Chapter IV

Yet time serves wherein you may redeem
Your banished honours, and restore yourselves
Into the good thoughts of the world again.
SHAKSPEARE.

“I can assure your Ladyship, it’s quite the most _unsuitablest_ place you ever _seed_ for your Ladyship,” said Mrs. Jones, in answer to Lady Gayland’s entreaty to be shown the room to which the poor girl had been conveyed. “It’s quite a place for a lady like you to catch the _cholera_, or the _tic-dooleeroose_, or some other narvous disorder.”

“Why! should all these dreadful things happen to me for staying in it for a few minutes, at my own will and pleasure, and yet it be a proper place in which forcibly to confine that poor creature? What is it? not a real dungeon, I hope?”

“Oh! no, my Lady, I trust I am not such an _unchristen hankeret_, as to deal in such things. You see, Ma’am, the fact is, she’s stowed in my lumber-room. It’s many a year now, whenever Sir North said to me, ‘Jones, take this here out of my way, and put it by’--up it’s always gone, under lock and key, into the lumber-room. So, when he said to-day, ‘You, Jones, put by this young woman, and keep her safe till I want her;’ it come most _natral_ like to me, just to pop her in there, and there she is.”

There was much in Mrs. Jones’s manner which would have been to Lady Gayland, at any other time, irresistible food for ridicule; but the errand on which she was then going, had so much excited her interest, that she was regulated, in her answers to Mrs. Jones, by an anxious desire to smooth as much as possible the precise objections that were started by that methodical body to the object she had in view. No one of which objections were founded at all upon any difficulty in counteracting Sir North’s orders, which had been that the young person should be kept alone; for, though Mrs. Jones had known Sir North all his life-time, and, consequently, much of her own, she had not therefore imbibed a more respectful deference for his authority, than those more recently added members of his establishment, which had been gradually swelled to the present extent. Mrs. Jones had begun life as servant-maid to old Sir Simon, at his office in the City. And therefore let it not be supposed that she is given as a common specimen of the housekeeping species as it now exists. It would be strange indeed, if, in these days, when education has been so widely diffused amongst the middling and lower orders, a pet preserve of slipslop and ignorance should be found, exactly amongst those who have the most means of improving themselves by comparing their own phraseology with that of their superiors. Mrs. Jones had, in spite of the accumulated dignity of her multiplied charges, retained much of the original “Maid of All Work of Cripplegate.” In the course of the many years when she had been left in the solitary keeping of Hornscliff Abbey, her original cockney had become a little chequered with the country dialect in the neighbourhood: and from her occasional association with the fine gentlemen’s fine gentlemen, and the _elegantes, helegant women_, which Sir North had occasionally, at considerable intervals, collected there, she had acquired nothing but awkward affectation.

But I forget that all this while I am keeping Lady Gayland on the staircase of the turret even longer than Mrs. Jones would, who, at length, said--

“But, _o’ coorse_, my Lady, I’m not going for to say you shan’t not do nothing you chooses.” And with this she began to mount the spiral staircase of the turret, jingling at the same time the big bunch of keys, from which she was feeling out the biggest, as belonging to the ponderous lock of the lumber-room. Whilst fitting it in its allotted key-hole, she turned to Lady Gayland, saying, “I’m afraid your Ladyship will find it a small matter _dampishish_, it’s so nigh the roof. I could light a bit of fire now, but it do smoke a triflish at first lighting: as I remember well this time five years back, when Sir North set me to burn some old papers here; and if I’d known you’d been so _descending_ as to come up here, I’d have lighted it when I first put her in here; but the reason was I was a bit _timbersome_ of her, poor despairing _cretur_! that she might be _misheevous_ with fire, since we’ve heard tell of the burnings of the _insensiblaries_, and some of them _papish monkeish_ old chairs would catch like tinder.”

Her follower, as may be imagined, declined the offer to smother her with smoke, though, at first entrance, the room struck damp, and yet close, as never having been aired. The low gallery, let into the roof and sparingly lighted, was, nevertheless, spacious, as far as its dimensions could be guessed at through the immense heaps of littered rubbish with which it was crowded, and which afforded ample proofs that if Mrs. Jones, who kept the key, rarely visited it, she could never have done so empty-handed.

Against the low groined windows were leaned so as almost to exclude the light, broken detached wings of a japan screen, and over them were hung the sails of a pleasure-boat. On the seats of some fractured high-backed cedar chairs, which had belonged to the monks, were piled all the numbers of the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ from the beginning; a crayon drawing of George Anne Bellamy; a print of Admiral Duncan; Mrs. Abington, as _Scrub_; Sir Simon’s hatchment; and some coloured lamps for an illumination. On an old billiard-table were heaped, a gouty chair, fishing-tackle, packets of Sir Simon’s treasury vouchers scattered loose about, and specimens of rare plants sent as presents and never unpacked, with every other possible variety of chaotic confusion, much too numerous to describe.

But Lady Gayland hardly observed all this, for her attention was engrossed by an object which seemed as motionless as any of the incongruous fixtures by which it was surrounded. Lucy Darnell was discovered sitting on a low stool, leaning one elbow on a tattered sofa beside her, and the other on her knee, whilst she covered her face with her hands, pressing the palms against her eyes, and clenching between her fingers, the locks of her long fair hair, which was twined and twisted through them. Her intended comforter, Lady Gayland, moved slowly and softly towards her, and was about to place herself silently on the sofa beside her, on which Lucy was leaning, when Mrs. Jones stopped her with something of a scream:

“Oh, my Lady! take care! it’s dust an inch thick, quite a shame to be seen! nothing as comes here ever feels a duster _agin_; and _that ere sofar_ has been here long afore my day; they do say it was put by ever since the last Lord Hornscliff was laid on it, when he made away with himself, after he had made away with every thing else; and to think of your brushing down the nasty dust as _has bin_ there ever since, with that sweet gown. Vapor, (vapeur) too, as Mrs. Angel-leek calls it, is the most wulnerablest colour as is!”

Lady Gayland could have been impatient at this interference, but she preferred quickly, but effectually getting rid of Mrs. Jones altogether, to any mode of controlling her proceedings. And as this wish was not effected by words, it need not be recorded in them; it is therefore sufficient to say, that the manner which she adopted for conveying her desire to Mrs. Jones was satisfactory to both parties.

When at length left alone with poor Lucy Darnell, her visitor felt, from the graceful, though desolate, attitude of the young person before her, an interest in her, for which she had not been previously prepared; and though she had come there with an anxious desire to minister comfort to her sufferings, she knew not exactly in what way to commence her self-imposed task. She bent silently over the apparently unconscious sufferer, desirous, if possible, that her presence should appear to be in some way acknowledged by her to whom she came, before she abruptly intruded herself on her notice. She stood intently gazing on her whose face was still concealed. On her own fine countenance, the workings of that benevolence which had brought her there, were blended with that softened expression of true feminine delicacy, which now made her pause and shrink from the fear of incautiously wounding where she meant to soothe. It would have been next to impossible to identify in her, who was even then fastidiously restrained by the mere chance of inadvertent offence or injury to a helpless girl, whom she came to serve--the same person who, an hour before, had fearlessly scattered the shafts of her ridicule amongst the great and powerful--those who were easiest to offend and slowest to forgive. The classical contour of the finely-chiselled features was indeed the same, and was such as Domenichino would have selected for its beauty--such as, loving to paint, he would have dressed in one or other of those varied expressions, according as his subject had been, a Sibyl or a saint.

Seeing that the motionless being over whom she leaned, and whom she had gradually approached, still gave no sign of awakened consciousness, she softly touched the cold and clammy hand, still so strongly pressed by Lucy against her brow and forehead, and attempted gently to draw it off, and take it between her’s, and addressed to her at the same time these words:

“However great your grief may be, my poor child, there may be some part of your sorrow which it may be in the power of another to alleviate; and if so, I think you would prefer to open your heart to one of your own sex, though unknown to you, rather than to any of those rude and lawless men in whose company you were brought here, but to whose society, I feel assured when I look at you, you must be entirely a stranger.”

There was that harmony in the silvery tone of Lady Gayland’s voice--there was that sympathy in her soft and persuasive touch, which, though Lucy’s faculties were as yet too scattered to enable her rightly to comprehend the purport of what was said, yet prevented her from abruptly rejecting the proffered interference.

“Thank you most kindly, Ma’am,” said she, gently returning the soft pressure of the lady’s hand with that which she now allowed her to detach from her cheek, but dropping her head at the same time still lower towards her knees, and shading her features with the other hand, whilst she spoke--“thank you most kindly; But yesterday I should not have known what to wish for, what favour to ask of any one, stranger or not; and to-day, though I am obliged to you all every bit the same, not all your kindness could lend me one ray of comfort.”

“Why so?” replied her visitor. “It is evident that you are at present labouring under some severe affliction; but there is no situation from which every ray of comfort or of hope is excluded, except guilt, and even there, only from hardened and habitual guilt: that, I feel assured, is not your case; nay, you tell me yourself that but yesterday all was peace and content around; think, then, how much of your present distress may have arisen, not so much from the extent of the actual calamity which oppresses you, as from the sudden abruptness of the change by which it was effected. Nay, perhaps you may have been imprudent,--you have, contrary to the consent of your friends, wandered where these suspicious associates have unexpectedly involved you in their lawless transactions,--you dread the exposure, to those whom you respect, which this discovery entails? If so, confide openly to me; my protection might, when mere imprudence, not guilt, is its cause, smooth your return there, whence you ought never to have wandered. Shame ought never to be allowed to weigh down so young and gentle a head; and since yesterday it cannot be your casual connection with the smuggling transactions of last night which have so completely changed your situation as would induce your friends to cast you off.”

“Oh, no, God bless them! no one will cast me off; my dear father could never dart an angry look or give a hard word to his poor Lucy, if all the judges of the land had found me guilty! But ’tisn’t for that I grieve: I do not fear for myself; there will be no judge to find me guilty;--they’ll lay the blame elsewhere, and he will suffer for it, and it is by him that the name which I bear, and shame, will be said to have been coupled together, and his stout heart and daring spirit will only serve to bear the passive trial of a disgraceful death. But all the time I shall feel that I was the guilty one; yes, I killed him as much as if I gave the blow. He’s gone, he’s dead, the best, the kindest, the gentlest, and I’m sure, whatever he was, one of the noblest of men.”

It was in vain that Lady Gayland gave the best attention of which her acute faculties were capable, to these disjointed and self-accusing reflections, on the events of the last four-and-twenty hours; it was in vain that she attempted to connect in her mind any distinct idea of what actually had happened, or of who the various parties were to whom allusion had been made, or what connexion they had with the person before her: but gathering that her grief was principally connected with the murder supposed to have been committed, and having heard from Sir North that the occurrence was not at all as yet substantiated by evidence, she endeavoured to console the mourner by throwing some doubts upon the fact, saying, “Give not way at once, my poor girl, to such bitter repinings; you could not feel more acutely if his death were already ascertained and pronounced. I understand that there are yet hopes that the wounded man may recover.”

“Ah! where is he?” screamed Lucy, starting up; “have they then found him? Quick, dearest Lady, take me to him; let me care him, watch him, preserve his precious life. But no, no, no!” added she, sinking down again, upon reading in Lady Gayland’s expressive countenance that she saw she had gone too far in attempting to excite hopes which she could not support, “no, I see you are only humouring me like a child. He cannot, he never will be found. Why was he not found in the boat with the others, when they refused to let him stay with me? Where should he be then? ’tis the roar of the waves can alone answer that question. It was no wild vision when from the beach I thought I saw them fling him overboard. He struggled hard, and one he dragged down with him, and, as I thought, the contending breakers bore both aloft for a moment before my sight, and then, swallowing them as they sank, rose in another hideous form without them, and closed for ever over their heads. Was all this so, or not?--who can tell? who can tell? I’m sure Lucy cannot.”

Knitting her brows, she seemed for a short time endeavouring to collect and analyze her thoughts on the subject; then, as if finding the effort in vain, she covered her face again with her hands, and sobbed hysterically.

Lady Gayland’s strong mind enabled her, when she thought it necessary, to command her feelings, and through all the early part of this scene she had made extraordinary efforts to do so, knowing that if she could be at all useful when she wished so to be, it must only be by calming the sufferer, not increasing her excitation by sharing her emotions. But the wild and plaintive manner in which Lucy asked herself the question as to the reality of the dreadful scene she fancied, struck upon one of those simple chords which pure nature has implanted in every gentle breast, which, when touched, vibrate irresistible sympathy; and she was by this for a time so completely upset as to be unable to attempt to resume her task of comforter.