Brownlows

“It is nothing,” said Mrs. Preston. “Mr. Brownlow, who brought us some game—you know I don’t care for game; and then people change their minds about things. Sit down, Pamela, and don’t stare at me. I have been getting too languid about every thing, and when one rouses up every body wonders what one means.”

“Mamma,” said Pamela, too much astonished to know what to answer, “you sent him away!”

“Yes, I sent him away; and I will send any one away that I think mercenary and selfish,” said Mrs. Preston. Was it she who spoke? Could it be her mild uncertain lips from which such words came; and then what could it mean? How could he be mercenary—he who was going to give up every thing for his love’s sake? No words could express Pamela’s consternation. She sat down weak with wonder, and gazed at her mother. The change was one which she could not in any way explain to herself.

“Old Mrs. Fennell was very rude to me,” said Mrs. Preston. “I fear you have not a very comfortable place, Nancy Christian; but we can soon change that. You that were so faithful to my poor mother, you may be sure you’ll not be forgotten. You are not to think of walking back to Masterton. If I had known you were coming I would have spoken to Hobson the carrier. I never was fond of the Fennells from the earliest I remember; though Tom, you know, poor fellow—but he was a great deal older than me.”

“He was nigh as old as your mother,” said Nancy; “many’s the time I’ve heard her say it. ‘He wanted my daughter,’ she would say; ‘her a slip of a girl, and him none so much younger than I am myself; but now he’s catched a tartar;’ and she would laugh, poor old dear; but when she knew as they were after what she had—that’s what drove her wild you may say—”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Preston; “yes, yes; you need say no more Nancy; I see it all—I see it all. Wherever there’s money it’s a snare, and no mortal that I can see escapes. If I had but known a month ago! but after this they shall see they can’t do what they please with me. No; though it may be hard upon us—hard upon us. Oh, Nancy Christian,” she said, flinging up her arms into the air, “if you had but come to tell me a month ago!”

Pamela listened to this conversation with gradually increasing dismay. She did not know what it meant; but yet by some instinctive sense, she knew that it concerned herself—and Jack. She rose up and went to her mother with vague terrors in her heart. “Mamma, what is it? tell me what it is,” she said, putting two clinging hands around her arm.

At these words Mrs. Preston suddenly came to herself. “What is what?” she said. “Sit down, Pamela, and don’t ask foolish questions; or rather go and see after the tea. It has never come, though I told you Nancy was tired. If you left it by Mrs. Swayne’s fire it will be boiled by this time; and you know when it stands too long I can’t bear it. Go, dear, and get the tea.”

“But, mamma,” said Pamela, still clinging to her, and speaking in her ear, “mamma! I know there must be something. Why did you send him away?”

Mrs. Preston gave her child a look which Pamela, driven to her wits’ end, could not interpret. There was pity in it and there was defiance, and a certain fierce gleam as of indignation. “Child, you know nothing about it,” she said, with suppressed passion; “nothing; and I can’t tell you now. Go and get us the tea.”

Pamela gazed again, but she could make nothing of it. It was, and yet it was not her mother—not the old, faded, timid, hesitating woman who had nothing in the world but herself; but somebody so much younger, so much stronger—with those two shining, burning eyes, and this sudden self-consciousness and command. She gave a long look, and then she sighed and dropped her mother’s arm, and went away to do her bidding. It was the first appeal she had ever made in vain, and naturally it filled her with a painful amaze. It was such a combination of events as she could not understand. Nancy’s arrival, and Jack’s dismissal and this curious change in Mrs. Preston’s appearance. Her little heart had been full of pain when she left the room before, but it was pain of a very different kind. Now the laggard had come who was all the cause of the trouble then, and he had been sent away without reason or explanation, and what could it mean? “If I had but known a month ago!” What could it be that she had heard? The girl’s heart took to beating again very loud and fast, and her imagination began to work, and it is not difficult to divine what sort of theories of explanation rose in her thoughts. The only thing that Pamela could think of as raising any fatal barrier between herself and Jack was unfaithfulness or a previous love on his part. This, without doubt, was Nancy’s mission. She had come to tell of his untruthfulness; that he loved somebody else; perhaps had pledged himself to somebody else; and that between him and his new love, instant separation, heartbreak, and despair must ensue. “He need not have been afraid to tell me,” Pamela said to herself, with her heart swelling till it almost burst from her breast. All her little frame, all her sensitive nerves, thrilled with pain and pride. This was what it was. She was not so much stunned by the blow as roused up to the fullest consciousness. Her lip would have quivered sadly had she been compelled to speak; her voice might have broken for any thing she could tell, and risen into hard tones and shrieks of pain. But she was not obliged to speak to any one, and so could shut herself in and keep it down. She went about mechanically, but with nervous haste and swiftness, and covered the little table with its white cloth, and put bread on it, and the tea for which Nancy and her mother sighed; and she thought they looked at her with cruel coldness, as if it was they who were concerned and not she. As if it could be any thing to any body in comparison to what it was to her! As if she must not be at all times the principal in such a matter! Thus they sat down at the little round table. Nancy, who was much in her ordinary, ate, drank and was very comfortable, and pleased with the country cream in her tea; but the mother and the daughter neither ate nor drank. Mrs. Preston sat, saying now and then a word or two to Nancy which Pamela could not understand, but mostly was silent, pondering and full of thoughts, while Pamela, with her eyes cast down, and a burning, crimson color on her cheeks, sat still and brooded over the cruelty she thought they were showing her. Nancy was the only one who “enjoyed,” as she said, “her tea.”

“You may get a drop of what’s called cream in a town, but it ain’t cream,” said Nancy. “It’s but skim-milk frothed up, and you never get the taste of the tea. It’s a thing as I always buys good. It’s me as lays in all the things, and when there ain’t a good cup o’ tea at my age there ain’t nothing as is worth in life. But the fault’s not in the tea. It’s the want of a drop of good cream as does it. It’s that as brings out the flavor, and gives it a taste. A cup o’ good tea’s a cheering thing; but I wouldn’t say as you was enjoying it, Mrs. Preston, like me.”

“I have other things in my mind,” said Mrs. Preston; “you’ve had a long walk, and you must want it. As for me, my mind’s all in a ferment. I don’t seem to know if it’s me, or what has happened. You would not have come and told me all this if you had not been as sure as sure of what you had to say!”

“Sure and sure enough,” said Nancy. “I’ve knowed it from first to last, and how could I go wrong! If you go to London, as you say, you can judge for yourself, and there won’t be nothing for me to tell; but you’ll think on as I was the first—for your old mother’s sake—”

“You’ll not be forgot,” said Mrs. Preston; “you need not fear. I am not the one to neglect a friend—and one that was good to my poor mother; you may reckon on me.” She sat upright in her chair, and every line in her face had changed. Power, patronage, and protection were in her tone—she who had been herself so poor and timid and anxious. Her very words were uttered more clearly, and with a distincter intonation. And Pamela listened with all her might, and grew more and more bewildered, and tried vainly to make out some connection between this talk and the discovery which she supposed must have been made. But what could Jack’s failure in good faith have to do with any body’s old mother! It was only Nancy who was quite at her ease. “I will take another cup, if you please, Miss Pamela,” said Nancy, “and I hope as I’ll live to see you in your grandeur, feasting with lords and ladies, instead of pouring out an old woman’s tea—for them as is good children is rewarded. Many’s the day I’ve wished to see you, and wondered how many of you there was. It’s sad for your mother as there’s only you; but it’s a fine thing for yourself, Miss Pamela—and you must always give your mind to do what your mamma says.”

“How should it be a fine thing for me!” said Pamela; “or how should I ever feast with lords and ladies? I suppose you mean to make fun of us. As for doing what mamma says, of course I always do—and she never tells me to do any thing unreasonable,” the girl added, after a momentary pause, looking doubtfully at her mother. If she were told to give up Jack, Pamela felt that it would be something unreasonable, and she had no inclination to pledge herself. Mrs. Preston was changed from all her daughter’s previous knowledge of her; and it might be that her demands upon Pamela’s obedience would change too.

“It’s nigh my time to go,” said Nancy. “I said to the carrier as he was to wait for me down the road. I wouldn’t be seen a-getting into the wagon here. Folks talks awful when they’re so few; and thank you kindly, Mrs. Preston, for the best cup of tea as I’ve tasted for ten years. Them as can get cream like that, has what I calls some comfort in this life.”

“Pamela,” said Mrs. Preston, “you can walk along with Nancy as far as Merryfield Farm, and give my compliments; and if they’d put a drop of their best cream in a bottle—It’s all I can do just now, Nancy Christian; but I am not one that forgets my friends, and the time may come—”

“The time will come, ma’am,” said Nancy, getting up and making her patroness a courtesy, “and I’m none afraid as you’ll forget; and thank you kindly for thinking o’ the cream—if it ain’t too much trouble to Miss Pamela. If you go up there, as you think to do, and find all as I say, you’ll be so kind as to let me know?”

“I’ll let you know, you may be sure,” said Mrs. Preston, in her short decisive tones of patronage. And then the girl, much against her will, had to put on her hat and go with Nancy. She did it, but it was with an ill grace; for she was longing to throw herself upon her mother and have an explanation of all this—what had happened, and what it meant. The air had grown cool, and old Betty had come out to her door, and Mrs. Swayne was in the little garden watering the mignonnette. And it was not easy to pass those two pairs of eyes and preserve a discreet incognito. To do her justice, Nancy tried her best; but it was a difficult matter to blind Mrs. Swayne.

“I thought as it was you,” said that keen observer. “I said as much to Swayne when he told me there was a lady to tea in the parlor. I said, ‘You take my word it’s her as come from Masterton asking after them.’ And I hope, mum, as I see you well. Mrs. Preston has been but poorly; and you as knows her constitootion and her friends—”

“She knows nothing about us,” said Pamela, with indignation; “not now; I never saw her in my life before. And how can she know about mamma’s constitution, or her friends either? Nancy, come along; you will be too late for Hobson if you stand talking here.”

“It’s never no loss of time to say a civil word, Miss Pamela,” said Nancy. “It’s years and years since I saw her, and she’s come through a deal since then. And having a family changes folks’ constitootions. If it wasn’t asking too much, I’d ask for a bit o’ mignonnette. Town folks is terrible greedy when they comes to the country—and it’s that sweet as does one’s heart good. Nice cream and butter and new-laid eggs, and a bit o’ lad’s love, or something as smells sweet—give me that, and I don’t ask for none o’ your grandeurs. That’s the good o’ the country to me.”

“They sends all that country stuff to old Mrs. Fennell, don’t they?” said Betty, who in the leisure of the evening had crossed the road. “I should have thought you’d been sick of all them things—and the fruit and the partridges as I see packed no later then this very afternoon. I should have said you had enough for six, if any one had asked me.”

“When the partridges is stale and the fruit rotten,” said Nancy, shrugging her shoulders; “and them as has such plenty, where’s the merit of it? I suppose there’s fine doings at the house, with all their shootings and all the strangers as is about—”

“They was at a picnic to-day,” said Betty. “Mr. John, he’s the one! He makes all them ladies leave their comfortable lunch, as is better than many a dinner, and down to the heath with their cold pies and their jellies and such like. Give me a bit of something ’ot. But they think he’s a catch, being the only son; and there ain’t one but does what he says.”

Pamela had been standing plucking a bit of mignonnette to pieces, listening with tingling ears. It was not in human nature not to listen; but she roused herself when Betty’s voice ceased, and went softly on, withdrawing herself from the midst of them. Her poor little heart was swelling and throbbing, and every new touch seemed to add to its excitement; but pride, and a sense of delicacy and dignity, came to her aid. Jack’s betrothed, even if neglected or forsaken, was not in her fit place amid this gossip. She went on quietly, saying nothing about it, leaving her companion behind. And the three women gave each other significant glances as soon as she had turned her back on them. “I told ’em how it would be,” said Mrs. Swayne, under her breath, “it’s allays the way when a girl is that mad to go and listen to a gentleman.” And Betty, though she sneered at her employers with goodwill, had an idea of keeping up their importance so far as other people were concerned. “Poor lass!” said Betty, “she’s been took in. She thought Mr. John was one as would give up every thing for the like of her; but he has her betters to choose from. He’s affable like, but he’s a deal too much pride for that.”

“Pride goes afore a fall,” said Nancy, with meaning; “and the Brownlows ain’t such grand folks after all. Nothing but attorneys, and an old woman’s money to set them up as wasn’t a drop’s blood to them. I don’t see no call for pride.”

“The old squires was different, I don’t deny,” said Betty, with candor; “but when folks is bred gentlefolks, and has all as heart can desire—”

“There’s gentlefolks as might do worse,” said Nancy, fiercely; “but it ain’t nothing to you nor me—”

“It ought to be a deal to both of you,” said Mrs. Swayne, coming in as moderator, “eating their bread as it were, and going on like that. And both of you with black silks to put on of a Sunday, and sure of your doctor and your burial if you was to fall ill. I wouldn’t be that ungrateful if it was me.”

“It’s no use quarreling,” said Nancy; “and I’ll say good-night, for I’ve a long way to go. If ever you should want any thing in Masterton, I’d do my best to serve you. Miss Pamela’s a long way on, and walking fast ain’t for this weather; so I’ll bid you both good-night. We’ll have time for more talk,” she added significantly, “next time I come back; and I’d like a good look at that nice lodge you’ve got.” Old Betty did not know what the woman meant, but those black eyes “went through and through her,” she said; and so Nancy’s visit came to an end.

CHAPTER XXX.

WHAT FOLLOWED

Pamela could make nothing of her companion. Nancy was very willing to talk, and indeed ran on in an unceasing strain; but what she said only confused the more the girl’s bewildered faculties; and she saw her mount at last into the carrier’s cart, and left her with less perception than ever of what had happened. Then she went straying home in the early dusk, for already the days had begun to grow short, and that night in especial a thunder-storm was brewing, and the clouds were rolling down darkly after the sultry day. Pamela crossed over to the shade of the thick hedge and fence which shut in the park, that nobody might see her, and her thoughts as she went along were not sweet. She thought of Jack and the ladies at Brownlows, and then she thought of the wish her mother had uttered—Had she but known this a month ago! and between the terrible suspicion of a previous love, and the gnawing possibility of present temptation, made herself very miserable, poor child. Either he had deceived her, and was no true man; or if he had not yet deceived her, he was in hourly peril of doing so, and at any moment the blow might come. While she was thus lingering along in the twilight, something happened which gave Pamela a terrible fright. She was passing a little stile when suddenly a man sprang out upon her and caught hold of her hands. She was so sure that Jack was dining at Brownlows, and yielding to temptation then, that she did not recognize him, and screamed when he sprang out; and it was dark, so dark that she could scarcely see his face. Jack, for his part, had been so conscience-stricken when Mrs. Preston refused him entrance that he had done what few men of this century would be likely to do. He had gone in with the other men, and gulped down some sherry at the sideboard, and instead of proceeding to his dressing-room as they all did after, had told a very shocking fib to Willis the butler, for the benefit of his father and friends, and rushed out again. He might have been proof against upbraiding, but compunction seized him when Mrs. Preston closed the door. He had deserved it, but he had not expected such summary measures; and “that woman,” as he called her in his dismay, was capable of taking his little love away and leaving him no sign. He saw it in her eye; for he, too, saw the change in her. Thus Jack was alarmed, and in his fright his conscience spoke. And he had seen Pamela go out, and waylaid her; and was very angry and startled to see she did not recognize him. “Good heavens, do you mean to say you don’t know me?” he cried, almost shaking her as he held her by the hands. To scream and start as if the sight of him was not the most natural thing in the world, and the most to be looked for! Jack felt it necessary to begin the warfare, to combat his own sense of guilt.

“I thought you were at dinner,” said Pamela, faintly. “I never thought it could be you.”

“And you don’t look a bit glad to see me. What do you mean by it?” said Jack. “It is very hard, when a fellow gives up every thing to come and see you. And your mother to shut the door upon me! She never did it before. A man has his duties to do, whatever happens. I can’t go and leave these fellows loafing about by themselves. I must go out with them. I thought you were going to take me for better for worse, Pamela, not for a month or a week.”

“Oh, don’t speak so,” said Pamela. “It was never me. It must have been something mamma had heard. She does not look a bit like herself; and it is all since that old woman came.”

“What old woman?” said Jack, calming down. “Look here, come into the park. They are all at dinner, and no one will see; and tell me all about it. So long as you are not changed, nothing else is of any consequence. Only for half an hour—”

“I don’t think I ought,” said Pamela; but she was on the other side of the stile when she said these words; and her hand was drawn deeply through Jack’s arm, and held fast, so that it was clearly a matter of discreet submission, and she could not have got away had she wished it. “I don’t think I ought to come,” said Pamela, “you never come to us now; and it must have been something that mamma had heard. I think she is going away somewhere; and I am sure, with all these people at Brownlows, and all that old Nancy says, and you never coming near us, I do not mind where we go, for my part.”

“As if I cared for the people at Brownlows!” said Jack, holding her hand still more tightly. “Don’t be cruel to a fellow, Pamela. I’ll take you away whenever you please, but without me you shan’t move a step. Who is old Nancy, I should like to know? and as for any thing you could have heard—Who suffers the most, do you suppose, from the people at Brownlows? To know you are there, and that one can’t have even a look at you—”

“But then you can have a great many looks at other people,” said Pamela, “and perhaps there was somebody else before me—don’t hold my hand so tight. We are poor, and you are rich—and it makes a great difference. And I can’t do just what I like. You say you can’t, and you are a man, and older than I am. I must do what mamma says.”

“But you know you can make her do what you like; whereas, with a lot of fellows—” said Jack. “Pamela, don’t—there’s a darling! You have me in your power, and you can put your foot upon me if you like. But you have not the heart to do it. Not that I should mind your little foot. Be as cruel as you please; but don’t talk of running away. You know you can make your mother do whatever you like.”

“Not now,” said Pamela, “not now—there is such a change in her; and oh, Jack, I do believe she is angry, and she will make me go away.”

“Tell me about it,” said Jack, tenderly; for Pamela had fallen into sudden tears, without any regard for her consistency. And then the dialogue became a little inarticulate. It lasted a deal longer on the whole than half an hour, and the charitable clouds drooped lower, and gave them shade and shelter as they emerged at last from the park, and stole across the deserted road to Swayne’s cottage. They were just in time; the first drops of the thunder-shower fell heavy and big upon Pamela before they gained shelter. But she did not mind them much. She had unburdened her heart, and her sorrows had flown away; and the ladies at Brownlows were no longer of any account in her eyes. She drew her lover in with her at the door, which so short a time before had been closed on him. “Mamma, I made him come in with me, not to get wet,” said Pamela; and both the young people looked with a little anxiety upon Mrs. Preston, deprecating her wrath. She was seated by the window, though it had grown dark, perhaps looking for Pamela; but her aspect was rather that of one who had forgotten every thing external for the moment, than of an anxious mother watching for her child. They could not see the change in her face, as they gazed at her so eagerly in the darkness; but they both started and looked at each other when she spoke.

“I would not refuse any one shelter from a storm,” she said, “but if Mr. Brownlow thinks a little, he will see that this is no place for him.” She did not even turn round as she spoke, but kept at the window, looking out, or appearing to look out, upon the gathering clouds.

Jack was thunderstruck. There was something in her voice which chilled him to his very bones. It was not natural offense for his recent short-comings, or doubt of his sincerity. He felt himself getting red in the darkness. “It was as if she had found me out to be a scoundrel, by Jove,” he said to himself afterward, which was a very different sort of thing from mere displeasure or jealousy. And in the silence that ensued, Mrs. Preston took no notice of anybody. She kept her place at the window, without looking round or saying another word; and in the darkness behind stood the two bewildered, trying to read in each other’s faces what it could mean.

“Speak to her,” said Pamela, eagerly whispering close to his ear; but Jack, for his part, could not tell what to say. He was offended, and he did not want to speak to her; but, on the contrary, held Pamela fast, with almost a perverse desire to show her mother that the girl was his, and that he did not care. “It is you I want, and not your mother,” he said. They could hear each other speak, and could even differ and argue and be impassioned without anybody else being much the wiser. The only sound Mrs. Preston heard was a faint rustle of whispers in the darkness behind her. “No,” said Jack, “if she will be ill-tempered, I can’t help it. It is you I want,” and he stood by and held his ground. When the first lightning flashed into the room, this was how it found them. There was a dark figure seated at the window, relieved against the gleam, and two faces which looked at each other, and shone for a second in the wild illumination. Then Pamela gave a little shriek and covered her face. She was not much more than a child, and she was afraid. “Come in from the window, mamma! do come, or it will strike you; and let us close the shutters,” cried Pamela. There was a moment during which Mrs. Preston sat still, as if she did not hear. The room fell into blackness, and then blazed forth again, the window suddenly becoming “a glimmering square,” with the one dark outline against it. Jack held his little love with his arm, but his eyes were fascinated by that strange sight. What could it mean? Was she mad? Had something happened in his absence to bring about this wonderful change? The mother, however, could not resist the cry that Pamela uttered the second time. She rose up, and closed the shutters with her own hands, refusing Jack’s aid. But when the three looked at each other, by the light of the candles, they all looked excited and disturbed. Mrs. Preston sat down by the table, with an air so different from her ordinary looks, that she seemed another woman. And Jack, when her eyes fell upon him, could not help feeling something like a prisoner at the bar.