Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood

“Mind, I’ve set my heart upon having the boy, Mr Walton. I’ve seen him often.”

What could have made Miss Crowther take such a fancy to the boy? I could not help associating it with what I had heard of her youthful disappointment, but never having had my conjectures confirmed, I will say no more about them. Of course I talked the matter over with Thomas Weir; but, as I had suspected, I found that he was now as unwilling to part with the boy as he had formerly disliked the sight of him. Nor did I press the matter at all, having a belief that the circumstances of one’s natal position are not to be rudely handled or thoughtlessly altered, besides that I thought Thomas and his daughter ought to have all the comfort and good that were to be got from the presence of the boy whose advent had occasioned them so much trouble and sorrow, yea, and sin too. But I did not give a positive and final refusal to Miss Crowther. I only said “for the present;” for I did not feel at liberty to go further. I thought that such changes might take place as would render the trial of such a new relationship desirable; as, indeed, it turned out in the end, though I cannot tell the story now, but must keep it for a possible future.

I have, I think, entirely as yet, followed, in these memoirs, the plan of relating either those things only at which I was present, or, if other things, only in the same mode in which I heard them. I will now depart from this plan—for once. Years passed before some of the following facts were reported to me, but it is only here that they could be interesting to my readers.

At the very time Miss Crowther was with me, as nearly as I can guess, Old Rogers turned into Thomas Weir’s workshop. The usual, on the present occasion somewhat melancholy, greetings having passed between them, Old Rogers said—

“Don’t you think, Mr Weir, there’s summat the matter wi’ parson?”

“Overworked,” returned Weir. “He’s lost two, ye see, and had to see them both safe over, as I may say, within the same day. He’s got a bad cold, I’m sorry to hear, besides. Have ye heard of him to-day?”

“Yes, yes; he’s badly, and in bed. But that’s not what I mean. There’s summat on his mind,” said Old Rogers.

“Well, I don’t think it’s for you or me to meddle with parson’s mind,” returned Weir.

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” persisted Rogers. “But if I had thought, Mr Weir, as how you would be ready to take me up short for mentionin’ of the thing, I wouldn’t ha’ opened my mouth to you about parson—leastways, in that way, I mean.”

“But what way DO you mean, Old Rogers?”

“Why, about his in’ards, you know.”

“I’m no nearer your meanin’ yet.”

“Well, Mr Weir, you and me’s two old fellows, now—leastways I’m a deal older than you. But that doesn’t signify to what I want to say.”

And here Old Rogers stuck fast—according to Weir’s story.

“It don’t seem easy to say no how, Old Rogers,” said Weir.

“Well, it ain’t. So I must just let it go by the run, and hope the parson, who’ll never know, would forgive me if he did.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“It’s my opinion that that parson o’ ours—you see, we knows about it, Mr Weir, though we’re not gentlefolks—leastways, I’m none.”

“Now, what DO you mean, Old Rogers?”

“Well, I means this—as how parson’s in love. There, that’s paid out.”

“Suppose he was, I don’t see yet what business that is of yours or mine either.”

“Well, I do. I’d go to Davie Jones for that man.”

A heathenish expression, perhaps; but Weir assured me, with much amusement in his tone, that those were the very words Old Rogers used. Leaving the expression aside, will the reader think for a moment on the old man’s reasoning? My condition WAS his business; for he was ready to die for me! Ah! love does indeed make us all each other’s keeper, just as we were intended to be.

“But what CAN we do?” returned Weir.

Perhaps he was the less inclined to listen to the old man, that he was busy with a coffin for his daughter, who was lying dead down the street. And so my poor affairs were talked of over the coffin-planks. Well, well, it was no bad omen.

“I tell you what, Mr Weir, this here’s a serious business. And it seems to me it’s not shipshape o’ you to go on with that plane o’ yours, when we’re talkin’ about parson.”

“Well, Old Rogers, I meant no offence. Here goes. NOW, what have you to say? Though if it’s offence to parson you’re speakin’ of, I know, if I were parson, who I’d think was takin’ the greatest liberty, me wi’ my plane, or you wi’ your fancies.”

“Belay there, and hearken.”

So Old Rogers went into as many particulars as he thought fit, to prove that his suspicion as to the state of my mind was correct; which particulars I do not care to lay in a collected form before my reader, he being in no need of such a summing up to give his verdict, seeing the parson has already pleaded guilty. When he had finished,

“Supposing all you say, Old Rogers,” remarked Thomas, “I don’t yet see what WE’VE got to do with it. Parson ought to know best what he’s about.”

“But my daughter tells me,” said Rogers, “that Miss Oldcastle has no mind to marry Captain Everard. And she thinks if parson would only speak out he might have a chance.”

Weir made no reply, and was silent so long, with his head bent, that Rogers grew impatient.

“Well, man, ha’ you nothing to say now—not for your best friend—on earth, I mean—and that’s parson? It may seem a small matter to you, but it’s no small matter to parson.”

“Small to me!” said Weir, and taking up his tool, a constant recourse with him when agitated, he began to plane furiously.

Old Rogers now saw that there was more in it than he had thought, and held his peace and waited. After a minute or two of fierce activity, Thomas lifted up a face more white than the deal board he was planing, and said,

“You should have come to the point a little sooner, Old Rogers.”

He then laid down his plane, and went out of the workshop, leaving Rogers standing there in bewilderment. But he was not gone many minutes. He returned with a letter in his hand.

“There,” he said, giving it to Rogers.

“I can’t read hand o’ write,” returned Rogers. “I ha’ enough ado with straight-foret print But I’ll take it to parson.”

“On no account,” returned Thomas, emphatically “That’s not what I gave it you for. Neither you nor parson has any right to read that letter; and I don’t want either of you to read it. Can Jane read writing?”

“I don’t know as she can, for, you see, what makes lasses take to writin’ is when their young man’s over the seas, leastways not in the mill over the brook.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Thomas, and taking the letter from Rogers’s hand, he left the shop again.

He returned once more with the letter sealed up in an envelope, addressed to Miss Oldcastle.

“Now, you tell your Jane to give that to Miss Oldcastle from me—mind, from ME; and she must give it into her own hands, and let no one else see it. And I must have it again. Mind you tell her all that, Old Rogers.”

“I will. It’s for Miss Oldcastle, and no one else to know on’t. And you’re to have it again all safe when done with.”

“Yes. Can you trust Jane not to go talking about it?”

“I think I can. I ought to, anyhow. But she can’t know anythink in the letter now, Mr Weir.”

“I know that; but Marshmallows is a talkin’ place. And poor Kate ain’t right out o’ hearin’ yet.—You’ll come and see her buried to-morrow, won’t ye, Old Rogers?”

“I will, Thomas. You’ve had a troubled life, but thank God the sun came out a bit before she died.”

“That’s true, Rogers. It’s all right, I do think, though I grumbled long and sore. But Jane mustn’t speak of that letter.”

“No. That she shan’t.”

“I’ll tell you some day what’s in it. But I can’t bear to talk about it yet.”

And so they parted.

I was too unwell still either to be able to bury my dead out of my sight or to comfort my living the next Sunday. I got help from Addicehead, however, and the dead bodies were laid aside in the ancient wardrobe of the tomb. They were both buried by my vestry-door, Catherine where I had found young Tom lying, namely, in the grave of her mother, and old Mrs Tomkins on the other side of the path.

On Sunday, Rogers gave his daughter the letter, and she carried it to the Hall. It was not till she had to wait on her mistress before leaving her for the night that she found an opportunity of giving it into her own hands.

Then when her bell rang, Jane went up to her room, and found her so pale and haggard that she was frightened. She had thrown herself back on the couch, with her hands lying by her sides, as if she cared for nothing in this world or out of it. But when Jane entered, she started and sat up, and tried to look like herself. Her face, however, was so pitiful, that honest-hearted Jane could not help crying, upon which the responsive sisterhood overcame the proud lady, and she cried too. Jane had all but forgotten the letter, of the import of which she had no idea, for her father had taken care to rouse no suspicions in her mind. But when she saw her cry, the longing to give her something, which comes to us all when we witness trouble—for giving seems to mean everything-brought to her mind the letter she had undertaken to deliver to her. Now she had no notion, as I have said, that the letter had anything to do with her present perplexity, but she hoped it might divert her thoughts for a moment, which is all that love at a distance can look for sometimes.

“Here is a letter,” said Jane, “that Mr Weir the carpenter gave to my father to give to me to bring to you, miss.”

“What is it about, Jane?” she asked listlessly.

Then a sudden flash broke from her eyes, and she held out her hand eagerly to take it. She opened it and read it with changing colour, but when she had finished it, her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes glowing like fire.

“The wretch,” she said, and threw the letter from her into the middle of the floor.

Jane, who remembered the injunctions of her father as to the safety and return of the letter, stooped to pick it up: but had hardly raised herself when the door opened, and in came Mrs Oldcastle. The moment she saw her mother, Ethelwyn rose, and advancing to meet her, said,

“Mother, I will NOT marry that man. You may do what you please with me, but I WILL NOT.”

“Heigho!” exclaimed Mrs Oldcastle with spread nostrils, and turning suddenly upon Jane, snatched the letter out of her hand.

She opened and read it, her face getting more still and stony as she read. Miss Oldcastle stood and looked at her mother with cheeks now pale but with still flashing eyes. The moment her mother had finished the letter, she walked swiftly to the fire, tearing the letter as she went, and thrust it between the bars, pushing it in fiercely with the poker, and muttering—

“A vile forgery of those low Chartist wretches! As if he would ever have looked at one of THEIR women! A low conspiracy to get money from a gentleman in his honourable position!”

And for the first time since she went to the Hall, Jane said, there was colour in that dead white face.

She turned once more, fiercer than ever, upon Jane, and in a tone of rage under powerful repression, began:—

“You leave the house—THIS INSTANT.”

The last two words, notwithstanding her self-command, rose to a scream. And she came from the fire towards Jane, who stood trembling near the door, with such an expression on her countenance that absolute fear drove her from the room before she knew what she was about. The locking of the door behind her let her know that she had abandoned her young mistress to the madness of her mother’s evil temper and disposition. But it was too late. She lingered by the door and listened, but beyond an occasional hoarse tone of suppressed energy, she heard nothing. At length the lock—as suddenly turned, and she was surprised by Mrs Oldcastle, if not in a listening attitude, at least where she had no right to be after the dismissal she had received.

Opposite Miss Oldcastle’s bedroom was another, seldom used, the door of which was now standing open. Instead of speaking to Jane, Mrs Oldcastle gave her a violent push, which drove her into this room. Thereupon she shut the door and locked it. Jane spent the whole of the night in that room, in no small degree of trepidation as to what might happen next. But she heard no noise all the rest of the night, part of which, however, was spent in sound sleep, for Jane’s conscience was in no ways disturbed as to any part she had played in the current events.

It was not till the morning that she examined the door, to see if she could not manage to get out and escape from the house, for she shared with the rest of the family an indescribable fear of Mrs Oldcastle and her confidante, the White Wolf. But she found it was of no use: the lock was at least as strong as the door. Being a sensible girl and self-possessed, as her parents’ child ought to be, she made no noise, but waited patiently for what might come. At length, hearing a step in the passage, she tapped gently at the door and called, “Who’s there?” The cook’s voice answered.

“Let me out,” said Jane. “The door’s locked.” The cook tried, but found there was no key. Jane told her how she came there, and the cook promised to get her out as soon as she could. Meantime all she could do for her was to hand her a loaf of bread on a stick from the next window. It had been long dark before some one unlocked the door, and left her at liberty to go where she pleased, of which she did not fail to make immediate use.

Unable to find her young mistress, she packed her box, and, leaving it behind her, escaped to her father. As soon as she had told him the story, he came straight to me.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE NEXT THING

As I sat in my study, in the twilight of that same day, the door was hurriedly opened, and Judy entered. She looked about the room with a quick glance to see that we were alone, then caught my hand in both of hers, and burst out crying.

“Why, Judy!” I said, “what IS the matter?” But the sobs would not allow her to answer. I was too frightened to put any more questions, and so stood silent—my chest feeling like an empty tomb that waited for death to fill it. At length with a strong effort she checked the succession of her sobs, and spoke.

“They are killing auntie. She looks like a ghost already,” said the child, again bursting into tears.

“Tell me, Judy, what CAN I do for her?”

“You must find out, Mr Walton. If you loved her as much as I do, you would find out what to do.”

“But she will not let me do anything for her.”

“Yes, she will. She says you promised to help her some day.”

“Did she send you, then?”

“No. She did not send me.”

“Then how—what—what can I do!”

“Oh, you exact people! You must have everything square and in print before you move. If it had been me now, wouldn’t I have been off like a shot! Do get your hat, Mr Walton.”

“Come, then, Judy. I will go at once.—Shall I see her?”

And every vein throbbed at the thought of rescuing her from her persecutors, though I had not yet the smallest idea how it was to be effected.

“We will talk about that as we go,” said Judy, authoritatively.

In a moment more we were in the open air. It was a still night, with an odour of damp earth, and a hint of green buds in it. A pale half-moon hung in the sky, now and then hidden by the clouds that swept across it, for there was wind in the heavens, though upon earth all was still. I offered Judy my arm, but she took my hand, and we walked on without a word till we had got through the village and out upon the road.

“Now, Judy,” I said at last, “tell me what they are doing to your aunt?”

“I don’t know what they are doing. But I am sure she will die.”

“Is she ill?”

“She is as white as a sheet, and will not leave her room. Grannie must have frightened her dreadfully. Everybody is frightened at her but me, and I begin to be frightened too. And what will become of auntie then?”

“But what can her mother do to her?”

“I don’t know. I think it is her determination to have her own way that makes auntie afraid she will get it somehow; and she says now she will rather die than marry Captain Everard. Then there is no one allowed to wait on her but Sarah, and I know the very sight of her is enough to turn auntie sick almost. What has become of Jane I don’t know. I haven’t seen her all day, and the servants are whispering together more than usual. Auntie can’t eat what Sarah brings her, I am sure; else I should almost fancy she was starving herself to death to keep clear of that Captain Everard.”

“Is he still at the Hall?”

“Yes. But I don’t think it is altogether his fault. Grannie won’t let him go. I don’t believe he knows how determined auntie is not to marry him. Only, to be sure, though grannie never lets her have more than five shillings in her pocket at a time, she will be worth something when she is married.”

“Nothing can make her worth more than she is, Judy,” I said, perhaps with some discontent in my tone.

“That’s as you and I think, Mr Walton; not as grannie and the captain think at all. I daresay he would not care much more than grannie whether she was willing or not, so long as she married him.”

“But, Judy, we must have some plan laid before we reach the Hall; else my coming will be of no use.”

“Of course. I know how much I can do, and you must arrange the rest with her. I will take you to the little room up-stairs—we call it the octagon. That you know is just under auntie’s room. They will be at dinner—the captain and grannie. I will leave you there, and tell auntie that you want to see her.”

“But, Judy,–”

“Don’t you want to see her, Mr Walton?”

“Yes, I do; more than you can think.”

“Then I will tell her so.”

“But will she come to me?”

“I don’t know. We have to find that out.”

“Very well. I leave myself in your hands.”

I was now perfectly collected. All my dubitation and distress were gone, for I had something to do, although what I could not yet tell. That she did not love Captain Everard was plain, and that she had as yet resisted her mother was also plain, though it was not equally certain that she would, if left at her mercy, go on to resist her. This was what I hoped to strengthen her to do. I saw nothing more within my reach as yet. But from what I knew of Miss Oldcastle, I saw plainly enough that no greater good could be done for her than this enabling to resistance. Self-assertion was so foreign to her nature, that it needed a sense of duty to rouse her even to self-defence. As I have said before, she was clad in the mail of endurance, but was utterly without weapons. And there was a danger of her conduct and then of her mind giving way at last, from the gradual inroads of weakness upon the thews which she left unexercised. In respect of this, I prayed heartily that I might help her.

Judy and I scarcely spoke to each other from the moment we entered the gate till I found myself at a side door which I had never observed till now. It was fastened, and Judy told me to wait till she went in and opened it. The moon was now quite obscured, and I was under no apprehension of discovery. While I stood there I could not help thinking of Dr Duncan’s story, and reflecting that the daughter was now returning the kindness shown to the mother.

I had not to wait long before the door opened behind me noiselessly, and I stepped into the dark house. Judy took me by the hand, and led me along a passage, and then up a stair into the little drawing-room. There was no light. She led me to a seat at the farther end, and opening a door close beside me, left me in the dark.

There I sat so long that I fell into a fit of musing, broken ever by startled expectation. Castle after castle I built up; castle after castle fell to pieces in my hands. Still she did not come. At length I got so restless and excited that only the darkness kept me from starting up and pacing the room. Still she did not come, and partly from weakness, partly from hope deferred, I found myself beginning to tremble all over. Nor could I control myself. As the trembling increased, I grew alarmed lest I should become unable to carry out all that might be necessary.

Suddenly from out of the dark a hand settled on my arm. I looked up and could just see the whiteness of a face. Before I could speak, a voice said brokenly, in a half-whisper:—

“WILL you save me, Mr Walton? But you’re trembling; you are ill; you ought not to have come to me. I will get you something.”

And she moved to go, but I held her. All my trembling was gone in a moment. Her words, so careful of me even in her deep misery, went to my heart and gave me strength. The suppressed feelings of many months rushed to my lips. What I said I do not know, but I know that I told her I loved her. And I know that she did not draw her hand from mine when I said so.

But ere I ceased came a revulsion of feeling.

“Forgive me,” I said, “I am selfishness itself to speak to you thus now, to take advantage of your misery to make you listen to mine. But, at least, it will make you sure that if all I am, all I have will save you—”

“But I am saved already,” she interposed, “if you love me—for I love you.”

And for some moments there were no words to speak. I stood holding her hand, conscious only of God and her. At last I said:

“There is no time now but for action. Nor do I see anything but to go with me at once. Will you come home to my sister? Or I will take you wherever you please.”

“I will go with you anywhere you think best. Only take me away.”

“Put on your bonnet, then, and a warm cloak, and we will settle all about it as we go.”

She had scarcely left the room when Mrs Oldcastle came to the door.

“No lights here!” she said. “Sarah, bring candles, and tell Captain Everard, when he will join us, to come to the octagon room. Where can that little Judy be? The child gets more and more troublesome, I do think. I must take her in hand.”

I had been in great perplexity how to let her know that I was there; for to announce yourself to a lady by a voice out of the darkness of her boudoir, or to wait for candles to discover you where she thought she was quite alone—neither is a pleasant way of presenting yourself to her consciousness. But I was helped out of the beginning into the middle of my difficulties, once more by that blessed little Judy. I did not know she was in the room till I heard her voice. Nor do I yet know how much she had heard of the conversation between her aunt and myself; for although I sometimes see her look roguish even now that she is a middle-aged woman with many children, when anything is said which might be supposed to have a possible reference to that night, I have never cared to ask her.

“Here I am, grannie,” said her voice. “But I won’t be taken in hand by you or any one else. I tell you that. So mind. And Mr Walton is here, too, and Aunt Ethelwyn is going out with him for a long walk.”

“What do you mean, you silly child?”

“I mean what I say,” and “Miss Judy speaks the truth,” fell together from her lips and mine.

“Mr Walton,” began Mrs Oldcastle, indignantly, “it is scarcely like a gentleman to come where you are not wanted–”

Here Judy interrupted her.

“I beg your pardon, grannie, Mr Walton WAS wanted—very much wanted. I went and fetched him.”

But Mrs Oldcastle went on unheeding.

“–and to be sitting in my room in the dark too!”

“That couldn’t be helped, grannie. Here comes Sarah with candles.”

“Sarah,” said Mrs Oldcastle, “ask Captain Everard to be kind enough to step this way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Sarah, with an untranslatable look at me as she set down the candles.

We could now see each other. Knowing words to be but idle breath, I would not complicate matters by speech, but stood silent, regarding Mrs Oldcastle. She on her part did not flinch, but returned my look with one both haughty and contemptuous. In a few moments, Captain Everard entered, bowed slightly, and looked to Mrs Oldcastle as if for an explanation. Whereupon she spoke, but to me.

“Mr Walton,” she said, “will you explain to Captain Everard to what we owe the UNEXPECTED pleasure of a visit from you?”

“Captain Everard has no claim to any explanation from me. To you, Mrs Oldcastle, I would have answered, had you asked me, that I was waiting for Miss Oldcastle.”