Newsome advanced, and sat beside the women on the settle.
‘It must be of the greatest comfort to William,’ he said, ‘to know that he can be certain of your fortitude. What pangs he would suffer, if he could not rely upon you! And how glad you must be that there is this, that you can do for him.’
‘Yes indeed,’ cried Kitty. ‘’Tis in such times that a man may bless himself that he has got a good wife.’
‘And he knows,’ continued Newsome, ‘that you have good friends about you. Mr. Lufton was able to assure him of that.’
I found myself obliged to come forward, still tortured by the thought of that lost letter and the messages that I had forgotten. I said hastily that William desired her not to lose heart, for that he would come back, safe and sound, when the wars were over.
‘And when will that be, sir?’ asked Mary faintly, as though she depended upon us to tell her.
‘Very soon, I daresay,’ declared Kitty. ‘A tyrant is never permitted to live for long. And then, you know, William will write to you and you may write to him.’
‘Ah, Ma’am, I can’t read or write. He was teaching me—’
‘I will write for you, – anything you bid me say. We will tell him how cleverly you are managing.’
Mary shook her head and murmured that she should not know how to manage without William, that she was very ignorant and had had no schooling. She had looked to him for everything.
‘You may overcome all trials,’ said Newsome, ‘if you look to our Heavenly Father. If you please, we will pray to Him now, that He may give you strength.’
We all knelt and he repeated the Lord’s Prayer. Kitty and Mary joined with him, but I could not. I was suffocated with a needless anxiety lest he should repeat the prayer for Those at Sea. I might have known him better; he was not likely to increase Mary’s sorrows by reminding her that William was not only gone, but gone into danger. He proceeded to the prayer for All Sorts and Conditions of Men. Then, raising Mary up, he seated himself again beside her upon the settle. I thought that she did look a little more collected. He began to talk to her in a low voice and she seemed to be attending.
Kitty and I went over to talk to the quiet little children in the pen. The younger had fallen asleep upon an old sack, but the elder was inclined to whimper. I lifted him up and sat with him on my knee, upon the old bench by the lobster-pots. He was a fine little fellow, with Mary’s eyes. He knew me well, of course, and sat there, contentedly enough, playing with my watch and seals.
I could only catch a word or two of Newsome’s discourse to Mary. He seemed to be reminding her of the forlornness of her condition before she married William, and pointing out that her lot, in spite of this temporary trial, was a thousand times better. She seemed to listen very earnestly, but I think that she took more comfort from the tone of his voice than from the sense of what he said. Newsome’s voice in the pulpit is nothing extraordinary. He is not an eloquent preacher. But in conversation it has a friendly warmth which is heartening.
It was with some stupefaction that I remembered my own proposal, five years before, to take Orders and be Vicar of Ullacombe. I had thought myself equal to tasks of this kind! I had, in fact, always supposed that I should make a better parson than Newsome, since I might have preached a better sermon.
Kitty, meanwhile, was unpacking a basket that she had brought with her. She took out a bottle of wine and a fowl, ready cut up. Moving quietly about the room, she set a meal upon the table. I was reminded of the meal that I had watched Mary set, on my first coming to the cottage, when William sat, where I sat now, mending his nets. The whole anguish of it broke over me afresh, as I thought of the haven which this little house had seemed to me then.
‘When Boo goes, you should go with him, I think,’ murmured Kitty, coming up to me. ‘I shall stay with Mary for a little and make her eat a good meal.’
‘But we have given her no advice about the farm,’ said I. ‘William thinks that she should sell it.’
‘That must wait. ’Tis too soon to speak to her of it. She cannot comprehend much more today.’
Mary suddenly sprang up in a wild burst of sobbing, whereat I heard Kitty give a low exclamation of relief. The little boy slipped from my knee and ran to his mother. Newsome and I hurried from the house.
‘Best leave her to Kitty now,’ he said.
Before we mounted our horses he methodically removed his red flannel protecters and advised me to brush the sand from my knees.
We rode away from Gulley’s Cove. I suppose that I shall never see it again. A farmer at Gulley’s Cross bought the land, but the cottage remains empty. Few would care to live in so secluded a spot. In time it will fall down and become a ruin.
‘I imagine,’ said I, as we went home, ‘that you are accustomed to such scenes?’
‘Pretty well. This was not so painful as some. Mary won’t starve, and William may some day return to her. One can offer some rational consolation. But sometimes …’
He broke off and shook his head.
‘I wonder then,’ said I, ‘that you can endure it.’
‘Why, Miles, I believe what I tell them. Without religion, I do not see how human existence is to be supported. If there is to be no hope of another, and a better world, – but I have that hope, and would wish to impart it to others.’
I had never before heard him speak so warmly of his calling. I had thought that he took Orders merely as a means of livelihood. And so, I daresay, he did; but his heart was in his work.
He and Kitty appeared to lead so placid and cheerful a life that I had imagined this distressing part of his duties to weigh but lightly upon his mind. I had always regarded myself as being the more sensitive to human suffering. I had taken it for granted that all clergymen must pray in cottages. My father, I know, did so without any very painful feelings; he was confident that he relieved poor sufferers. But, for Newsome, I could see that it had been a considerable effort, both of mind and spirit. He looked pale and tired.
‘Does it appear to you,’ I said suddenly, ‘that we are more humane? That we feel for others more than our fathers did?’
‘Possibly. What of it?’
That is just like Newsome. If one propounds an idea to him he will always ask: What of it? He never muses. I replied that if we had really become a different people we should, perhaps, set about managing our affairs in a different way.
‘What affairs? Do you propose to abolish suffering by Act of Parliament?’
‘I suppose that the burden of suffering might be more equally distributed. The poor might be better protected against it than they are, if all were determined that it should be so.’
‘Well! That is your business, not mine. When you have made every labourer in the country as happy as your friend Chalfont I will engage a curate for all the praying that I shall have to do.’
Kitty joined us at Ullacombe late in the afternoon, bringing a good report of Mary. The cow had calved and Mary had attended the creature with signal success; she was not a little proud of herself, since William had formerly undertaken such tasks.
Both Kitty and Newsome were as cheerful as usual that evening, and I knew that they did not think the better of me for my continued low spirits. But I felt that I should not know an easy moment until I had taken some decisive step. They had done what they could, and were entitled to peace of mind. I had done nothing. I was not content to allow that William’s misfortune was of a common sort which could be deplored and forgotten. It appeared to me that the emotions which had governed me during the past three days must lead me to some definite conclusion. Our feelings must ever be our best guide. Guide to what? What of it? I hoped to find out at Portsmouth.
Captain Dawson
THESE MEMORIES STILL have power to agitate me beyond what I could have thought possible. For some days I have been unable to continue my memoir.
My health is much improved. I am, in fact, quite well enough to get back to town. But whereas, a month ago, I was eag
er to be off, I am now tempted to linger. I have made no effort to arrange my progress of summer visits, although it is now June.
Pronto keeps very quiet and does not plague me to be up and doing. I suspect him. He has deceived me before by this sham quiescence. Has he given up all hopes of a place? Does he mean to devote himself henceforth entirely to conveyancing?
I wish that I were certain he does not mean to turn his coat! To be sure, our Tory friends may have done as much for us as they will ever do, but what interest does Pronto hope to secure among the Whigs? He has, I know, assurance enough for anything; he is capable de tout. But I don’t see how he hopes to manage this somersault. I suppose that a few years of purification, during which we attend to our legal practice, might be the first step in such a course. It must, in any case, be several years before the other fellows have anything to offer us. Pronto is no rat, to desert a sinking ship. He transfers himself to fresh quarters in a manner which smacks of integrity and principle, while the fatal rocks are still a great way off. I believe it to be Pronto’s opinion that Reform must come within the next dozen years. He is not so sure, though, whether it will be the work of Whigs, who have got in, or of Tories, who are determined not to be thrown out. And she who might have told him is no more.
The countryside is very lovely at this time of year. I am able to ride again and I went yesterday with Sukey over to Ribstone. The dog roses are blooming and the hay as good as ever I saw it. Please God we have a good harvest! Two bad ones in succession have come hard upon our people. How the poorest make shift to live I don’t know, with bread the price it is. Wheat is double what it was two years ago. There is trouble everywhere, riots, rick-burning and the like. I suppose that it must always be so, after a long period of war, but it must be felt most sharply in such places as Bramfield where the Squire has no conscience.
Sukey was delighted with her outing. We talked much of old times and she reminded me of many little particulars which had slipped my memory. I have never felt myself so much in sympathy with her. She reminded me that our mother had her own names for many wild flowers, – not the names common among the country people here. She must have learnt them from her Irish mother. We passed by Ribstone Pit which was full of the weeds which, round here, are called dandelions. Sukey remembered that our mother called them ‘golden lads’, and the seeds, which are here sometimes called dandelion clocks, she called ‘chimney sweepers’ on account of their likeness to the brushes which are used for that purpose.
‘In a few weeks,’ said Sukey, ‘Ribstone Pit will be a sea of chimney sweepers.’
I believe that she might be a very agreeable companion, could she but escape from the penance of her life here. Some provision must be made for her when my father dies. I must see to it. She shall not be left to live with George and Anna. I have already provided for her in my Will, but I must consider a nearer future than that. I think it possible that she might do well, and be very happy, as housekeeper for me when I get to Troy Chimneys. She would be her own mistress and could do as she pleased, so long as she made me comfortable. A grateful sister is more biddable than a wife. She has a good mind and would, with a little encouragement, read more. She can talk amusingly. But she must learn to keep a good table. Upon that I should insist. Here she takes no trouble and, of course, has not the money to lay out that I should give her. I dropped a hint of this scheme to her and she was overjoyed. It is very pleasant to think that Troy Chimneys may bring unalloyed felicity to her. For me it can never be what I once hoped, but I shall feel that I have not laboured all these years in vain. My mother would have been pleased at this plan. She would have allowed that I am not entirely selfish.
We came home by Ridding’s farm and I stopped to call to Harry over the hedge. I had not seen him for a great while. He now has the farm which his father had before him, and he married, some years ago, a girl from Chipping Campden. It is a snug place; the best farm, I think, upon the Bramfield property.
I was surprised at the black look that he gave me, though black looks are now pretty common hereabouts. He came up with an unwilling air, as though angry at being taken from his hay-making. I asked him how he did and he scowled.
‘What’s wrong, man?’ cried I. ‘Is anything amiss?’
‘You should know. You gentry should know if there is anything amiss when a man is turned out of his farm.’
It did not occur to me, at first, that he could be speaking of himself. I thought that he was indignant on behalf of some neighbour, and asked who the man was.
‘Myself, to be sure,’ said he. ‘I am to be flung out at Midsummer. They have got the law against me.’
Our exclamations of surprise and indignation soon convinced him that we knew nothing of it and he became a little more civil. He came out into the lane and told us some of the particulars.
I think that it is the worst thing they have done yet. It is all that woman’s work, of course. She is so stupid that she cannot even understand her own advantage; she will never get another tenant so good.
It is not only the bad harvests; he has had singularly ill luck in other ways, pest among his cattle, and a flood at Ribstone brook which ruined his haystacks. And then he spent too much of his savings upon a new barn, having reason to understand that half the cost of it was to be borne by Ned. That is the work of a rascally attorney, employed by Mrs. Ned as an agent; he is continually playing tricks of that sort, I believe. Harry says that Ned told him to build the barn and said that he would pay half. Now this Simmons, this agent, denies that there was any agreement and asks for evidence!
Be that as it may, poor Harry has got behind with his rent, has forfeited his lease, and is told to quit. I am sure that he could pull round, were he given time. But Simmons wants the farm for his son, a half-witted creature who never ploughed a furrow in his life. I urged upon Harry to see an attorney of his own, – I gave him the name of one in Tewkesbury. Although he has nothing written, he has witnesses of Ned’s spoken promise about the barn. And they are cheating him in other ways; they are turning him out at such short notice that he will have to sell his stock at a disadvantage. I daresay Simmons hopes to buy it at a bargain. But he declares that attorneys are all scoundrels together and that he will get no justice among them, though they will take what is left of his money. He is a pig-headed fellow and too ignorant to look after his own interests.
Sukey, as we rode home, asked me if I could not remonstrate with Ned. But that I cannot do; I must keep out of Ned’s affairs. Remonstrance would be useless. Any person supporting Harry Ridding must join battle with Mrs. Ned. A stranger might do that, but I cannot. For me she is too dangerous an antagonist.
Yet I hate a tyrant, and I feel almost as indignant for Harry as I did for William Hawker. Ten years have not taught me to take these things in a philosophical mood. They rouse in me a passion of rebellion. But nothing comes of it. My passion blows away, like the chimney sweepers.
I had best get back to Portsmouth and the set-down I got from Captain Dawson.
Every incident of my ride to Dawlish, and my return to Ullacombe, is printed for ever upon my memory. But I can recollect nothing at all of my journey to Portsmouth, – how I travelled, or when I reached it. This is not surprising; I am often astonished that I should remember as much as I do. Miles has this retentive capacity, I suppose, because so very little has happened to him in the course of thirty-six years. Pronto’s powers of recollection are of a different sort. He has facts, names and dates at his command. But he is not plagued by ‘the inward eye’ as Ludovic would call it. No scenes are printed upon his memory for ever, and that is one thing for which to be thankful! Were I burdened with Pronto’s memory–
I suppose that I must have travelled post to Portsmouth, for I intended to go on to London after. I had not seen Dawson for some years nor had I met his new wife. They had visited Bramfield, and the family had reported her to be well enough, if one did not remember that she succeeded Caroline. She was, I think, anxious to be upon good te
rms with us, for it was highly convenient to her that we should have the care of little Frank.
My first recollection of Portsmouth is of dining with the Dawsons at their lodgings, in a large party, and of feeling that dismay which always comes upon me when I must be Miles to some of the company and Pronto to others.
To Henry Dawson I was Miles; he had only met me at Bramfield and our closest acquaintance had been in those happy days when he was courting Caroline, before Edmée came to the Park. But with Mrs. Dawson it was otherwise. In her eyes I was an M.P. and a man of fashion. She knew all about me, knew with whom I was generally seen when in town, knew at what houses I habitually stayed. She had, so she said, quite longed to meet me, and I was forced to rattle away to her in a very Pronto-ish style which caused poor Dawson to open his eyes. She was an elegant, pretty woman, but too fine for a sailor’s wife. She could not endure Portsmouth and was uneasily aware that her husband merely commanded a sloop, while my brother Eustace was captain of a frigate.
Dawson, meanwhile, was talking eagerly to his brother officers and, when I could attend to them, I found myself unable to understand a word that they said. For the greater part of the meal they talked of some French and Dutch prizes, then refitting in the dockyards. When the ladies left us they endeavoured, out of courtesy to me, to change the subject; they brought up one which they imagined must be within my comprehension. I might be excused for not knowing the difference between a mizzen course and a driver, but the whole nation must be disturbed by the strength of the American fleet, especially by their 44-gun frigates, and must be asking how we should come off, should we ever be called upon to engage them. Some of those present insisted that we must cut down our own seventy-fours to the clamps of the quarterdeck and the forecastle, to make what they called razee frigates. Others maintained that we should build new vessels with a complete spar deck to carry thirty guns.
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