ye look so hurted : I means no harm. 
 You've done a power of good to old father, 
 and I feel it, as sure as eggs is eggs. As you 
 said, I give ye credit for it !" 
 
 " You will give me comfort, which is more 
 to the purpose, if you will come to me to- 
 morrow evening, or better still, to-morrow 
 morning, with all that paint washed off, and 
 have a quiet talk with me. It will be Sun- 
 day, so you cannot have any professional em- 
 ployment ; and perhaps we may arrange some 
 better life for your little boy, and even induce 
 you to take him to church." 
 
 "Why, miss, you don't suppose we shall 
 be here at church time to-morrow? miles 
 away, I assure you ! We shall get three or
 
 76 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 four hours' rest after our performance to- 
 night, and then pack up and cut away, hours 
 before dayhght. We're nuisances, we are, 
 in dayhght, of a Sunday. We must make 
 ourselves scarce and keep out of sight, I 
 can tell ye. Else good Christian people would 
 wheel us to the edge of creation and pitch us 
 over." 
 
 " Too sadly true, poor fellow, though it is 
 your own fault — " 
 
 " Or misfortune," put in Toby. 
 " Well, we won't quarrel about a word." 
 " Nor about anything else, if my consent's 
 asked," said the clown. " Law, you've made 
 me so low-spirited, I could sit down and 
 cry. (Somebody, give me a clean pocket- 
 handkerchief). I know, now, this will cost 
 me twopence, this talk, for I shall have to 
 fetch two-pennorth of gin to get up my spirits 
 for the evening entertaiment." 
 
 " Toby, forbear ! Well, I wish you a good 
 evening."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 11 
 
 " Thanke'c, miss, I thiuk we've a pretty 
 fair prospect of one. We're very popular we 
 are. 
 
 " I did not mean that. Good bye." 
 " Good bye, miss, and take a clown's 
 blessing, if there be such a thing, cos you've 
 been very kind to old father !" 
 
 " Could you have fancied it ?" said Miss 
 Clairvaux in deep disgust to Eleanor as 
 they walked aw^ay. 
 
 " Certainly a clown in a cottage w^as the 
 last thing I should have expected to see," 
 said Eleanor laughing. 
 
 '* Oh, my dear, it makes my heart ache. 
 I did not feel in the least inclined to laugh. 
 What a life his must be! All the fault of 
 his parents, bringing him up as they did. 
 There is not the least use in expecting any 
 good of that family. They disappoint me at 
 every turn. They have everybody's bad word, 
 and yet many people have been very kind 
 to them. The mother, as long as she was
 
 78 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 alive, was what the Scotch call feckless. 
 Easy, good-tempered, slatternly, letting every- 
 thing go to rack and ruin. This Toby ran 
 away a long time ago. People said it was the 
 mother's fault, and yet were very kind to 
 her during her long illness, and sent her 
 everything she could want. Since her death, 
 a married daughter, just such another, has 
 come to look after the old man. I am sure 
 I am tired of her children coming to me, 
 and saying, ' mammy says can you give her 
 an old pair of shoes ?' They go with the 
 same message to a dozen different houses, 
 and pick up what they can. Regular sor- 
 ners. Only fit for the Union, where soon 
 or late, they will go 1" 
 
 Miss Clairvaux next visited a detached 
 cottage, nearer to her own house, and as 
 great a contrast to the preceding, as if they 
 had suggested the frontispiece to " Industry 
 and Idleness." The Fords were very poor, 
 but very tidy and thrifty. Mrs. Ford made
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 79 
 
 brown bread for Miss Clairvaux, who now 
 paid her weekly bill, ordered a luncheon cake, 
 and prescribed for her little girl's weak eyes. 
 Here was a bedridden old grandmother, of 
 sweet aspect, for whom Eleanor gladly un- 
 dertook to knit a bed-rest. 
 
 In the course of the evening, Miss Clair- 
 vaux produced a large, thin, crumpled piece 
 of paper, which she smoothed out, and then 
 began to read aloud, commenting on it by 
 the way. 
 
 " This is the rubbish that Toby is con- 
 cerned in,'* said she, *'and that our wise 
 townspeople are running after, this evening, 
 by way of preparation for the Sabbath. 
 * Signor Tribulini's Grand Cosmopolitan 
 Circus, on a scale of splendour never before 
 attempted in the world ; including the 
 finest stud of horses and ponies, and most 
 talented troupe that ever appeared before a 
 British public, who, for elegance, grace, 
 action, attitude, equihbrium and ease, have
 
 80 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 no competitors on this oblate spheroid ! 
 The Leopard Queen, in her allegorical 
 chariot, with gorgeous, chaste, elaborate, 
 and beautiful carving, and noble gold 
 mountings, drawn by real leopards, will 
 be arrayed in robes of state, suitable 
 to the dignity of her office, and present a 
 series of attitudinal tableaux, worthy the 
 study of the most accomphshed artists.' 
 Poor girl ! — did you ever hear such 
 stuff? Then there are to be 'exciting 
 scenes, and perilous feats on horseback, by 
 stars of the profession ; a troupe of per- 
 forming camels' — What are they to per- 
 form ? the balcony scene in Romeo and 
 Juhet? 'the whole enlivened by the fun, 
 frolic, wit, and wisdom of the best clown 
 of the day.' Toby Dick's wit and wisdom ! 
 we have had a sample of it this afternoon. 
 'In addition to which, Signor Tribulini 
 will give some special artistic and cabalistic 
 performances, worthy of that cosmopolitan
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 81 
 
 necromancer the Wizard of the North.' 
 And then follows a hst of patrons and 
 patronesses of the troupe, beginning with her 
 Majesty, and including Miss Nightingale, 
 besides a host of 'the nobility, clergy, and 
 gentry, too numerous to mention. The 
 whole concern forming a rolling stock 
 valued at twelve thousand pounds/ Very 
 likely. Such an establishment must sink 
 a good deal of money. And I don't sup- 
 pose this Mr. TribuUni does more than 
 pay his current expenses. In such a place 
 as this, for instance, even if everybody 
 went, clergy and all, it would amount to a 
 very inconsiderable return. And then there 
 are the wages of all these people to be 
 paid, and the animals to be fed, and the 
 ground to be hired — I cannot fancy that 
 Mr. Tribulini will soon retire upon a 
 fortune." 
 
 Eleanor sang and played, this evening, to 
 Miss Clairvaux, who was much pleased to find 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 her a good musician ; and afterwards they 
 read aloud to one another till bed-time. It 
 was a very pleasant, though quiet, even- 
 ing. 
 
 At dead of night, Eleanor awoke sud- 
 denly, and without any drowsiness. She 
 could not account for it ; everything around 
 seemed hushed and still. All at once, the 
 little dog Fly gave a bark ; she left her bed 
 and went to her window to look out. 
 Clouds were drifting over the moon, which 
 gave a troubled, uncertain light. No one 
 seemed stirring. 
 
 Suddenly Eleanor saw a bright gleam of 
 light from a cottage, which rapidly became 
 stronger and brighter — the cottage was on 
 fire ! 
 
 Eleanor flew to Miss Clairvaux's door, and 
 loudly tapped, crying : " Miss Clairvaux 1 
 Miss Clairvaux ! a cottage is on fire !" 
 
 " Dick's, ten to one !" exclaimed Miss 
 Clairvaux, awake in an instant.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 83 
 
 " I'll be with with you directly, my dear. 
 Call the maids." 
 
 In an incredibly short time, the little 
 household, hastily dressed, had assembled, and 
 Miss Clairvaux despatched Claudia to rouse 
 the Fords, while she herself sounded the alarm 
 by ringing an immense hand-bell from her 
 window. Eleanor, meanwhile, was hurriedly 
 equipping herself to go out, and, directly 
 she had done so. Miss Clairvaux begged her 
 to ring the bell while she did the same. The 
 flames, by this time, were fearful to behold, 
 and scared figures were dimly seen running 
 to and fro. 
 
 " No want of water, if there were but 
 an engine," said Eleanor, as she and Miss 
 Clairvaux hastened to the spot. 
 
 " The cottage will be burnt to the ground 
 before the engine can be fetched," said Miss 
 Clairvaux, " and in all probability the hose 
 would be too short, or something would be 
 out of order. Practical people we are — al- 
 
 G 2
 
 84 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 ways ready for an emergency ! Oh no, the 
 cottage must come to the ground — let us 
 only hope no lives may be lost — " 
 
 By this time the maid came running back. 
 *'They have roused the Dicks now, ma'am," 
 said she excitedly, " and are going to take 
 them in at Ford's." 
 
 "What, the old man?'* said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " Have they got him down out of 
 the loft ?" 
 
 They were now close to the first cottage, 
 which was Ford's. Through the open door, 
 they could see the old grandmother, sitting 
 up in bed, and eagerly looking out. But 
 others, nearer at hand, engaged their at- 
 tention — Dick's married daughter, Martha 
 White, with bare feet, a blanket dragged 
 over her shoulders, and a baby in her arms, 
 followed by two or three crying children. 
 
 " Come in, come in, my dear — give me 
 the baby," the old woman was exclaiming, 
 stretching out her arms.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 85 
 
 " Martha, is your father safe ?" said Miss 
 Clairvaux. 
 
 *' yes, ma'am, by this time, I hope," 
 said Martha crying, "there's plenty of men 
 to look after him — my first duty is to the chil- 
 dren. I don't suppose we shall save areg — " 
 
 " The old man may be burnt, for any 
 thought she will give him," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux, hastening on. 
 
 A little group of people were collected before 
 the flaming cottage, at the upper window of 
 which stood Toby, divested of paint, looking 
 out. 
 
 " It's not for myself," he was saying, " that 
 I should mind the leap — only with father 
 on my back, and he so heavy — however, 
 hold this blanket at the corners, four on ye. 
 Hold hard — hold for your lives — hold for 
 ours — now then — " 
 
 " Ah !" involuntarily screamed Miss Clair- 
 vaux as she saw the poor clown with his 
 father on his shoulders, leap through the
 
 86 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 air. Either the sudden weight was too great, 
 or the men who held the blanket were awk- 
 ward — two of the corners were dropped, 
 and a loud cry was heard as the father and 
 son fell. 
 
 " Dead ! are they dead ?" cried Miss Clair- 
 vaux, pressing forward. 
 
 " Not dead, but I think every bone in 
 their bodies must be broke," said a man 
 pale as ashes. 
 
 " You have lost your wits, all of you," 
 said Miss Clairvaux. " Now, listen to me, 
 and obey me. Toby is most hurt — leave 
 him in the blanket and lift him in it, 
 four of you, carefully, to my house. I shall 
 be there sooner than you. Put the old man 
 in this chair, and carry him, two of you, to 
 . Have you room for him, Eord ?" 
 
 '* Well, ma'am, you see we've Martha 
 1311 d the children ; but — " 
 
 " You cannot have him, it is plain. Well, 
 take him to my house too. You boys who are
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 87 
 
 standing about, may make yourselves useful. 
 Look sharp, now, gather up all that bedding, 
 and run off with it to my kitchen. Joe 
 Hatch, I've other work for you — run off 
 to the town, to Mr. Burrowes — ring the 
 night-bell, tell him of the fire and of the 
 accident, and ask him to come over to 
 me." 
 
 The boys instantly obeyed with alacrity. 
 
 " Please, ma'am," said one of the men 
 respectfully, "I think it's hard you should 
 have both the Dicks, and I believe the old 
 man is more frighted than hurt. I'll take 
 him along with me, if you will allow me." 
 
 "That's very kind of you, Thomas. Of 
 course it will be very inconvenient to you. 
 May I accept your offer ?" 
 
 *' yes, indeed, ma'am, we shall do very 
 well. Neighbours must be helpful." 
 
 " Very well, then so let it be. God bless 
 your good heart, Thomas. Carry him, then, 
 to your cottage."
 
 Ob MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 And she hurried homeward, in the red 
 light of the flaming cottage, which was now 
 given up, without another effort, to destruc- 
 tion. As she passed Toby, lying motionless 
 as a sack in the blanket, he piteously smiled 
 at her and said : 
 
 " You're very kind, miss — I give ye 
 credit for it — and so will the Lord !"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 89 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Whenever I find a great deal of gratitude in a poor 
 man, I take it for granted there would be as much 
 generosity if he were a rich man. 
 
 Eleanor had run forward, so that when the 
 men arrived with their unfortunate burthen, 
 the bed-clothes which had been sent in ad- 
 vance were akeady comfortably, though has- 
 tily, arranged in the back kitchen. Toby was 
 deposited on them with the utmost gentleness ; 
 notwithstanding which, some unavoidable 
 shock or inward hurt made him faint away. 
 Miss Clairvaux could not have shewn more
 
 90 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 tender solicitude for him, had he been her 
 own brother; and when the men who had 
 carried him had placed him as comfortably as 
 they could, and seen him come to himself, 
 they thankfully left him in his kind protec- 
 tress's care. 
 
 She told Eleanor and the servants they 
 might return to their beds. The latter gladly 
 obeyed, but Eleanor assured her she much 
 preferred sharing her watch, as she was sure 
 she could not sleep. She established herself 
 in the snug little kitchen, where Miss Clair- 
 vaux joined her ; looking in on Toby from 
 time to time. 
 
 The fire had by this time spent itself, and 
 the cottage lay a smouldering heap of ruins. 
 All the poor people seemed to have returned 
 to their crowded homes, though dogs con- 
 tinued to bark. 
 
 " What is that lumbering noise ?" said Miss 
 Clairvaux. *' Oh, the engine ! Too late, 
 of course, to be of any good. It may keep
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 91 
 
 the men in practice, to give the ruins a good 
 drenching." 
 
 " I hear a horse coming up to the gate," 
 said Eleanor. *' The doctor, I hope." 
 
 Instead of the doctor, however, the visitor 
 was a shabby-genteel man, who, with abun- 
 dance of politeness announced himself as Mr. 
 Tribulini, the manager of the circus, who had 
 come to inquire after his clown. 
 
 " He is more dead than alive, I am afraid," 
 said Miss Clairvaux. " You can see him if 
 you like, but he has not spoken yet." 
 
 Mr. TribuHni followed her ou his tip-toes, 
 like a dancing-master, into the scullery, 
 looking rather awe-stricken ; but, as soon 
 as he saw a feeble smile of recognition on 
 Toby's face, he took his hand, and said 
 cheerily. 
 
 *' What ! Othello, my fine fellow ? your 
 occupation's gone, hey ? for the present ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid it has, master," said Toby, 
 huskily.
 
 92 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 ** Well, well, cheer up, and bear it like a 
 man. Where do you feel hurt, hey ?'* 
 
 " Hurt all over, master, but chiefly in my 
 back and one of my ancles." 
 
 " Hum ! that*s awkward. You won't be 
 able to go forward with us this morning, 
 Toby—" 
 
 " The idea !— " said Toby. 
 
 " No, my good fellow, you must remain 
 behind awhile, Toby, and lay up till you get 
 well. Then you can join us again. But I'll 
 tell you what, Toby, I'll pay you a month's 
 salary in advance, and I fancy that will be 
 no bad plaster for your aching bones, hey ?" 
 
 "Thanke'e, sir," said Toby, "but I'm 
 afraid that won't go far to pay the doctor's 
 
 bm." 
 
 " Oh, you won't want a doctor long. You 
 
 must go into the infirmary." 
 
 " And what's to become of little Kett, sir ?" 
 " Little Kett shall keep with .us, he belongs 
 
 to the troupe."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 95 
 
 *' He '11 be a regular good hand, sir, some 
 of these days. If I die, I hope you'll pur- 
 wide for him." 
 
 " Oh, who's talking of dying ? never say 
 die, my man !" 
 
 '* If I don't say it, then, I believe I shall 
 do it," groaned Toby. 
 
 Mr. Tribulini looked at Miss Clairvaux, 
 raised his eyebrows, and shrugged his shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " This is awkward for you, ma'am," said 
 he, " very awkward," 
 
 " Master," said Toby, raising his voice, 
 " the party you're addressing lives at the sign 
 of the Old Angel. That's her name, and 
 that's what she is." 
 
 " Here comes the doctor, Toby," said Miss 
 Clairvaux, as Mr. Burrowes entered the scul- 
 lery. 
 
 After exchanging a few friendly words * 
 with Miss Clairvaux, Mr. Burrowes, with the 
 aid of Mr. Tribulini, and in spite of a good
 
 94 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 deal of *' oh, oh"-ing on Toby's part, which 
 was partly professional, turned him over and 
 over, poked him here and there, and finally 
 made out that no bone was broken, but that 
 his back was severely contused and his ancle 
 dislocated ; consequently he would be laid up 
 for some weeks, and had better be removed 
 the next day to the infirmary. After doing 
 what was necessary for the ancle, and giving 
 Miss Clairvaux a few general directions, he 
 took leave, telling her he would take care the 
 poor man should be carefully removed in the 
 course of the morning. As soon as he was 
 gone, (having given Eleanor an attentive look 
 as he passed,) Mr. Tribulini stepped forward, 
 and, putting money into the clown's band, 
 said: 
 
 *' Well, Toby, my boy, the best friends must 
 part. What must be must. Here's your tin, 
 and much good may it do you. It does not 
 appear a very bad case after all — you'll be 
 after us in a month or six weeks, I've no
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 95 
 
 doubt. Mind, next time you play Eneas with 
 Anchises on your back, you get the scene 
 shifters to hold the blanket better. All in 
 the day's work, old boy ! give us your fist." 
 
 Toby literally obeyed orders, looking grioi 
 enough. However, he opened his lingers 
 afterwards and gave Mr. Tribuhni's a good 
 squeeze. 
 
 " Give my love to the little 'un," said he. 
 ** I don't believe you'll get such a clown as 
 I've been, just yet." And he shut his eyes, 
 and turned them against the pillow to hide 
 something like a tear. Mr. Tribulini gave 
 another expressive look and shrug, and then, 
 with a profusion of bows and polite speeches 
 to Miss Clairvaux, withdrew. 
 
 " Toby," said she, when the manager was 
 gone, " what shall I do with this money on 
 the counterpane ?" 
 
 " Oh ! keep it for me, please, miss, till I ax 
 you for it; or, if I don't, give it to poor 
 father."
 
 96 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " I think he's hardly capable of taking care 
 of money, Toby. He hardly knows shillings 
 from pence." 
 
 " Oh, miss, I know that well enough. 
 There were more coppers than shillings in the 
 stocking — poor old fellow ! And if he hadn't 
 been sitting up in bed to count them, and 
 let the candle fall among the straw, maybe 
 the cottage wouldn't be burnt down. But, 
 though 'twas his fault, and, mebby, he hadn't 
 many days to live, I didn't like 'em to be cut 
 shorter, 'specially by fire, for his old flesh 
 and bones would feel it just as much as 
 any." 
 
 "Just so. And if you have done yourself 
 a serious hurt, you will always have consola- 
 tion in reflecting how you came by it. I do 
 not think, however, that you will die." 
 
 "No, ma'am, I hope not. But what in 
 the world am I to do if I get well, and yet 
 can't be a clown ?" 
 
 " Why, there are thousands of better things
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 97 
 
 you can do. This accident may be a blessing 
 in disguise to you, if you take it in a right 
 spirit, which I have great hope you will do. 
 And now, suppose you try to go to sleep." 
 
 " Isn't it Sunday morning?" says Toby. 
 
 "Well, I believe it must be, by this 
 time." 
 
 " When I was a little boy, and used to go 
 to church, the sand used to come in my eyes 
 so at sermon time ! Do 'ee read me a sermon, 
 miss, if you've no objection, and I think I 
 shall soon dot off.*' 
 
 " You're a curious fellow, Toby ; and, T am 
 afraid, are not actuated by a right motive. 
 However, a word in season may take effect 
 when little expected ; and, at any rate, the 
 reading you suggest can do you no harm, and 
 perhaps may do good, so I will comply with 
 your requset." 
 
 And she fetched a volume of Bishop Wil- 
 son's Sermons — the good old bishop of Sodor 
 and Man \ sending Eleanor to bed as she did 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 SO. Then she adjusted her light, and com- 
 menced her reading in a lulling voice. In 
 ^\e minutes Toby was fast asleep. She then 
 returned to her bed-room, leaving the door 
 ajar, and lay down without undressing. 
 
 Rather late in the morning she awoke from 
 heavy sleep, feeling strangely dreamy and 
 unrefreshed. 
 
 ** Who's there ?'' said she with a start. 
 
 " It is I," said Eleanor. " I hope you will 
 forgive me for coming in, but as your door 
 stood open, I could not help stealing in to see 
 if you were asleep. How do you feel after all 
 your fatigue and anxiety ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I am perfectly well, my dear, thank 
 you, and shall get up directly. As soon as I 
 have washed and dressed I shall feel quite 
 right. And you, have you caught cold ?" 
 
 " Oh no !" 
 
 "That's well." 
 
 " And Toby is going on nicely. The maids 
 have given him a cup of tea, and when I saw
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 99 
 
 him just now, he told me he was ' as comfort- 
 able as a cow in clover.' " 
 
 " Cows must not have too much clover, 
 though," said Miss Clairvaux laughing ; 
 " and we must take care not to kill Toby with 
 kindness." 
 
 " Are people ever killed in that way ?' said 
 Eleanor, as she retreated. 
 
 *' Well, they may be coddled too much to 
 be good for them. Whose voices are those ?" 
 
 " Many people are passing the gate, going 
 to look at the scene of the fire. There are 
 several little groups scattered about." 
 
 " Ah ! there are always plenty to gape and 
 stare. If they had come when they were 
 wanted, they could have formed a line, and 
 passed buckets. I will soon be down, my 
 dear." 
 
 When ]\Iiss Clairvaux visited her patient, 
 she found him very anxious to know how 
 " poor old fayther " was, so Eleanor offered 
 to go and see. Church-going was out of the 
 
 H 2
 
 100 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 question this morning; even supposing the 
 church-paths to be not under water, it was 
 already too late, and Eleanor made a virtue 
 of necessity, by devoting herself to the good 
 of her neighbours. The equestrian troop had 
 long ago departed, but a shabby-looking 
 hanger-on accosted Eleanor at the gate, with 
 a humble request to know how Toby fared ; 
 having learnt which, he bowed, and hastened 
 after his companions. 
 
 There were plenty of idlers and gapers, as 
 Miss Clairvaux called them, standing about ; 
 and Eleanor was pleased to hear more than 
 one group commenting on the kindness of 
 Miss Clairvaux in taking the clown into her 
 house, when, as was well known, she did not 
 patronize the troop. It was "just hke her," 
 they said. 
 
 Eleanor thought there could hardly be a 
 greater scene of disorder and discomfort than 
 Thomas Eord's cottage presented ; but the 
 cheerful, kind-hearted people did not feel it
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 101 
 
 to be so themselves, though they were " put 
 about '' with their helpless guests, and with 
 the strange miscellaneous collection of things 
 that had been rescued from the fire, and 
 brought in pell-mell. The old man seemed 
 to have had his little sense shaken out of 
 him by his fall — his eyes wandered about in 
 the unsuccessful attempt to make out where 
 he was, and he continually reiterated, " where's 
 Toby ? I want Toby," to which Mrs. Thomas 
 Ford as constantly replied that, " poor Toby 
 was a-bed, a resting his self," and officiously 
 chinked for him his stocking full of halfpence, 
 which he always resented. 
 
 Miss Clairvaux, meanwhile, found it a very 
 difficult matter to get on with Toby, who, 
 however he might have felt like a cow in 
 clover on first waking, was now restless, dis- 
 contented, and perverse, because she would 
 not accede to his request that he might 
 have just a thimble full of spirits. In 
 fact, he was experiencing the wretched
 
 102 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 craving for stimulants, which the habitual 
 drinker always feels, the morning after a 
 carouse. 
 
 " I cannot think of it, Toby," said Miss 
 Clairvaux. " I have no spirits in the house, 
 for I highly disapprove of them, and even if 1 
 had any, I should not give them to you while 
 you are under medical treatment. So early 
 in the morning, too 1" 
 
 "That's the very thing,'' put in Toby, 
 piteously, " it's very fatiguing to wake early 
 of a morning — especially of a Sunday." 
 
 " Well, you shall have another nice cup of 
 tea-—" 
 
 " But tea's no good, unless it's laced with 
 brandy." 
 
 " Pie, fie — now keep yourself quiet, Toby, 
 and don't toss about so, and I'll read to you 
 a little." 
 
 " 0, miss, don't ye, or I can't stand it ! I 
 shall go crazy with those sixteen thlies and 
 seventeen thlies !"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 103 
 
 "You are very ungrateful, Toby, when 
 they gave you such nice rest before.'* 
 
 *' But I can't rest now, for Fm as hot as 
 fire, with this lot of bed-clothes over me — it's 
 what I've never been used to, feather beds 
 and blankets above and below ; and, begging 
 your pardon, miss, I'm stifling. You mean 
 it all very kind, I know ; but I'm not used 
 to dwell in marble halls (though this is only 
 a scullery). Now, if you'll be ruled by me, 
 miss, you'll send that 'ansome young lady as 
 is gone to see fayther, to look up an old 
 woman to set me straight ; for I can't dress 
 myself, nor yet can you dress me ; and yet if 
 I remain a lying here, cry I must." 
 
 And whether he really cried, or only 
 made believe. Miss Clairvaux could not 
 tell. 
 
 "Oh, Toby, Toby," said she, remon- 
 stratingly, " now, don't go on like that. 
 Here am I, doing everything I can think 
 of for your comfort, and you cry like a
 
 104 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 child because I will not give you something 
 unfit for you. and which I have not to 
 give." 
 
 " You — cou' — cou' — cou' — could get it . . . 
 ub, ub, ub — a — boo ....'* 
 
 ''What! send one of my good young 
 maids to a public-house on a Sunday? oh, 
 fie! Now be good, Toby, be good and 
 patient, and I will send for an old woman ; 
 only, don't expect her to be here in a 
 moment, as if you were a little child, and 
 could not bear to wait. Be good and 
 patient, and you shall have an old wo- 
 man." 
 
 At this moment, Eleanor opportunely ar- 
 rived, with the acceptable news that Mr. 
 Tobias Dick senior was as well as could 
 be expected, and continued to derive much 
 satisfaction from his stocking-full of half- 
 pence. This brought a broad smile on his 
 son's face, which was prolonged by Eleanor's 
 observing what a source of pleasure it must
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 105 
 
 be to him to think he had saved the life 
 of so aged a parent. 
 
 "Yes, if rd been anything but a clown, 
 they might ha' made a play of it," said he. 
 "Poor old dadT' And he lay tranquilly 
 enough, perhaps sketching out the play, 
 till the desiderated old woman made her 
 appearance. 
 
 " You're the gal for me," said he, directly 
 he saw her. "Seventy, if you're a day. 
 Now, handle me softly, I advise you. I 
 can't stir, for my life : but I can bawl like 
 a man calling sprats." 
 
 Into the hands of this much more 
 appropriate nurse. Miss Clairvaux gladly 
 resigned him. And when, in the after- 
 noon, a spring-cart came to remove him 
 to the infirmary, she felt relieved of a 
 great responsibility. Toby was really grateful 
 now, and his eyes shone with genuine tears 
 as he bade her adieu. He was sorry, he 
 said, to have been so fractious, but it had
 
 106 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 quite put him out of countenance for the 
 ladies to see him without his paint. 
 
 The only other event of the day was, 
 to Miss Clairvaux's surprise, a kind message 
 of inquiry about Toby from Mr. Newland 
 the valetudinarian, brought by his staid old 
 house-keeper, on her way to meeting.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 107 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The young Tobias was his father's joy. 
 
 ''It must be terribly unwholesome," said 
 Miss Clairvaux reflectively, " for that poor 
 fellow to have all his pores filled up with 
 chalk and red lead, and equally unwholesome 
 to his mind to be filled up with such trash. 
 Did you observe what he said about the 
 world consisting, to them, of but two classes, 
 professionals and public ?" 
 
 " Perhaps this accident may be a blessing 
 to him after all," said Eleanor, " if it obliges 
 him to adopt another course of life."
 
 108 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "But what other course is he fit for? The 
 city missionaries have turned many a greater 
 offender to account ; but when levity is the basis 
 of a character, one may as well try to build 
 on a shifting sand. Well, Eleanor, this is 
 a broken Sunday, altogether different from 
 what we have been accustomed to spend — I can 
 certainly say so for myself. But next Sun- 
 day the water will have subsided sufficiently, 
 I hope, for us to go to church. This after- 
 noon, we cannot do better, perhaps, than 
 visit the fatherless and widows in their afflic- 
 tion ; and see what they most need. Very 
 little of their wearing-apparel has been saved, 
 probably ; and though it was not much 
 worth saving, it must be replaced." 
 
 They proceeded first to William Ford's 
 cottage, within which, as Miss Clairvaux 
 raised the latch, was audible a sustained, 
 rather sing-song voice engaged in prayer. 
 A tall, thin man in shabby black was on 
 his knees, and all the family, including their
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 109 
 
 guests, knelt around him, except the old 
 woman in bed, whose hands were reverently- 
 folded. Miss Clairvaux softly closed the 
 door and went away. 
 
 " I could have found it in my heart," 
 said she, "to go in and kneel down with 
 them, though it is only !Mr. Fawkes the 
 Wesleyan ; but it might have disturbed them. 
 How nice of him to seek them out ! That 
 practicality in religion is what I like. No 
 matter what the man may call himself, if 
 he be a true Son of the Word, and about 
 his Father's business." 
 
 They were now on their way to Thomas 
 Ford's in the Green Lane, where old Dick 
 was being sheltered. 
 
 "Of course, I am attached to my own 
 church above others," continued Miss Clair- 
 vaux, " but very glad should I be if I found 
 it always as prompt in good w^orks as the — 
 Dear me, here comes Dr. Hurst !" 
 
 And a neat, clerical-looking old gentleman
 
 110 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 was seen picking his way towards them, 
 or rather towards Thomas Ford's cottage. 
 Directly he saw Miss Clairvaux, he raised 
 his hat. 
 
 "Your errand is the same as mine, I 
 know," said he heartily, " I might have 
 been sure you would see to these poor 
 people; but I thought I might as well 
 just step over and look in upon them." 
 "You had a dirtv walk, I'm afraid." 
 " Oh, shocking, shocking !" laughing and 
 putting out his neat foot, which was not 
 so very muddy after all. And so then 
 they talked over the details of the fire, 
 and went into the cottage, when Miss 
 Clairvaux spoke in an under-tone to Mrs. 
 Ford, while Dr. Hurst cheered up the old 
 man, and put money into his hand. Eleanor, 
 who stood apart, near the door, addressing 
 herself to some clean, shy little children, 
 heard most of what passed, and perceived 
 that the good-natured doctor's words were
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. Ill 
 
 chiefly of a secular kind, without going 
 much below the surface; but still, he had 
 come at personal inconvenience, to show 
 sympathy and generosity, and it was evi- 
 dent that his visit was prized by the 
 cottagers. Afterwards he walked with Miss 
 Clairvaux to her own gate, and told her 
 he hoped he should see her in church next 
 Sunday. Her maids had found their way 
 there, morning and afternoon. She and 
 Eleanor read to one another during the even- 
 ing, and had a good deal of quiet talking on 
 serious subjects ; and the little domestic 
 service was longer and more fervent than usual. 
 
 " You have never been in here, I think ?" 
 said Miss Clairvaux, next morning, as she 
 unlocked the door of the room on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "No," said Eleanor, "it is as great a 
 secret to me as the Blue Chamber to Blue- 
 beard's wife." 
 
 " Or ' the mysterious boudoir ' to Behnda.
 
 112 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 And, perhaps, you will be as much disap- 
 pointed as she was." 
 
 She opened the door, and entered an 
 "uncarpetted room, full of lumber and rub- 
 bish, or what seemed so, with a large 
 trunk in the middle of the floor, too full 
 for the lid to close. 
 
 " This," said she, " is my grand repertory 
 of things to give away ; not ' unconsidered 
 fragments,' but well-considered ones. You 
 may come and help yourself to what you 
 like. Somewhere near Damascus, there is 
 a rubbish-heap of broken potsherds and 
 so forth, which the natives call ' the Mother 
 of Fragments.' I think it w^ould be a very 
 good name for this trunk, which it is my 
 delight to fill with scraps in summer, and 
 to empty in winter. But, though we are just 
 through the winter, you see my stock is 
 not exhausted, so you are welcome to what- 
 ever you think you can make most available 
 for the Dicks."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 113 
 
 Eleanor was quite in her element, con- 
 triving and piecing ; and when she had been 
 more than an hour at work, Miss Clairvaux 
 came to beg her to go to Wilham Ford's 
 cottage, and desire one of the girls to come 
 at one o'clock for a large meat-and-potato pie. 
 
 Eleanor found that the poor people's 
 immediate wants had already been well 
 cared for by Mr. Burrowes; but that it 
 had been decided, as a matter of neces- 
 sity, that old Dick, his daughter and 
 grand-children, should go into "the house." 
 She witnessed their removal with concern, 
 but what could their poor neighbours do? 
 They could shelter them for a night or 
 two, but that was all, and, at present, 
 there was no roof ready to receive them. 
 The old man, in whom Eleanor chiefly 
 took interest, was principally concerned 
 with the jealous care of his stocking ; but 
 her heart felt heavy as she saw them 
 depart. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 On reaching the spot where the road 
 had been under water, she saw, to her 
 surprise and pleasure, that the water had 
 disappeared, and several poor men were 
 scraping the mud away, while Mr. Deben- 
 ham was looking on. 
 
 He raised his hat to her, and was be- 
 ginning, " Good morning, Miss — a — " when 
 he remembered he did not know her name. 
 
 She smiled, and said, "This will be a 
 good sight for Miss Clairvaux." 
 
 *' Why, yes," said Mr. Debenham, " and, 
 to tell the truth, it is chiefly on her account 
 I am having it done. One hardly knows 
 where to have her, sometimes. But such a 
 heart ! — and understanding, too, I may say. 
 It's impossible, you know, not to admit her 
 good points ; and really, her conduct about 
 the fire and the clown and all, has been some- 
 thing genuine, and ought to be considered. 
 So, as I knew there w^as nothing she would 
 like better than to have this job done, I set
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 115 
 
 it in hand. I've sometimes thought (when 
 she's been a little hard upon us, you know,) 
 that there is nothing she would like better 
 than to be made inspector of nuisances." 
 
 Eleanor said she was sure Miss Clairvaux 
 would appreciate his kindness in having the 
 road made passable; and as she returned 
 homeward, she wondered whether she would 
 now pay the highway-rate. 
 
 Not small was Miss Clairvaux's elation at 
 her report. 
 
 "Ah!" said she, "I knew what I was 
 about. Not one halfpenny would I have paid 
 if they had not come round ; but now they 
 shall have it directly. It is nearly one o'clock, 
 so we cannot go before dinner, but we will 
 do so in the afternoon. The days are now 
 lengthening nicely." 
 
 In the afternoon, however, Miss Clairvaux 
 had a succession of visitors from the town, 
 who availed themselves of the improved high- 
 way to come and talk of the fire, and inquire 
 
 I 2
 
 116 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 how she and the clown had got on together. 
 The first of these was Miss Jones, who had 
 scarcely seated herself wdth a look of com- 
 placency at the prospect of an uninterrupted 
 chat, w^hen she was sadly disappointed at Mrs. 
 Plover's being announced. The Meadowleigh 
 ladies were very fond of commanding un- 
 divided attention, and habitually looked oh 
 a second comer as an interloper, who destroyed 
 the sacred freedom of a tete-a-tete ; but on 
 this special occasion, Miss Clairvaux was con- 
 sidered common property, and destined to 
 hold a levee, whether with or without her own 
 consent ; therefore each assistant at it must 
 be content with her share of the conversation, 
 and find an equivalent for undivided attention 
 in the privilege of trying to make something 
 out of " the pretty girl in black," who had 
 already been canvassed in private circles. 
 
 Eleanor was not sorry to have an oppor- 
 tunity of forming some opinion of the society 
 of the neighbourhood, which was, in fact,
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 117 
 
 neither better nor worse than the average of 
 small country towns, where the stock Lon- 
 don subjects are somewhat at a discount, and 
 pabhc aflPairs, literature, exhibitions, and the 
 arts, not so much as thought of. She looked 
 rather hopelessly from the flat, inexpressive 
 face of Miss Jones, to the fussy, shrewish 
 features of Mrs. Plover, and then returned to 
 the former, finding her the most promising 
 of the two. Mrs. Rowe was next announced, 
 and then ensued a feminine chattering, in 
 which Eleanor's was the only voice unheard. 
 
 They were all very anxious to hear about 
 Toby; but Miss Clairvaux was not one to 
 make much out of Kttle, and when asked 
 what she had found him like, replied slightly, 
 " Oh, like any other poor man," which was 
 scarcely the case ; and then turned the con- 
 versation to the subject of circus-people in 
 general, the harm they did to others, and the 
 harm others did to them. This was distaste- 
 ful enough to her visitors, who had all attended
 
 118 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 tlie performances ; and Mrs. Plover said in a 
 marked manner : 
 
 " I never set my foot in a theatre — have 
 never been in one since I was married — at 
 least, only once, but I own I think differently 
 of horsemanship ; and I chose to see what 
 the amusements were that were provided for 
 the commonality. The late hours, and the 
 promiscuous admixture of classes, and so 
 forth, were no doubt objectionable, and I 
 should have no wish to go again, nor would I 
 allow my servants to go on any account." 
 
 *' Well, I sent my servants," said Mrs. 
 Rowe. 
 
 " There, I think you took a hazardous 
 step," said Mrs. Plover. 
 
 ** Oh, I improved it afterwards to Hannah." 
 
 " Do tell us how you improved it — it might 
 be useful to us to hear,'' said Mrs. Plover. 
 
 " Why, T said * well, Hannah, what did 
 you think of it all ?' * Oh, ma'am, I thought 
 it was beautiful ! I never knew how kings
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 119 
 
 and queens looked before V ' Why, you 
 don't suppose real kings and queens dress 
 in that way? at least, since the time of 
 the History of England.' ' Oh, ma'am, 
 don't you think they can afford it ?' ' Afford 
 it ? why, the Leopard Queen's rose-coloured 
 train was only cotton velvet, and — ' " 
 
 " Silk velvet, I assure you !" interposed 
 Miss Jones, with some earnestness. 
 
 " Well, I said cotton, for I thought it was, 
 * cotton-velvet, and her pearls were false, and 
 her colour too. Why, Queen Victoria would 
 disdain to dress in that way.' ' Well, ma'am, 
 if I were Queen Victoria, I should like to 
 dress in that way every day.' ' Then it's 
 very fortunate you are not. What I and be 
 drawn about by wild beasts, with a clown 
 walking alongside of you ? Oh, Hannah, I'm 
 quite ashamed of you ! and then, after peram- 
 bulating the town, and being stared at by the 
 rabble, to go back to a bread-and-cheese 
 supper, and to sleep in a tent.' * Please,
 
 120 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 ma'am, Abraham and Sarah slept in a tent/ 
 * Oh, Hannah !' (drawing herself up with 
 great dignity) ' if you have got to Abraham 
 and Sarah, I have done with you T '* 
 
 "Time enough, too, I think," said Mrs. 
 Plover. " You set her down very properly. 
 I looked upon the equestrianism in the light 
 of science. But Mr. Tribulini's charlatanry 
 bordered on the offensive." 
 
 " Dear now, I thought it the best of all," 
 said Miss Jones. 
 
 " My dear Miss Jones ! What ! when he 
 came forward and actually offered to eat a 
 man alive ! any man who would let him !" 
 
 " He might be quite sure," said Miss 
 Clairvaux, laughing, " that at the first bite, 
 the man would cease to be a consenting 
 party.'' 
 
 " Just so," said Mrs. Rowe. " Hodge 
 Ablett, stupid fellow, stood forward and 
 said, ' oh well, you may try upon me !' and 
 directly Mr. Tribulini began on his little
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 121 
 
 finger, he roared out as if he were killed. 
 Mr Tribulini appealed to us all with ' a 
 pretty fellow this, ladies and gentlemen, 
 to fancy he can bear being eaten alive, when 
 he roars out at the first bite !' and Hodge 
 slunk away, finely laughed at, of course." 
 
 " There's a Hodge in every town, I 
 dare say," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 * Doubtless the pleasure is as great 
 In being cheated as to cheat.' " 
 
 " There was no cheating in it," said Mrs. 
 Plover. 
 
 " Oh no, a mere trick, and a poor one, I 
 think. These poor charlatans work hard 
 enough, generally, in getting up their feats 
 for our amusement. What is sport to us, is 
 sometimes death to them ; always severe toil. 
 Robert Houdin, even while eating his dinner 
 at a chop-house, would use his spoon with 
 one hand while exercising the other with a 
 cup and ball in his pocket ; and, as he walked
 
 122 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 along the streets, both his hands would be at 
 work under the folds of his loose coat. If 
 the same continuous practice had been to 
 some useful end, how much better for him- 
 self and for others 1" 
 
 " Ah, we must have amusement of some 
 sort,'' said Mrs. Plover. 
 
 " And really," said Miss Clairvaux, *' I 
 cannot think a play of Shakespeare's less 
 edifying than Mr. TribuHni's charlatanry." 
 
 ** There we differ, there we differ. I have 
 nothing to say to the drama." 
 
 "We cannot have anything to say to it 
 here. I was only drawing a comparison." 
 
 " Ah well, if you had been there, I don't 
 think you would have seen anything to object 
 to," said Mrs. Plover. " Except the Leopard 
 Queen." 
 
 " That girl will be eaten up by the leopards 
 some day," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 " Do you know," said Miss Jones, *' I am 
 not quite sure they are real leopards."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH, 123 
 
 This occasioned a good deal of laughing, 
 and various conjectures as to what they were, 
 if not real leopards — whether boys or don- 
 keys, &c. 
 
 " You know/' said Miss Jones, " if they 
 were leopards, they must be fed on meat. 
 Now, I have been unable to learn that any 
 butcher in Meadowleigh supplied the company 
 with offal." 
 
 " Have you enquired ?' 
 
 " I have." 
 
 A pause ensued. Then Mrs. Rowe said : 
 
 " So Mr. Swain's house is let at last." 
 
 " Yes, to a Mrs Gwyther." 
 
 •* Do you know anything of her ?" 
 
 " No — I understand Mrs. Swain said she 
 was not a person we should be likely to care 
 to visit." 
 
 "Dear me, that's singular," cried Mrs. 
 Plover. " What can be peculiar in her ?" 
 
 *' I don't know that there is anything 
 peculiar."
 
 124 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " But, to set her apart from us in that 
 marked way ! — Who did Mrs. Swain say so 
 to?" 
 
 '* To Mrs. Hurst, I understand," said 
 Mrs. Rowe. 
 
 Mrs. Plover reflected for a moment, and 
 said. 
 
 " Then it must be about her religious 
 opinions. I dare say she is a Dissenter.'* 
 
 Miss Clairvaux uttered a deprecatory 
 - Oh 1"— 
 
 " Well, we shall see. If she does not go 
 to church, I shall set her down for a Dissenter. 
 Very likely a Plymouth brethren." 
 
 " I suppose we ought not to call on her, in 
 that case ?" said Miss Jones, in timid appeal 
 to Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 "The Jews have no dealings with the 
 Samaritans," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 " I am not a Jew, I believe," said Mrs. 
 Plover, "and still less a Samaritan ; but yet, 
 in the case supposed, I certainly think we
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 125 
 
 ought to unite in withholding from her 
 the least conntenance." 
 
 " That will show her our superior charity as 
 church-women," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 "Do you mean to call on her?" 
 
 " I have had no thought on the subject ; but, 
 perhaps, I may if I think her hardly used by 
 every one else." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Clairvaux !" 
 
 " It is as well there should be some good 
 Samaritan in Meadowleigh. But I live so far 
 out of the town, that there is no reason why I 
 should call on every new comer ; and if you 
 will be neighbourly to her, I shall be very 
 well pleased to be released." 
 
 " Oh ! I shall not be neighbourly to her," 
 said Mrs. Plover, " we can't afford any contami- 
 nation in a small place like this." 
 
 *' Contamination ? no," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux ; '' but I hope it won't amount to that. 
 My father used to say, that there is nothing 
 wanting to make all sensible and disinterested
 
 126 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 people of one religion, than that they should 
 talk together every day. However that may 
 be, we do not even know that this lady is a 
 Dissenter." 
 
 " I shall make it a duty to ascertain," said 
 Mrs. Plover. 
 
 " You must make it one then," said 
 Miss Clairvaux laughing, " for it is not one 
 ^already." 
 
 A fresh party of visitors being announced, 
 Mrs. Plover and Miss Jones made way for 
 them; but as Miss Jones held Miss Clair- 
 vaux's hand an instant, she said very 
 insinuatingly — 
 
 " If you should see the clown again, I do 
 wish you would ascertain about the leopards 1" 
 
 " Oh, very well," said Miss Clairvaux 
 smihng. 
 
 Afterwards, when they were left together. 
 Miss Clairvaux said to Eleanor — 
 
 " I hope I am sincerely thankful for my 
 belief in those doctrines which make the
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 127 
 
 distinctive difference between my creed and 
 others ; but I have known excellent persons 
 of various, I may almost say of all per- 
 suasions, and I cannot bear anything like 
 intolerance/* 
 
 *' Of course," resumed she after a pause, 
 " everything must be taken with limitations. 
 There is a species of liberality which amounts 
 to indifference ; and is not so much consider- 
 ation for our neighbour's opinions as want 
 of value for our own. Again, there is a 
 good old saying, ' tell me your companions, 
 and ril tell you what you are.' If I chose 
 my companions, as a matter of preference, 
 but of the Romish Church, for instance, 
 it might give very good colour to the belief 
 that I leant towards Romanism myself. If 
 I sought out Methodists as Methodists, it 
 might reasonably be thought I was favour- 
 ably inclined to Methodism. But this is 
 different from shutting the door in the face 
 of one's neighbour, because he, or she, goes
 
 128 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 to chapel instead of church. At any rate, 
 I am too old to take the infection, just as 
 I have outgrowu the age when one is liable 
 to measles and hooping-cough. Well said 
 John Poster, * that when the springtide of 
 universal love shall rise sufficiently high, it 
 will merge all rocks of offence, and minor 
 lines of separation.' " 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Plover was saying to 
 Miss Jones, as they walked down the lane 
 which connected the common with the 
 town — 
 
 " It is easy to see that though Miss 
 Clairvaux can be so Pharisaical with regard 
 to the equestrians, yet she is sadly lax in 
 her rehgious opinions ; almost a free-thinker, 
 I am afraid." 
 
 " Dear, do you think so ?'* said Miss 
 Jones simply. *' It would make me quite 
 uncomfortable if I thought her anything 
 of the kind." 
 
 The highway-rate was not paid that day,
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 129 
 
 but the next; and Eleanor had then her 
 first opportunity of seeing what a clean, 
 cheerful, quaint little town Meadowleigh 
 was. The picturesque intricacy of outline 
 in the projecting windows and ornamented 
 gables of the houses, hardly any two of 
 them of the same elevation, or of uniform 
 materials, delighted her eye, early trained 
 to the study of art. The shop fronts, 
 on the other hand, with their small 
 panes of glass, and narrow doorways, 
 looked rather mean to a Londoner ; and 
 when she accompanied Miss Clairvaux into 
 some of them, she noted the absence of 
 metropolitan despatch and adroitness. She 
 observed that the tradespeople and their 
 customers seemed to know something of 
 each other, and to be in the habit of ex- 
 changing kind speeches and civilities ; also, 
 time was a less precious commodity 
 than in the capital, judging by the way in 
 which it was expended in doing up a small 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 parcel in too diminutive a paper, or trying 
 to tie it up with too short a piece of string. 
 She heard a chemist desire a boy to bring 
 back the pill-box he put into his hand, when 
 he came for more pills; and she heard a 
 draper offer a farmer's wife plain cake and 
 currant wine, on the ground of her having 
 laid out a sovereign in house-linen. She 
 also observed that scarcely any shop con- 
 fined itself to its own particular line of 
 business ; but that the pastry-cook sold 
 Horniman's tea, the greengrocer toys, the 
 straw bonnet-maker cigars, the watchmaker 
 photographs, and the chemist silver brooches. 
 As they were leaving Meadowleigh, Miss 
 Clairvaux said, " We may as well ca!l on Mrs. 
 Debenham ;" and led the way up a handsome 
 flight of stone steps to the door of a most 
 respectable-looking red brick mansion. They 
 were admitted into a square hall with richly 
 painted and moulded ceihng, and shown up 
 a polished oaken staircase into a small but
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 131 
 
 very lofty drawing-room, crowded with old- 
 fashioned furniture in a high state of pre- 
 servation. Eleanor noticed a spectacle-case, 
 and The whole Duty of Man on the table, 
 a large white cat on the rug, and a green 
 parrot in an open cage. 
 
 The parrot had just inquired whether they 
 liked sprats, and informed them that he did 
 not, when a placid-looking old lady entered, 
 in violet silk, with a black lace shawl, 
 whom Eleanor at once decided must be 
 Mr. Debenham's mother, not his wife ; 
 and so it proved. 
 
 " My bird is amusing you, I see," said 
 she. " I assure you I find him a very good 
 companion. Come, Polly, sing us a song." 
 
 "Polly likes walnuts," said the parrot. 
 
 " That's true enough, Polly, and you shall 
 have one presently ; but you must sing 
 first/' 
 
 Polly did not approve of the arrangement, 
 however, and remained quite quiet ; but 
 
 K 2
 
 132 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 presently, when least expected, burst out 
 with 
 
 " I'd be a butterfly, bom in a bower !" 
 
 "Good Polly, good birdl" said Mrs. 
 Debenham laughing; and she redeemed her 
 word by giving him a split walnut, which 
 she said would occupy him a full hour. 
 
 Presently Mr. Debenham came in, looking 
 very brisk and good-humoured, as usual ; 
 and, after greeting the ladies, whom he 
 appeared pleased to see, he said, cheer- 
 fully: 
 
 " Well, Miss] Clairvaux, I hope I have got 
 into your good books." 
 
 "What, by giving up the Browbeater?" 
 said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 " rd forgotten all about the Browbeater ! 
 No, I meant about the road.'' 
 
 " Oh, yes, and I have paid my highway- 
 rate/' 
 
 " Oh, well, Tm glad to hear it/' said he.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 133 
 
 looking relieved. " It's no good standing out 
 about things." 
 
 " No good standing out about things ?" 
 exclaimed Miss Clairvaux. " I don't admit 
 that at all. If I had not stood out about the 
 road, you would not have scraped it." 
 
 " Ah ! well, we're both out of the scrape 
 now, so let bygones be bygones." 
 
 And smiling, he turned to Eleanor, and 
 asked if this were her first visit to Meadow- 
 leigh, to which she replied in the affirmative. 
 
 " Are you going to make a lengthened stay 
 here ?" 
 
 "I hardly know," repHed she, rather 
 embarrassed. " I hope so." 
 
 " I hope so, too ; because you don't see 
 the neighbourhood to advantage at this time 
 of year. I think you would admire it in the 
 summer, when the leaves are out. But, 
 perhaps, you will have run away from us 
 before then ?" 
 
 " I really can't tell," said Eleanor.
 
 134 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Mr. Debenham, I have a favour to ask of 
 you," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 " Anything in my power, I am sure — " 
 
 " I want you to get me an order to see the 
 Union." 
 
 " Oh, I've nothing to do with it." 
 
 " But who has ?" 
 
 " Oh, any of the magistrates — Mr. Cole." 
 
 " Well, would you ask Mr. Cole ?" 
 
 "Well — a — Would it not come better 
 from yourself?" 
 
 " Why, I asked it of you as a favour, and 
 you said you would do anything in your 
 power !" 
 
 "Just so, only I did not know what it 
 was." 
 
 " Is it so hard a matter, then, to obtain 
 access to the Union ? It ought not to be." 
 
 "Certainly not. O no, I don't suppose 
 there is any difficulty. They admit the in- 
 mates' relatives one day in every week. 
 Wednesday, I think it is."
 
 MBADOWLEIGH. 135 
 
 " Then you think they would admit me ?" 
 " Well, you see, you're not a relative." 
 " What difference does that make ?" 
 " They would want to know your motive." 
 " My motive is to see the people inside.'* 
 " Well, I fancy they are rather shy of ad- 
 mitting strangers." 
 
 *'Why should they be?" 
 " Because they might interfere." 
 " Why should they, if there is nothing to 
 interfere about?" 
 
 " Ah ! ?*f is a ticklish word." 
 " Then you think 1 should be refused ad- 
 mittance." 
 
 " dear, no ! — not with an order." 
 "Then, can I prevail on you to get me 
 one?" 
 
 " Certainly I will try, if you particularly 
 wish it. Is there any one you especially want 
 to see ?" 
 
 ''Yes, the Dicks." 
 
 " Ah, I heard Mr. Cole speaking of them
 
 136 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 this very day. He said it was quite the best 
 place for them/' 
 
 " Has he seen them there ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. The old man had been a good 
 deal put out, at being obhged to have a bath." 
 
 " Dear me, T can easily suppose that," said 
 Miss Clairvaux, perturbed. "A compulsory 
 bath must be a very different thing from one 
 as we should take it, with every apphance 
 of comfort. At his time of life, it might not 
 even be a good thing for him — at any rate, 
 it doubtless was a great shock. Poor old 
 fellow ! Well then, I'll rely on your getting 
 me the order. You see, I don't know Mr. 
 Cole, so I cannot so well ask him, or I would 
 not trouble you." 
 
 " Don't you know Cole ? I'm surprised 
 to hear that. You're sure to find him at' 
 every snug little dinner-party. He's very 
 fond of a game at whist." 
 
 " You know I never go to parties, or touch 
 cards."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 137 
 
 "No, you must find the winter evenings 
 
 rather long." 
 
 " Never too long, or rarely so. When I 
 
 do, it is because I am tired, and then I go to 
 
 bed. Well then, you promise me the order 
 
 — will you get it to-day ?" 
 " To-day ! that's very quick !" 
 " Why, to-morrow is Wednesday." 
 " 0, ho, ho ! — what celerity in everything ! 
 
 Well, w^ell, ril see if it can be done."
 
 138 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor. 
 # * # # # 
 
 Dejected widows with unheeded tears 
 
 And crippled age with more than childhood fears. 
 
 CEABBE. 
 
 " I CANNOT get that bath out of my head," 
 exclaimed Miss Clairvaux as they walked 
 home. " I wish I could have had it for him. 
 I am as fond of cold water as most ; but 
 there are w^ays of doing things. When he 
 had lived so many years without one, why 
 should he liave it now ? * Because he was
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 139 
 
 dirty ?' Pooh, pooh. Was he so much dirtier 
 on Monday than he was on Saturday ? Have 
 you, Mr. Particular, had a bath this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 Then, after a few minutes of troubled 
 silence, during which she was doubtless 
 carrying on an imaginary dialogue with some 
 Jack-in-office, she resumed. 
 
 " It's all very well to give reasons, but the 
 rich have no right to be such torments to the 
 poor. What right does your money give you 
 to infringe on their personal liberties, their 
 sense of fitness and decency? Suppose you 
 happened never to have had a total immersion 
 yourself (I'll answer for it your grandfather 
 never had, unless he fell overboard, and yet 
 he was accounted clean in his day, I'll warrant 
 him !) — suppose it, I say ; how should you 
 like your first experiment of the kind to be 
 at the age of eighty, without your own con- 
 sent, and with various humiliating, and even 
 alarming circumstances? Would you, I say?
 
 140 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 And is there any reason it should take place, 
 merely because your house was burnt down 
 on Saturday ? A curious consolation ! a 
 curious compensation ! . . . . Oh, Eleanor ! 
 what strange ideas some people have of doing 
 good!" 
 
 Not to dwell any more on too painful a 
 subject, she changed it somewhat abruptly. 
 
 "Well, and what do you think of the 
 Debenhams ?" 
 
 " I was surprised," said Eleanor, " to find 
 Mrs. Debenham was Mr. Debenham's mo- 
 ther, not his wife. Has he, then, never mar- 
 ried?" 
 
 " Oh, my dear, he lost his wife, a very 
 nice little woman, about two years ago. His 
 children are at school — two very promising 
 little boys. Some people are surprised he 
 does not marry again." 
 
 " That would be no great proof of love to 
 his first wife," said Eleanor. "I am sure 
 mamma would not."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 141 
 
 Miss Clairvaux smiled, and said, " there is 
 some diflPerence of age, probably, between 
 them." 
 
 " Mamma is but forty-three, and I should 
 think that Mr. Debenham must be that or 
 more," said Eleanor. " Certainly not a young 
 
 man." 
 
 I doubt if he considers himself an old 
 
 one." 
 
 " Every one else must, though." 
 
 " Oh no, my dear Eleanor ! most people 
 would think him quite in the prime of life." 
 
 " Would they ?" said Eleanor, incredulously. 
 
 " You do not, it is clear," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux laughing. " Here comes Mr. Burrowes. 
 We shall hear how Toby is getting on." 
 
 Mr. Burrowes gave a satisfactory report of 
 Toby, who was doing well, though his re- 
 covery would be slow. He found time hang 
 rather heavily on hand, however ; and had said, 
 " you haven't such a thing, sir, as an old play- 
 bill about you, have you?"
 
 142 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Think of that, now !" said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " Poor fellow !" and, during the re- 
 mainder of her walk, she ruminated on some 
 way of amusing him. 
 
 Next morning, while Eleanor was draw- 
 ing, Mr. Debenham came in, and said he had 
 brought the order for Miss Clairvaux's ad- 
 mission to the Union. Eleanor was going to 
 summon her, when he hastily said : 
 
 "Pray don't, Miss — a — (how ridiculous 
 that I don't know your name), but the fact 
 is, I'm in a hurry, and would rather not see 
 Miss Clairvaux this morning. I had tremen- 
 dous work to get this order from old Cole, 
 who is a fretting, fumy sort of old fellow, very 
 suspicious and jealous of interference, and he 
 asked me no end of questions, why she wanted 
 to go, and what she meant to do there, which 
 I knew not how in the world to answer. Un- 
 commonly tiresome habit some people have 
 of asking impertinent questions, Miss Eol- 
 jambe — "
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 143 
 
 " My name Is not Foljambe/' said Eleanor 
 quietly, but scarcely suppressing a ' "' 
 
 "Ten thousand pardons — my liiLUiory is 
 so treacherous ! I know I must have heard 
 your name a hundred times, but just now it 
 has quite escaped me. Oh I now, to be sure, 
 I have it. Hunter ! Miss Hunter !" 
 
 ''Xo, indeed," said Eleanor, now quite 
 laughing. 
 
 " No ? Then ten thousand more pardons ! 
 and, if it be not an impertinent question, what 
 
 IS vour name 
 
 . 9' 
 
 '* But suppose it should be," said Eleanor. 
 
 *' Oh, then the world's at an end ! good 
 morning." And he vras snatching up his 
 hat, when she quietly said : 
 
 *' You are quite welcome to know my name. 
 It is Gray don." 
 
 " Graydon ! Ten thousand thanks. I shall 
 never forget it again, Miss Graydon." 
 
 **Yoii have not forgotten it now, for I 
 do not think you have ever heard it before."
 
 144 . MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "Well, perhaps not; but, at any rate, I 
 will not forget it now. Is this your drawing ? 
 Beautiful, beautiful ! Good morning ! My 
 compliments to Miss Clairvaux." 
 
 And as he hurried through the hall, he 
 caugh at ghmpse of Miss Clairvaux, for 
 Eleanor heard him cry, 
 
 "Good morning, good morning! I am 
 in a monstrous hurry; but I've left the 
 order with Miss Graydon." 
 
 " What makes the man in such a flurry ?" 
 said Miss Clairvaux, coming into the par- 
 lour. " He seems quite ready with your 
 name. Oh, here's the order — what a scrawl ! 
 Well, Eleanor, I shall leave you to your own 
 devices, for it w^on't admit two." 
 
 If the truth be told, this was no unpleasant 
 hearing to Eleanor, dearly as she already 
 loved Miss Clairvaux. Who does not know 
 the satisfaction of being occasionally left to 
 one's own devices? to feel that the room, 
 the house, is theirs for the nonce, with
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 145 
 
 leisure and liberty to follow out some 
 cherished scheroe — read some tempting book, 
 for instance, or try to write one — finish some 
 special birth-day present, practice a song or 
 sonata, &c., &c. 
 
 Eleanor's desire was to write a long, long 
 letter to her mother, comprising minute 
 details of the fire, and all thereunto apper- 
 taining; and this she resolved to do in the 
 most luxurious way. As soon, therefore, as 
 Miss Clairvaux had started for the Union, 
 which was nearly two miles ofi^, she made 
 up the fire, swept the hearth, set the chairs 
 in their places, smoothed the anti-macassars, 
 arranged everything in the most perfect order, 
 and then seated herself in state. She was 
 particular about her pen, her ink, her paper, 
 and determined her mamma should see her 
 very best writing. 
 
 Having commenced with this excessive 
 deliberation, she proceeded pian'-piano, gradu- 
 ally accelerating her speed, till it became that 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 of the express-train. She would not mind 
 two stamps, this time ; it should be a regular 
 budget, and give her mother a full half-hour's 
 reading. So she sped away, not insensible 
 to the warmth, and comfort, and stillness 
 around her ; as thoroughly enjoying her posi- 
 tion and her employment as heart could wish. 
 At length she came to a pause. 
 
 At this instant, though there had been no 
 ring at the door-bell, she heard an unknown 
 male voice in the hall, which made her start. 
 Immediately after, she heard Claudia, who 
 was cleaning the brass handle of the house- 
 door, say in a half-frightened voice, 
 
 " She's not at home, sir." 
 
 " Ho !" (in a dissatisfied tone.) " When 
 will she be in ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 "How has the old lady been going on 
 lately?" 
 
 Clau. (in the same half-frightened tone.) 
 " I don't know what you mean, sir."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 147 
 
 "Humph! You don't seem very bright. 
 Here's something that may sharpen your 
 wits." 
 
 ** What's it for, sir?" 
 
 "What's it for? That's a good one! 
 Why, for a present." 
 
 "Thank you, sir; but I don't want one. 
 I'd a great deal rather not take it, sir." 
 
 " Why, what a ninny you must be ! Six 
 to one and half-a-dozen to the other. Here, 
 come along; I want to talk to you. Come 
 in here." 
 
 Saying which, the speaker abruptly pushed 
 open the door of the room in w^hich Eleanor 
 was sitting, and, the moment he saw her, 
 stood transfixed. Saying in an embarrassed 
 manner, quite different from his late ef- 
 frontery, 
 
 " I didn't know there was anyone here — " 
 he stumbled into the hall again, dragging 
 the door after him, which, however, did not 
 shut quite close, by reason of the door- weight 
 
 L 2
 
 148 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 being pulled between it and the door-post. 
 In a stifled whisper, he said, 
 
 "Is that a visitor?'' 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Staying in the house ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Who is she?" 
 
 "Miss Graydon, sir." 
 
 "Who's Miss Graydon?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir." 
 
 " Has she been here long ?" 
 
 " Some little time, sir." 
 
 " How long is she going to stay ?" 
 
 " I can't tell, sir." 
 
 " Humph ! plaguy awkward. Well, I don't 
 know that I shall wait. You needn't tell 
 Miss Clairvaux that I've been here. Shall 
 you?" 
 
 " O yes, sir." 
 
 "You ivill, you minx? Hang it, then I 
 think I'll stay." 
 
 Eleanor shrank from his re-appearance, and
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 149 
 
 felt uncomfortable and alarmed. He went 
 on. 
 
 " What have you got in the house to eat ? 
 Any cold meat ?" 
 
 " I don't think there's anything, sir." 
 
 "Why, what are you going to have for 
 dinner ?" 
 
 "The butcher has not brought the meat 
 yet, sir." 
 
 " Not brought the meat ! Why, what 
 o'clock are you going to dine ?" 
 
 " My mistress said she should be out some 
 time, and would dine whenever she came 
 home, sir." 
 
 " Ho ! then I shall have some bread and 
 cheese in the kitchen." 
 
 " The chimney-sweep's there, sir." 
 
 " My senses ! Well ; it's all of a piece. 
 You're a nice young woman, I don't think. 
 Tell your mistress I said so." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 The next minute, to Eleanor's inexpressi-
 
 150 MEABOWLEIGH. 
 
 ble relief, she heard his boots grating on 
 the gravel, followed by a slam of the gate. 
 She went into the hall, where Claudia stood, 
 looking very glum. 
 
 "Claudia," said she, " who was that?" 
 
 " Mr. Horsefield, miss." 
 
 " I am glad he is gone." 
 
 " I'm sure, so am I, miss !" 
 
 " Do you think Miss Clairvaux will be 
 sorry he did not stay ?" 
 
 " no, miss, Tm sure she won't !" 
 
 " I am so glad you told him you should 
 tell her he had been here ! It was very 
 wrong of him to wish you to conceal it." 
 
 " Oh, I wasn't a going to mind such as 
 he" said Claudia scornfully, and renewing 
 her scrubbing con brio. 
 
 '' Who is Mr. Horsefield ?" said Eleanor. 
 
 '* Oh, he belongs, somehow, to Mr. Fol- 
 jambe," said Claudia, without intermitting 
 her scrubbing. 
 
 Eleanor longed to add, " who is Mr. Eol-
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 151 
 
 jambe ?" but thought it might be an imper- 
 tinent question. She had no right to learn 
 Miss Clairvaux's affairs through her ser- 
 vants. 
 
 Mr. Horsefield had something the air, she 
 thought, of a low attorney's clerk. His face 
 and figure seemed stereotyped on her me- 
 mory. She could not resume the thread of 
 her letter, her mind was too much pre-oc- 
 cupied ; and as it was a long one already, 
 she wound it up. 
 
 When she had done this, she observed 
 it was raining fast. She feared Miss Clair- 
 vaux would get wet, and went to the window 
 to watch for her; feeling the time pass 
 rather slowly. She had to wait a good while. 
 Directly she saw her coming, she ran to 
 open the door, and relieve her of her wet 
 umbrella. Then, while Claudia went for her 
 slippers, she took her wet cloak from her 
 shoulders; in doing which, she observed 
 that her eyes were red with crying.
 
 152 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Thank you, that will do very well," said 
 Miss Clairvaux in a dejected tone, as Claudia 
 officiously shook and wiped her dress. 
 "You may bring up dinner." Then, enter- 
 ing the parlour, and noticing the cheerful 
 blaze, " really," said she, " it makes one 
 repeat the little hymn we say so mechanically 
 when children — 
 
 " Whene'er I take my walks abroad, 
 How many poor I see ! 
 What shall I render to my God 
 For all He gives to me ?" 
 
 Here she gave a deep sigh ; but went 
 on : 
 
 " Not more than others I deserve, 
 Yet He hath given me more, 
 For I have food while others starve. 
 Or beg from door to door." 
 
 (Here a dolorous shake of the head ; and 
 then, in a still more doleful voice) : 
 
 " How many children in the street 
 Half naked I behold,
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 153 
 
 While I am clothed from head to feet, 
 And covered from the cold !" 
 
 " Ah ! — " and with her feet on the fender, 
 she heaved another deep sigh. 
 
 " I fear your expedition has not been a 
 very cheering one," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Cheering, my dear? The idea ! — of any- 
 thing cheering in a Union ! Of all the me- 
 lancholy places ! — There ought to be a special 
 clause for it in the Litany. ' From all Work- 
 houses and Unions, good Lord, deliver us !' " 
 
 " What was it that so particularly grieved 
 you ?" said Eleanor, sympathetically. 
 
 *' My dear, everything grieved me. In the 
 first place, the building itself, a great, un- 
 sightly mass of red brick, without a tree or a 
 flower near it — only a square plot of cabbages 
 and onions — w^as enough to give one the 
 horrors. When I reached the door, I was 
 received by a decent-enough looking elderly 
 woman, who, when my order had been
 
 154 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 examined, civilly undertook to show me her 
 part of the house. She began with the ward 
 containing the vicious, refractory girls, who 
 overwhelmed us with abuse, but when I spoke 
 gently to one of them, she threw her apron 
 over her head, and burst out crying. It 
 was almost less sad to visit the imbecile and 
 epileptic inmates, though that was repelling 
 enough. 
 
 " Then we got among the married women, 
 where Dick's daughter was ; separated from 
 her children ! Poor thing, she looked sub- 
 dued enough; and a tear came into her eye 
 when she saw me. She said it was hard to 
 be parted from her ba — " (Here Miss 
 CIairvaux*s voice was quenched.) "As for 
 Jane, her daughter of fourteen, she was 
 turned among such a set of girls as looked fit 
 to corrupt a saint. 
 
 " O dear me ! Then we went into a room 
 full of babies. Quiet as lambs, poor little 
 dears I very good, but not one of them smiling !
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 155 
 
 I chirrupped to them, and poked their cheeks, 
 but they did not seem to know how to take it. 
 Then we saw the old women's ward. Not a 
 speck on the floor, which was freshly scoured ; 
 but oh, so damp and chill for the poor, rheuma- 
 tic old bodies, each seated on her own bed ! 
 
 " Then my guide told me she had shewn 
 me all ; but I said I wanted to see the men ; 
 so she turned me over to another conductor. 
 I begged to see Toby, so I was taken into 
 the infirmary. Here, I must tell you, I was 
 very much pleased. Toby is popular, and is 
 being very well looked after. He was very 
 anxious to know how his father was. I told 
 him I was going to see him after I left the 
 infirmary, and he begged me to return and 
 give him my report of him, w^hich I only pro- 
 mised conditionally, telling him I might not 
 have time ; and it was well I said so. Poor 
 old—" 
 
 Here Miss Clairvaux's voice quavered, but 
 she hemmed and went on steadily.
 
 156 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "The poor old man was in a room with 
 many others, and lying outside his bed. He 
 was all in a tremble. At first, I did not think 
 it was him. He has shrunk to nothing. I 
 could easily have lifted him. He was crying 
 in a weak sort of way, without any tears, his 
 poor old features working, and did not seem 
 to know me when I spoke to him. He only 
 kept repeating, 'they've taken away my 
 stocking !' ' No, Dick,' I said, * they have 
 not ! you have both your stockings on.' He 
 looked about him for a moment, and then 
 relapsed, saying 'no, no, I don't mean 
 them — they've taken away my stocking — 
 Toby's stocking.' I then remembered the 
 stocking full of halfpence, and — " 
 
 " Dinner's on table, ma'am," said Claudia. 
 
 " I can't come," said Miss Clairvaux, 
 vindictively ; on which Claudia, snubbed, with- 
 drew. " So then," resumed she, more mildly. 
 " I said, pacifyingly, ' O, have they ? I dare 
 say it was only to take care of it. I'll see
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 157 
 
 about it.' ' Will you though ?' said he, sitting 
 up suddenly, and looking hard at me. * Yes, 
 yes,' said I, ' depend upon it I will/ * Why, 
 you're Miss Clairvaux, I do declare,' said he, 
 ' that used to be so kind to me. How ever 
 did you get in here ?' ' Why, on purpose to 
 see you and Toby, to be sure,' said I ; ' that 
 and nothing else. Why, how cold you are, 
 my poor man,' laying my hand on his, which 
 quite chilled me through. ' It's the bath,' 
 said he, and an awful look came over his face. 
 *The bath?' repeated I, 'why, that can't 
 chill you now — it was two days ago.' * 0, 
 was it, though !' said he, with the same fearful 
 look. « I had it again this morning, cold as 
 ice, for a punishment, 'cause I cried for the 
 stocking,' and he burst out again. O, 
 Eleanor, the dry sobbing of old people who 
 have no tears ! — " 
 
 Her own flowed again. " So I took the 
 gold out of my purse," she went on, " and 
 left in it a little silver and some halfpence,
 
 158 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 and slipped it into his hand, whispering, 
 ' there, there, keep that/ Quick as thought, 
 he hid it out of sight, with a look of in- 
 telhgence that was painful to behold. * You're 
 a good lady,' said he, ' always was/ ' Pray 
 to God, Dick,' said I, * you remember your 
 prayers, don't you ? Pray to God !' ' I can 
 remember ' our Pather,' said he. * That's it,' 
 said I, ' say ' our Pather,' whenever you can, 
 day and night. Good-bye,' and stooping 
 down over him, I kissed him." 
 
 They both sighed. 
 
 " How unfit I should be to live in what is 
 called the world !" said Miss Clairvaux, after 
 a pause. " Its pleasures would be nothing to 
 me, and it would call my pains exaggerated. 
 I just do to be where I am, as you may say 
 of many a scrubby tree in a copse, that would 
 never bear to be planted in full sight."
 
 MEABOWLBIGH. 159 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Happy those early days, when I 
 Shone in mine angel infancy ! 
 Oh ! how I long to travel back 
 And tread again that ancient track ! 
 
 HENRY VATJGHAN. 
 
 And then they went to dinner, which 
 luckily was a cold one. When Eleanor saw 
 the sirloin, garnished with parsley, it sud- 
 denly struck her that Claudia the blue-eyed 
 had told Mr. Horsefield a direct untruth in 
 saying there was nothing in the house. She 
 thought she would defer mentioning his visit
 
 160 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 till Miss Clairvaux had recruited herself by 
 eating ; and though it might sound better to 
 say Miss Clairvaux had lost every vestige of 
 appetite, yet this would not be the fact, for 
 crying and walking had made her hungry. 
 So she ate, and was the better for it. While 
 Claudia was setting on the pudding, Miss 
 Clairvaux had leisure to think of the home 
 department, and said: 
 
 "Has anybody called while I v/as out?'* 
 
 " Only Mr. Horsefield, ma'am/' 
 
 "Mr. Horsefield?" repeated Miss Clair- 
 vaux, with surprise and dissatisfaction. 
 " What brought him here ?" 
 
 " He came by rail, ma'am, I suppose." 
 
 "Of course, but what did he come for? 
 something disagreeable no doubt. Did he 
 leave any message ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am ?" 
 
 " Did he come in ?" 
 
 " Only into the hall, ma'am. Leastways, 
 he stepped into the parlour of his own accord.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 161 
 
 but directly he saw Miss Graydon he stepped 
 out again." 
 
 " Ill-bred fellow. Just like him. Did he 
 say anything to you, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Not a word," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Well, I am glad he came when I was 
 out, for I had no wish to see him. Probably 
 he will not come for some time again." 
 
 " If he should, what had we better say, if 
 you are out?" said Eleanor. 
 
 " Oh, merely that I am not at home. 
 There is no occasion to ask him in. Claudia 
 should not have done so, to-day." 
 
 " I didn't, ma'am !" said Claudia, " I was 
 cleaning the hall, and had left the door open, 
 just the least moment, when in he walked.'' 
 
 "Ah, that was very unguarded of you, 
 Claudia. He might have been a thief. 
 Many people have had their cloaks and um- 
 brellas walked oflP with, owing to the door 
 having been left open just the least moment." 
 
 " It wasn't open — only ajar," said Claudia. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "You put me in mind of the riddle, 
 Claudia. When is a door not a door ? When 
 it's ajar." 
 
 As this old witticism happened to be new to 
 Claudia, she dimpled with smiles. 
 
 " He wanted some cold meat," said she 
 presently. 
 
 " Cold meat 1" echoed Miss Clairvaux in- 
 dignantly. " I admire his impertinence V 
 
 " I told him there was none," said Claudia 
 with complacence. 
 
 " There, you did wrong, Claudia. There 
 was plenty, but there was no need to invite him 
 to it. You had no right to do so." 
 
 " He invited his self," said Claudia, " so 
 what could I say, ma'am ?" 
 
 " You could say that you were not at 
 liberty, in your mistress's absence, to oflPer 
 him. any refreshment," said Miss Clairvaux 
 with dignity. 
 
 " So I will then, next time," said Claudia. 
 
 "Which I hope will be long coming,"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 163 
 
 said Miss Clairvaux. Whereat, they all 
 smiled. 
 
 After dinner, Miss Clairvaux estabUshed 
 herself in her easy chair, and looked dreamily 
 into the fire. Eleanor offered to read to 
 her. 
 
 " No, thank you, my dear, it is almost too 
 dark for you to see, and besides, my attention 
 would be divided. I cannot help dwelling on 
 the Union. I think I shall write a letter to 
 the Times, when the lamp is lighted — a letter 
 in the style of S. G. O.'' 
 
 '*That will be excellent,'' said Eleanor, 
 *' but, in the meanwhile, would it not be best 
 to divert your mind a little from so painful a 
 subject? I can read very well by fire-light." 
 
 " Reading by fire-light is very prejudicial 
 to the eyes. Besides, I want to think of Mr. 
 Horsefield's visit. What could he want ?" 
 
 " He wanted to see you.'' 
 
 " Yes, but what about ? Did Mr. Eoljambe 
 send him, I wonder?" 
 
 M 2
 
 164 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 She relapsed into silence, till Eleanor 
 ventured to say, 
 
 "I suppose Mr. Foljambe is your lawyer?'* 
 
 "Not my lawyer, though a lawyer," said 
 Miss Clairvaux, rousing herself. *' He is all 
 for himself, and not at all for me. A selfish 
 heart ! and always was." 
 
 " You see, Eleanor," resumed she presently, 
 so suddenly as to make her start, "the posi- 
 tion we are in, with regard to each other, is 
 this : A Mr. Eoljambe was attached, early 
 in life, to my mother, who, however, preferred 
 my father, and married him. I was their 
 only child. My father was a clergyman ; I 
 have no recollection of him whatever, for he 
 w^as accidentally drowned while I was yet 
 a baby. Mr. Foljambe, I should tell you, 
 had consoled himself directly after my mother 
 refused him, by marrying even before she 
 did; and his wife died in a year or so, 
 leaving him a son. That son is the Jasper 
 Foljambe who now troubles me. Thus, you
 
 meadowleiCtH. 165 
 
 see, Mr. Foljambe was left a widower about 
 the same time my mother was left a widow ; 
 and as he had been very deeply attached to 
 her, he in due time renewed his addresses 
 to her. He was a very amiable, accomplished, 
 high-principled man ; and, as she had always 
 esteemed him, though she had preferred my 
 father, it is not surprising that he prevailed 
 on her to accept him. I was so young at 
 the time, that I really supposed him my 
 father; and was only undeceived by a mis- 
 judging servant, who one day said something 
 about ' your own papa.' I said, ' papa is my 
 own papa T to which she rephed, * no, miss, 
 he's only your step-papa — your own papa is 
 dead.' I ran crying to my step-father, and 
 said, ' papa, Mary says you are not my own 
 papa !' He took me on his knee, and gently 
 said, ' your own papa, my dear, is dead ; but 
 I love you quite as much as if you were really 
 my little daughter.' His kindness won me, 
 but I had received a great blow. The shock,
 
 166 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 however, soon subsided, and I may say we 
 truly loved each other as father and daughter. 
 " In course of time, children were born to 
 him and my mother, and they had a nume- 
 rous family. I have survived them all. I 
 was very fond of my little brothers and 
 sisters; but Jasper Eoljambe was never like 
 one of the family, though he sometimes spent 
 his holidays with us. He gave himself gran- 
 diose airs, as if he were sprung of a better 
 stock, which he really was not. My step- 
 father had been called to the bar; but he 
 was a man of studious, elegant tastes ; and, 
 as he had threatenings of a heart-complaint, 
 and was in easy circumstances, he soon gave 
 up practice, and resided entirely in the coun- 
 try. He farmed his own land, and helped to 
 educate his children, which was quite occu- 
 pation enough for him ; and though our home 
 was secluded, we were never in the least dull. 
 Sometimes I visited friends and relations ; but 
 though I enjoyed the change of scene and so-
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 167 
 
 ciety, I was always glad to return home. 
 These relations, all now dead, were related 
 to my mother or my own father j I was never 
 taken up by the Foljambes, who considered 
 me a superfluous branch. When Jasper came 
 to man's estate, he chose the law for his pro- 
 fession; but, instead of reading for the bar, 
 he became a solicitor, which was a disap- 
 pointment to my father. However, they con- 
 tinued on very good terms, and Jasper 
 continued to visit us occasionally, till he 
 married. It was a match for connection 
 rather than affection or fortune, and his wife 
 and we were what the Italians call anti- 
 pathetic. They had no family, which we 
 regretted for them more than they seemed 
 to do for themselves. 
 
 " When I told you I was the only survivor 
 of my mother's many children, that implied 
 iliany deaths, many sorrows. Some were 
 taken in infancy, others lived to be sweet 
 little children ; three reached the bloom and
 
 168 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 promise of youth. I cannot tell you how 
 these losses saddened our home — they has- 
 tened the death of my mother. This was 
 a dreadful blow to my father and me. Jasper 
 proposed our living in town; but neither of 
 us were fond of London, nor did we think 
 it agreed with us. We travelled from place 
 to place, visiting most of our beautiful 
 cathedrals, after which we settled in a se- 
 cluded watering-place, familiar to my father 
 in his boyhood. Here we hved very happily, 
 till he died quite suddenly of spasms at the 
 heart, leaving me alone as I am now. 
 
 " The watering-place ceased to please me 
 when he was gone, so I came here, where 
 my parents had spent their honeymoon. My 
 own father had had no property to leave : 
 my mother's was settled on her, and her 
 children. My step -father was a very up- 
 right man, and, I am sure, made what h^ 
 believed to be quite an equitable disposi- 
 tion of his fortune. He left the bulk of it.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 169 
 
 certainly, to Jasper, who, meantime, had 
 lost his wife, but he provided comfortably 
 for me, as you may judge by the way in 
 which I live. Unfortunately, though I have 
 the independent use of what was my mother's 
 money, which was not much, the rest comes 
 to me through Mr. Foljambe, and depends 
 on certain conditions, very unlikely to de- 
 prive me of it, but still which he might 
 possibly make an unkind use of if he were 
 so minded. I hope he never will be." 
 
 " Surely he never will," said Eleanor. 
 
 " He cannot in common reason or justice, 
 for my step-father must have been under 
 some misapprehension when he made such 
 conditions ; but reason and justice fail people 
 sometimes when they think their own in- 
 terests are concerned; and Mr. Foljambe 
 and I have lately had a little controversy. 
 It cannot, however, but end well.'*
 
 170 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, 
 And the glad parish pays the frugal fee. 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 The letter in the style of S. G. 0. was 
 written and sent, but not published, which 
 Miss Clairvaux naturally attributed to a 
 little hole-and-corner Buffery somewhere, 
 though an easy solution of the mystery might 
 have been found in the fact of her not having 
 subjoined her own name and address, as 
 specially exacted by the Editor of the Times. 
 Long afterwards, when she happened to 
 observe the important notice " To Corres-
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 171 
 
 pondents" prefixed to the leading article, 
 she said, " ah, that explains," but did not 
 re -write her letter — the impulse had gone off. 
 
 A block of new cottages was now spring- 
 ing up to replace the Dicks' ; but, to Miss 
 Clairvaux's chagrin, the space that should 
 have been devoted to two was made to 
 hold four, with windows too small and few 
 to admit a free circulation of air, and no 
 water supply. It was no use to tell her 
 there had been none before, she said there 
 ought to have been, and if a house burnt 
 to the ground would not teach them com- 
 mon sense and humanity, nothing would. 
 It did not signify that it was not her busi- 
 ness ; what was nobody's business was any- 
 body's business, and she would make it hers. 
 In fine, by strenuous exertions she succeeded 
 in having the drainage and water-supply 
 properly attended to. 
 
 " They may laugh at me," said she, " but 
 those laugh best who laugh last. It would
 
 1 72 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 have been no laughing matter to the poor 
 tenants if I had not watched their interests." 
 
 And if giving a single cup of cold water 
 to the poor creature who thirsts for it is 
 promised its reward, surely securing to a 
 whole family an ample supply for beverage 
 and for cleanliness, will not be passed over. 
 
 The little sketch Miss Clairvaux had 
 given Eleanor of her family history, wonder- 
 fully dispelled the silence she had hitherto 
 maintained concerning her domestic relations. 
 She now loved to allude to them, and it 
 seemed to soften and freshen her character. 
 It was now, " my father used to say.'* — 
 " That was my dear mother's way of doing 
 it," " my brother Arthur drew this map," 
 " I keep this faded old sachet because my 
 sister Agnes worked it." 
 
 And many anecdotes and traits of one 
 and another escaped her, till Eleanor seemed 
 able to individualize them all. 
 
 One day, she shewed Eleanor a water-
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 173 
 
 colour drawing of two young girls bending, 
 like Helena and Hermia, over the same 
 sampler; saying: 
 
 " It will give you some idea — not much, 
 though — of my twin-sisters, Edith and Emily. 
 They were lovely in their Hves, and in their 
 deaths they were not divided." 
 
 " I wish the artist had shown their faces a 
 little more," said Eleanor, " though the fore- 
 shortening is excellent." 
 
 " The artist was myself," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. 
 
 " You, dear Miss Clairvaux ?" said Eleanor 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Well," said Miss ClaiiTaux, smiling, 
 " your astonishment is not very complimentary. 
 Do you think nobody can draw but yourself? 
 I was never much of an artist, however, but 
 I beheve I have had as much pleasure in my 
 pencil, as if I had drawn very well. Accord- 
 ing to my theory, it is not the amount of 
 excellence one has attained, but the interest
 
 174 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 one takes in the work, that is the source of 
 pleasure in any art." 
 
 Claudia here came in, and said demurely, 
 " Please, ma'am, here's Mr. Dick, will be glad 
 to see you." 
 
 " Toby, do you mean ?" cried Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " Dear me, is he out of the infirmary ? 
 I am very glad of it. How do you do, Toby ? 
 Come in ! don't stand on ceremony." 
 
 " Is ceremony the oil-cloth ?" says Toby. 
 " Then, since you invite me, miss, I'll step on 
 the carpet; only, you see, I'm not in my 
 pumps." 
 
 "How are you, Toby? You look pale, 
 my poor fellow." 
 
 " Ah," said Toby very sadly, " I've gone 
 through a world of care. Only see this" — and 
 he held up his hat, which was surrounded by 
 a very handsome hat-band with long streamers. 
 His clothes, too, though shabby, were black, 
 and he had a new pair of black gloves. 
 
 " Your father ?" said Miss Clairvaux quickly.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 175 
 
 "That's just it/' said Toby, "I'm an 
 orphant, I am. Poor old father, he loved 
 me, he did ! Went off quite quiet, they say. 
 Drooped from the time he went in. Tell off 
 his grass ; and when that's the case, you know 
 — go we must." 
 
 " Did you see him in his last moments ?" 
 
 " No, miss, I didn't ; they never told me 
 how he was declining till he was gone. That 
 was their notion of kindness, you see. Very 
 kind they were to me in the infirmary. I 
 only wish they'd been equally so to poor old 
 father. I 'tended his funeral, in course. A 
 very poor affair they made of it — very poor, 
 indeed. I never knew about it till too late, 
 or I'd have taken that money out of your 
 hands. There couldn't have been a better 
 way of spending it. But, there — what must 
 be, must." 
 
 After a deep sigh, Toby proceeded with : 
 "That wasn't the wust, though!" and a 
 vengeful light kindled in his eye.
 
 176 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " You see, miss, they made an in-vallid of 
 me till up to the decease ; and then, when I 
 said that follow his remains I would, the 
 doctor said, if you will go, you may. It's 
 my notion, he might have said it before. So, 
 having sustained that la-men^able loss, and 
 my own health seeming no longer in immediate 
 je-oppardy, I felt no ways tied to the place, and 
 made my bow. Werry sorry to part, and all 
 that ; and the authority (that's Mr. Butt) says, 
 * you're residuary legantee, I take it,' and hands 
 me over a stocking. You might have knocked 
 me down with a straw ! * What's that ?* 
 says I. ' That's your property,' says he, * it 
 was the late Mr. Dick's ; but as you are his 
 heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, 
 or, in one word, his representative, it now 
 dewolves upon you. I've had the pleasure 
 of taking care of it since he came into the 
 house, and now I've the pleasure of handing 
 it over to you. You may count it over, if you 
 like. I dare say you know how much there
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 177 
 
 was in it/ *Do you mean to say,' said 1, 
 * that you had the heart to deprive the old 
 man of his plaything?' 'Why, in course/ 
 said he, ' folks that have money to spend 
 don't need to come in here. That would be 
 direct circumnavigation of the poor-rate/ 
 ' Was he ready to part with it ?' says I. 
 ' Can't say he was,' says Mr. Butt. * Anything 
 but that/ I declare to you, madam, sir, or 
 miss, whichever you be to be called, I was as 
 nigh letting fly at his head with that stocking 
 full of halfpence as I ever was to doing 
 anything in my life. I could scarce keep 
 my hands off him. ' You viper,' said I. It 
 was the worst word, just then, I could think 
 of; and my throat swelled, so as I couldn't 
 get out another word — I just gave him a 
 look, and walked out ; leaving him looking as 
 red as a turkey-cock. When I got out of 
 sight, I sat down and cried. Oh, it was 
 pitiful, wasn't it ?" 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 Toby wiped away a genuine tear with a 
 pictorial pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 " Talk of spoihng a ship for a peiiny'th of 
 paint !" resumed he, " why, it's what officiahty 
 does ! The laws are kind ; the rates are kind ; 
 the public are kind ; but the wheels are greased 
 with unkindness and narrow-mindedness, and 
 that's what makes 'em grate so ! 
 
 "However," he resumed, "I was not a 
 going to dewote that sacred inwestment to 
 anything but father's memory; though Mr. 
 Butt did say something in his feeling way 
 'bout its being a nice little nest-egg on which 
 to start on a 'spectabler career. So I went 
 straight to the undertaker's, and laid it out 
 on the best of gloves and hatbands — at least, 
 he said they were — d'ye think they're 
 'an some ?" 
 
 " Very handsome, Toby," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. 
 
 '' Shows my attachment, as much as a 
 hatchment," said Toby.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 179 
 
 "Equally so, Toby. Probably more so. 
 And what are you goiug to do ? Do you feel 
 quite well?'' 
 
 " T shall never be my own man again," 
 said he gravely. " There's a pain in my back, 
 comes on when I twist it ever so little, that 
 tells me I shall never be a clown again ; and 
 that's a serious thing to a man whose living 
 depends on his own excursions. But only 
 think of Mr. Tribulini, (Trivet's his real 
 name, for the matter of that), he has an 
 'art, that man has ! I found a letter lying for 
 me with a friend in the dress circles, saying 
 that whenever I felt equal to join the troop, 
 if unable to take my old role (not a penny 
 roll, you understand,) I should take the 
 checks at the doors, because he had a sincere 
 regard for me. There's a thing, now, for a 
 man to say ! a man in a superior walk of the 
 profession to one's own !" 
 
 " Very gratifying, no doubt," said Miss 
 Clairvaux. " Still, I should *have hoped that 
 
 N 2
 
 180 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 after the painful realities you have expe- 
 rienced, your devotions to theatricals — " 
 
 ** We're not theatricals, we're equestrians, 
 we are," said Toby, with injured dignity. 
 " All the difference in life." 
 
 '* Still, Toby, equestrianism is not a voca- 
 tion for a man who has a soul — " 
 
 " Much good a man without a soul would 
 be at it !" said Toby. *' Why, it requires all 
 the wits a man has, and more besides ! 
 What is a vocation for a man with a soul? 
 keeping a public? distilling gin ? measuring 
 tapes behind a counter? hanging behind 
 another man's carriage ?" 
 
 '' In a general way, it may be said that 
 trades which supply our needs are more res- 
 pectable than those which only cater for our 
 amusement." 
 
 " Ah well, you'll saw the plank away from 
 under many a man's feet if you carry that 
 out full length," said Toby. " However, 
 that's neither here nor there ; we must be
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 181 
 
 what we can. I'm not a butcher, nor baker, 
 nor candlestick-uiaker, and, what's more, I'm 
 no longer an able-bodied man ; I must take 
 what's given me, and I must say I can't find 
 it in my heart not to be very much obliged 
 to Mr. Tribulini." 
 
 " Certainly he means very kindly, and de- 
 serves your gratitude," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 ** I only thought that some little post or occu- 
 pation of a quieter sort might have been found 
 for you — " 
 
 '' What sort of post ?" interrupted Toby. 
 "Mr. Butt said it wasn't every post that 
 would be adaptuated to a man of my peculiar 
 rabbits ; not that I ever kept rabbits, though 
 I don't deny carrier-pigeons." 
 
 "' Well," said she considering, " I'm afraid 
 a turnpike would hardly do." 
 
 " A clown at a turnpike ? Oh law ! Who'd 
 go through ?" 
 
 " That, I was going to say, would be diffi- 
 cult to obtain, though you have your friends
 
 182 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 and well-wishers among us. But a nice little 
 lodge, now, all over honey-suckle and sweet- 
 briar, without anything to do but to open the 
 gate !" 
 
 " Why, I should go melancholy mad in a 
 week !" exclaimed Toby. " I couldn't bear 
 it ! all very well for them as has got a pretty 
 voice, to sing ' In my cottage near a wood, 
 Love and Rosa still combine (health and 
 Laura, some copies have it) me to bless with 
 every good that can render life divine,' but 
 you see, that style of life wouldn't suit any of 
 us, because we must have a little, more or less, 
 of excitement" 
 
 " Ah, that's the very thing, I fear," said 
 Miss Clairvaux, regretfully. 
 
 *' Why should you fear it, miss ?" 
 
 " Because it never comes to good, in high 
 or low. When once the love, the need of ex- 
 citement get hold of us, it makes the husband 
 and father dissatisfied with his home, the 
 wife, the mother, the daughter, the maid-
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 183 
 
 servant discontented with their respective 
 duties, the young man idle and worthless, the 
 child perverse and tiresome. It is the love of 
 excitement, Toby, which rains homes, and 
 fills public-houses and theatres/' 
 
 "That's putting it very strong," said 
 Toby. " I never could see the good, myself, 
 of being dull ; and it was because my 
 home was so mortial dull that I joined 
 the circus." 
 
 " That is too often the case, I fear,'* said 
 Miss Clairvaux. "Where homes are habi- 
 tually dull, there must be something wrong 
 somewhere, requiring a remedy.'' 
 
 " Just my notion," said Toby, " and now, 
 look here, miss. As good a remedy as could 
 be found would be a nice, respectable troop 
 coming, say once a month or two months, 
 through every town and village in the country. 
 In the winter you might have jugglers or 
 fantocini, innocent as lambs ! at the Town 
 Halls."
 
 184 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 '' Oh no, Toby ! that would be no fitting 
 remedy,." 
 
 " You're for the lecturing fellows, in white 
 chokers, I dare say, miss, that tells about 
 electrifying machines and all that — never could 
 see the good of 'em myself! however, the world's 
 running round, and 1 must keep moving." 
 
 " Here is the money, Toby, which I took 
 care of for you." 
 
 " Thanke'e, miss ; I asked you to do so, 
 which made all the difference between me and 
 father. He didn't ask Mr. Butt to take care 
 of his I" 
 
 " Ah ! well, that's past and gone now — 
 we had better think no more about it. Would 
 you like some refreshment before you go ?" 
 
 *' Thanke'e, miss. There was as pretty a 
 little loin of pork as ever I set eyes on, at the 
 kitchen fire as I came in." 
 
 ''The loin of pork will not be ready for 
 some time ; but there is some cold beefsteak 
 pie, which I think you would find very good."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 185 
 
 "No objection, miss. Whatever comes 
 first." And with an invohmtary mixture of 
 professional grimace and real gratitude, Toby 
 retired to the kitchen ; whence frequent peals 
 of laughter were heard till he took his 
 leave. 
 
 " Toby's spirits improved in the kitchen ?'* 
 said Miss Clairvaux inquiringly to Claudia, 
 as she turned from the window, where she 
 had noted his departure. 
 
 " 'Tis hard for such as he to keep dull long, 
 I think, ma'am," said Claudia apologetically. 
 " To think of a clown in a hat-band 1" and, 
 with a sob of suppressed laughter, she was 
 hurrying away, when Miss Clairvaux arrested 
 her with : 
 
 " Come, let me have the benefit of it. I 
 want to know what he said." 
 
 '' He said 'twas a very good pie, ma'am," 
 said Claudia demurely ; " better than they gave 
 him on the stage ; they used to give him 
 sham ones at first, till one day, or night,
 
 186 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 whichever it was, he said to all the people, 
 ' this pie is only a make-beUeve/ so then the 
 manager was ashamed, and gave him real 
 ones afterwards/' 
 
 "Oh! And was that all?" 
 
 " He said the beefsteak in them was only 
 mutton/' 
 
 " Ha ! Anything more ?" 
 
 " He said he didn't think his master would 
 get another clown as good as hisself. 
 'Twasn't the words — any man might learn 
 them — it was the expression/' 
 
 " Humph ! Well, I should think he was 
 right/' And when Claudia had retired, as 
 grave as a judge, she added, " Exempli gratia, 
 Claudia gave us the words, but left out the 
 expression. I defy any one to have laughed 
 at her 1" 
 
 The next time Eleanor looked up from her 
 drawing, she saw, to her surprise and pain, 
 tears coursing down Miss Clairvaux's 
 cheeks.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 187 
 
 *' Dear Miss Clairvaux !" exclaimed she 
 anxiously, " is anything the matter ?" 
 
 "Nothing, my dear," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux, looking ashamed ; " I don't know what 
 came over me. . .It was quite an unexpected 
 weakness. I am a httle low sometimes." 
 
 And, for a minute or two, she cried 
 quietly, but bitterly. 
 
 "There, it's over now," said she, drying 
 her eyes. " I suppose we are all liable, at 
 times, to feel depressed, we don't know why. 
 I have not had one of these little gushes, 
 though, a long time, and am not likely to 
 have one soon again. Oh ! this, I dare say, 
 upset me, though I could not trace the 
 chain — " 
 
 And, taking up her drawing-book, she 
 looked at it thoughtfully, and then replaced 
 it on the shelf. It did not seem quite clear 
 to Eleanor, however, that the drawing-book 
 had caused her tears. 
 
 " Eleanor !" exclaimed Miss Clairvaux sud-
 
 188 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 denly, in the evening, as they were quietly 
 working, "would you not very much like 
 to see your mother down here ?" 
 
 " To be sure I should 1" said Eleanor 
 quickly, with a bright flush of colour. 
 
 " Then, why should not she come ?" 
 
 " Ah, you are very good, but I fear she 
 could not leave George — " 
 
 " What, not for a few days ?" 
 
 " No, I do not think she would — but she 
 might for a few hours — " 
 
 " It would hardly be worth her while 
 to come for only a few hours — " 
 
 " Dear Miss Clairvaux 1 — it would be so 
 delightful !— '' 
 
 " Well, certainly it would be so to me, 
 in your place — or in your mother's. But, 
 Eleanor, might not George get a few days' 
 holiday and come down too ? — say at Easter." 
 
 " That would be doubly delightful," said 
 Eleanor with sparkling eyes. " Almost too 
 charming to think of/'
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 189 
 
 " Not at all. It is quite feasible ; and I 
 shall be very glad to see tliem. So make 
 haste, and save this evening's post — never 
 put a thing off till to-morrow that can be 
 done to-day — " 
 
 " How you love, Miss Clairvaux, to make 
 people happy !" 
 
 " Well, I hope that is nothing very un- 
 common — certainly it is nothing very meri- 
 torious ; for I find it the shortest road to 
 my own happiness. Whenever I feel a little 
 down, I always take it for a very good hint 
 to cheer up somebody else. I will write a 
 little scrap to your mother which you can 
 inclose in your note." 
 
 The scrap was a cordial invitation, and 
 their pens were soon speeding over the paper. 
 A little hurry was necessary, just enough 
 to be exciting, to get the envelope closed 
 and directed before Trim came for the letters. 
 Afterwards they amused themselves with
 
 190 MEABOWLEIGH. 
 
 picturing the surprise, pleasure, and bustle 
 the invitation would occasion. 
 
 ** Mamma is so passionately fond of the 
 country," said Eleanor, "and yet for years 
 has scarcely been out of London. She was 
 brought up in a country vicarage, and, in 
 early days, used to accompany my father on 
 his summer progresses, but latterly she could 
 not well manage it, and so I was his com- 
 panion instead. Delightful times we used to 
 have ! staying in country inns or farm-houses, 
 and camping out all day, I working while he 
 sketched." 
 
 " Why did not you sketch too?" 
 ** I did sometimes. The children of artists, 
 even without inheriting their father's talent, 
 learn to draw, almost without being taught ; 
 and pick up principles of art by hearing them 
 continually talked of. But my father had a 
 very mean opinion of ladies' performances in 
 general, so that I was a little afraid of him. 
 He used to say that if we would excel in
 
 MEADO^VLEIGH. 191 
 
 painting we must serve an apprenticeship to 
 it, like any handicraft art, and that though 
 there was no reason why women should not 
 do this, the will was too often wanting." 
 
 "There has been an immense amount of 
 nonsense talked and written of late,'" said 
 Miss Clairvaux, " about woman's mission and 
 rights, and so forth. Women are thrusting 
 their noses in, where in many cases they are 
 very little wanted. They get no thanks for 
 their pains ; and there is plenty for them to do, 
 if they will but look about for it, without 
 occasioning any animadversion. To apply 
 principle to practice — if the invitation is ac- 
 cepted, Eleanor, which I am certain it will 
 be, I shall have 'the mother of fragments' 
 transferred to the loft, and the room on the 
 stairs fitted up for your brother." 
 
 " Oh, why take so much trouble for him ? 
 He could sleep so nicely in the little room 
 above." 
 
 " No, it would not do for him, and I have
 
 192 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 long been intending to have an Arabian 
 bedstead put up in ' the blue chamber.' 
 Everything the room wants is in the house — 
 it will put me to no expense." 
 
 In twenty-four hours, Mrs. Graydon's 
 joyful acceptance was received. George 
 thought he could rely on a three days' holi- 
 day, '• if a patient, whose case he was watch- 
 ing, would oblige him by getting well." 
 From this moment, it was wonderful how 
 much work Miss Clairvaux and Eleanor 
 made for themselves. Mr. Debenham, hap- 
 pening to call for some local subscription, 
 was mystified by the unusual commo- 
 tion. 
 
 "I could not make out," said he after- 
 wards to his mother, what was going on at 
 the Peaked House to-day — everything turned 
 topsy-turvy, as when people are moving — 
 clean curtains putting up, and I know not 
 what all." 
 
 " Rather early for a spring rout," observed
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 193 
 
 Mrs. Debenham. ''Perhaps the chimnies 
 had been swept." 
 
 " That Miss Graydon," he presently added, 
 " is a nice, pretty girl. I wonder who she is — 
 a poor relation most likely. I wonder how 
 she hkes vegetating among us. She's hardly 
 likely to find a husband, where she is." 
 
 It was just after Mr. Debenham's hasty 
 visit, that Miss Jones looked in. 
 
 "I just came to say — " she began; "but, 
 dear me, I fear I intrude — you are preparing 
 for company." 
 
 " Preparing for Easter visitors," said Miss 
 Clairvaux, cheerfully; "but you do not in- 
 trude by any means. I am glad to see 
 you." 
 
 "Oh, well then, in that case — " and she 
 sat down and looked about her with com- 
 placency. " Ah," said she, " I recollect when 
 we used to have these bustles at Easter and 
 Christmas, and other holiday times. I was 
 one of a large family once. Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 MEADOWLEIGH. , 
 
 It makes me smile, and sigh too, to look 
 over our old receipt book, and see tlie dif- 
 ferent proportions of what we used ! — * Take 
 six eggs ' — and now one will do ! A large 
 family of girls ; not one brother among 
 us." 
 
 " So I have heard," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 " You know, it is the inevitable law of nature 
 that families should disperse ; but survivors 
 cannot help feeUng it sometimes. / feel 
 it." 
 
 *'Ah," said Miss Jones, "but it is not 
 the inevitable law of nature, I suppose, that 
 young ladies should not marry, unless upon 
 a certain number of hundreds a year. My 
 father was very crotchetty about that. 'No 
 one shall marry any one of my girls,* he used 
 to say, ' unless he can support a wife.' Sup- 
 port, of course 1 But how support ? You 
 know. Miss Clairvaux, we may support our- 
 selves on bread-and-butter, or even without 
 the butter, but we must have the bread.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 195 
 
 Everybody admits that; but one iieedr/t have 
 puddings and pies, for instance, nor wine put 
 on every day, nor hot things for breakfast. 
 And if young people are ready to do without 
 them, are old people justified in saying 'you 
 shan't r " 
 
 "That is a vexed question," said Miss 
 Clairvaux, " which has lately been very much 
 canvassed, and which you and I, probably, 
 are very much of the same mind about." 
 
 " It will give me great pleasure to find 
 it is so," said Miss Jones simply, " for there 
 is nothing more agreeable than the inter- 
 change of ideas between people who think 
 pretty much alike. Well, my father. ... Do 
 I bore you ? or hinder you ? Do let me run 
 in that string for you. It will be such a 
 pleasure to feel myself of a little use. You 
 know, there are fathers who will say of a 
 lieutenant, * had he been a captain,' or of 
 a curate, *had he been a vicar.' At leasts 
 so it was said in our family. And now, — 
 
 2
 
 196 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 shall you be surprised, when I say that the 
 lieutenant is a captain, and the curate a 
 rector with eight hundred a year ! But my 
 father wanted faith ; and so neither of them 
 married a Miss Jones." 
 
 She smiled a little sadly; and looking at 
 Eleanor, said, 
 
 " Be advised by me, my dear, and don't 
 always take papa's view of things." 
 
 Eleanor started ; and replied gravely : 
 
 " I have no father. And he was very kind, 
 and wise, and good." 
 
 " Oh ! dear, 1 have trenched on forbidden 
 ground," cried Miss Jones penitently. " How 
 could I be so foohsh? I wish I had bitten 
 ray tongue first. Your mourning garb and 
 all ! My dear, pray forgive me.'* 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive, I assure 
 you," said Eleanor. 
 
 Miss Jones seemed collecting her thoughts, 
 and then she said : 
 
 *' Oh ! but what I came here to say was
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 197 
 
 about Mrs. Gwyther. She has come into the 
 bow- windowed house ; and we were quite on 
 the wrong scent. She is neither a Plymouth 
 brother, nor anything else ; that she ought 
 not to be, I mean. But the reason Mrs. 
 Swain thought we should not care to visit her, 
 is, that she is the widow of a rag-mer- 
 chant !" 
 
 " Well, I am glad you have satisfied 
 yourselves," said Miss Clairvaux, rather con- 
 temptuously. " Surely I have heard that 
 Mrs. Plover's father made his fortune by 
 importing wax dolls' glass eyes ?" 
 
 '' Oh ! that's a clean trade," said Miss 
 Jones. 
 
 " Clean ? yes ; but it is a trade, neverthe- 
 less ; and I don't suppose Mr. or Mrs. 
 Gwyther sorted the rags themselves. Let us 
 ' Hve and let live.' There is no need for our 
 callmg on persons that we do not expect to 
 like ; indeed it seems to me a very stupid and 
 tiresome plan for everybody to call on every-
 
 198 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 body, consuming a great deal of time that 
 might be better employed ; but we need not, 
 therefore, pick holes in our neighbours' coats." 
 
 " No, certainly not. Then, do you think 
 you shall call on Mrs Gwyther ?" 
 
 *' No, I sacrifice more time than I can 
 well spare to morning-visiting already, and 
 we are so far apart that there is no occasion 
 for it." 
 
 " Do you see any objection to other people 
 calhng on her ?" 
 
 " None whatever ! if they like to do so.'' 
 
 " I think I shall, then," said Miss Jones 
 after a pause, " because, you see, the distance 
 is not so great between us as between her 
 and you ; nor is my time so fully employed 
 as yours, nor are my friends so numerous. 
 So that it may be a gain, and it can't be a 
 loss." 
 
 "A mutual gain. I hope it may prove 
 so." 
 
 " I suppose," said Miss Jones, as she
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 199 
 
 rose to take leave, " you have not seen the 
 clown again ?" 
 
 "Toby Dick? 0, yes!'' 
 
 " Then, did you ask him about the 
 leopards ?" 
 
 "Oh dear, I quite forgot it," said Miss 
 Clairvaux. " You see, the poor fellow was 
 in distress, and had just lost his father, so 
 that our conversation was chiefly on his 
 personal concerns. He showed very good 
 feeling, though he is such an oddity — " 
 
 " He had just left the infirmary, I sup- 
 J, 
 
 " Yes ; he had just left the infirmary. 
 He got his dinner here, and then went on 
 to join the troop." 
 
 " Very kind of you to give him his dinner, 
 I'm sure," said Miss Jones. 
 
 " Oh, no. A poor man's bite and sup 
 need never be missed." 
 
 It was somewhere about this time, that 
 Mrs. Burrowes observed to her husband —
 
 200 MEADOWLEIGH. . 
 
 "Whoever that pretty girl in black may 
 be, it is plain she is doing Miss Clairvaux 
 much good, and making her more like other 
 people." 
 
 " Other people are, in a general way, 
 so common-place," returned he, " that I 
 rather esteemed the variety.'* 
 
 " x4s a matter of amusement, you might," 
 said Mrs. Burrowes, " but it is never MveW 
 for a woman to be peculiar, and, therefore, 
 I am glad that her young friend is influenc- 
 ing her, even in her dress.*' 
 
 " Miss Graydon seems a nice girl/* rejoined 
 he. " Not one of those young ladies who sit 
 on the carpet when there are plenty of chairs ; 
 which- 1 always consider the height of namby- 
 pamby.'* 
 
 Eleanor would never have dreamed of 
 proposing any modification of Miss Clair- 
 vaux's dress ; but certain it is that Miss 
 Clairvaux's own sense and taste had sug- 
 gested some such reflections as these : —
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 201 
 
 " Eleanor looks a hundred times better 
 than I do, and why ? Chiefly on account 
 of her youth and prettiness, of course ; but 
 likewise because she adapts herself, in moder- 
 ation, to the fashions of the day, w^hich I, 
 perhaps, too habitually despise. To be sure, 
 Antigone or Andromache would look ridicu- 
 lous enough in a hoop ; but, as I am neither 
 Andromache nor Antigone, it may be as 
 well to follow the custouis of the time ; — 
 which they did." 
 
 And so Miss Clairvaux conformed.
 
 202 MBADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 This only grant me, that my means may lie 
 Too low for envy, for contempt too high ; 
 
 Some honour I would have 
 Not for great deeds, but good alone ; 
 Th' unknown are better than ill-known, 
 
 Rumour can ope the grave ; 
 Acquaintance I would have, but when depends 
 Not on the number, but the choice of friends. 
 
 Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
 And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. 
 
 My house, a cottage more 
 Than palace, and should fitting be 
 For all my use, no luxury. 
 Thus would I double my life's fading space. 
 For he that runs it well, runs twice his race. 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 The happy time arrived when Eleanor
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 203 
 
 might start for the railway station without 
 being much too soon for the train that was to 
 bring the looked-for travellers ; and Miss 
 Clairvaux watched her departure from the 
 window, and remembered her own young 
 heart. 
 
 In about three quarters of an hour, the sound 
 of cheerful, intermingled voices drew her to 
 the window again, and she saw some one 
 almost as light and as active as Eleanor her- 
 self, and in widow's mourning, walking with 
 Eleanor, accompanied by a well-grown, good- 
 looking young man. Mrs. Graydon had an 
 intelligent, pleasant countenance, and in man- 
 ner was self-possessed. Whether she had, 
 or had not Hved much in society, she betrayed 
 no ignorance of its rules. Of George, there 
 was by no means the same well-grounded 
 security of his never doing or saying anything 
 but just the thing he ought ; in a word, he was 
 a young medical student, who, in his own 
 phrase would have told you, that he had very
 
 204 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 little tin, but lots of brass. His manners 
 hardly did him justice, but they covered an 
 excellent disposition and good abihties ; and 
 Miss Clairvaux felt she could like him. He 
 was in very lively spirits, but became surpris- 
 ingly sedate v^^hen Eleanor took her mother 
 to her room, and he found himself left with 
 Miss Clairvaux. As she took real interest 
 in his prospects, she spoke to him on things 
 about which he could talk readily enough; 
 and began by saying she supposed his patient 
 had obliged him by getting well. 
 
 " Oh yes, ma'am, I was obhged to show 
 him he had better do so." 
 
 " How did you manage that ?" 
 
 " Well, you see he was an author ; and 
 authors are such ticklish customers. He said 
 he felt as if some one was at work with a 
 gimlet at the back of his head, a little above 
 the nape of his neck ; but I made him admit 
 nobody in the body was doing it, and put it 
 to him whether any one out of the body
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 205 
 
 would think it worth his while. This he was 
 disinclined to answer. I then assured him, 
 that there was nothing evil spirits objected 
 to so much as clean water, and got him to 
 hold his head under a tap while I let the 
 water run upon it. This quite exorcised the 
 gimlet, but he was afraid it would come back 
 again. I said he had only to apply the same 
 remedy. He said he would, but then with a 
 deep sigh, said he was afraid it was on his 
 mind. I said, ' have a mind, then, to throw 
 it off. If you can't, why, never mind it/ 
 But no, he couldn't be trifled with. I said, 
 * I suppose you're like the American gentle- 
 man — a pyramid of mind on a dark desert of 
 despair.' He laughed a little, and said, ' after 
 all, it's no use fretting, only it does rile a 
 fellow a little to have the fruits of his labour 
 and genius set at nought by all the world 
 through the critique of a carping caviller !' 
 ' Ah, my dear fellow,' said I, ' if that's where 
 the shoe pinches, cheer up. Half the world
 
 206 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 won't read the critique, depend upon it, and 
 the other half will never so much as hear of 
 your book !' He abused me, called me all 
 manner of names, but I got him to laugh, 
 and — 'pon my honour, ma'am, it cured him !" 
 
 " No doubt," said Miss Clairvaux, laugh- 
 ing. " Your prescription of clean water was 
 excellent." 
 
 " Holy water, ma'am, it might well be 
 called." 
 
 It was a pleasant evening to them all, ren- 
 dered genial by family happiness. 
 
 Next morning, which was Good Friday, 
 George joined the breakfast-paity, fresh from 
 a walk. He had been some miles over the 
 country, with Fly for his companion, and 
 thought the neighbourhood charming. 
 
 It was a cheerful walk to church, for many 
 had gathered their famiHes and friends about 
 them for Easter, and rosy school-boys and 
 blooming girls were clustering about their 
 parents. Mrs. Rowe was almost electrified
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 207 
 
 when she saw Miss Clairvaux walk up the 
 aisle with three companions, and Mr. Deben- 
 ham, who noticed the little procession and 
 had plenty of room in his square pew, opened 
 the door a little, and quietly signed to 
 Eleanor and George to enter, w^hich they 
 did. As for Mrs. Plover, her resolute eyes took 
 a minute inventory of Mrs. Graydon's dress 
 during the course of the lessons. Unfortu- 
 nately, her estimate of it was unsatisfactory. 
 
 " Who would have thought of your mus- 
 tering in such strong force?" said Mrs. 
 Debenham to Miss Clairvaux as they took the 
 same church path together, going home. 
 
 '* Ah, people surprise their neighbours 
 sometimes," said Miss Clairvaux. " I w^as 
 surprised to see your Easter party so small." 
 
 " Oh, Harry and Jack are spending their 
 hoUdays with their cousins at Eastbourne, so we 
 have quite a quiet house. What an excellent 
 sermon Doctor Hurst gave us this morning !" 
 
 " I know he is a great favourite of yours. —
 
 208 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 Mr. Dcberiliam," said Miss Clairvaiix quickly, 
 as she beard George tell him how fond he 
 was of riding, and Mr. Debenham offer him 
 a horse, '' mind what you are about 1 young 
 surgeons are not remarkably careful riders ; 
 1 would not insure Polly's knees/' 
 
 " Oh, I'm not going to lend Polly," said 
 Mr. Debenham, laughing, '' only the boys' 
 poney, Gimcrack, I thank you all the same." 
 
 " I wouldn't have broken Polly's knees, 
 though," said George. 
 
 " Ah, but I am much better satisfied you 
 should have Gimcrack," said Miss Clairvaux, 
 " and you may consider yourself well off, I 
 think, to have him." 
 
 *'0h yes, I do," said George, exchanging 
 most friendly adieux with Mr. Debenham 
 at parting, rather to Eleanor's scandal. 
 
 " George !" said she, aside, to him, '' how 
 famihar you were with a man you never saw 
 before ." 
 
 "How familiar he was with a man he
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 209 
 
 never saw before !" retorted George. " I like 
 him ; he's a good fellow." 
 
 " I don't think you ought to have accepted 
 his horse." 
 
 " His poney, you mean. Why not ?" 
 
 " He does not know who we are.'' 
 
 " I don't know who he is." 
 
 " No, and therefore—-" 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! it's all stuff. We under- 
 stand one another well enough. I didn't ask 
 him." 
 
 " No, but you said very expressively, how 
 much you should like a ride." 
 
 "Why, you wouldn't have had me say 
 I shouldn't like it? Fiddlesticks! I didn't 
 know the man had a horse." 
 
 "I think you guessed it, though. Now, 
 didn't you !" 
 
 George burst out laughing, and said, " I 
 thought he might have. Of course, as I walk 
 about and meet people, I continually have 
 such thoughts as : * That man may have a 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 horse. That woman may have a cow. That 
 boy may have a poney. ' " 
 
 '* Well, all I hope is, that you will be 
 careful and not break his knees." 
 
 *'Then, considering your apprehensive na- 
 ture, Miss Nelly, I don't think you hope 
 enough, Miglit not you have added — nor 
 your own neck ?" 
 
 " I might ; and do." 
 
 " No danger. I don't expect Gimcrack to 
 have much go in him. D'ye know him?" 
 
 " O, no." 
 
 '* Never mind. Anything with four legs 
 will do." 
 
 Eleanor's fears, however, that George was 
 taking too great a liberty, could not be ap- 
 peased till Miss Clairvaux reassured her. 
 
 "I know Gimcrack very well/' said she. 
 "I do not think your brother will hurt him. 
 Mr. Debenham would not have lent him a 
 really valuable horse." 
 
 " He might, though," muttered George.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 211 
 
 Falling a little behind with his sister, he 
 presently observed — 
 
 " That Mr. Debenham is a gentleman ; 
 and yet one may always see whether a 
 man is town or country-bred." 
 
 '*The difference partly exists, perhaps, 
 in your own imagination," said Eleanor. 
 "Many of the Meadowleigh gentlemen go 
 to London every day." 
 
 "Does Mr. Debenham?" 
 
 " No.'' 
 
 " Or every week ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I could have told it ! I knew it." 
 
 *' You need not disparage country gentle- 
 men : they are the pride of England." 
 
 " All of them ?" 
 
 " Many of them." 
 
 "Yes, I know that very well, only those 
 who don't go to town often, want a certain 
 je ne sals quoi which — " 
 
 " The students of Guy's Hospital possess." 
 
 p 2
 
 212 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "Ah, well, you may laugh, but I know 
 what I mean. If a country gentleman got 
 among us at Guy's, he*d be smoked." 
 
 " More shame for Guy's then. However, 
 I don't mean to say that town and country 
 are alike. Here, you know, a cockney 
 would soon betray his ignorance about phea- 
 sant-shooting, and fox-hunting, and fishing, 
 and farming, and planting — " 
 
 " A * cockney' — what a horrid word — 
 quite exploded now." 
 
 " Except in Punch ?" 
 
 " Well, yes, there are cocknies in Punch. 
 Famous capital he makes of them." 
 
 " What a treat it was to me," Mrs. Gray- 
 don was saying, '* to find myself once more in 
 a regular old country church !" 
 
 " The rose- window and open-recessed porch 
 are good," said Miss Clairvaux, "but the 
 gallery is an eye-sore ; and you might surely 
 hear better preaching in London." 
 
 " Certainly, any one may hear a good
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 213 
 
 sermon in London/' said Mrs. Graydon, 
 " who chooses to go far enough for it." 
 
 " And those are very foolish, or very sloth- 
 ful who do not. We would not buy bad 
 bread of a baker, merely because he lived 
 next door ; and does not the same hold good 
 with the bread of life ?" 
 
 ** There are substantial family reasons, 
 though, for not straggling from the parish 
 church." 
 
 " I admit that there may be," said Miss 
 Clairvaux rather reluctantly. " Only, the 
 whole family might sometimes do better 
 for themselves than they do." 
 
 " My family is now such a nominal one," 
 said Mrs. Graydon, ** that I go where George 
 likes to go. It is a great thing for a young 
 man to take real interest in regularly attend- 
 ing any ministry. So we go in the morning 
 to the Temple, and in the evening to our 
 district church." 
 
 "Where you doubtless hear something
 
 2il4 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 less jejune than Dr. Hurst gave us this morn- 
 ing," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 '' Do you know," said Mrs. Graydon, '' he 
 did not seem to me quite as common-place 
 as you appear to think him. I liked his saying 
 that however we may be in the dark as to the 
 predestination of mankind, we may be sensible, 
 within ourselves, of having benefited by 
 something not the result of our own free- 
 will; of having been destined for something 
 of which we had no pre-conception." 
 
 " Did he say that ?" rejoined Miss Clair- 
 vaux with quickness. " Then I never heard 
 him ! — yes," said she, after a short pause, 
 ^' that was good, very good ; worth remem- 
 bering and dwelling upon. I must have been 
 strangely absent, shamefully inattentive, not 
 to notice it." 
 
 She dwelt upon it afterwards with a self- 
 reproach akin to remorse. 
 
 "That good little woman," thought she, 
 " is far better than I am. Quiet and unob- 
 trusive, with ' a mind at leisure from itself/
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 215 
 
 she does not let a good thing escape her, 
 through thinking herself wiser than her teach- 
 ers. I may have done a worthy man in- 
 justice before to-day." 
 
 Bishop Wilson of Sodor and Man tells 
 us that "a fault which humbles a man, 
 sometimes is of more use to him than a 
 good action which pufiPs him up with pride." 
 May it not have been so with Miss Clairvaux ? 
 "Certainly," thought she, afterwards, as 
 her mind reverted to lighter things, " it was 
 curious that Mr. Debenham should be so 
 ready to offer the poney. I suppose he likes 
 George. Or what if he likes Eleanor ? That 
 may be ; and really it might not be a bad 
 thing. Here am I castle-building once more 1 
 Who would have thought it ? 
 
 • Wlio would have thought mj shrivelled heart 
 "Would have recovered greenness ? It was gone 
 Quite underground, as flowers depart 
 To see their mother-root, when they have blown, 
 Where they together, all the hard weather. 
 Dead to the world, keep house alone.'
 
 216 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 *' That is what I have done so long ! — 
 * dead to the world, kept house alone ;' and it 
 has been good for me, too ; but too much of 
 it is not good. Good or not good, it has been 
 perforce. All my natural ties having dropped 
 off, it never occurred to me to form new ones. 
 T did not send for this young girl on my own 
 account ; I only thought of doing a kindness ; 
 and it has been its own reward. The young 
 thing has found herself a warm place in my 
 heart, and given me her own ; without lov- 
 ing her mother any the less, but, indeed, all 
 the more, for absence has strengthened her 
 affection. Very touching and pretty it is to 
 see the httle hugs and caresses they give one 
 another, when they think no one sees. Eleanor 
 will take George's great, muscular hand, too, 
 and stroke it. I saw her do so yesterday 
 evening — as Frank used to stroke mine. I, 
 too, had a mother, once, to kiss. Yes, but 
 that is all dead and gone now. I need not 
 be sad, however. Hope remains ; and the
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 217 
 
 power of being useful. While that is the 
 case, we are not cast on regrets." 
 
 While Miss Clairvaux was in this expansive 
 mood, it occurred to her that it might not be 
 amiss to invite Mr. and Mrs. Debenham to 
 tea. A friendly, chatty evening might not be 
 despised by them ; at any rate, they should 
 have the option. So she wrote a cordial 
 note, and the invitation for the following 
 evening was accepted with readiness. No 
 one expected gaiety in Passion-week, but 
 there was always an incHnation to see more 
 of the inside of the Peaked House ; and the 
 Debenhams had really been always disposed 
 to meet Miss Clairvaux more than half 
 way. 
 
 Eleanor, passing the open door of Miss 
 Clairvaux's dressing-room, the next morning, 
 saw her on her knees before an old oaken 
 plate-chest, from which she was disintering 
 sundry obsolete pieces of plate, yellow 
 for want of cleaning; and enveloped
 
 218 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 in shrouds of silver paper to prevent their 
 rubbinGf. 
 
 "Dear Miss Clairvaux !" said she, laugh- 
 ing, '*who would have thought you such a 
 worshipper of mammon ?" 
 
 "Well, my dear, I hope I don't make 
 idols of these things, though I'm down on 
 my knees before them. But what is the 
 good of having them if they are never used ? 
 and they will be all the better for cleaning." 
 
 " What a beautiful cream-ewer ! I never 
 saw one, the shape of which pleased me so 
 much." 
 
 " Indeed ?" said Miss Clairvaux, with 
 sudden liveliness. " Then I'll give it to you, 
 Eleanor, when you marry ! That is," added 
 she, with a bright smile, " if you marry to 
 please me !" 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, Miss Clairvaux !" cried 
 Eleanor, kissing her. And she stood for a 
 few seconds with the delicate little jug poised 
 between her thumb and fore-finger, as one
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 219 
 
 may have seen the statuette of a Grecian 
 nymph; lost in dreams, that were evidently 
 in harmony with Miss Clairvaux's conditions. 
 Of what was the young girl thinking ?
 
 220 MEADOWLEIGH, 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "With the young or the old, with the maid or the wife, 
 O may I enliven the evening of life, 
 Still gay without pride and jocose without art, 
 With some sense in my tongue and much tinith in my 
 heart. 
 
 A TEA-PARTY given by Miss Clairvaux was 
 a novelty ; and as such, was duly reported by 
 Mrs. Debenham to Mrs. Rowe and Mrs. 
 Plover. " Quite a quiet affair, of course. 
 Miss Clairvaux does not go out, you know, 
 or receive company generally. Only Sam and 
 me, in fact, and some friends from London."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 221 
 
 Mrs. Plover and Mrs. Rowe bridled, and 
 thought they might as well have been asked 
 too. People should not do things by halves. 
 
 Mrs. Rowe was an inoffensive little woman 
 enough, whose amusement was chiefly de- 
 rived from the small affairs of the neighbour- 
 hood, and whose disappointment at finding 
 herself passed over when she might as well 
 have been included, was unaccompanied by 
 any bitterness. This was not exactly the 
 case with Mrs. Plover, who was indeed a 
 widow, but not a widow indeed, according 
 to the definition of St. Paul. She rather 
 ranked with those busy bodies, existing in 
 his time and at all times, who, more the pity, 
 wander from house to house, not only idle, 
 but tatlers, speaking things which they ought 
 not ; and when she heard of Miss Clairvaux's 
 giving a tea-party to which she was not in- 
 vited, she felt herself an injured woman, and 
 decided that it must be inquired into. 
 
 Of course it would have been neglecting
 
 222 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 an opportunity had Mr. Debenham and Miss 
 Clairvaux met without finding anything to 
 argue about. They began about the gas. 
 
 *' I hope, Miss Clairvaux, if you meditate 
 a series of * at homes' next winter, you will 
 have a gas-lamp at your gate. My mother 
 and I were very nearly decanted into your 
 garden." 
 
 '* Oh no, I meditate nothing of the kind. 
 A gas-lamp would completely de-ruralize my 
 cottage. Nobody comes here after dark ; and 
 why should I drag people from their fire- 
 sides, without ofi'ering even the temptation of 
 a rubber ?" 
 
 " That's a temptation you might easily 
 afford them." 
 
 " Quite out of my line, as you know." 
 
 " Against your principles, I suppose. 
 Why, now, what can people do better? I 
 don't mean hetteVy you know, but how can 
 they get through an evening ? when you've 
 a lot of people, you know, and so forth."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 223 
 
 " Oh, there are many ways." 
 
 •'Many good society-games, too," put 
 in Mrs. Graydon. "You know, Eleanor, 
 we used to have several in Newman 
 Street." 
 
 " Oh, those things are mostly very stupid 
 unless you happen to be very clever,'' said 
 Mr. Debenham. " I enjoy a game of romps 
 with my children, of all things, but as for 
 proverbs and so on, I'd as soon see Punch 
 and Judy. I wonder how young ladies can 
 have the face to perform in tableaux — Juliet 
 in the balcony and so forth." 
 
 "Charades, though, are famous," said 
 George. " What good ones we used to get 
 up with Maurice Day, Eleanor !" 
 
 "What words, for instance?" said Mr. 
 Debenham. 
 
 " Hamlet— Ealstaff— Banditti— Knight- 
 hood (Robin Hood, you know, or Red Riding- 
 hood if you liked it better). And Queen 
 EHzabeth knighting Sir W^alter Raleigh."
 
 224 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " I see. Yes, those would be capital, only 
 they would want so much getting up." 
 
 *' Oh no, anything that came to hand. My 
 mother's saucepan Hds and spits used to 
 furnish a sufficient armoury. Charades are 
 worth little that require much preparation. 
 They ought to be impromptu." 
 
 " Great talent required, though !" 
 
 '* no.'^ 
 
 " O yes : I'm sure of it. You could not 
 get up anything of the sort in Meadowleigh." 
 
 "What, not at Christmas?" said George 
 incredulously. 
 
 " Oh ! no. We're an awfully slow set." 
 
 " An average set of young people — " 
 
 *' But we have no young people ! that's the 
 singularity of it !" 
 
 "No, we really have no young people," 
 said Mrs. Debenham. 
 
 "Well, that's the oddest thing I ever 
 heard," said George. 
 
 " I thought I saw a good many pretty
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 225 
 
 young faces in smart bonnets, coming out of 
 church yesterday," said Mrs. Gray don. 
 
 " Oh, those were shop-girls and trades- 
 men's daughters," said Mrs. Debenham. 
 "None of them ladies. You know, Miss 
 Clairvaux, there really are no young people 
 here." 
 
 "No, it is a curious fact," said Miss 
 Clairvaux, "but there are none. Only an 
 unfledged girl here and there, not old enough 
 to go into society, and a good many old, 
 elderly, and middle-aged spinsters." 
 
 George looked astounded. "What have 
 you done, then,*' said he, "with all your 
 rising generation ?" 
 
 " The rising generation, strictly speaking, 
 go to school. Those who have left school, 
 have married and dispersed." 
 
 " Dear me, it must be a very stupid place 
 to live in !" 
 
 " Well, it is rather stupid," said Mr. 
 Debenham with magnanimous concession. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Oh ! no, Sam," said Mrs. Debenham, 
 "it's a very nice place. I won't hear any- 
 thing said against it." 
 
 "Nice, in your point of view, mamma. 
 You have your little coterie, your church- 
 going on week-days, and all that ; but it is a 
 stagnant place, except for a man with a 
 profession, and who belongs to the Union 
 Hunt, and all that — " 
 
 " Good hunting here?" said George. 
 
 " Pretty good." 
 
 *' Do you belong to the hunt ?" 
 
 " Yes. Very pleasant. Gentlemanlike set 
 of men." 
 
 " It must be very pleasant." 
 
 " Why, yes. Most things in life one gets 
 tired of. Everything, in fact. But hunting 
 is a thing one never gets tired of." 
 
 George looked as if he could well believe 
 it. 
 
 "Book-clubs are nice things," suggested 
 Mrs. Gray don. "You know, Eleanor, we
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 227 
 
 used to belong to a very pleasant one. We 
 drank tea with one another once a month/' 
 
 *' Ah, you couldn't get up one here," said 
 Mr. Debenham, "Nobody reads." 
 
 " Oh dear !— " 
 
 "Why, how should they? They've no 
 time. And they've no books." 
 
 "Well, I would as soon do without ray 
 dinner as without my book," said Mrs. 
 Graydon. " One grows so rusty !" 
 
 " Oh yes, we do.'' 
 
 "You are making yourself out a great 
 reader, mamma," said George. 
 
 " No, I know I'm not that ; but I always 
 have something in hand. I like to have my 
 mark moving regularly forward in a book, 
 if it be but a page a day." 
 
 " A plan too little followed, ma'am," said 
 Mr. Debenham. "People race through every- 
 thing now, and forget directly what they have 
 read. As for reading a book a second time ! 
 or making extracts ! — " 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 '*Ah, that's the way to get the heart out 
 of a book," said Mrs. Graydon. *' You know, 
 Eleanor, your papa used to say so." 
 
 " So did my papa," said Miss Clairvaux. 
 " I used to fill volumes with extracts." 
 
 ''The worst of it, though," said Mr. 
 Debenham, "is, that one never reads the 
 extracts afterwards." 
 
 " I don't admit that. Sometimes they 
 bring to mind things you have forgotten 
 for years, in books you have lost sight of, 
 and can no longer reach. Besides, the mere 
 act of copying the extracts, fixes them in 
 your mind." 
 
 "Yes, that is very true," said George. 
 "I know that taking notes of lectures fixes 
 things in my mind, even before I write them 
 out." 
 
 Mr. Debenham here began to question 
 George about the lectures he attended, and 
 the conversation became rather professional ; 
 but not too much so for the ladies to follow.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 229 
 
 though they were quite quiet. George told 
 a good many things that were both interest- 
 ing and amusing. After this, ^Ir. Debenham 
 turned over a portfoHo of caricatures of old 
 Mr. Poljambe's collecting, which proved 
 highly diverting, and led back to public 
 characters of a past generation. 
 
 "Ah, here are Pitt, and Fox, and Bute, 
 and all the rest of them !" said Mr, Deben- 
 ham, with interest. "I used to hear my 
 father talk of them ; but how completely 
 they're gone by, now ! Our young people 
 know little of them except by name. Ed- 
 mund Burke ! surprising genius ; but what 
 an ugly fellow ! Wilkes, with his squint ; 
 which he got by mimicking a school-fellow. 
 What a grin he has ! The events are gone 
 by ; but the humour won't die." 
 
 "Not as good as Punch, though," said 
 George. " The drawing isn't as good, and 
 the fun is more ill-natured. And there's no 
 fun, nor any drawing, equal to Cruikshank's."
 
 230 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 Bad drawing, however, did not spoil Mr. 
 Debenham's enjoyment of racy humour ; and 
 one thing led them on to another, till they 
 began to contrast the state of society in the 
 last age with the present, and to quote 
 family anecdotes, and to talk of the Gordon 
 riots, and the court of Queen Charlotte, and 
 the French revolution of '92, and the war 
 in La Vendee, and the English prisoners in 
 France, and many a thing besides, on which 
 it was surprising how much the elder ladies 
 had to say. At length, Mrs. Debenham re- 
 marked, 
 
 **We were complaining how few ways 
 there were of spending an evening pleasantly, 
 and I think we have found one without any 
 difficulty." 
 
 " By talking, you mean ? Oh yes, of 
 course. You ladies bringr out vour old stories 
 sometimes in a wonderful way, like your old 
 plate and diamonds. I'm sure I never heard 
 before half the stories mv mother has been
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 231 
 
 telling. I hope she has not been inventing 
 them." 
 
 " Sam ! I could not if I would." 
 
 "Well, perhaps not," said he laughing. 
 " And 4;here is another amusement nobody 
 has yet mentioned. Miss Clairvaux has a 
 piano." 
 
 " Come, Eleanor, persuade your brother to 
 sing something with you," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. And song and duet followed one an- 
 other till Mrs. Debenham after sundry vain 
 attempts to catch her son's eye, said : 
 
 " Sam, my dear, I'm sure our fly must be 
 here." 
 
 Mr. Debenham, however, who was very 
 fond of music, was deaf as well as bhnd to 
 his mother's appeals, or perhaps he heard the 
 jingle of glasses, which preceded the entrance 
 of Claudia, looking very self-important with 
 cake and wine. 
 
 During Eleanor's last song, there had been 
 a colloquy in under-tones, between Miss
 
 232 MEADO^YLEIGH. 
 
 Clairvaux and Mrs. Debenham, as they sat 
 beside one another on the sofa. Mrs. Deben- 
 ham was desirous of persuading Miss Clair- 
 vaux to return the visit before her friends 
 left her, quite in an unceremonious way ; 
 and Miss Clairvaux was saying that they 
 would only be with her till Tuesday, and she 
 never accepted evening engagements, she had 
 many reasons for finding it best, as a rule, to 
 decline them ; and Mrs. Debenham said, oh, 
 but this w^as no engagement worth speaking 
 of, merely a verbal invitation, only to a little 
 friendly meeting, and Monday would suit her 
 as well as any other time ; there should be no 
 fuss, no ceremony, she would take it as a 
 personal proof of regard. So, in short, the 
 gentle-spoken, smihng old lady carried her 
 point with the person who was considered to 
 have the strongest will, and the least value for 
 forms in Meadowleigh; but it must not be 
 supposed that Miss Clairvaux would have let 
 herself be talked over by a dozen bland old
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 233 
 
 ladies, had not the genial influences of the 
 evening — the music, the mirth, the Hghts, the 
 warmth, the pleasant feeling of hospitality, 
 and of making others happy, blended and 
 united together in producing a pliable state 
 of mind and philanthropic abnegation of her 
 own private tastes, which led to this remark- 
 able result. With many kind and cheerful 
 greetings, then, this little group of persons 
 separated, soon to meet again.
 
 234 MEADO-WUSiGH. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Laer. — For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour. 
 Hold it a fashion. 
 
 Of Easter Sunday, it needs only to be 
 recorded that it was as happy a day to them 
 all as it could possibly be. Bright Easter 
 morning ! less triumphantly hailed, it may 
 be, among our undemonstrative selves than in 
 countries where, after their long, rigorous fast 
 and solemn night-service, the people run about, 
 kissing and embracing, exchanging forgive- 
 ness, loading one another with gifts, and
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 235 
 
 crying, '* Christ is risen !" yet by none more 
 reverently and fittingly valued for its own 
 peculiar remembrances ; among those of us, 
 at least, who are loving and thoughtful. 
 
 On Easter Monday, that holiday of thou- 
 sands, Eleanor persuaded George to forego 
 his ride till the afternoon, and ramble with 
 her in the morning, over hill and down dale. 
 It was quite early in April, and the trees were 
 yet leafless, but when is the country not beau- 
 tiful ? The nightingale and thrush were already 
 to be heard, the hedges were beginning to 
 shew a curious undergrowth of pale green 
 beneath the protecting network of the outer 
 branches, and primroses and celandine were 
 blossoming on warm banks. 
 
 George, like most young surgeons, was well 
 up in botany, and as they went on their way, 
 he darted on every new specimen he could 
 find. 
 
 " That Miss Clairvaux," said he presently, 
 " is a capital old girl."
 
 236 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "Don't call her that, George; it is so 
 disrespectful." 
 
 " Well, I won't call her anything, then ; 
 but she is a brick." 
 
 " She is everything that is good and kind. 
 I cannot tell you how I love her." 
 
 " Lucky for you that she wanted a com- 
 panion !" 
 
 *' She did not want one — she took me 
 out of pure kindness." 
 
 " Whew ! — then she may part with you 
 any day." 
 
 " no ! that would not be like her." 
 
 *' My mother and she seem to get on 
 famously." 
 
 " Yes ; I am so glad of it ! — I could not 
 tell, beforehand, how they would accord." 
 
 '* That Mr. Debenham, too, is a capital 
 fellow ; and I think, Eleanor, he looks a little 
 sweet upon you." 
 
 '* Nonsense l" said Eleanor indignantly. 
 
 " I do think it though, seriously."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 237 
 
 " Then you think quite wrong ; and I 
 hope you won't say anything of the sort 
 again, or you will make me quite disHke 
 him. Come, let us run down the hill." 
 And away she darted. Just as they 
 reached the road, ]\lr. Burrowes trotted 
 briskly past them, and smilingly bowed 
 to Eleanor. 
 
 "Who's that?" said George quickly. 
 
 " Mr. Burrowes, the doctor." 
 
 " The doctor?" have you only one?" 
 
 " Oh yes, there are others, only he has 
 the best practice " 
 
 " What a jolly -looking fellow ! He don't 
 let care feed on his damask cheek ! What 
 should you say his practice was worth ?" 
 
 " Oh, I have not the smallest idea !" 
 
 "A thousand a year, perhaps — fifteen 
 hundred — " 
 
 " I have no notion at all." 
 
 " But you can guess !" 
 
 " No, I have really nothing to go upon."
 
 238 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " I should think that horse was very likely 
 worth a hundred guineas — capital action !" 
 
 " He goes such distances that he must 
 have a good horse." 
 
 " Very likely another horse in his stable/' 
 
 " Oh yes, more than one." 
 
 " Shouldn't I like to be that man ? Has he 
 a partner?" 
 
 '' No." 
 
 *' Shouldn't I like to be his partner !" 
 
 " Should not we all like to be a httle better 
 off than we are," said Eleanor smiling. 
 " You must get on by degrees. Very likely 
 Mr. Burrowes was at one time no better off 
 than you are." 
 
 " Not at all likely. Rely on it, that man 
 began the world with money.'^ 
 
 " But T cannot rely on what 1 know no- 
 thing about. Many of our most eminent 
 men have begun the world with nothing. 
 If you try, perhaps you may be eminent, 
 too."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 239 
 
 " Oh no, I know I shan't get along with- 
 out money." 
 
 *' Well, you must try. You did not speak 
 in that desponding way, when you persuaded 
 papa and mamma to let you study medicine. 
 Now, did you ?'' 
 
 " Well — no, I did not,'' said George, smil- 
 ing a little. " But, come, tell me some more 
 about this Mr. Burro wes. He has all the 
 best country practice, you say ?" 
 
 " Town and country. Everybody has him 
 who can get him. And, George, I think it 
 is not only owing to his known skill, but to 
 his manners — " 
 
 " One of your spoony fellows, I suppose." 
 
 " No, not spoony at all. But courteous 
 and kindly; a thorough gentleman. That 
 always tells in a sick room." 
 
 " Oh, in a sick room, people only care for 
 what you know and can do." 
 
 " Those are the main points, but they also 
 care for being spoken kindly and gently to ;
 
 240 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 and then, when they begin to get better, they 
 like a Httle chat." 
 
 " Blarney. * Soft finish for family use/ " 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 "Scandal. Absent friends sliced up with 
 pepper and vinegar." 
 
 " No — the news of the day, and, if you 
 will, the news of the neighbourhood, only it 
 need not be scandalous — should not, must not 
 be : — public affairs — new books, new dis- 
 coveries, and so forth." 
 
 " Is that man married ?" 
 
 '* Mr. Burrowes ? Oh yes, he has a pretty 
 wife." 
 
 " Children ?" 
 
 " Half-a-dozen, at least." 
 
 " Ah !" said George, drawing in his breath 
 with a hissing sound, and looking very solemn, 
 " those are the things that weigh a man 
 down." 
 
 " But I thought you said how merry he 
 looked !"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 241 
 
 "Well, SO I did. Jolly!" said George, 
 laughing heartily at the recollection. 
 
 Afterwards, he said he did not know but 
 what, as he had no prospect at home, it 
 might be a good thing to go abroad — to 
 Africa, for instance. There were always open- 
 ings on the gold-coast; fellows died off so; 
 then they made room for others. And up 
 the country, at Dahomey and so forth, it 
 was astonishing what a premium they set 
 on English professional talent ; a man with 
 just a smattering of medicine might rise to 
 the highest distinctions in almost no time; 
 accumulate thousands (in cowries), and even 
 get made prime minister if he liked it. Then, 
 only think what influence he'd have ! what 
 power of doing good on a large scale ! pro- 
 viding only he didn't bother himself with 
 missionary humbug, and trying to upset the 
 theology of the natives and all that. He 
 might marry a king's daughter if he liked, 
 (only, of course, he wouldn't). And if he 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 242 MEABOWLEIGH. 
 
 merely stuck to the Flora of the country, or 
 went out with his gun, and sent home dried 
 specimens, or wrote a book, putting plenty 
 of red in the brush — he'd, net a pretty 
 penny ! 
 
 When George talked in this way, Eleanor 
 never thought of contradicting him. A lucid 
 interval always succeeded. 
 
 Meanwhile, the two elder ladies were ami- 
 cably busied at their needles, and not alto- 
 gether idle with their tongues. 
 
 " How kind it is of you, Miss Clairvaux," 
 began Mrs. Gray don gratefully, '* to give me 
 and my children this treat !" 
 
 "Kind to myself,'' said Miss Clairvaux, 
 " I enjoy it nearly as much as you can." 
 
 *'That is because you have so kind a 
 heart. There are very few people who would 
 have thought of it." 
 
 *'Ah well, it would not make me the 
 happier to think that. I hope there are a 
 ^rcat many people who like to make others
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 243 
 
 happy — and I think there are. Only look 
 at our newspapers, and see how readily and 
 munificently cases of distress are relieved as 
 soon as they are made known." 
 
 " Yes, certainly/' said Mrs. Graydon. 
 
 After a short silence, Miss Clairvaux re- 
 sumed, 
 
 "Your son is a very promising young 
 man." 
 
 " He is a very good, dear boy," said his 
 mother, '* I only wish he had a little more 
 manner/' 
 
 " Perhaps that will come with time. Brus- 
 querie is undesirable, especially in a medical 
 man, and yet young students are sometimes 
 misguided enough to cultivate it. But, where 
 there is good taste, they generally grow out 
 of it, instead of letting it grow on them. 
 George has such good models in his mother 
 and sister that he will doubtless be influenced 
 by them." 
 
 " Ah ! I am no model," said Mrs. Gray- 
 
 R 2
 
 244 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 don ; " but I influence him as much as I can, 
 in a quiet way." 
 
 " A quiet way is the best. Do you look 
 forward with much anxiety to his future ?" 
 
 " Where is the use ? he has had a good 
 start, and must make his way Hke other young 
 men who have only themselves to depend 
 npon. Luckily he has secured Mr. Franklin's 
 esteem, so that if any opening occurs, he may 
 speak a good word for him." 
 
 " What sort of opening, for instance ?" 
 
 " Oh, as assistant to some country practi- 
 tioner. Or he might go out in some ship." 
 
 As Miss Clairvaux had nothing more 
 brilliant to propose, she was glad Mrs. Gray- 
 don seemed contented. 
 
 " You cannot think," pursued Mrs. Gray- 
 don, "how much obliged to you I am for 
 taking dear Eleanor ofi* my hands. Of course 
 I feel the separation, but it is so much better 
 and happier for her to be with you than to 
 be a governess, and really, if she had remained
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 245 
 
 at home, only writing magazine stories, and 
 painting little things for the fancy shops, we 
 should have done very badly. I can get on 
 without her, but with her we should have 
 been pinched. So that, you see, reconciles 
 me to her loss." 
 
 ** Certainly it must," said Miss Clairvaux 
 energetically. " Besides, you know, the 
 separation would be equally great if she were 
 to marry." 
 
 "Ah, that is a separation," said Mrs. 
 Graydon, quietly smiling, '' that most mo- 
 thers contrive to reconcile themselves to." 
 
 Miss Clairvaux worked for a few minutes 
 in silence, but her thoughts were busy. At 
 length she said, rather abruptly changing 
 the subject — 
 
 " Mr. Debenham seems to have taken 
 quite a fancy to George. He is a kind- 
 hearted man — " 
 
 " Very, he appears to be," said Mrs. Gray- 
 don.
 
 246 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "A good man," pursued Miss Clairvaux, 
 " and he was a very good husband : his wife 
 died about two years ago." 
 
 "Oh, indeed,'' said Mrs. Graydon civilly, 
 but without much interest. 
 
 " He has two nice little boys," continued 
 Miss Clairvaux. *' Orderly well-behaved little 
 fellows ; and, you know, they are a good deal 
 at school." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Graydon. 
 
 *' I should not think they would be much 
 of an objection, if Mr. Debenham were to 
 think of a second marriage?" said Miss 
 Clairvaux. 
 
 " Why should they be ?" said Mrs. Graydon. 
 
 " Just so ; why should they be ?" echoed 
 Miss Clairvaux. " A warm-hearted, affec- 
 tionate person would soon attach herself to 
 them, and attach them to her." 
 
 "No doubt," said Mrs. Graydon. "Is 
 Mr. Debenham meditating a second 
 marriage ?"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 247 
 
 " Really I don't know what he is medi- 
 tating," said Miss Clairv^aux, " but, at his 
 time of life, you know, it is not at all 
 unlikely." 
 
 " Oh dear no," said Mrs. Gray don. 
 
 " In fact he is quite in the prime of life. 
 And a most respectable, estimable man. I 
 don't know how it has happened, but I have 
 seen more of him lately than usual." 
 
 " Indeed," said Mrs. Graydon. 
 
 " If — " said Miss Clairvaux boldly, after 
 another pause, " he and Eleanor should ever 
 think of one another — " 
 
 " Eleanor is bespoken," said Mrs. Graydon, 
 quietly. 
 
 " You don't say so !" exclaimed Miss 
 Clairvaux with a violent start. " I never was 
 more surprised in my life ! sly little thing ! 
 she never dropped me a hint of it !" 
 
 *' Why, no," replied Mrs. Graydon, " it is 
 hardly likely she should — ^you see, it requires 
 a little explanation."
 
 248 MEADOWFiElGH. 
 
 "Do explain," said Miss Clairvaux im- 
 patiently. 
 
 '*In dear Mr. Graydon's lifetime/* said 
 Mrs. Graydon, laying down her work, and 
 looking very serious, " there was a nice, 
 clever young man, boy I should rather say, put 
 under him as pupil, by the name of Maurice 
 Day. He was a far greater genius than my 
 dear husband, though he wanted direction, 
 and he finished by getting the Royal Academy 
 medal, and being sent out to Italy, free of 
 expense, for three years. That was about 
 eighteen months ago. But, before he went, I 
 should tell you, he fell in love with Eleanor. 
 They were quite too young to enter into any 
 regular engagement, even on that score only ; 
 and Mr. Graydon, seeing how things were, 
 spoke very plainly to him on the subject, 
 and said, * I insist on it, Maurice, that you 
 don't name love to Eleanor — you owe it to 
 me, and you owe it to her.' But, however 
 tliat might be, he looked love if he did not
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 249 
 
 name it, and you cannot blame the poor girl 
 if she felt it. Not a word passed, however, 
 to the best of my knowledge, though his 
 manner towards her told everything ; and, at 
 last, when he was on the point of starting for 
 Italy, he came to Mr. Gray don, and said, 
 * Mr. Gray don, you must let me speak now — 
 I have forborne all this while, but I cannot 
 any longer. You must let me go away 
 engaged.' My husband said no— he would 
 not hear of it. Maurice might change his 
 mind ; or, if he did not, his prospects were 
 uncertain, and he would not let Eleanor be 
 fettered, and her peace disturbed by any 
 promises. Maurice said, ' well, if she may 
 not promise, you cannot hinder me from 
 promising, and I do promise to consider my- 
 self engaged to her, and to come back and 
 claim her at the end of three years ; and if 
 I do, will you not give her to me, sir, then ?' 
 My husband said that if he then found him- 
 self in a position to marry, he would not say
 
 250 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 no. So Maurice went on that, and if ever 
 looks spoke, I tliink his spoke to Eleanor 
 when he went away, though he did not say a 
 word. It unsettled her a good deal, poor 
 thing — she was very young and tender, you 
 know ; but I must say for her, she was very 
 good about it ; and when I said, ' Eleanor, 
 it is plain to see Maurice is very sorry to leave 
 you, but he will soon get over it, and you 
 know you are both quite too young to have 
 any serious thoughts yet,' she took it very 
 nicely, and got over it, and soon went on just 
 as if nothing had happened. And I think. 
 Miss Clairvaux, girls would oftener get over 
 these things if their friends spoke to them 
 sympathizingly and frankly; at the right 
 moment, you know, instead of shutting their 
 grief up in their heart, and letting it harden 
 there. But then came dear Mr. Graydon's 
 death ; and, as soon as Maurice heard of it, 
 he wrote from Rome, direct to Eleanor, 
 deploring the event in the strongest terms.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 251 
 
 and only wishing he were rich, and I know 
 not what all, that his dearest Eleanor might 
 know the affection of her own Maurice.'' 
 
 " Dear me, I wonder she could stand out 
 against that !" exclaimed Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 " I think the letter consoled her and me 
 too, more than anything else could, but 
 still, there was nothing like an engagement, 
 because, though he said, do answer me, 
 I said, if you do, you will act contrary to 
 your papa's wish, and the three years are 
 half over already, and the other half will 
 soon be gone ; and if his love will not last 
 through another eighteen months, it cannot 
 be worth having. The dear girl took it all 
 very well ; and I let her send a kind message 
 to him through his sister, who was going 
 out to spend the winter with him ; and on 
 this, I hope, his love will sustain itself for 
 the remainder of the time, for I could 
 not see my way clear to allowing a correspon- 
 dence, after what Mr. Gray don said. He
 
 252 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 said it might entangle her without securing 
 him.'^ 
 
 Here was an unexpected end to Miss 
 Clairvaux's fine chdteau en Espagne ! 
 
 '* Well," said she at length, after drawing 
 a long breath that seemed very much like a 
 sigh, " all's well that ends well, and I hope 
 this will end well. You really think him 
 a nice young man ?" 
 
 *' O yes, only in fact, owing to his position 
 as my husband's pupil, I never looked upon 
 him as a young man at all, only as a boy — 
 a clever boy, who was likely to get quite 
 ahead of my dear husband." 
 
 " Precisely. And has he been going on 
 well since he went abroad?** 
 
 "I have no means of knowing.*' 
 
 " You think his principles good ?" 
 
 ** He had been well brought up, but had 
 never been much tried. I could not feel 
 sure of his turning out steady.'* 
 
 "Hal'*
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 253 
 
 And Miss Clairvaux fell into reverie. 
 
 " Better not say anything about it to Elea- 
 nor," said Mrs. Graydon rather anxiously. 
 
 '' O no, certainly not : I have nothing 
 to say. Only somehow I seem to see her 
 in quite a new light, now I think of her as 
 engaged." 
 
 " She is not engaged." 
 
 " Just so. Only * bespoken,' as you said. 
 Well, I hope it may all turn out for her 
 happiness. He will hardly be able to marry 
 at the end of the three years, T should think ? 
 He must form connexions, get commissions 
 and so on, before he can make any money ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but he has had some commissions 
 already.*' 
 
 *' Oh indeed ! — No doubt he is clever." 
 
 " I hear George's voice,'' said Mrs. Gray- 
 don looking up. '' Yes, here they come."
 
 254 MBADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The country is lyric — the town dramatic. When 
 united, they form the most perfect musical drama. 
 
 LONGPELLOW. 
 
 Mrs. Debenham's tea-party might be 
 perfection as a tea-party, but its zest to 
 Miss Clairvaux was gone. She had antici- 
 pated it as another stepping-stone to a very 
 promising preference, and lo ! her house of 
 cards had fallen to the ground at a breath. 
 
 "No more than I deserve!'* said she, with 
 self-disgust. "What business had I to ape 
 vulgar mammas, who try to push common
 
 MEADOWIiEIGH. V 255 
 
 politeness into liking, and common liking 
 into a proposal? These Graydons showed 
 far more delicacy, and I dare say the young 
 man is a thousand times better suited for 
 Eleanor than Mr. Debenham is. Only, it 
 may all come to nothing. Well, and what 
 then ?" 
 
 Still, Miss Clairvaux was a little disap- 
 pointed; was less disposed even to accord 
 Mr. Debenham her usual measure of justice, 
 now that a lively young rival, say of twenty- 
 two, started up beside the prosaic country 
 gentleman of forty-three ; and when Mr. 
 Debenham joined the circle in his mother's 
 drawing-room, he spoke of the weather as 
 " bilious ;" alluded to his digestion ; and 
 looked, Miss Clairvaux thought, older than 
 usual; so that she wondered how she could 
 have expected Eleanor to be prepossessed in 
 his favour. 
 
 The party was not improved, to her mind, 
 by the addition of Mrs. Plover, who said
 
 256 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 studied things about the pleasure it gave 
 her to see her in society, and the hope she 
 entertained that Miss Clairvaux would soon 
 be prevailed on to extend the favour of her 
 company to herself. And vi^hen Miss Clair- 
 vaux thanked her, but said that she made 
 it a rule not to go out, she said, " Oh, but 
 every rule has its exceptions, and you have 
 departed from it now," which was true 
 enough, and Miss Clairvaux was already 
 repenting that she had done so. But when 
 she looked around and saw how Eleanor, 
 George, and Mr. Debenham were enjoying 
 a hearty laugh together, and how comfortably 
 Mrs. Debenham and Mrs. Graydon had 
 settled into a chat : " surely," thought she, 
 " there must be some neutral ground for Mrs- 
 Plover and me somewhere or other, on which 
 we may be happily agreed like the rest," and 
 she exerted herself to find it ; with so much 
 success that Mrs. Plover was very well 
 pleased, till inadvertently they got upon
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 257 
 
 infant schools, on which their opinions were 
 strong, but unfortunately opposite. 
 
 At this juncture, the company seasonably 
 received an addition in the benign old rector, 
 Dr. Hurst, who was followed by Mr. and 
 Mrs. Burrowes and Mrs. Rowe. 
 
 *' This is the way a party rolls up," thought 
 Miss Clairvaux. "I have been told more 
 than once how Mrs. Debenham goes from 
 one to another, saying 'you will only meet 
 so-and-so,' forgetting that they are all to 
 meet one another." 
 
 " Well, Miss Clairvaux," said Mr. Bur- 
 rowes, sitting down beside her with a genial 
 smile on his cheerful, handsome face, " so 
 you have come out among us at last! Tm 
 glad of it ; it will do you good." 
 
 " Thank you ; but this is only an ex- 
 ceptional case." 
 
 " Oh ! but we can't hear of exceptional 
 cases. We all owe something to society. 
 Even I, you see, busy as I am, acknowledge 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 my debt to it. I assure you, it required some 
 effort to leave my own fire-side this evening, 
 after such a day as 1 have had ; but I heard 
 we were to. meet you." 
 
 " You are very kind. Pray is it true that 
 there has been a case of diphtheria near the 
 Green Pond?" 
 
 " Not a word of truth in it. Only a com- 
 mon sore throat. Oh 1 Miss Clairvaux, when 
 I come out to enjoy an hour with my friends, 
 I like to leave diphtheria and croup, and all 
 those things, behind me." 
 
 •' Well, it is but fair that you should." 
 
 *' Yes, indeed a man requires it. He must 
 not carry the sick-room about with him. I 
 said so to Mr. Newland to-day. I wdsh I 
 could bring you and Newland together. 
 Quite a superior mind. But nothing can 
 induce him to admit a petticoat into the 
 house. By the by, are you not pleased that 
 Dick's daughter, Martha White, is set afloat 
 again ?"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 259 
 
 "Yes, I am, indeed, though I fear she 
 will not long keep out of difficulties. I was 
 quite surprised ; I understand it has been all 
 your doing." 
 
 " I have been only another person's almoner," 
 said Mr. Burro wes, " I mention no names, 
 of course. I was empowered to do the best 
 for her that could be done, so I put her into 
 that cottage near the Green Pond, got her 
 some lodgers, found her some laundry- work, 
 and bought her a mangle. If she does not 
 go straight now, she never will." 
 
 "No, I think not. You have been most 
 judiciously kind to her." 
 
 " All with another person's money. It is 
 easy to be kind in that way." 
 
 " Ah, some persons can find money, and 
 others sense to apply it. Large bequests, 
 magnificent donations, often do less good than 
 they might, because the donors do not know 
 how to turn them to the best account." 
 
 " There's something still left for you to do — 
 
 s 2
 
 260 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 to get Jane, the girl of fourteen, into a 
 place." 
 
 " It is difficult to find a suitable place 
 for a girl of that sort. But I will bear her 
 in mind, for she will do no good at home." 
 
 *' Well, have you had any nice books down 
 from Mudie lately? My wife wants me to 
 subscribe, and I believe I shall on her account, 
 but really I have no time for reading, except 
 in my chaise. At the end of the day, I'm 
 too sleepy ; and then there's the Times." 
 
 Miss Clairvaux was surprised, at the end 
 of the evening, to find how pleasantly it had 
 passed. Her resolution, however, of not 
 being drawn into the regular round of 
 Meadowleigh parties, was by no means 
 shaken. This was the Graydons' last even- 
 ing together, for the mother and son were to 
 return to London the following afternoon, 
 after an early dinner ; but George had thus 
 the opportunity of another early walk with 
 Eleanor, and another ride on the pony. Mr.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 261 
 
 Debenham's last remark to him was, *' Well, 
 I suppose we shall have yoa here again in 
 the shooting season," and George's answer, 
 " I only hope, sir, you may !" — at which Miss 
 Clair vaux smiled. 
 
 Eleanor returned from her walk with 
 George in time to have a final chat with 
 her mother, and was disappointed enough, 
 therefore, to find Mrs. Plover aud Mrs. Rowe 
 making a morning call, alleging the simplicity 
 of the co-untry as an excuse for the earliness 
 of the hour. The curiosity of the country 
 would have been nearer the truth. They 
 had learnt, the previous evening, that Mrs. 
 Graydon and her son w^ould leave by the 
 2.30 train, and had therefore decided 
 on intercepting them. Whatever Eleanor's 
 feelings might be, Mrs. Graydon had so 
 little change at home that she was pleased 
 at this incident, and chatted to the visitors' 
 content, though they deplored afterwards
 
 262 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 that they had only made out she lived " with- 
 in an easy walk of the hospitals." 
 
 These worthy ladies stayed so long, and 
 gave so little signal of moving, that Miss 
 Clairvaux was at length driven to, "Well, 
 I am obliged to say that if we dine before 
 my friends leave, we must dine now*' — on 
 which, wordy apologies ensued, and the ladies 
 sailed off. Even then, George did not come 
 in till they were at table, having availed 
 himself of Gimcrack's services to the very 
 last. Then there came a cheerful, hurried 
 dinner, and a bustle after it. Miss Clairvaux 
 being the last ready, because she was packing 
 some little dainties for town consumption 
 into a basket. 
 
 They were awaiting her in the drawing- 
 room, within five minutes of the time to start, 
 when there was a ring at the door-bell, and, 
 directly afterwards, Claudia, looking unutter- 
 able things, announced — 
 
 " Mr. Horsefield !"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 263 
 
 Eleanor started and looked round, and in 
 walked Mr. Horsefield, attired much more 
 smartly than on the former occasion. 
 
 There was a dash of the sportsman in his 
 costume, though it was only the season for 
 the Epping hunt, and his gloves, necktie, and 
 waistcoat were obtrusively gay, while his 
 watchguard and studs seemed to have been 
 bought at the Lowther Arcade. His hair was 
 shining and streaky, and as Longfellow says, 
 " went off to the left in a superb sweep, like 
 the handrail of a banister ;" but altogether he 
 looked rather less of a gentleman than he 
 had done in his ordinary dress. He entered 
 with a mixture of effrontery and embarrass- 
 ment, but the latter predominated when he 
 unexpectedly found himself in the presence 
 of strangers ; and with a sheepish " good 
 morning, ma'am," to Eleanor, which she re- 
 sponded to by a very distant curtsey, he 
 turned to the window and looked out, then 
 threw herself into a chair, pulled off one
 
 264 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 glove, and began flicking his boot with his 
 smart httle riding whip. 
 
 " Fine morning, sir," said he presently to 
 George. 
 
 " Very," said George, with a slight glance 
 at Eleanor which Mr. Horsefield intercepted 
 and construed as ironical. 
 
 " Nice weather for riding, sir," said Mr. 
 Horsefield. 
 
 " Very," said George emphatically. " I've 
 had a capital ride this morning." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Horsefield. " You keep a 
 horse, then ?" 
 
 What's that to you ? thought George. 
 
 " I wish I knew somebody that would lend 
 me one," pursued Mr. Horsefield. 
 
 '' Oh," said George, glancing at his whip, 
 "I thought you had been riding. Ah, 
 people are not always very fond of lending 
 their horses." 
 
 " Come, George, youve no reason to com- 
 plain," said Mrs. Gray don.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 265 
 
 " Quite the reverse," said George. " Mine 
 was only a general observation/' 
 
 " General observation with particular appli- 
 cation, sir?" said Mr. Horsefield rather 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Not at all," said George with suavity. 
 At this instant Miss Clairvaux appeared in 
 the doorway, and stood there without advanc- 
 ing. 
 
 " To what am I indebted for this call, Mr. 
 Horsefield?" said she. 
 
 " Oh, good morning, ma'am," said Mr. 
 Horsefield, turning round and bowing. " I 
 didn't know you was engaged with company 
 in the house, or would have taken another 
 occasion. However, if you'll oblige me with 
 five minutes in the next room — " 
 
 " Quite impossible, Mr. Horsefield, the 
 railway waits for no man, or woman either." 
 
 " Three minutes will do. Miss Clairvaux, 
 or two, if you are in a hurry. You have only 
 just got to sign — " And he drew out a paper.
 
 266 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Quite impossible, Mr. Horsefield. I 
 never sign anything in a hurry, I never 
 sign anything unread ; and the paper in 
 question I am quite determined never to 
 sign at all." 
 
 " But, ma'am, you don't even know — " 
 
 "I don't desire to know. I know this, 
 which is quite sufficient, that I have no 
 business affairs in hand to require my sign- 
 ing at all; and I do not desire to have 
 any. Good morning." 
 
 As Mr. Horsefield still stood his ground, 
 George began to look defiant, which the other 
 observing, resented, though he took up his 
 hat. 
 
 "I must say. Miss Clairvaux," said he, 
 '* that this is very extraordinary conduct — " 
 
 "Not at all," said Miss Clairvaux. "I 
 am, as you see, on the point of starting to 
 the station, and have no time to lose, there- 
 fore must speak to the point — " 
 
 " Oh, well, but I can wait, or call again."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 267 
 
 "To no purpose; and T cannot think of 
 your waiting here. I have already said, I 
 refuse to sign that or any paper. You must 
 really let me say good morning now, Mr. 
 Horsefield, or we shall lose the train ; and 
 so will you." 
 
 *'0h, very well, good morning ma'am, 
 good morning, since you won't hear a word 
 I have to say — I can only report it — it's 
 no matter of mine, 1 wash my hands of it. 
 You may be sorry, perhaps — " 
 
 "Do you threaten Miss Clairvaux, sir?" 
 said George sternly. 
 
 "No, sir, I don't threaten her," rejoined 
 Mr. Horsefield, exasperated, " and I don't at 
 all know you, sir, nor what affair it is of 
 yours, and advise you to keep out of it — " 
 
 " George, George," said Mrs. Graydon 
 pacifically, as George put on a terrific look. 
 The look, however, answered its purpose, 
 for Mr. Horsefield, ducking his head, said : 
 
 "I wish you all a very good morning—
 
 568 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 it's no treat to me to come here, I assure 
 you, and only in the way of business, but 
 the lady needn't have reminded me about 
 the train, for I may have other business in 
 the town, and not want to go back yet." 
 
 " Certainly," said Miss Clairvaux, making 
 way for him to pass, and giving the most 
 distant inclination of her head to him as he 
 did so. " And now, my dear friends, we have 
 no time to lose," said she, as the gate closed 
 after him. 
 
 There was, indeed, so much danger of 
 losing the train, that all was hurry till they 
 reached the station, and not another word 
 passed about Mr. Horsefield, whose business 
 was naturally -understood to be of a private 
 and vexatious nature. 
 
 Whizz! — pufF! puff ! —they were off; and 
 Eleanor, after watching the white wreath 
 till it was lost behind an embankment, turned 
 away with tearful eves but a bright smile, 
 and sHding her hand within Miss Clairvaux's
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 269 
 
 arm, pressed it, saying, ''Dear Miss Clair- 
 vaux ! how happy you have made us all !" 
 
 " That is just what I meant to do," said 
 Miss Clairvaux, " and in making you so, I 
 made myself so." 
 
 " It was such a treat ! May I — might I 
 venture to ask how you like George ?" 
 
 " I think him a capital fellow." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad !" 
 
 "And I like your mother, Eleanor, very 
 much indeed." 
 
 " I am still more glad." 
 
 ** I am sorry you should be obliged to live 
 apart ; but at present, seemingly, it cannot be 
 helped." 
 
 " No ; and she says you have alleviated the 
 pain of the separation so much by letting her 
 come here and see what everything is like, 
 and what vou are like, and how much I have 
 to make me contented, and grateful, and 
 happy. She says it lessens the distance." 
 "Weil, I can fancy that. It occurred to
 
 270 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 me that it would do so. You will feel a little 
 flat, I dare stiy, for a day or two — '' 
 
 " no, not at all !'* And in her desire to 
 show she did not, Eleanor found a thousand 
 ways of being active and useful on her return 
 home, and finished by walking into the town 
 afterwards, to pay a little bill for pastry 
 and hot cross buns at Mr. Brownjohn's ; for 
 Miss Clairvaux never allowed bills to run 
 up. 
 
 "Well,'' said Miss Clairvaux, yawning a 
 little as the supper-hour approached, " I do 
 not think we shall infringe the early closing 
 system to-night. It does people good some- 
 times to be shaken up ; but when they are at 
 my time of life, they soon settle down again ! 
 Like that elderly opera-dancer, of whom 
 Mackhn said, * That lady, sir, goes up very 
 high ; but she comes down very heavy.' 
 Everything has gone off pleasantly ; except, 
 by-the-by, that visit of Mr. Horsefield." 
 " He gained nothing by coming," said
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 271 
 
 Eleanor, *' so that may be said to have gone 
 ofiP pleasantly, too." 
 
 " No, my dear, nothing can be pleasant in 
 which he is concerned. He is a disagreeable 
 little fellow." 
 
 " He was still in the town when I went 
 into it," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Was he ? What could he want down 
 here ? Was he looking about him, admir- 
 ing the place, like a cockney with an excursion 
 ticket ?'' 
 
 ** No, I think he must have had business 
 of some sort. He whisked out of Fidgeon's 
 into Taplow's shop without seeing me.'' 
 
 " He might go to Taplow's to buy buns, as 
 my cold meat was not forthcoming/' said 
 Miss Clairvaux. " I can't conceive, though, 
 what he could want at Fidgeon's. Not mops 
 or scrubbing-brushes, surely. And he would 
 hardly come all the way from London to buy 
 a toothbrush." 
 
 "He had been at Lashbrook's," said
 
 272 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 Eleanor, after a pause, " for while I was pay- 
 ing for the sausages, Mr. Lashbrook rummaged 
 for a fourpenny piece, that he might not 
 trouble me with halfpence, saying, * I know I 
 took one this morning,' and then went into the 
 little room at the back, and his wife said 
 rather crossly, I thought, * oh, I paid it away 
 while Mr. Horsefield was here.' " 
 
 '* Hum — that's curious," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " And yet I don't know why I should 
 say so, for he may have relations down here, 
 you know, as well as anywhere else. At any 
 rate, acquaintance. I know nothing of him ; 
 and want to know nothing." 
 
 " He could hardly have expected you to 
 sign a paper without reading it." 
 
 " There is no knowing what some people 
 wdll not expect, for they often expect most 
 extraordinary things. But he might expect 
 that long enough of me, without my doing 
 it. I know what was in the paper; at least, 
 I have good reason to think I do. Mr.
 
 MEADOWLEian. 273 
 
 Foljambe wants me to let him sell some 
 property in which we have a joint interest, 
 contrary to the dispositions of his father's 
 will; and I will not do it. He says he 
 might make a much better investment of his 
 share, and that T might do so too ; but I do 
 not think so ; and having said so, why cannot 
 he be content ?" 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 274 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Our passions never wholly die ; but in the last cantos 
 of life's romantic epos, they rise up again and do battle, 
 like some of Ariosto's heroes, who have already been 
 quietly inferred, and ought to be turned to dust. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Eleanor certainly felt rather flat the next 
 day, in spite of a cheerful letter from her 
 mother; and she was glad, therefore, when 
 Miss Clairvaux, in the course of the afternoon, 
 sent her on an errand which took her to the 
 spirit-reviving uplands. 
 
 Miss Clairvaux was busy repacking her
 
 MEADOWLEIUH. 275 
 
 old-fashioned plate, when Claudia told her 
 Mr. Debenham was down stairs. She, there- 
 fore, hastily closed the hd over her valuables 
 and went down to see him. It struck 
 her, as she entered the drawing-room, that 
 he was looking about him rather disconso- 
 lately. 
 
 " All alone again, you see !" said she. 
 
 " So I see," said he, quite cheerfully. 
 " What, has j\Iiss Gray don gone home with 
 her mother?" 
 
 " Oh no, she is walking." 
 
 "She is making quite a long stay with 
 you." 
 
 ** This is her home at present." (As well 
 give him a hint how matters stand, thought 
 she). 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! that must be a very pleasant 
 arrangement for you. My mother and I have 
 often thought you must feel dull." 
 
 "There you were quite mistaken, I have 
 never once felt so." 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Well, I wonder you did not, and timid 
 too, at night." 
 
 " Why should I ?" 
 
 " Oh, houses are broken open sometimes." 
 
 " Really, I don't think it very neighbourly 
 of you to come and frighten me !" 
 
 He laughed and owned it was not. 
 " However," said he, " to frighten you would 
 probably be a difficult matter, for I dare say 
 you know how to fire a gun.'' 
 
 " No, I never fired a gun, though I have 
 cleaned one. And though I have an old 
 musket in the house, I have neither powder 
 nor shot," 
 
 *' Well, you might point it, as though it 
 were loaded. That might do as well." 
 
 " Better. I should not like to kill a man." 
 
 " You should have a rattle." 
 
 *' What, like an old watchman ? the very 
 echo of feebleness and helplessness. To 
 spring a rattle would be to invite the rogues to 
 persist in their roguery. Who would hear it?'*
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 277 
 
 " Well, perhaps, a good loud bell would be 
 better. That might perhaps be heard in the 
 town." 
 
 " ' Swinging slow with solemn roar.' I 
 have one, and rang it the night of the fire, but 
 to what good? Dick's cottage was burnt to 
 the ground long before the engine came. 
 This is too bad of you. I was not frightened, 
 never had been so, before you came, but you 
 will finish by making me so." 
 
 " O, Miss Clairvaux !" 
 
 *'You will, indeed. You make me feel 
 how helpless I am." 
 
 " Oh, I'm quite sorry. I had no idea of 
 that. All I was saying was, how pleasant it 
 must be to you to have Miss Graydon to stay 
 with you for a permanence (I think you said 
 for a permanence), it must prevent your feel- 
 ing so lonely." 
 
 " Ah yes, we began with Miss Graydon. 
 I did not say she was here for a permanence, 
 I said this was at present her home."
 
 278 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Just SO, the same thing in other words : 
 I don't see a bit of difference." 
 
 " But there is a difference," persisted Miss 
 Clairvaux, " because, don't you see ? she may 
 be here to-day and gone to-morrow. Suppos- 
 ing her to marry, for example, this would be 
 her home to-day, but not for a permanence." 
 
 " Just so, only that hardly seemed to me a 
 siipposable case." 
 
 " Why not ?" cried Miss Clairvaux. 
 " Why, who do you see here to make it sup- 
 posable? you see no society." 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing to the purpose," 
 said Miss Clairvaux, laughing heartily, "no- 
 thing at all to the purpose, I assure you." 
 
 "Well, I should have thought it must 
 have been," said he, looking mystified. "Un- 
 less she were engaged when she came." 
 
 " Ah, that is a very clever ' unless ' of 
 yours ; only, mind, I don't tell you it is 
 
 so." 
 
 "Js.it though? Come, now, do tell me."
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 279 
 
 "Nonsense, what right have you to any 
 curiosity on the subject ?" 
 
 "None, certainly," said Mr. Debenham, 
 laughing, " only I should be glad to hear 
 that such a nice, pretty girl was likely to 
 be well married." 
 
 "Oh, that's all, is it?" thought Miss Clair- 
 vaux. And there was nothing in his look 
 or manner to make her doubt his perfect 
 sincerity. 
 
 " Ah well," said she, " curiosity about our 
 neighbours' affairs ought sedulously to be 
 discouraged, and I have not a word of 
 information to give you on the subject. 
 Eleanor is one of a thousand, and will, I 
 have no doubt, soon or late find some one 
 who will do full justice to her good qualities ; 
 but she is no fortune, Mr. Debenham. He 
 who chooses her, must choose her for her- 
 self.'' 
 
 "And no bad look-out either," said Mr. 
 Debenham. " Only, unfortunately, the mar-
 
 280 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 rying men of the present day are such 
 mercenary dogs I" 
 
 There was bathos in this conclusion of the 
 subject! Plainly he had no more thought 
 of personal interest in it than the man in 
 the moon; and Miss Clairvaux changed the 
 conversation with a twist that was almost a 
 wrench, by beginning to talk of one or other 
 of the oppressed nationalities. 
 
 Mr. Debenham had taken his leave some 
 time before Eleanor returned, but yet, when 
 she came home, there was a man's voice 
 in the house. Claudia, looking full of awe, 
 said as she admitted her, **Mr. Eoljambe 
 is here/* Eleanor simply said " oh," and 
 instead of going at once to Miss Clairvaux 
 in the drawing-room, went up to her own 
 room, where she could still hear voices be- 
 neath. They seemed raised a little, but not 
 much, above the tone of equable conversation : 
 gradually, however, they became louder, as 
 if in altercation ; and, at length, there was
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 281 
 
 something like a sharp cry of pain, and Miss 
 Clairvaux, coming to the door, cried aloud : 
 
 " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! are you come home ? 
 Come down to me directly T 
 
 " Here I am, dear Miss Clairvaux ! what 
 is it ?" cried Eleanor with a sudden thrill of 
 terror; and she hastily ran down stairs. 
 Miss Clairvaux, who was standing in the 
 passage, preceded her into the room, saying 
 in a tone almost defiant, "You will see I 
 am not so lonely aud unprotected as you 
 suppose." A deep red colour had flushed 
 to her temples, and she was evidently in 
 strong emotion. 
 
 Eleanor, whose heart beat wildly, followed 
 her close, and looked at Mr. Foljambe, who 
 stood before the fire in true John Bull atti- 
 tude. But, though his posture was EngHsh, 
 there was nothing in his face of the frankness, 
 the honesty of the Englishman. He was a 
 well-preserved, handsome-looking man, but 
 with as sinister an eye, and as treacherous a
 
 282 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 mouth as Titian has given Philip the 
 Second. 
 
 He moved his eyes without moving his 
 head as Eleanor entered, and, though he 
 looked surprised and uncomfortable, he calm- 
 ly said : 
 
 *' Who is this young person ?" 
 
 *' This young lady is my guest — has been 
 so for some time,'* said Miss Clairvaux, 
 exerting strong mastery over herself, " and I 
 have no concealments from her. Eleanor ! 
 this gentleman — Mr. Eoljambe — has come 
 down here to compel my signature to that 
 paper ; if not by persuasion and argument, 
 then by threats and by force." 
 
 " Oh 1'' exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 " Pooh, pooh," said Mr. Eoljambe. 
 
 " You have" said Miss Clairvaux with 
 flashing eyes. "Was a strait waiscoat no 
 threat ? Did you not squeeze my wrist, and 
 say you would have no nonsense ?" 
 
 " Oh, dreadful, dreadful," exclaimed Eleanor.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 283 
 
 " You are making a fine mess of it," said 
 
 he impatiently. " ]\[iss I have not the 
 
 pleasure of knowing your name, nor do I 
 know anything you have to do with the pre- 
 sent aflPair — your friend here, Miss Clairvaux, 
 who, I acknowledge, has been acting like 
 a madwoman, though I never called her one, 
 has been deaf to all argument, all persuasion 
 on a matter nearly concerning us both, and 
 I certainly did go so far as to say, in a loose 
 sort of way, that a person so deaf to reason 
 must be only fit for a strait waiscoat — rather 
 a strong figure, doubtless, but used under 
 irritation — " 
 
 " He wanted me," burst forth Miss Clair- 
 vaux, "to sign away my entire interest in 
 the property without reading the deed — " 
 
 " Pooh, pooh—" 
 
 " And when I sat down as if to sign it, 
 but began to read it first, he took my wrist 
 with one hand, and laid the other on the 
 paper, saying ' I will have no nonsense — ' "
 
 284 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 "Pooh, pooh— " 
 
 " You did, false man ! because you thought 
 I was alone in the house !" 
 
 "Is it at all likely?" said Mr. Foljambe, 
 much moved, and appealing to Eleanor. 
 "Does not it carry improbability on the 
 face of it ?" 
 
 "Indeed, sir, this — " 
 
 "See for yourself," he continued, waving 
 his hand towards Miss Clairvaux, " under 
 what excitement she labours — look at her 
 swelling veins, her flushed complexion, her 
 eyes starting out of her head — '' 
 
 " Sir, sir !— " 
 
 "And tell me whether she looks like a 
 sane woman. The fact is, painful as it is 
 to state it, that there is insanity in her 
 family—" 
 
 "False, false, Jasper Foljambe!" cried 
 Miss Clairvaux indignantly. 
 
 "Perfectly true, I assure you," said he, 
 shrugging his shoulders, and addressing
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 285 
 
 Eleanor with studied softness and self- 
 command, ** Her father drowned himself." 
 
 " Oh, that I should hear this !" groaned 
 Miss Clairvaux. 
 
 "Hear this?" cried he, with sudden pas- 
 sion, turning sharp round upon her, " aye, and 
 you will hear much more and worse than this, 
 if you persist in acting in this insane way — " 
 
 "Eleanor! do you hear how he threatens 
 me?" 
 
 "Mr. Eoljambe," said Eleanor, looking 
 steadily at him, though she trembled Hke a 
 leaf, "it seems to me quite a simple thing, 
 since you say Miss Clairvaux has mistaken 
 the purport of the deed, to let her and me 
 read it through quietly, and see if she has 
 done so — " 
 
 " Oh, the idea !" said he contemptuously. 
 " What should you know of law ?" 
 
 "Whatever may be the value of my 
 opinion,'' said Eleanor, " I am at least en- 
 titled to form one."
 
 286 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " I deny the premisses." 
 
 "Let Mr. Debenliam, then, look it over 
 for Miss Clairvaux." 
 
 "Who is Mr. Debenhara?" said Mr. 
 Foljambe, evidently uneasy. " I never heard 
 of him before." 
 
 " He is a disinterested, spirited man, and 
 a friend on whose judgment Miss Clairvaux 
 can depend." 
 
 "Mr. Debenham is nothing to me, and 
 I don't see what spirit has to do with it. 
 Oh, I am completely wasting my time here, 
 and I shall have no more bother. It is your 
 own fault, Alicia, if I put the matter into 
 proper hands." 
 
 "That is precisely what you had better 
 do," said Miss Clairvaux, " things are always 
 best put into proper hands. There are no 
 hands, however, that can compel me to sign 
 a deed without reading it." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! you might have read it, 
 you know perfectly well ; but you have made
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 287 
 
 it a matter of temper now, and I have my 
 temper, too — a pretty strong one. Well, I 
 am sorry for this. You have completely 
 exposed yourself." 
 
 And without another word, he walked out 
 of the room and out of the house. 
 
 "He has exposed himself, I think," 
 ejaculated Eleanor. " What a man !" 
 
 Miss Clairvaux burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh ! Eleanor," said she, as the young 
 girl put her arm round her, " what a tower of 
 strength you were ! How could you face 
 him so ?" 
 
 " I hardly know," said Eleanor between 
 laughing and crying, " I am astonished at 
 myself, like Katterfelto." 
 
 " How you came down upon him with Mr. 
 Debenham ! It really was very droll, if it 
 were not so shocking !" And Miss Clairvaux 
 laughed hysterically, and then cried again. 
 " It was like pricking a bladder — he imme- 
 diately collapsed !"
 
 288 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " A man cannot really be brave who is so 
 easily frightened at the mere name of another 
 man," said Eleanor. "I had no idea Mr. 
 Debenham's name would prove so powerful 
 an ally.'' 
 
 " My dear, bullies are never brave. And 
 his being so frightened showed the badness of 
 his cause. He guesses Mr. Debenham to be 
 a lawyer, and dares not let him see the 
 deed." 
 
 "He must be a very bad man/' said 
 Eleanor, " what dreadful things he said !" 
 
 " And so wickedly false ! You know, 
 Eleanor, I told you about my poor father's 
 death. I know all about it that Jasper does ; 
 he was ' found drowned' — there was an 
 inquest, of course, and that was the verdict. 
 I was an infant at the time, and so was 
 Jasper; but I heard all about it afterwards 
 from my mother. Mr. Clairvaux was a young 
 man universally beloved ; he had merely gone 
 to visit a dying person one dark evening,
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 289 
 
 and, coming home, missed his footing and 
 walked into the river. There was not a 
 shadow of truth in Jasper's wicked imputa- 
 tion. Oh ! how fond he must be of money 
 to go such lengths for it, and all for himself, 
 for he has neither wife nor child living ! 
 True, he wants to invest his own money as 
 well as mine in the same concern; and, 
 therefore, thinks well of it ; but to get the 
 management of my principal into his own 
 hands would be to make me still more 
 dependent on him than I am already." 
 
 *' I am sorry you should be dependent on 
 him at all," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Aye, so am I. You see, my dear, it is 
 really a very painful case. My step-father, 
 dear Mr. Foljambe, was as good a man as 
 ever breathed ; but he had his crotchets : we 
 all have. Now, one of his crotchets was about 
 my father. He did not feel quite sure that 
 he had not drowned himself: I mean, wilfully. 
 Perhaps Jasper fostered this idea in him. 
 
 VOL. I. TJ
 
 290 MEADOWLEIGIT. 
 
 He dwelt upon this latterly, when his own 
 mind was weakening, and persuaded him- 
 self that no man would do such a thing who 
 was right in his mind, and that the tendency 
 might be hereditary, and that, therefore, my 
 father's daughter might inherit it. And, 
 therefore, this dear, good man, with the best 
 intentions, mind you, left me the property 
 which is the chief of my income, independent 
 of any control, unless in the event of my be- 
 coming deranged ; and then it was to be 
 admistered for me by Jasper." 
 
 " Oh ! that was a most unfortunate proviso !" 
 said Eleanor. 
 
 " Indeed it was ; because, though I hope 
 and pray that I may never be in that pitiable 
 case, yet Jasper, you see, has a reason for 
 wishing it, and a reason for trying to bring it 
 to pass.'* 
 
 " Can a man be so wicked ?" 
 
 " My dear Eleanor I can any one with the 
 slightest knowledge of history, or who even
 
 MEADOTTLEIGH. 291 
 
 sees the daily papers, doubt of the possibihty 
 of any wickedness ? I hope and pray, how- 
 ever, that this wickedness may not be in 
 Jasper. Yes, I both hope and pray.*' 
 
 " What did he Riean, I wonder," said 
 Eleanor, uneasily, " about putting the affair 
 now into proper hands ?" 
 
 " Oh, that was an idle threat," said Miss 
 Clairvaux. "You had so completely posed 
 him with Mr. Debenham, that he felt he must 
 say something, and so said that ; but it could 
 be nothing but an idle threat. What is there 
 to put in anybody's hands ? He might 
 cajole or threaten me into doing a thing T 
 had no mind to, but it would not stand tlie 
 light of day, and there would be nothing 
 he would in reality have more reason to dread 
 than publicity. Men domineer over us poor 
 women often enough, when they can do it 
 with impunity ; but happily, for us, they have 
 a salutary fear of one another. How you did 
 fire up, to be sure ! I wish your mother 
 
 u 2
 
 292 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 could have seen you. Are you going to write 
 to her, this evening ?" 
 
 " Do you wish me to do so ?" 
 
 " Why, yes, I think I do. I read charac- 
 ters pretty accurately, and I think your mother 
 has discretion. Tell her the story without 
 reserves. I think she will feel for me ; and 
 for you." 
 
 Eleanor did so; and then showed her letter 
 to Miss Clairvaux, who was quite satisfied 
 with her own place in it. 
 
 " Yes," said she, returning it to her, '' that 
 will do very nicely. You have told the whole 
 affair * out of the face,' as the Irish say ; and 
 really, it ought to be known to somebody, or, in 
 case Jasper finds some new way of assailing me, 
 where am I ? My dear, I feel sadly shaken 
 by this business. Do play me something to 
 compose me, as David used to compose 
 Saul." 
 
 " What will you have ?" said Eleanor sitting 
 down to the piano.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 293 
 
 *' Oh, anything but a galop or a polka. 
 Something lulling and quieting/' 
 
 So Eleanor, after a moment's thought, 
 began to play Mendelssohn's Overture to the 
 Midsummer Night's Dream. Does my reader 
 know it ? Let me tell him what there is in it. 
 Firstly, Shakspeare draws four long deep 
 breaths, for it is Shakspeare s dream, you are 
 aware ; and he has fallen asleep 
 
 On summer eve, by haunted stream. 
 
 This stream ripples over pebbles ; you hear 
 it, he hears it, almost all the way through ; and 
 a large blue-bottle fly having entangled him- 
 self in a spider's web close to the sleeper's 
 ear, commences humming and fighting with 
 extraordinary vigour, till the tiny hubbub 
 ridiculously seems to the dreamer like a 
 squabble between two elfin sprites, and lo ! 
 Oberon and Titania are quarrelling and rating 
 each other in good set terms. A shepherd 
 boy wending homewards, trills a rustic
 
 294 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 roundelay : you hear it in the overture, 
 Shakspeare hears it in his dream, and forth- 
 with dreams of Athenian clowns and their 
 interlude — a donkey brays behinds the hedge, 
 and straightway "Bottom is translated/ 
 But these brief interruptions die away, and 
 again we have the water musically rippling 
 and the captive fly buzzing, and again fairies 
 trip lightly through the dream, which grows 
 deeper and more fantastic till the sleeper be- 
 comes insensible of external sounds. So then 
 we have Titania's foohng, and Oberon's forgive- 
 ness, and lovers losing themselves in woods and 
 fogs, and stately wedding-trains and awkward 
 country merriment ; and just as all seems 
 merry as a marriage bell — the spell breaks, 
 and with two or three long luxurious sighs, 
 the dreamer wakes ! 
 
 All this and more would Miss Clairvaux's 
 fancy have conjured up while Mendelssohn's 
 sweet music lasted, had it not been jangled 
 and out of time. Instead of which, she only
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 295 
 
 gave an impatient sigh and said, " that won't 
 do/' 
 
 "Perhaps I can think of something that 
 will do better," said Eleanor after a pause, 
 and then she began slowly and plaintively 
 to play the first movement of Rossini's Stabat 
 Mater, wherein one can even hear the sad 
 mother's sobs. 
 
 " Oh no, that's worse !" internipted Miss 
 Clairvaux, putting her hands to her ears. 
 " It affects me quite too much ! Oh Eleanor, 
 my love, T am ashamed to be so wayward and 
 childish." 
 
 " You are neither, dear Miss Clairvaux," 
 said Eleanor, leaving the piano, *' only your 
 nerves have been jarred. Let me read some- 
 thing to you/' 
 
 " Aye, do." 
 
 " Poetry or prose ?" 
 
 " Poetry, I think." 
 
 As Eleanor knew that Miss Clairvaux ad- 
 mired Evangeline, and had not read Hiawatha,
 
 296 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 she ventured to begin it, and was secretly con- 
 gratulating herself on the success of her choice, 
 when Miss Clairvaux half-penitently said : 
 
 " My dear girl, it is a shame to go on. I 
 have not heard one word !" 
 
 "Ah. then," said Eleanor, immediately 
 putting her book aside, " do not let us force 
 thoughts any longer. I * was thinking of 
 Hiawatha no more than you were, so it is 
 a good thing you stopped me." 
 
 " ' Words, words, words,' as poor Hamlet 
 said — by the way, what a singular character 
 his was, poor fellow. I speak of him as if he 
 l>ad lived and felt as Shakspeare made him 1" 
 observed Miss Clairvaux. "How apt we are 
 to do that ! Did Shakspeare mean him to be 
 really mad or not? that's the puzzle. Mr. 
 Foljambe would say yes ; I say iio." 
 
 " Please do not let us talk any more of that 
 disagreeable Mr. Foljambe." 
 
 "No, we will send him to Coventry. 
 Tasso, again, was he mad ?"
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 297 
 
 " no, surely !" 
 
 " He did not deserve to be put into St. 
 Anne's amid the sounds of lashes and chains. 
 By the way, how horribly they used lunatics 
 then — what secrets stone walls could tell ! — 
 but he laboured under stransre though inno- 
 cent delusions latterly.'* 
 
 " Shakspeare n:iight have made as good 
 a play of him as of Hamlet," said Eleanor. 
 
 "My dear, w^iat are you thinking of? he 
 lived after Shakspeare." 
 
 " O yes, to be sure ! what could I be 
 thinking of ? I wonder whether Leonora really 
 cared for him." 
 
 " It is heresy to doubt it," said Miss Clair- 
 vaux. " Probably, however, hers was a 
 much less impassioned affection than his. 
 She was calm, and good, and gentle, and 
 doomed to a premature death. And doubt- 
 less, in spite of all his woes, he felt that 
 
 " 'Twas better to have loved and lost 
 Than never to have loved at all."
 
 298 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " Is that your own theory, Miss Clairvaux ?" 
 " Yes, my dear, it is. You must not 
 think, however, I could tell you a romantic 
 story if I would. ' A blank, my lord !' " 
 
 Eleanor, remembering the legend annexed 
 to that blank, however, questioned whether 
 Miss Clairvaux were in this instance to be 
 strictly believed any more than Viola.
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 299 
 
 CHAPTER XV, 
 
 My garden, painted o'er 
 With Nature's hand, not Art's, can pleasures yield 
 Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 
 
 Next morning, Mr. Foljambe's visit 
 seemed more like a bad dream than a reality. 
 The mower's scythe was heard on the grass- 
 plat, and Miss Clairvaux, with a much-worn 
 gardener's calendar in her hand, was prepar- 
 ing for a morning's busy gardening. 
 
 •' Eleanor," said she, ** I want you to be 
 fond of gardening too — " 
 
 *' I shall like it very much," said Eleanor^
 
 300 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 " but you must teach me the very alphabet ; 
 for though mamma boasts of having a garden, 
 it really does not deserve the name, so that 
 I am miserably ignorant." 
 
 " Oh, if you are but docile and active, 
 you will do. Here, for instance, are some 
 shreds to cut up ; and, after that, you can 
 put on your shabbiest gloves and come out 
 to me. I want Jacob to dig up some new 
 compartments for perennials and biennials, 
 and then 1 shall plant them in ; or rather 
 show you how to do so, which will save my 
 back and improve your capabilities. There 
 are all these seeds, too, to sow, though it 
 is early for them. They will come up in six 
 weeks. The gravel wants turning, and the 
 borders want edging, so there is plenty 
 for Jacob to do. And I am going to have 
 a new flower-border cut in the grassplat, so 
 you may design the shape of it, if you like ; 
 hable to correction." 
 
 Eleanor entered into this new occupation
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 301 
 
 with avidity and pursued it with zeal. She 
 had been hard at work all the morning when 
 she heard Miss Clairvaux calling her from 
 the honsQ. She instantly ran in. 
 
 " Come and have some cake, Eleanor," 
 cried Miss Clairvaux, " and see ! here is 
 something for you — " holding up a letter 
 wdth foreign stamps. 
 
 *' Oh !" exclaimed Eleanor. Only that 
 single monosyllable escaped her; but cheek 
 and brow^ were instantly sufiPused with a 
 bright rose-tint, and, murmuring something 
 about 
 
 " How warm gardening makes one !" 
 
 She was running off to her room. 
 
 "But, Eleanor, I want you to have 
 soQie cake," said ^liss Clairvaux, mischiev- 
 ously. 
 
 " In two minutes, dear Miss Clairvaux — 
 I will but smooth my rough hair and wash 
 my hands — " 
 
 " Deceit, deceit !" interrupted Miss Clair-
 
 302 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 vaux. " I grant you a quarter-of-an-hour for 
 your letter, or as long as you like," — adding 
 sotto voce, as Eleanor ran off, " I have been 
 young myself." 
 
 The quarter-of-an-hour lengthened into an 
 hour ; in fact, the whole morning stole away 
 before Eleanor re- appeared. When she came 
 down to dinner, it was with saddened looks 
 and red eyes. 
 
 " My dear, has anything happened ?" said 
 Miss Clairvaux quickly. ^ 
 
 " Nothing, thank you." 
 
 Claudia being in waiting, there was no- 
 thing more to be said. Miss Clairvaux, who 
 had noticed ' Roma ' on the post-mark, had 
 prepared some harmless banter, which now 
 was resolutely suppressed. She pressed her 
 to eat, but not pertinaciously, and affected 
 not to notice that her dinner was taken 
 away almost untasted. 
 
 When they left the table, Eleanor was 
 slipping away to her room, when Miss Clair-
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 303 
 
 vaux put her arm round her, drew her gently 
 towards her, kissed her, and said, 
 
 "Your letter does not seem to have 
 brought you good news. Can I give you 
 any comfort?" 
 
 "None, thank you," said Eleanor, with 
 a catch in her breath that was almost a 
 sob. '* It is nothing — " 
 
 But her eyes overflowed as she spoke, and 
 she turned aside to hide the tears that would 
 fall before she could get out of sight. Miss 
 Clairvaux did not attempt to detain her ; but 
 her heart was full of pity. Mrs. Gray don 
 had enabled her to divine the source of the 
 grief which otherwise would have been a 
 complete mystery to her. The lover at Rome 
 was doubtless at the bottom of it — he was 
 faithless, or unkind, or in some way un- 
 worthy. The old, old story, new to each 
 sufferer in turn. If he were untrue to 
 Eleanor, she would be well quit of him; 
 there was no need to force on her such an
 
 304 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 unpalatable truth, it would corne . to her 
 naturally of itself. She would not force her 
 confidence nor obtrude her pity; only win 
 and soothe her by additional kindness ; for 
 kindness heals. 
 
 Now, for Miss Clairvaux to show additional 
 kindness, one would think, was no easy 
 matter, since she was already as kind as could 
 be ; and yet, the minute after she had made 
 this amiable resolution, she was flaming out 
 in high anger, because a railway messenger 
 made an overcharge of sixpence for a parcel. 
 In vain he showed her the book ; she said it 
 was evident that the four had been altered 
 into ten, and appealed to Claudia to bear 
 W'itness to it, which caused Claudia to be over- 
 taken with a fit of stupidity. Then Miss 
 Clairvaux spoke sharply to her, and the man 
 began to bluster and say it was as much as 
 his place was worth to alter the entry ; how 
 could she think he would ? his character was 
 as iniportant to him as hers to herself. Then
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 305 
 
 Miss Clairvaux remarked, that it was as much 
 as his place was worth to be impertinent ; 
 and he said he knew that as well as anybody, 
 and did not need to be told it : but the monev 
 he would have, or else take away the parcel 
 again. Then Miss Clairvaux, with ineffable 
 coolness, said : 
 
 "Pooh, that is not to be thought of. 
 Take away the parcel, indeed, when 
 you have only just brought it? Now, 
 look for a moment at the entry with your 
 own eyes — " 
 
 But no, he would not; the lady must 
 pardon him ; he hadn't made the entry, he 
 was only the servant of the company — if she 
 did not pay what the company charged, he 
 must be answerable to the company, and pay 
 the difference out of his own pocket — he, a 
 poor man with eleven children, two in the 
 small-pox, and obhged to sleep among them 
 all when he did get a wink of sleep ; and if 
 there was any overcharge, the lady had only 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 MEADOWLEIGH. 
 
 to pay it and then come upon the company — 
 the company always heard reason. 
 
 Here Miss Clairvaux swung round all at 
 once, and said quite placably : 
 
 "Well, then, that's what I'll do. I'll 
 write to the acting manager — '* 
 
 "That will be the best way. He'll be 
 sure to attend to you, my lady, only — " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know. I'll write to Mr. : 
 
 but how about this small-pox ? Have your 
 children never been vaccinated ? This should 
 not be — " 
 
 " Yes, my lady, but the young 'uns couldn't 
 have took it proper. The others must have 
 took it proper, 'cause they haven't caught 
 it." 
 
 " How are the children going on ? have 
 you proper advice for them ?" All this 
 while she was signing the book, and counting 
 out the ten-pence. " Claudia, I have only 
 ninepence halfpenny — can you lend me a 
 halfpenny ? Well, and so they are going on
 
 MEADOWLEIGH. 307 
 
 nicely, are they ? that's a blessing. You 
 should get your rooms whitewashed, or white- 
 wash them yourself. Your wife might do it. 
 Have you a brush ? Would you like me to 
 lend you one ? My girls use a w^hitewash 
 brush quite handily. Never mind the 
 children being marked. Good looks are all 
 very well, by they are not the chief thing, 
 and too often a snare. Well, I wish them 
 all better. Here, you are leaving your cap 
 behind you. I'll write to the acting manager." 
 Afterwards, when she had cooled upon it, 
 she was rather sorry she had engaged to do 
 so ; but she did, because she had said she 
 would. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 Printed by A. Scliulze, 13, Poland Street. 
 
 y