Dan, who was a much sharper fellow, could have helped a great deal, but his back was up at the first word, and he would do nothing but sulk. Moreover, George himself detected him doing away with some wood out of that which was to make Farmer Goodenough's farm gates, under colour that it was a remnant only fit for firewood. Having already announced that he would never again employ his cousin after another of these peculations, he kept to his word, and in spite of Molly's tears and abuse, and Dan's deeper objurgations, he persisted. Daniel tried to get work at Downhill, but all the time declared that them Gobblealls was at the bottom of it, having a spite at him.
Just at this time Captain Carbonel was driving the phaeton, with his wife in it, home from Elchester; when, just as they were passing Todd's house, a terrible scream was heard. Shrieks that did not mean naughtiness but agony; and a flame was visible within the door. In one moment the captain was over the wicket, past the lurcher, dragging with him his great old military cloak, which had been over Mary's knees. Another second, and he had wrapped little Hoglah in it from top to toe, stifling the flames by throwing her down and holding her tight, while her mother came flying in from the garden; and Mary, throwing the reins of the horse to the servant, hurried in.
Tirzah was screaming and sobbing. "My child! My dear! Oh, Hoggie! Hoggie! Is she dead! Oh!"
"No, no; I think not," said the captain. And, indeed, no sooner did he begin to unroll her than cries broke out, very sufficient answer as to the child's being alive, and as her mother vehemently clasped her they grew more agonising.
"Let me see how much she is burnt," said Mrs Carbonel. "You had better not squeeze her. It makes it worse."
The child's poor little neck and bosom proved to have been sadly burnt. Her mother had been heating the oven, and had gone out to fetch fresh faggots, when the little one, trying in baby-fashion to imitate the proceedings, had set her pinafore on fire. Many more children were thus destroyed than now, when they do not wear so much cotton, nor such long frocks and pinafores.
Poor little Hoglah screamed and moaned terribly, and the thought of her being unbaptised came with a shock across Mrs Carbonel. However, she did not think the injuries looked fatal, and speaking gently to soothe the mother, as she saw the preparations for baking, she said, "I think we can give her a little ease, my dear, my dear."
Tirzah was sobbing, screaming, and calling on her dear child, quite helpless at the moment, while Mary took the moaning child. Captain Carbonel, with his own knife (finding it more effective than the blunt old knife on the table), cut off the remains of the little garments which had become tinder, and then handed his wife the flour in a sort of scoop, and as she sprinkled it over the burnt surface, the shrieks and moans abated and gradually died away, the child muttered, "Nice, nice," and another word or two, which her mother understood as asking for something to drink. Beer, to Mary's dismay, was the only thing at hand, but after a sup of that, the little thing's black eyes closed, and she said something of "Mammy," and "Bye, bye." The great old cradle stood by, still used, though the child was three years old, and Mrs Carbonel laid her carefully in it.
"I think she will get well," said she to the mother, "only you must not let the flour be disturbed on any account." She had arranged handkerchiefs, her own, and a red one of Tirzah's, to cover the dressing. "I will send you some milk, and don't let the coverings be disturbed. Let her lie; only give her milk when she wants it, and I will come to see her to-morrow."
Tirzah was sobbing quietly now, but she got out a choked question as to whether the child could get well.
"Oh yes; no fear of that, if you let the flour alone, as Mrs Carbonel tells you," said the captain.
"Oh, oh! if it wasn't for you-" the mother began.
But Edmund wanted to get his wife away before there was a scene, and cut it short with, "There, there! We'll come again. Only let her alone, and don't meddle with the flour."
Tirzah did what no native of Uphill would have thought of. She clasped Mrs Carbonel's hand, threw herself on her knees, and kissed it.
"Thank God, not me," said Mary, much moved. "But you will give her to God now, and let her be baptised. I think she will live, but it ought to be as God's child."
When the curate came in a little later, to hear how the child was, Tirzah allowed him to baptize her privately. It might partly have been the dread of missing the Burial Service, but far more because in this present mood she was ready to do anything for madam.
Even when the neighbours thronged in, and Mrs Spurrell wanted to take the child up, pull off the flour, and anoint her with oil and spirit, she would not hear of it.
"They as saved her shall have their will of her," said she.
"Saved her! She'll sleep herself off to death! What's the good of simple stuff like that, with no sting nor bite in it?" said Nanny Barton.
"Ay," said Mrs Spurrell, "this ile as my great-aunt gave me, as they said was a white witch, with all her charrums, is right sovereign! Why, I did Jenny Truman's Sally with it when her arm was burnt."
"Ay, and you could hear her holler all over the place," said Tirzah; "and she've no use of her arm, poor maid! No, you shan't touch my child no how."
Tirzah kept her word, and Mrs Carbonel came every day and doctored the child, and Sophy brought her a doll, which kept her peaceful for hours. The lurcher never barked at them, but seemed to understand their mission. And a wonderful old gipsy grandmother of Tirzah's, with eyes like needles and cheeks like brown leather, came and muttered charms over the child, and believed her cure was owing to them; but she left a most beautiful basket, white and purple, for a present to the lady.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN. AN OFFER REJECTED.
"Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining
In desolation unrepining,
Without a hope on earth to find
A mirror in an answering mind,
Meek souls there are who little deem
Their daily strife an angel's theme."
Keble.
In the spring Dora was invited to spend a few weeks with an old family friend in London, where there were daughters who had always been her holiday friends, and with whom she exchanged letters, on big square pages of paper, filled to the very utmost with small delicate handwriting, crossed over so that they looked like chequer-work, and going into all the flaps and round the seal. They did not come above once in a month or six weeks, and contained descriptions of what the damsels had seen, thought, heard, read, or felt; so that they were often really worth the eightpence that had to be paid on their reception.
Edmund, who had business in London, took his sister-in-law there, driving old Major to the crossroads, where they met the stage-coach. He went outside, on the box-seat, and she in the dull and close-packed interior, where four persons and one small child had to make the best of their quarters for the six hours that the journey lasted. Tired, headachy, and dusty with March dust, at last Dora emerged, and was very glad to rattle through the London streets in a hackney coach to Mr Elwood's tall house, where there was a warm welcome ready for her.
But we need not hear of the pictures she saw, nor the music she heard, nor the plays she enjoyed, nor the parties she went to during that thorough holiday-though perhaps some would not call it a holiday, since the morning was spent in lessons in music, drawing, and Italian, in practising these same lessons, and in reading history aloud-the reading of some lighter book being an evening pleasure when the family were alone. Dora would not have enjoyed it half so much if it had not been for the times of real solid thought and interest. Her friends, too, had some poems still in manuscript lent to them, which made an immense impression on the young souls, and which they all learnt and discussed on Sundays, trying to enter into their meaning, and insensibly getting moulded by them. They were the poems that Dora knew a few years later as the "Christian Year." They made her home-work still dearer to her, and she had never let her interest fade among all her pleasures, but she was accumulating little gifts for the children, for Betty Puckle
church, Widow Mole, Judith Grey, and the rest.
One day, when some intimate friends of the Elwoods were spending the day with them, something was said about Dora's home; and one of the visitors exclaimed, "Uphill-Uphill, near Poppleby,-is that the place?"
"Yes."
"Then I wonder whether you can tell me anything about our dear old nursery maid, Judith Grey."
"Judith Grey! Oh yes! She is the very nicest person in all Uphill," cried Dora. "Is it your father that gives her a pension?"
"Yes. You know it was while carrying little Selina downstairs, that she put her foot into the string of James's humming-top, and tumbled down all the stone stairs. She managed to save Selina-dear old Judy!-but she hurt her back most dreadfully, and she can't ever be well again, so papa gives her an allowance. She writes cheerfully, but we should like to hear more about her. We all were so fond of her."
"Indeed, I don't wonder. She is so good and patient. Such a dear thing! Mary and I call her the bright spot in our parish."
"She lives with a sister, I think. Is she nice?"
Dora had her opportunity, and she painted Dan Hewlett and his household in no flattering colours. Molly was a slattern, and Dan was a thief, and the children ate up Judith's dainties, and they all preyed upon her. It was a perfectly horrid life for a good, well-trained, high-principled person to lead. In fact, she poured out all the indignant accusations that she and Mary had been wont to make between themselves or to Edmund; and she sent Caroline and Anne Barnard home greatly shocked at what she had told them of their dear Judy's surroundings.
Mrs Barnard came the next day, and begged to hear Miss Carbonel's account. Dora was a little more moderate than she had been to the young ladies; but, any way, it was sad enough, and Mrs Barnard gave hopes that something should be done. All the family sent little presents of books or articles of dress, and Dora promised to write and let her know of their reception.
It was one of the great pleasures of the return to spread them out before Judith, and to tell of her sight of the dear young ladies and their mother, and how tall, and what a fine girl little Miss Selina had become. But she did not seem quite so happy when she perceived that Dora had disclosed a good deal of her circumstances; and observed that her sister was always a good sister to her. Which Dora took leave to doubt, especially when she recognised Miss Barnard's pretty gift of a blue turnover, all on one side, upon young Polly's dirty shoulders. Judith waited, and hoped, and gave up hope, and found fault with the Barnards before she heard anything; but at last she did. The Barnards' old housekeeper, with whom Judith had lived, had married their head gardener. He had died, and she was settled in a cottage in the park, where she would be very happy to receive Judith, and make her comfortable. The place was only thirty miles off, and if she consented, Mrs Barnard would pay a visit she had been asked to make to the Duchess, and take Judith back in the easy carriage, so as to spare her all fatigue.
Dora and Sophy were in a state of transport, and wanted to rush off at once with the good news, but Mary withheld them. She thought it might be too much for so frail an invalid, and insisted on going with them and telling Judith herself. Nor would she go till after Sophy's morning studies were over, and they had had luncheons which, by-the-by, was not an early dinner, but a slender meal of cold meat, cake, or bread and cheese, of which Edmund never partook at all. She devised this delay on purpose to wear down the excitement, and Dora had begun to say how they should miss Judith, only it was all for her good.
Molly was out, as the sisters hoped, tossing the meadow hay, and Judith sat alone by the fire. Mary told her very gently of the scheme, and she kept on saying, "Thank you, ma'am," while the tears came into her eyes. Mrs Carbonel gave her Mrs Barnard's letter to read, but the tears came so thick and fast that she could not see it at first, nor indeed fully grasp the meaning, while two pairs of eyes were devouring her countenance as she read. Mrs Carbonel guessed how it was, and saw that the transports which Dora and Sophy expected were not by any means near, so she gently said, "We will leave you to read the letter, and come again to-morrow to hear what you think."
"Thank you, ma'am; thank you," said poor Judith, as well as she could among her tears.
"How stupid she is!" cried Sophy, as they emerged into the road.
"I don't believe she could read Mrs Barnard's letter," said Dora.
"No, not for tears," said Mary.
"Do you think she could have understood you?" added Sophy.
"Oh, yes; she understood well enough."
"But how could she be so dull as not to be delighted?" said Sophy.
"So ungrateful, too!" added Dora.
"My dear Dora! It was the embarrassment of her gratitude that touched me so much," exclaimed Mary.
"Do you really think she will not be enchanted to get away from that dismal hole, and live with honest people?" asked Sophy.
"My dears, I think you have quite forgotten that Mrs Dan Hewlett is her sister."
"Nobody would think so," said Dora.
"If she could only take Johnnie and Judy away with her," said Sophy, "before their father has spoiled them."
"You can't think she would refuse such an offer!" added Dora. "To be with a good, nice woman, and at peace among her friends. It really would be quite wicked in her to refuse."
Nevertheless, Mary withstood all the entreaties of her sisters to go with her to hear Judith's decision. Edmund heard them persuading her, and in his peremptory manner desired them to desist. So they hovered about the garden and home-field waiting for news.
But the news was not what they expected. Mrs Carbonel found Judith very tearful, but resolute.
"I could not do it, ma'am! I am sorry, sorry to the heart, to seem ungrateful for her kindness; but, indeed, I could not do it. I cannot leave my sister and the children."
"You would be so much more comfortable-so much better looked after."
"Yes, ma'am, I know that. Mrs Gregg is one of the best of women, and so kind. It is very good of her to be willing to take me in; but-"
"You need not be afraid of the journey. Mrs Barnard will come for you."
"Oh yes, ma'am, I know; but there's my sister, ma'am, and her children. I could not leave them."
"I was afraid they did not know how to take care of you, and that your brother-in-law was rough with you."
"My sister have been much better of late, since you have been here, ma'am; and the poor children, ma'am, I can do something for them."
"I see that John and Judy seem to respond to your care; but is it right to give up all your comfort and peace, and even your health, for so little as you are enabled to do for them? It would be better if there were some appreciation of your care, or some attention paid-"
"Molly is generally good to me. Yes, she is, ma'am; and poor little Johnnie, there ain't nothing he would not do for me. I'm greatly obliged to Mrs Barnard and the dear young ladies. I would dearly like to see them again; but Molly is my sister, and my sister is my sister, and I can't feel it right to leave her."
"I honour you, Judith. It is a right feeling. But when they neglect you, and prey upon you, can it be incumbent on you to give up all for their sakes?"
"I don't know, ma'am; but my poor sister, she has a hard life, and I think her husband would be worse to her if I went away. I couldn't have no comfort in thinking of them if I did."
"Do they know of this? Have they been persuading you?"
"No, ma'am; I did not say a word. Molly was out, and I wanted to think it out without being worried and terrified."
"Quite right, Judith. I am glad they do not know," said Mary, who had learned that "terrified" did not mean frightened, but "tormented." "I can well believe you have decided in true unselfishness, and in the fear of God. But if you see reason to change your mind, let me know in the course of the week."
Dora and Sophy were really quite angry at Judith's refusal, especially Dora, who had taken all the trouble of representing her condition to the Barnards.
"I should ca
ll it ungrateful," she said, "only I believe it is pure weakness and folly. Those people have been bullying her and tormenting her out of consenting."
"You are wrong, Dora," said her sister, "they know nothing about it! This is all her own doing."
"And," said Edmund, "if you were older, Dora, you would know how to appreciate a very noble act of self-denial."
Dora did not at all like Edmund to talk of her being older; but what he had said gave her something to think about, and she began to reverence the feeling that made Judith Grey choose the rough and ungenial life with the Hewletts, to comfort and sympathy with her friends.
Mrs Carbonel and Judith were mistaken in thinking the transaction could pass unknown to the rest of the family. Polly was near at hand, but had hidden herself, on the lad's approach, for fear of being called to account for not being at school, and she reported to her mother that "Madam Gobbleall had been ever so long with aunt, a-trying to persuade her to go away, and live with them fine folks as she was in service with."
Molly had a certain real affection for her sister; but to both her and Dan, the removal would be like the loss of the goose that laid the golden eggs, and there is no saying what poor Judith had to go through. Molly came and cried torrents of tears, taking it for granted that Judith meant to go, and must be frightened out of it. It was of no use to declare that she had refused the lady. Molly was so much in the habit of semi-deception, that she could not believe the assurance; and to hear her lamentations over her dear sister, for whom no one could do like a blood-relation, and her horror at the idea of strangers being preferred to herself, one would have thought-as indeed she believed herself-that she was Judith's most devoted and indefatigable nurse. And to think of them Gobblealls being so sly, such snakes in the grass, as to try to get her away, unknownst! She would not have them prying about her house again.
Dan declared it was all the cunning of them, for fear Judith should become chargeable to the parish, and there! her fine friends would die, or give her up, or she would just be thrown on the parish, and passed on to a strange workhouse, and then she would see what she got by leaving her kin. It was just like their sly tricks!
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