CHAPTER XII.
The lake was dragged that night, and all the following day, in spite ofthe gamekeeper's strong remonstrance for the sake of the tenderpintails. But nothing whatever was found, except the Italian cap. The"Witches' grave," invisible I am glad to say from the house, is morethan forty feet deep, when the water is at its lowest. Three or fouryears afterwards young William Hiatt caught a monstrous pike in thelake, and sent him, with our permission, to be stuffed at Gloucester.Like the famous fish of Samos, this pike had swallowed a ring, which wassent to Conrad by the Gloucester gun-maker. It was Lepardo's seal-ring,the cross of the family engraved on a bloodstone, with L.D.C. below it.
Whether the midnight stabber died by the blow of an English fist, orsuffered vivisection through a dog's vendetta--an institution moreexcusable and dignified than man's--is known to Him, and Him alone, whoholds the scales of retribution, and laughs in scorn as well as wrath atour attempts to swing them. For are we not therein ourselves; and howshall the best and strongest of us carry the thing he is carried in?Right glad I am, and ever shall be, that I moved not in the awful scene,which closed my father's tragedy.
Through Conrad's skill and presence of mind, the dear farmer's life wassaved. We sent to Gloucester immediately for the cleverest surgeonthere; and he owned that he could not have fixed the ligatures better,though he did what Conny durst not attempt, he extracted the murderer'sbullet. It was the first shot that did all the mischief, being aimeddeliberately at the large and tender heart. Thanks to the waving of thewillow-tree, for Lepardo was a known marksman, it had missed by abouttwo inches. The second shot, fired quite close and wildly, had groovedthe left temple, and stricken the farmer senseless.
For six weeks now our dear friend, whose patience amazed all but me, waskept from his Devonshire home. To London I sent at once for the twochildren and Mr. Dawe, and would have sent to Devon as well, for kindand good Mrs. Huxtable, but her husband would not hear of it. By AnnMaples, who had left Lady Cranberry "shockingly," on hearing from Mrs.Fletcher that I would take her again, he sent to his wife "kind love andbest duty, and for goodness' sake, stop at home now. No call to make afule of yourself, and the farm go to rack and ruin. There be fussenough 'bout I already, and never I brag no more, when a pill likethiccy upsot me. But Miss Clara, God bless her bootiful eyes, she nurseme, just as if she wor my own darter, with the apron on as you give her.And you should see the kitchen, Honor, you loves a kitchen so; they be abilin and roastin arl day, and they be vorced to swape the chimbleythree times in a vortnight"--the rest of this glorious message, aboutthree pages long, I am "vorced" to suppress; I only hope Ann Maplesremembered a quarter of it.
But his wonderful Miss Clara did not nurse him long. Hearing from thesurgeon that all the danger was over by the end of the followingweek--so strong was the constitution--Conrad, Lily, and I set sail forCorsica on our melancholy errand. In that letter, which seemed to cometo me from the grave, my poor Uncle after expressing his joy and deepgratitude at so happy a close to his life, continued thus:--
"Yes, my dear child, the close of my wasted and weary life. You may besurprised and perplexed at what I am about to tell you; but you are notone of those low-minded ones, who condemn as superstition all beyondtheir philosophy. The very night after you brought me my new Lily, asweet thing just like her mother, I lay for some hours awake, broadawake as I am now. I was thinking of my two Lilies, the lovely andloving creatures. I was not in the least excited, but calm, reflective,and happy. Soon after the clock struck two, at the time when our lifeburns lowest, I heard a soft voice, sweet as the music of heaven, callme by name three times. Of course I knew whose it was: too often thatvoice had murmured upon my bosom, for me not to know it now. Notrashly, but with a mind long since resolved, I answered: 'Sweetestmine'--her own artless and young endearment--'Sweetest mine, no longerwill I keep you lonely.' No answer came in words; but the light, thegolden light of my own love's smile, as I had seen it in Corsica, whenshe came from the grave to comfort me. And now, as after that visit, Ifell into deep and perfect rest, such rest as comes but rarely until thesleep of all. No wonder you and Lily thought me so strong next day. Inthe morning I knew and rejoiced in my quick departure. This coldobstruction was to be cast aside, this palsied frame to release thewinged soul. On the third day I was to find and dwell with my Lily forever. So on the first day I enjoyed the harmless pleasures of life, andcould not bear you to leave me, because that would have turned them topain. The second day I got through all the business that stillremained, refreshing its dryness often with my sweet child's society.On this, the third, I write to you, and am, through the grace of God, ascalm and content, nay more content than if I were going to bed.
"Beloved daughters both, and my dear son as well, I implore you not togrieve painfully for me. Too well I know the weight of excessivesorrow, and how it oppresses the lost one, even more than the loser.Since the parting is so brief, the reunion so eternal, why make theinterval long and dreary by counting every footstep?
Alas, it is easy to talk and think so, but very hard to feel it. Timedemands his walk with sorrow, and will not have his arm dispensed with.Then think of my happiness, darlings, and how your own will increase it.
Only one more request, which after Ciceronian sentiments--which Cicerocould not practise--you are all too young not to wonder at. If you, mythree children, can manage it, without any heavy expense, or muchtrouble to yourselves, it is my last wish as regards the body, that itshould lie by the side of my wife's. The name of the little church, St.Katharine's on the Cliff, can scarcely have escaped my Clara's excellentmemory. Lily lies beside her father, in the right-hand corner towardsthe sea. Each of them has a cross of the Signor's alabaster, made frommy own design. Lily's is enough for me: put my name with hers."
Not only did we look upon his last fond wish as sacred, but weaccomplished it in the manner that was likely to please him most. Weput his own "Lilyflower," the little love-boat as they called it, intocommission again, engaged a good captain and crew, and taking old Corawith us, set sail from Gloucester for the Mediterranean. Poor Cora wasnow all devotion to Conrad and Lily, ever since she had found that theywere lawful blood and direct heirs of the Della Croce. The more recentpart of the family story she had known only from her master's version,and had set little store by the children as bearing the stamp ofdisgrace; though she could not help loving sweet Lily. Now, by herevidence, coupled with my dear Uncle's deposition, his relics, anddocuments, and my own testimony, confirmed by Balaam and Balak, weestablished very easily the birth and the claims of my Uncle Edgar'schildren; and the old Count Gaffori, most venerable of signors, wouldhave kept us a month at least to go through all his accounts. He wasentreated to retain his position as the guardian of our Lily.
So far as our recent sorrow permitted enjoyment of scenery, we were allenchanted with the Balagna. At the funeral of "Signor Valentine," whosename was still remembered and loved, nearly all the commune was present;and many a dignified matron shed tears, who had smiled as a gracefulgirl, and strown flowers, at his wedding. They were burning withcuriosity to see our beautiful Lily, for the tender tale had moved them,as Southern natures are moved; and many of them had loved and gloried inher mother.
But in spite of all this desire, not a prying glance fell on her, as shebowed in the hooded robe, and wept to the mournful vocero. Foremost ofall stood old Petro and Marcantonia, who had found out and kissed withsobs of delight their beloved master's daughter. For my part, I lovedthe Corsicans; there is something so noble and simple about the men, sograceful, warm-hearted, and lady-like in the women; and in a very shorttime I could understand more than half they said. The black Vendetta,they told me, was dying out among them, and in a few years would be buta wonder of the past. God in His mercy grant it.
There must have been something surely in my Uncle Edgar's nature, whichwon the Southern hearts, as my father won British affections. Suchthings I cannot explain,
or account for. I only know and feel them.
We were all back at Vaughan St. Mary before the end of August, and foundthe farmer, the two chillers, and Beany Dawe as happy as if they wereborn and reared there. Old Cora was left at Veduta Tower; and havingobtained Mr. Dawe's permission I presented her once and for all with thewhole treasure of the gordit. She intends, however, to bequeath it to mein her will. Soon afterwards Conrad gave her a more substantialblessing; for he sold the things left in Lucas Street, under letters ofadministration, as being the next of kin. All the proceeds he handedover to Cora, except one-tenth, which he presented to the Society forthe Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. As many of the specimens,iguanodon, and other monsters, fetched prices as hard to explain away asthemselves, poor Cora was amply provided for: all which of course sheattributed to the holy Madonna's heart. And now at last I understoodhow 19, Grove Street had become No. 37, Lucas Street. The change ofnumber I have already explained; the change of name was on thiswise:--The builder, a rising man, who had bought the old part of thestreet, and built thereto the new one, had a son, a fine undergraduate,better skilled in the boats than in the books of Oxford. Reading hardone day, after his third pluck, this young man discovered that lucus wasthe Latin for grove. He smote his hand on his forehead, and a greatidea presented itself. Had there not been both nymphs and philosophersof the grove? The street that was his inheritance should bedistinguished by nomenclature from the thousand groves of London,wherein the nightingale pipeth not, neither--but I am getting poetical,and don't understand the Gradus. Enough, that he wrote at once andearnestly to his father, forgetting the vivid description, which was nowgrowing stale, of his pluck--a result secured, as the Winchestergentlemen tell me, by learning too solid to carry--but begging that hisOxford career might at least be commemorated in and by the street thatpaid his bills there. "Lucus" he wrote plainly enough, and in verylarge letters, but the father read it "Lucks." No, said the mother, shewas sure Alexander never meant such a low thing as that, it was "Lucas"of course; why the Lucases were her own cousins, and Rosa such a nicegirl, she saw how it was, that she did, and Alexander might have doneworse. And so it was painted most bravely "Lucas Street," and thebuilder wasn't going to make a fool of himself, when Alexanderprotested.
When John Huxtable set off for home, just in time to see to his harvest,which is always late round Exmoor, I kissed him--ay, Conny, you sawit--and thrust, during his amazement, something far down into his mightypocket, which something he was not upon any account to look at until hegot home. It was a deed, prepared by our solicitors, presenting himwith the fee simple of Tossil's Barton farm. True, I was not of age,but I signed it as if I had been, and Conny and I again signed it, whenwe paid our first visit there. Perhaps, in strict law, it binds not myinterest even now; but if ever any one claiming "by, from, through,under, or in trust for" me, forgets the Vaughan honour and dares todream of that farm, I'll be at him as sure as a ghost; and I trustbefore that time comes, the farmer will have sound title by immemorialyears of possession. He is now a prosperous man; and has never found itnecessary to give up his beer, as he threatened Young John, who is justlike his father, cleaves fast to Tabby Badcock, now a blooming maiden;but my Sally has more than balanced that imminent loss of caste, byfixing the eyes and transfixing the heart of George Tamlin, the son ofour principal tenant, and himself of Devonshire origin. The young ladycomes to and fro every six weeks, and is to be married from our house,when her father considers her "zober enough." Beany Dawe, who does notlike work, still lives at Tossil's Barton, and is in receipt of apension of sixpence a day from Government, as a bard at lastappreciated.
As for me, Clara Vaughan, on the very day after that which released mefrom my teens (counting forward, as we do, till we count recedingyears), to wit on the 31st of December, 1851, I did not change my name,but wrote it in the old church register, half an inch below a better andfirmer hand. There was no fuss or frippery; no four clergymen and tenbridesmaids simpering at one another. Our good vicar represented theone class, dear Lily and Annie Franks the other. My godfather, newlydisclosed for the purpose, gave me away very gracefully, and young PeterGreen helped Conrad. Lily Vaughan looked so exquisite, so deliciouslylovely, that nobody in the whole world--Now Conny, hold your tongue, Inever fish for compliments, don't degrade yourself so for a kiss, ofcourse I know all my perfections, but how can I care about them, whenyou say they belong to you?--Lily Vaughan, I say once more, was such asunrise of loveliness, that young Peter Green, just new from his Oxfordhonours, collapsed, and fell over the railings, and wedged his head inthe "piscina," or whatever those nice young gentlemen, who see the dutyof wearing strait waistcoats, are pleased to denominate it.
Ah, Little Distaff Lane, most unconnubial title, ah firm of Green,Vowler, and Green, your Hercules holds the distaff, and holds it, alas,in his heart! From that shock he never recovered, until we had atVaughan Park a really merry wedding; and I, ah me, I could not dancejust then, but I showered roses upon them, for the shadow of death waspast. Old Mr. Green,--nay, nay, not fifty yet, by our Lady,--Mr. PeterGreen the elder, came down here for the occasion, and I hardly ever tooksuch a fancy to any man before. He seemed to know almost everything,not by the skin, as Dr. Ross seemed to hold things, but by the marrowand fibrine of their alimentary part. And withal such a perfectgentleman: he kept in the horns of his knowledge, instead of exaltingthem, and making us wish for hay on them, while tossed in headlongignorance.
Scant as I am of space, I must tell how he behaved, when his sonrevealed his attachment.
"Is it a lady, Peter?" "I should rather think she is, father." "Do youlove her with all your heart?" "Of course I do, every bit. I am tough,but I know I shall die, unless--" "That will do, my son. You have myfull consent, and your mother's is sure to follow. Most likely you gotit beforehand. You young fellows are so deep. Let me kiss yourforehead, my boy, although I am not dramatic."
Having behaved so nobly, for this boy was his only hope, he deserved tofind, as he did, that if he had searched the world he could not have hitupon any other so desirable for his son, as the daughter of his oldfriend. The only mistake he has made is that he so adores her, hecannot bear her to be in Corsica; though the trade they conduct is worthat least fifty thousand a year. When Lily fell in love, I told her thatit was because she had an eye for the olives; and olives enough thedarling has, I trow, and olive branches too. The eldest is called Clara."Clara Green!" I don't like the sound altogether; but the substance issomething beautiful, and the freshest of all Spring verdure.Nevertheless, my Clara is an inch larger round the calf, and I think hereyelashes are longer. Her hair weighs more, that is certain. Wecompare them very often; for they live only half the year at VedutaTower. In the summer heats they are here, and the children betweenthem, my own every bit as bad, leave dear Annie Elton (Annie Franks ofold), uncommonly few British Queens. It is all Mr. Shelfer's fault.What is the use of a gardener, if he allows dessert all the day long?
Every autumn we go to Corsica to help at the olive harvest, and rarelywe enjoy it. The Old Veduta Tower is like a nest in the ivy, chirrupingwith young voices; and the happy sleep of the two who loved so well isdreaming, if dream it can or care to do, of the fairest flowers inEurope, scattered there by little soft hands. Conny is wild every timeabout the Rogliano and Luri; and if Peter Green listens to him--whichevery one does, except me--he will introduce, very slowly of course,those fine-bodied yet aerial wines to the noble British public, thatloves not even intoxication, unless it be adulterated.
Oh, queer Mrs. Shelfer, oh Balaam and Balak, shall I pretermit yourannals? The two Sheriff's officers, having secured their reward, set uptherewith a public-house called the "Posse-Comitatus," which soon becamethe head quarters of all who are agents or patients in the machinery oflevying. As at such times all people drink and pay more than double,the public-house has already a Queensbench-ful of good-will.
Poor Mrs. Shelfer and Charley did not invest the 325*l.* altogetherjudicio
usly: at least, it went mainly to purchase "eternal gratitude,"whose time does not begin to run till the purchaser's is over. ButPatty, I am glad to say, has still that 30*l.* a year of her own, leftto her in the funds by good and grateful Miss Minto. "Can't touch it, mygood friend, not the Queen, the Lord Mayor, and all the royal family.Government give their bond for it, on parchment made of their skins, andthe ink come out of their gall." Be this as it may, what is much moreto the purpose is that Mr. Shelfer cannot touch it. And now I havepride in announcing, for I never expected such glory, that all the catsand birds, squirrels, mice, and monkeys, live, like the happy family, inour northern lodge, where Patty is most useful and happy as the Queen ofthe poultry. In a word, they keep the gate, not of their enemies, butof old and grateful friends. I expected to see at least a leadingarticle in the "Times," when Mr. Shelfer left the metropolis; but theylet him go very easily for the sake of the discount market. They gavehim only two-and-twenty dinners; but when he first came to Vaughan Park,how he wanted country air! Now he attends to the wall-trees, and theavenue, and I hope finds harmony there. At any rate, he never breaks itby any undue exertion. Nevertheless, his very long pipe is of someaccount with the green fly, which has been very bad on our peaches, eversince they repealed the corn laws. Mr. Shelfer, accordingly, iscompelled to spend half his time in smoking them. "Wonderful nice theydo taste, Miss Clara; you'd be quite surprised, you know. Wonderfulgood, Miss, and werry high-flavoured you know, when they begins to fry."
"Come, come, Mr. Shelfer, I fear you cultivate them for their flavour.There are ten times as many of them, I see, as of peaches on the trees.And you charge me every week five shillings for tobacco."
"To be sure, Miss Clara. Shows a fine constitooshun, you know. Anddreadful hard work it is to have to smoke so much, you know. And thenthe sun will come on the wall, and only a quart of beer allowed all theafternoon. And sometimes they makes me go for it myself, you know!Indeed they does, Miss, they has such cheek here in Gloucestershire!"
Patty brought all her sticks of course, in spite of the twenty-fivebills of sale, which by this time had grown upon them. One wholeroomful was packed in the duplicate inventories. The law on thissubject she contemplated from a peculiar point of view.
"Lor, Miss, I never grudges 'em. They do cost a bit at the time; butsee how safe they makes them. If it wasn't for them I should befrightened out of my wits of thieves, down here where the trees and allthe green grocery is, worse than the Regency Park. Bless me, I nevershould have gone out of doors, Miss, if you hadn't pulled me. And tosee the flowers here all a-growing with their heads up as bootiful as abonnet. Pray, my good friend, is that what they was made for, if I maybe so bold?"
"No, Patty, not for bonnets. They were made for the bees and thebutterflies, and for us to enjoy them, while they enjoy themselves."
"Well, I never. Pray, Miss, did I tell you Uncle John's come home, andthey only ate a piece of his shoulder for they found his belt wastenderer; and he put the glazing on it the same as they wears on theirhats, and three cork pins to hold it, and he find it werry convenient,it save so much rheumatism: and he'll be here next week to convict theman that made his wife swallow the tea-pot. Dear, dear, what thingsthey does do in the country. Not a bit like Christians. And so, MissClara, the old man won't drop off after all; and Uncle John a-coming,how nice it would have been."
The old man was poor Whitehead, whose lodge Mrs. Shelfer coveted, as itwas larger and livelier than her own.
"No, Mrs. Shelfer, I think he will get over it. Surely you would notwish to hurry him."
"To be sure, my good friend; no, no: let him have his time, I say. Buthe would have had it long ago, if he had any reason in him. What goodcan he do now, holding on with his eyebrows? Please God to let him goin peace; and so much happier for us all."
When Uncle John appeared, he scolded me for my want of intelligence onthe night when I was blinded. Of the four men in that room, the one whomI had noticed least was the very one whom he had meant me especially toobserve. At least, so he said; but I fully believed, and did notscruple to tell him, that he had discovered little beyond theinformation and description given at the time by Mr. Edgar Vaughan.These he had disinterred from the archives of Bow Street and Whitehall,and was then trying to apply them. However, I forgave him freely;inasmuch as, but for my blindness, even blind love would have known meas an objectionable being.
And now I come to a real grievance. When there is another MissClara--such a beauty! I can't tell you--and a little Harry, for whosesake this tale is told--why will every one on these premises, even theunder-gardener's boy, persist in calling me "Miss Clara?" It makes mestamp sometimes, and such a bad example that is for my children. Dearme, if either of my ducklings were to carry on as I did at their age, Iwould cut down immediately the largest birch-tree on the property, andorder a hogshead of salt. But, to return to that contumely--is it to besuspected that I was more forcible and pronounced, in the days of mytrial and misery, than now when I am the happiest of all the youngmothers of England? "Come, Conny, tell the truth now, don't I keep youin order?"
"My own delight, I should think you did. I am nearly as much afraid ofyou as I am of little Clary. Clary ride on Judy now, and Harry on pupSampiero, and come and see papa go chip, chip, chip?"
"No, Clary stop and see mamma go scratch, scratch, scratch, like Cookyat the pie-crust. Clary love mamma to-day, and papa to-morrow."
And the lovely dear jumps on the stool, to pull the top of my pen.Harry pops out from under the table, and prepares himself for onset. Myhusband comes and lifts my hair, and throws his arm around me. It isall up now with writing.
"Darlings, I love all three of you, to-day, to-morrow, and for ever.Only don't pull me to pieces."
THE END.
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Clara Vaughan, Volume 3 (of 3) Page 21
