Scenes of Clerical Life Page 8

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
r />   waiting for her brother's overtures which never came; so, one fine morning, she

  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
/>   says."

  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