by George Eliot
physiognomy, you will have detected that the Countess Czerlaski loved herself
far too well to get entangled in an unprofitable vice.
How, then, you will say, could this fine lady choose to quarter herself on the
establishment of a poor curate, where the carpets were probably falling into
holes, where the attendance was limited to a maid of all work, and where six
children were running loose from eight o'clock in the morning till eight o'clock
in the evening? Surely you must be misrepresenting the facts.
Heaven forbid! For not having a fertile imagination, as you perceive, and being
unable to invent thrilling incidents for your amusement, my only merit must lie
in the faithfulness with which I represent to you the humble experience of an
ordinary fellow-mortal. I wish to stir your sympathy with commonplace
troubles�to win your tears for real sorrow: sorrow such as may live next door to
you�such as walks neither in rags nor in velvet, but in very ordinary decent
apparel.
Therefore, that you may dismiss your suspicions of my veracity, I will beg you
to consider, that at the time the Countess Czerlaski left Camp Villa in dudgeon,
she had only twenty pounds in her pocket, being about one-third of the income
she possessed independently of her brother. You will then perceive that she was
in the extremely inconvenient predicament of having quarrelled, not indeed with
her bread and cheese, but certainly with her chicken and tart�a predicament all
the more inconvenient to her, because the habit of idleness had quite unfitted
her for earning those necessary superfluities, and because, with all her
fascinations, she had not secured any enthusiastic friends whose houses were
open to her, and who were dying to see her. Thus she had completely checkmated
herself, unless she could resolve on one unpleasant move�namely, to humble
herself to her brother, and recognise his wife. This seemed quite impossible to
her as long she entertained the hope that he would make the first advances; and
in this flattering hope she remained month after month at Shepperton Vicarage,
gracefully overlooking the deficiencies of accommodation, and feeling that she
was really behaving charmingly. "Who, indeed," she thought to herself, "could do
otherwise, with a lovely, gentle creature like Milly? I shall really be sorry to
leave the poor thing."
So, though she lay in bed till ten, and came down to a separate breakfast at
eleven, she kindly consented to dine as early as five, when a hot joint was
prepared, which coldly furnished forth the children's table the next day; she
considerately prevented Milly from devoting herself too closely to the children,
by insisting on reading, talking, and walking with her; and she even began to
embroider a cap for the next baby, which must certainly be a girl, and be named
Caroline.
After the first month or two of her residence at the Vicarage, the Rev. Amos
Barton became aware �as, indeed, it was unavoidable that he should� of the
strong disapprobation it drew upon him, and the change of feeling towards him
which it was producing in his kindest parishioners. But, in the first place, he
still believed in the Countess as a charming and influential woman, disposed to
befriend him, and, in any case, he could hardly hint departure to a lady guest
who had been kind to him and his, and who might any day spontaneously announce
the termination of her visit; in the second place, he was conscious of his own
innocence, and felt some contemptuous indignation towards people who were ready
to imagine evil of him; and, lastly, he had, as I have already intimated, a
strong will of his own, so that a certain obstinacy and defiance mingled itself
with his other feelings on the subject.
The one unpleasant consequence which was not to be evaded or counteracted by any
mere mental state, was the increasing drain on his slender purse for household
expenses, to meet which the remittance he had received from the clerical charity
threatened to be quite inadequate. Slander may be defeated by equanimity; but
courageous thoughts will not pay your baker's bill, and fortitude is nowhere
considered legal tender for beef. Month after month the financial aspect of the
Rev. Amos's affairs became more and more serious to him, and month after month,
too, wore away more and more of that armour of indignation and defiance with
which he had at first defended himself from the harsh looks of faces that were
once the friendliest.
But quite the heaviest pressure of the trouble fell on Milly�on gentle,
uncomplaining Milly� whose delicate body was becoming daily less fit for all the
many things that had to be done between rising up and lying down. At first, she
thought the Countess's visit would not last long, and she was quite glad to
incur extra exertion for the sake of making her friend comfortable. I can hardly
bear to think of all the rough work she did with those lovely hands�all by the
sly, without letting her husband know anything about it, and husbands are not
clairvoyant: how she salted bacon, ironed shirts and cravats, put patches on
patches, and re-darned darns. Then there was the task of mending and eking out
baby linen in prospect, and the problem perpetually suggesting itself how she
and Nanny should manage when there was another baby, as there would be before
very many months were past.
When time glided on, and the Countess's visit did not end, Milly was not blind
to any phase of their position. She knew of the slander; she was aware of the
keeping aloof of old friends; but these she felt almost entirely on her
husband's account. A loving woman's world lies within the four walls of her own
home; and it is only through her husband that she is in any electric
communication with the world beyond. Mrs Simpkins may have looked scornfully at
her, but baby crows and holds out his little arms none the less blithely; Mrs
Tomkins may have left off calling on her, but her husband comes home none the
less to receive her care and caresses; it has been wet and gloomy out of doors
to-day, but she has looked well after the shirt buttons, has cut out baby's
pinafores, and half finished Willy's blouse.
So it was with Milly. She was only vexed that her husband should be vexed�only
wounded because he was misconceived. But the difficulty about ways and means she
felt in quite a different manner. Her rectitude was alarmed lest they should
have to make tradesmen wait for their money; her motherly love dreaded the
diminution of comforts for the children; and the sense of her own failing health
gave exaggerated force to these fears.
Milly could no longer shut her eyes to the fact, that the Countess was
inconsiderate, if she did not allow herself to entertain severer thoughts; and
she began to feel that it would soon be a duty to tell her frankly that they
really could not afford to have her visit farther prolonged. But a process was
going forward in two other minds, which ultimately saved Milly from having to
perform this painful task.
In the first place, the Countess was getting weary of Shepperton�weary of
reflected that forgiveness was a Christian duty, that a sister should be
placable, that Mr Bridmain must feel the need of her advice, to which he had
been accustomed for three years, and that very likely "that woman" didn't make
the poor man happy. In this amiable frame of mind she wrote a very affectionate
appeal, and addressed it to Mr Bridmain, through his banker.
Another mind that was being wrought up to a climax was Nanny's, the
maid-of-all-work, who had a warm heart and a still warmer temper. Nanny adored
her mistress: she had been heard to say, that she was "ready to kiss the ground
as the missis trod on;" and Walter, she considered, was her baby, of whom she
was as jealous as a lover. But she had from the first very slight admiration for
the Countess Czerlaski. That lady, from Nanny's point of view, was a personage
always "drawed out i' fine clothes," the chief result of whose existence was to
cause additional bed-making, carrying of hot water, laying of table-cloths and
cooking of dinners. It was a perpetually heightening "aggravation" to Nanny that
she and her mistress had to "slave" more than ever, because there was this fine
lady in the house.
"An' she pays nothin' for't neither," observed Nanny to Mr Jacob Tomms, a young
gentleman in the tailoring line, who occasionally�simply out of a taste for
dialogue�looked into the vicarage kitchen of an evening. "I know the master's
shorter o' money than iver, an'it meks no end o' difference i' th'
housekeepin'�her bein' here, besides bein' obliged to have a charwoman
constant."
"There's fine stories i' the village about her," said Mr Tomms. "They say as
Muster Barton's great wi' her, or else she'd niver stop here."
"Then they say a passill o' lies, an' you ought to be ashamed to goo an' tell
'em o'er again. Do you think as the master, as has got a wife like the missis,
'ud goo runnin' arter a stuck-up piece o' goods like that Countess, as isn't fit
to black the missis's shoes? I'm none so fond o' the master, but I know better
on him nor that."
"Well, I didn't b'lieve it," said Mr Tomms, humbly.
"B'lieve it? you'd ha' been a ninny if yer did. An' she's a nasty, stingy thing,
that Countess. She's niver giv me a sixpence or an old rag neither, sin' here
she's been. A-lyin' a bed an' a-comin' down to breakfast when other folks wants
their dinner!"
If such was the state of Nanny's mind as early as the end of August, when this
dialogue with Mr Tomms occurred, you may imagine what it must have been by the
beginning of November, and that at that time a very slight spark might any day
cause the long smouldering anger to flame forth in open indignation.
That spark happened to fall the very morning that Mrs Hackit paid the visit to
Mrs Patten, recorded in the last chapter. Nanny's dislike of the Countess
extended to the innocent dog Jet, whom she "couldn't a-bear to see made a fuss
wi'like a Christian. An' the little ouzle must be washed, too, ivery Saturday,
as if there wasn't children enoo to wash, wi'out washin' dogs."
Now this particular morning it happened that Milly was quite too poorly to get
up, and Mr Barton observed to Nanny, on going out, that he would call and tell
Mr Brand to come. These circumstances were already enough to make Nanny anxious
and susceptible. But the Countess, comfortably ignorant of them, came down as
usual about eleven o'clock to her separate breakfast, which stood ready for her
at that hour in the parlour; the kettle singing on the hob that she might make
her own tea. There was a little jug of cream, taken according to custom from
last night's milk, and specially saved for the Countess's breakfast. Jet always
awaited his mistress at her bedroom door, and it was her habit to carry him down
stairs.
"Now, my little Jet," she said, putting him down gently on the hearth-rug, "you
shall have a nice, nice breakfast."
Jet indicated that he thought that observation extremely pertinent and
well-timed, by immediately raising himself on his hind-legs, and the Countess
emptied the cream-jug into the saucer. Now there was usually a small jug of milk
standing on the tray by the side of the cream, and destined for Jet's breakfast,
but this morning Nanny, being "moithered," had forgotten that part of the
arrangements, so that when the Countess had made her tea, she perceived there
was no second jug, and rang the bell. Nanny appeared, looking very red and
heated�the fact was, she had been "doing up" the kitchen fire, and that is a
sort of work which by no means conduces to blandness of temper.
"Nanny, you have forgotten Jet's milk; will you bring me some more cream,
please?"
This was just a little too much for Nanny's forbearance.
"Yes, I dare say. Here am I wi' my hands full o' the children an' the dinner,
and missis ill a-bed, and Mr Brand a-comin'; and I must run o'er the village to
get more cream, 'cause you've giv it to that nasty little blackamoor."
"Is Mrs Barton ill?"
"Ill�yes�I should think she is ill, an' much you care. She's likely to be ill,
moithered as she is from mornin' to night, wi' folks as had better be
elsewhere."
"What do you mean by behaving in this way?"
"Mean? Why, I mean as the missis is a slavin' her life out an' a-sittin' up o'
nights, for folks as are better able to wait of her, i'stid o' lyin' a-bed an'
doin' nothin' all the blessed day, but mek work."
"Leave the room, and don't be insolent."
"Insolent! I'd better be insolent than like what some folks is,�a-livin' on
other folks, an' bringin' a bad name on 'em into the bargain."
Here Nanny flung out of the room, leaving the lady to digest this unexpected
breakfast at her leisure.
The Countess was stunned for a few minutes, but when she began to recall Nanny's
words, there was no possibility of avoiding very unpleasant conclusions from
them, or of failing to see her position at the Vicarage in an entirely new
light. The interpretation too of Nanny's allusion to a "bad name" did not lie
out of the reach of the Countess's imagination, and she saw the necessity of
quitting Shepperton without delay. Still, she would like to wait for her
brother's letter�no� she would ask Milly to forward it to her�still better, she
would go at once to London, inquire her brother's address at his banker's, and
go to see him without preliminary.
She went up to Milly's room, and, after kisses and inquiries, said�"I find, on
consideration, dear Milly, from the letter I had yesterday, that I must bid you
good-by and go up to London at once. But you must not let me leave you ill, you
naughty thing."
"Oh no," said Milly, who felt as if a load had been taken off her back, "I shall
be very well in an hour or two. Indeed, I'm much better now. You will want me to
help you to pack. But you won't go for two or three days?"
"Yes, I must go to-morrow. But I shall not let you help me pack, so don't
entertain any unreasonable projects, but lie still. Mr Brand is coming, Nanny
The news was not an unpleasant surprise to Mr Barton when he came home, though
he was able to express more regret at the idea of parting than Milly could
summon to her lips. He retained more of his original feeling for the Countess
than Milly did, for women never betray themselves to men as they do to each
other; and the Rev. Amos had not a keen instinct for character. But he felt that
he was being relieved from a difficulty, and in the way that was easiest for
him. Neither he nor Milly suspected that it was Nanny who had cut the knot for
them, for the Countess took care to give no sign on that subject. As for Nanny,
she was perfectly aware of the relation between cause and effect in the affair,
and secretly chuckled over her outburst of "sauce," as the best morning's work
she had ever done.
So, on Friday morning, a fly was seen standing at the Vicarage gate, with the
Countess's boxes packed upon it; and presently that lady herself was seen
getting into the vehicle. After a last shake of the hand to Mr Barton, and last
kisses to Milly and the children, the door was closed; and as the fly rolled
off, the little party at the Vicarage gate caught a last glimpse of the handsome
Countess leaning and waving kisses from the carriage window. Jet's little black
phiz was also seen, and doubtless he had his thoughts and feelings on the
occasion, but he kept them strictly within his own bosom.
The schoolmistress opposite witnessed this departure, and lost no time in
telling it to the schoolmaster, who again communicated the news to the landlord
of "The Jolly Colliers," at the close of the morning school-hours. Nanny poured
the joyful tidings into the ear of Mr Farquhar's footman, who happened to call
with a letter, and Mr Brand carried them to all the patients he visited that
morning, after calling on Mrs Barton. So that before Sunday, it was very
generally known in Shepperton parish, that the Countess Czerlaski had left the
Vicarage.
The Countess had left, but alas! the bills she had contributed to swell still
remained; so did the exiguity of the children's clothing, which also was partly
an indirect consequence of her presence; and so, too, did the coolness and
alienation in the parishioners, which could not at once vanish before the fact
of her departure. The Rev. Amos was not exculpated�the past was not expunged.
But, what was worse than all, Milly's health gave frequent cause for alarm, and
the prospect of baby's birth was overshadowed by more than the usual fears. The
birth came prematurely, about six weeks after the Countess's departure, but Mr
Brand gave favourable reports to all inquirers on the following day, which was
Saturday. On Sunday, after morning service, Mrs Hackit called at the Vicarage to
inquire how Mrs Barton was, and was invited up-stairs to see her. Milly lay
placid and lovely in her feebleness, and held out her hand to Mrs Hackit with a
beaming smile. It was very pleasant to her to see her old friend unreserved and
cordial once more. The seven month's baby was very tiny and very red, but
"handsome is that handsome does,"�he was pronounced to be "doing well," and Mrs
Hackit went home gladdened at heart to think that the perilous hour was over.
CHAPTER VIII.
The following Wednesday, when Mr and Mrs Hackit were seated comfortably by their
bright hearth, enjoying the long afternoon afforded by an early dinner, Rachel,
the housemaid, came in and said,�
"If you please 'm, the shepherd says, have you heard as Mrs Barton's wuss, and
not expected to live?"
Mrs Hackit turned pale, and hurried out to question the shepherd, who, she
found, had heard the sad news at an alehouse in the village. Mr Hackit followed
her out and said, "Thee'dst better have the pony-chaise, and go directly."
"Yes," said Mrs Hackit, too much overcome to utter any exclamations. "Rachel,
come an' help me on wi' my things."
When her husband was wrapping her cloak round her feet in the pony-chaise, she
