Chapter LIV: Poor Comfort

Madge awakened from the reverie into which she had fallen, to find Aunt Hessy’s kind eyes resting on her inquiringly and with a shade of sorrow in them. She, however, instantly awoke, brightened and spoke with cheerful confidence, although there was a certain note of timidity in her voice indicating that she had not yet quite recovered from the effects of the scene in her bedroom.

‘You see, aunt, how wickedly Philip has been deceived, and that I was right to trust Mr Shield.’

‘Yes, but—Mr Beecham?’

Madge’s cheeks flushed, the smile disappeared, and the head was lifted with something like impatience. It seemed as if the pronunciation of Beecham’s name in that questioning tone revealed to her the full significance of Wrentham’s insinuations—that she was not acting fairly to Philip.

‘I have told you, aunt, that he is Mr Shield’s friend, and that he is doing everything that can be done to help Philip out of his difficulties. You cannot doubt that whatever I may do is for the same object.’

‘Ah, child, I never doubted thee. My doubt is that whilst desiring to do right thou may’st have done wrong in giving the trust to a stranger thou’rt afraid to give to those that love thee.’

‘Mr Beecham will himself tell you before the week is out that he gave me such proofs of his friendship as would have satisfied even you.’

‘Well, well, we shall say no more, child, till the time comes; but never expect goodman Dick to be patient with what he thinks unreasonable. See what a handle this rogue Wrentham—I always felt that he was a rogue—has made of thy name to help him in cheating and bamboozling Philip! Take my word, we may turn our toes barely an inch from the straight path at starting, but we’ll find ourselves miles from it ere the end if we do not make a quick halt and go back.’

‘I have only held my tongue,’ said the girl quietly enough, but the feeling of offended innocence was there.

‘Holding the tongue when one should speak out is as bad as telling a book of lies—worse, for we don’t know how to deal with it.’

‘I should be less sorry for vexing you, aunt,’ said the niece, ‘if I did not know that by-and-by you will be sorry for having been vexed with me.’

‘So be it.—But now let us finish clearing up the room, and we’ll get the bedstead down in the morning. Dr Joy says that Mr Hadleigh is not nearly so much hurt as was thought at first, and that they may be able to move him in a day or two.’

When the arrangements for turning the sitting-room into a bedroom had been completed—and there were nice details to be attended to in the operation, which the dame would intrust to no other hands than her own and her niece’s—Madge went in search of Pansy.

Her sudden appearance in the kitchen interrupted the boisterous mirth which was going forward. When she inquired for Pansy Culver, there was an abashed look on the faces of those who had permitted the girl to go without inquiring whither; but Jenny Wodrow answered saucily:

‘She got into a state when I was talking about Caleb Kersey, and slipped out before any of us could say Jack Robinson.’

The silent reproof in the expression of Madge’s tender eyes had its effect even on this self-assertive damsel. Jerry Mogridge hobbled up to his young mistress.

‘I’ll find her for you, Missy,’ he said cheerily, for he was in the happy state of mind of one who has enjoyed a good meal and knows that there is a good sleep lying between him and the next day’s toil.

They went out to the yard, and Jerry, opening the door of the dairy, thrust his head into the darkness with the invocation: ‘Come out ov here, Pansy Culver; what are you doing there? Missy wants you.’ There was no answer, and after groping his way amidst cans and pails standing ready for the morning’s milk, he returned muttering: ‘She ain’t there anyhow. I’ll get the lantern, Missy, and we’ll soon find her, so being as she ha’n’t gone to her father’s.’

Whilst Jerry went for the lantern, the moon began to light the snow-covered ground, and Madge discovered Pansy in the doorway of the stable. She was leaning against the door as if support were necessary to save her from falling. Madge put her arm round the girl, and drawing her out from the shadows into the moonlight, saw that the face was white as the snow at their feet, and felt that the form was shivering with agitation more than with cold.

‘I knew it would upset you, Pansy; and intended to tell you myself, but wanted to do it when we were alone.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Missy,’ answered the girl through her chattering teeth; ‘but thank you kindly. There’s no help for it now. I’ve been the ruin of him, and standing out here, I’ve seen how wicked and cruel I’ve been to him. I knew what he was thinking about, and I might have told him not to think of it—but I liked him—I like him, and I wish they would take me in his place. They ought to take me, for it was me that drove him to it.’

‘Hush, hush, Pansy,’ said Madge with gentle firmness; ‘Caleb is innocent, and will be free in a few days. It was only some foolish business he had with Coutts Hadleigh which brought him under suspicion.’

‘Yes, yes, but it was about me that he went to speak to Mr Coutts—and Mr Coutts never said anything to me that a gentleman might not say. Only he was very kind—very kind, and I came to think of him, and—and—it was all me—all me! And you, though you didn’t mean it, showed me how wrong it was, and I went away. And if Caleb had only waited, maybe—maybe.... I don’t know right what I am saying; but I would have come to myself, and have tried to make him happy.’

This hysterical cry showed the best and the worst sides of the girl’s character. For a brief space she had yielded to the vanity of her sex, which accepts the commonplaces of gallantry as special tributes to the individual, and so had misinterpreted the attentions which Coutts would have paid to any pretty girl who came in his way. She had been rudely startled from her folly, and was now paying bitter penance for it. She took to herself all the blame of Caleb’s guilt, and insisted that she should be in jail, not him.

Madge allowed her feelings to have full vent, and then was able to comfort her with the reiterated assurance of Caleb’s innocence, which would be speedily proved.

The fit being over, Pansy showed herself to be a sensible being, and listened attentively to the kindly counsel of her friend. She agreed to follow her original plan, namely, to see her father in the morning and then return to Camberwell to devote her whole energies to the task of reclaiming her grandfather from his foolish ways and bringing him out to Ringsford. Madge was certain that this occupation would prove the best antidote to all Pansy’s unhappy thoughts and self-reproaches. Meanwhile it was arranged that Pansy should not have Jenny Wodrow for her bedfellow.

* * * * *

Affairs at the farm had gone on uncomfortably from the moment Dick Crawshay expressed displeasure with his niece. She made what advances she could towards reconciliation; but she did not yet offer any explanation. He was obliged to accept her customary service as secretary; but it was evident that he would have liked to dispense with it. Neither his appetite nor his slumbers were disturbed, however; and he slept soundly through the night whilst the fire was raging at the Manor. It was not until the wain with its load of milk-cans had started for the station that he heard from Jerry Mogridge the report of what had occurred.

Then yeoman Dick mounted his horse and rode at full speed to Ringsford to offer what help it might be in his power to render, grumbling at himself all the way for not having been sooner aware of his neighbour’s danger. Finding Mr Hadleigh in the gardener’s cottage, where there was want of space and convenience, the farmer with impetuous hospitality invited the whole family to Willowmere. The invalid could not be removed until the doctor gave permission; but Caroline and Bertha were at once escorted to the farm. Miss Hadleigh remained at the cottage to assist the housekeeper in nursing her father: she was moved to do so by a sense of duty as well as by the knowledge that Alfred Crowell would come out as soon as he heard of the disaster, and he would expect to find her there.

In the bustle and excitement of the first part of the day there was only one person who thought much about Philip and of the effect this new calamity might have upon him in his present state. As the afternoon advanced, everybody was wondering why he neither came nor sent any message. The arrival of Pansy relieved Madge on this and other points; and she was happily spared for that night the pain of learning that Philip did visit the gardener’s cottage without calling at Willowmere.

Postman Zachy delivered two welcome letters in the cold gray light of the winter morning. Both were from Austin Shield—one for Mrs Crawshay, the other for Madge. The first simply stated that his old friend might expect to see him in a few days, and that he believed she would have reason to give him the kindly greeting which he knew she would like to give him. The second was longer and contained important information.

‘Be patient and trust me still,’ it said. ‘You have fixed the week as the limit of your silence: before the time is out I shall be at Willowmere. Philip has acted in every way as I would have him act under the circumstances, except in the extreme mercy which he extends to the man Wrentham; but he pleads that it is for the sake of the poor lady and child whose happiness depends on the rascal, and I have been obliged to yield. At the last moment Wrentham attempted to escape, and would have succeeded but for the cleverness of the detective, Sergeant Dier.

‘Be patient, and have courage till we meet again.’

‘Be patient—have courage:’ excellent phrases and oftentimes helpful; but was there ever any one who at a crisis in life has found the words alone satisfactory? They by no means relieved Madge of all uneasiness, although she accepted them as a token that her suspense would soon be at an end. In one respect she was keenly disappointed: there was not a hint that the proofs she had given Mr Shield of Mr Hadleigh’s innocence of any complicity in his misfortunes had been yet acknowledged to be complete. Had that been done, Philip would have forgotten half his worries. Mr Shield was aware of that—he must be aware of it, and yet he was silent. She could not help thinking that there was some truth in Mr Hadleigh’s view of the eccentricity of his character.

THE NEW MEDIÆVAL ROOM AT THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

One of the rooms at the British Museum, left vacant by the removal of the Natural History Collection to South Kensington, has lately been re-opened, under the title of the Mediæval Room, with a collection of curious objects, many of which possess strong personal as well as antiquarian interest. The articles shown range from the twelfth century downwards. Some of them have already been on exhibition in another part of the building; but the majority are now publicly shown for the first time. The various items have been carefully arranged and labelled by Messrs Franks and Read, the curators of the Ethnological Department, the fullness of the appended descriptions more than compensating for the temporary lack of a catalogue.

Among the curiosities of more modern date is a silver-mounted punch-bowl of Inveraray marble, formerly the property of the poet Burns, and presented by his widow to Alexander Cunningham. Not far distant rests the Lochbuy brooch, a massive ornament four inches in diameter, said to date from about the year 1500, and to have been fashioned out of silver found on the estate of Lochbuy, in Mull. Its centre is a large crystal, surrounded by upright collets bearing pearls of considerable size. It was long preserved as a sort of heirloom in the Lochbuy family, but passed out of it by the marriage of a female representative, and in course of time became part of the Bernal Collection, whence it was acquired by the British Museum. Hard by it is a handsomely carved casket, made of the wood of Shakspeare’s mulberry tree, and presented in 1769, with the freedom of the town of Stratford-on-Avon, to David Garrick. The majority of the exhibits, however, belong to very much earlier periods. There is a choice display of horn and tortoiseshell snuff and tobacco boxes, two of the latter—duplicates, save in some unimportant particulars—bearing the arms of Sir Francis Drake, and the representation of a ship in full sail. We are told that boxes of this same pattern are frequently offered to collectors as having been the personal property of the great admiral; but an inscription on one of the specimens here exhibited shows that they were actually made by one John Obrisset in 1712.

An ordinary-looking piece of rock-crystal in one of the cases claims to be the veritable ‘show-stone’ or divining crystal of Dr Dee, the celebrated astrologer and alchemist of Queen Elizabeth’s time. Dee’s own account of the origin of the show-stone was as follows. He declared that one day in November 1582, while he was engaged in prayer, the angel Uriel appeared to him and presented him with a magic crystal, which had the quality, when steadfastly gazed into, of presenting visions, and even of producing articulate sounds. These sights and sounds, however, were only perceptible to a person endowed with the proper mediumistic faculty. This the doctor himself unfortunately lacked; but such a person was soon found in one Edward Kelly, who was engaged as the doctor’s assistant, and produced ‘revelations’ with Joseph-Smith-like facility. Indeed, his revelations had more than one point in common with those of the Mormon apostle, for it is recorded that on one occasion he received a divine command that he and the doctor should exchange wives, which edifying little family arrangement was actually carried out, with much parade of prayer and religious ceremonial. It seems probable that Dee really believed in the manifestations, and was himself the dupe of his unscrupulous associate. Kelly was accustomed to describe what he saw and heard in the magic crystal, and Dr Dee took notes of the mystic revelations. These notes were, in 1659, collected and published in a folio volume by Dr Meric Casaubon, an eminent scholar of that day, who appears to have believed that the revelations were really the work of spirits, though of doubtful character. From these notes it would appear that Dee was possessed of two, if not more, divining crystals of various sizes. After his death, a stone, said to be one of these, came into the possession of the Earl of Peterborough, and thence into that of Lady Elizabeth Germaine. It subsequently fell into the hands of the then head of the House of Argyll, by whose son, Lord Frederick Campbell, it was presented to Horace Walpole. For many years it formed part of the Strawberry Hill Collection, and there was appended to the leather case in which it was contained a manuscript note, in Walpole’s own handwriting, describing it as ‘the black stone into which Dr Dee used to call his spirits,’ and recording the above facts respecting it. On the dispersion of the Strawberry Hill Collection in 1842, the stone in question is said to have been purchased, at the price of thirteen pounds, by Mr Smythe Pigott; and at the sale of that gentleman’s library in 1853, to have passed into the hands of Lord Londesborough. As to the later history of this particular stone, we have no information; but it is clearly not identical with the one in the British Museum. Horace Walpole’s is described as being a ‘black stone.’ Others add that it was in shape a flat disk, with a loop or handle, and it is generally believed to have been a highly polished piece of cannel coal. The one in the British Museum more nearly resembles the descriptions given of Lady Blessington’s crystal, employed for a similar purpose by Lieutenant Morrison, the Zadkiel of ‘almanac’ celebrity. It is a ball, about two inches in diameter, of rather dark rock-crystal, and, as Mr Read informs us, has been in the possession of the British Museum for nearly a century. Assuming, however, that, as stated in Casaubon’s notes, Dr Dee used two or more magic specula, this may of course have been one of them.

This mystic crystal is appropriately flanked by a collection of oriental talismans, some in metal, for suspension from the neck; others of agate or chalcedony, engraved with charms and cabalistic signs, for reproduction on wax or parchment. Here also are a couple of bezoar stones, formerly much esteemed as possessing occult medical virtues, particularly as an antidote to poison. The genuine bezoar stone is a calculus found in the stomach of the goat or antelope. The specimens here shown are artificial, being compounded from a recipe in the possession of Sir Hans Sloane. They claim, however, to have all the virtues of the genuine article, which we think extremely probable! They have a peculiar aromatic smell, which probably assisted the belief in their hygienic properties.

In another of the cases we find post-mortem casts of the faces of Charles II. and Oliver Cromwell. A third, anonymous when acquired by the Museum, has since been identified as that of Charles XII., king of Sweden. The musket-wound in the temple, by which he fell, is plainly observable. Not far distant are a leathern ‘black-jack’ and a couple of ‘chopines,’ the latter, however, not being, as French scholars might be inclined to suppose, the measure of that name, but a sort of stilt about sixteen inches in height, with a shoe at the upper end, and formerly worn by the Venetian ladies. Shakspeare alludes to this queer article where he makes Hamlet say, addressing one of the female players, ‘By’r Lady, your ladyship is nearer heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine.’ Here, too, are a couple of the mallets and a ball used in the old game of pall-mall. The present specimens were found in the house of Mr Vulliamy, situated in the street of the same name, which adjoins the ancient Mall. The ball is of wood, about two and a half inches in diameter; and the mallets, save that their heads are bound with iron, are almost precisely similar to those used in croquet at the present day.

There are sundry curious ivories, among them being a drinking-horn made out of a single tusk, elaborately carved, and mounted with copper-gilt. It bears the inscription:

Drinke you this, and thinke no scorne
Although the cup be much like a horne.

It bears the date 1599, and is in general appearance like a fish, with a sort of scoop, or spoon-bowl, projecting from the mouth. There are indications that it was originally fashioned as a horn for blowing, but was afterwards converted to its present purpose. A small tablet of the same material represents ‘Orator’ Henley preaching. On the floor in the centre of the building, presumably Henley’s chapel in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, is seen an inscription indicating that the notorious Colonel Charteris lies buried there. Immediately in front of the preacher stands a bear on his hind-legs, holding a staff; and the congregation are represented with horns, exaggerated noses, heads of animals, and other deformities. The preacher appears to be uttering the words, ‘Let those not calumniate who cannot confute.’

In another part of the room is a choice collection of ancient watches, pocket dials, and timepieces of various descriptions, some of very eccentric character. There are oval watches, octagon watches, and cruciform watches; watches in the form of tulips and other flowers. There is a dial in the form of a star, and another in the shape of a lute. A gilt clock, of considerable size, in the form of a ship, with elaborate mechanical movements, is said to have been made for the Emperor Rudolf II. A pocket dial shown has a special interest, as having belonged to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, some time favourite of Queen Elizabeth. This dial bears the arms of the ill-fated earl, together with an inscription showing that it was made by one James Kynvyn, in 1593.

Astrolabes, nocturnals, and other astronomical instruments, English and foreign, are largely represented. There are ancient chess and backgammon boards, with men carved or stamped in divers quaint fashions; and a number of drinking-cups in bronze, rock-crystal, and silver, among those of the last material being a small goblet of graceful fashion long known as the ‘Cellini’ cup, but believed to be in truth of German workmanship. An elegant tazza of rock-crystal, mounted with silver-gilt, has a medallion portrait of Queen Elizabeth in its centre; but whether it actually belonged to the Virgin Queen is uncertain.

The connoisseur in enamels will here find a large and varied collection, ranging from the _cloisonné_ of the Byzantine to the _champ levé_ of the early Limoges school, and the surface-painting of later artists. Some of the specimens shown are extremely beautiful; indeed, this collection alone would well repay the trouble of a visit. One of the earlier specimens, a plate of German enamel, represents Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winchester, and brother to King Stephen. Among the more curious specimens of this ancient art are sundry bishops’ crosiers of various dates, and a couple of ‘pricket’ candlesticks, in which the candle, instead of being dropped into a socket in the modern manner, is impaled upon an upright point.

A small _pietà_ of the sixteenth century, placed in one corner of the room, deserves a special mention. The figures are in wax, skilfully draped with real silk and lace. Such a combination has usually a tawdry appearance, but it has no such effect in this instance. The name of the modeller has not been handed down to us, but he was unquestionably a true artist. The look of death on the Saviour’s face, and the heart-broken expression of the Madonna as she bends over to kiss his blood-stained brow, are almost painfully real. The power of the representation is the more remarkable from its small size, the whole group being only about eight inches square.

In a collection numbering many hundreds of items, it is obviously impossible even to mention more than a very small proportion of the whole. We have spoken more particularly of such as have some personal or historical association connected with them; but on the score of antiquity alone, such a collection as this must be full of interest to thoughtful minds. Who can gaze upon these relics of the distant past without yearning to look back into the far-off times when all these things were new? What would we give to see, ‘in their habit as they lived,’ the men who fashioned these ancient timepieces, who drank from these crystal cups, and played tric-trac on these quaint backgammon boards? It needs but small imagination to call up Burns and his boon-companions carousing around the marble punch-bowl, with ‘just a wee drap in their e’e;’ but who shall name the knights who wore this iron gauntlet or that _repoussé_ breastplate? Their ‘bones are dust, their good swords rust,’ and yet here is part of their ancient panoply, well-nigh as perfect as when it left the armourer’s anvil four hundred years ago. Truly, they did good work, these mediæval artificers. The struggle for existence was not so intense; they did not hurry, as in these high-pressure days. Believing, with old George Herbert, that ‘we do it soon enough, if that we do be well,’ they wisely took their time, caring little to do quick work, so long as they did good work. And so their handiwork remains, _monumentum ære perennius_, a standing memorial of the good old time when ‘art was still religion,’ and labour was noble, because the craftsman put his heart into his work.

ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.

_A NOVELETTE._

BY T. W. SPEIGHT.