Elster's Folly, Mrs. Henry Wood [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

I Ever Shall,  Gum. I Tell

You It Was Lord Hartledon. And If Harm Doesn't Befall Him At Calne,  As

Shadowed Forth In My Dream,  Never Believe Me Again."

 

"There,  That's Enough," Peremptorily Cried The Clerk; Knowing,  If Once

Mrs. Gum Took Up Any Idea With A Dream For Its Basis,  How Impossible It

Was To Turn Her. "Is The Key Of That Kitchen Door Found Yet?"

 

"No: It Never Will Be,  Gum. I've Told You So Before. My Belief Is,  And

Always Has Been,  That Rebecca Let It Drop By Accident Into The Waste

Bucket."

 

"_My_ Belief Is,  That Rebecca Made Away With It For Her Own Purposes,"

Said The Clerk. "I Caught Her Just Now With The Door Wide Open. She's

Trying To Make Acquaintance With The Man Pike; That's What She's At."

 

"Oh,  Gum!"

 

"Yes; It's All Very Well To Say 'Oh,  Gum!' But If You Were Below-Stairs

Looking After Her,  Instead Of Dreaming Up Here,  It Might Be Better For

Everyone. Let Me Once Be Certain About It,  And Off She Goes The Next

Hour. A Fine Thing 'Twould Be Some Day For Us To Find Her Head Smothered

In The Kitchen Purgatory,  And The Silver Spoons Gone; As Will Be The Case

If Any Loose Characters Get In."

 

He Was Descending The Stairs As He Spoke The Last Sentence,  Delivered In

Loud Tones,  Probably For The Benefit Of Miss Rebecca Jones. And Lest The

Intelligent Protestant Reader Should Fear He Is Being Introduced To

Unorthodox Regions,  It May Be As Well To Mention That The "Purgatory" In

Mr. Jabez Gum's Kitchen Consisted Of An Excavation,  Two Feet Square,

Under The Hearth,  Covered With A Grating Through Which The Ashes And

The Small Cinders Fell; Thereby Enabling The Economical Housewife To

Throw The Larger Ones On The Fire Again. Such Wells Or "Purgatories," As

They Are Called,  Are Common Enough In The Old-Fashioned Kitchens Of

Certain English Districts.

 

Mrs. Gum,  Ready Now,  Had Been About To Follow Her Husband; But His

Suggestion--That The Girl Was Watching An Opportunity To Make

Acquaintance With Their Undesirable Neighbour,  Pike--Struck Her

Motionless.

 

It Seemed That She Could Never See This Man Without A Shiver,  Or Overcome

The Fright Experienced When She First Met Him. It Was On A Dark Autumn

Night. She Was Coming Through The Garden When She Discerned,  Or Thought

She Discerned,  A Light In The Abandoned Shed. Thinking Of Fire,  She

Hastily Crossed The Stile That Divided Their Garden From The Waste Land,

And Ran To It. There She Was Confronted By What She Took To Be A

Bear--But A Bear That Could Talk; For He Gruffly Asked Her Who She Was

And What She Wanted. A Black-Haired,  Black-Browed Man,  With A Pipe

Between His Teeth,  And One Sinewy Arm Bared To The Elbow.

 

How Mrs. Gum Tore Away And Tumbled Over The Stile In Her Terror,  And Got

Home Again,  She Never Knew. She Supposed It To Be A Tramp,  Who Had Taken

Shelter There For The Night; But Finding To Her Dismay That The Tramp

Stayed On,  She Had Never Overcome Her Fright From That Hour To This.

 

Neither Did Her Husband Like The Proximity Of Such A Gentleman. They

Caused Securer Bolts To Be Put On Their Doors--For Fastenings In Small

Country Places Are Not Much Thought About,  People Around Being

Proverbially Honest. They Also Had Their Shutters Altered. The Shutters

To The Windows,  Back And Front,  Had Holes In Them In The Form Of A

Heart,  Such As You May Have Sometimes Noticed. Before The Wild-Looking

Man--Whose Name Came To Be Known As Pike--Had Been In Possession Of The

Shed A Fortnight,  Jabez Gum Had The Holes In His Shutters Filled-In And

Painted Over. An Additional Security,  Said The Neighbours: But Poor Timid

Mrs. Gum Could Not Overcome That First Fright,  And The Very Mention Of

The Man Set Her Trembling And Quaking.

 

Nothing More Was Said Of The Dream Or The Apparition,  Real Or Fancied,  Of

Lord Hartledon: Clerk Gum Did Not Encourage The Familiar Handling Of Such

Topics In Everyday Life. He Breakfasted,  Devoted An Hour To His Own

Business In The Little Office,  And Then Put On His Coat To Go Out. It Was

Friday Morning. On That Day And On Wednesdays The Church Was Open For

Baptisms,  And It Was The Clerk's Custom To Go Over At Ten O'clock And

Apprize The Rector Of Any Notices He Might Have Had.

 

Passing In At The Iron Gates,  The Large White House Rose Before Him,

Beyond The Wide Lawn. It Had Been Built By Dr. Ashton At His Own

Expense. The Old Rectory Was A Tumbledown,  Inconvenient Place,  Always

In Dilapidation,  For As Soon As One Part Of It Was Repaired Another

Fell Through; And The Rector Opened His Heart And His Purse,  Both

Large And Generous,  And Built A New One. Mr. Gum Was Making His Way

Unannounced To The Rector's Study,  According To Custom,  When A Door On

The Opposite Side Of The Hall Opened,  And Dr. Ashton Came Out. He Was A

Pleasant-Looking Man,  With Dark Hair And Eyes,  His Countenance One Of

Keen Intellect; And Though Only Of Middle Height,  There Was Something

Stately,  Grand,  Imposing In His Whole Appearance.

 

"Is That You,  Jabez?"

 

Connected With Each Other For So Many Years--A Connection Which Had Begun

When Both Were Young--The Rector And Mrs. Ashton Had Never Called Him

Anything But Jabez. With Other People He Was Gum,  Or Mr. Gum,  Or Clerk

Gum: Jabez With Them. He,  Jabez,  Was The Older Man Of The Two By Six Or

Seven Years,  For The Rector Was Not More Than Forty-Five. The Clerk

Crossed The Hall,  Its Tessellated Flags Gleaming Under The Colours

Thrown In By The Stained Windows,  And Entered The Drawing-Room,  A Noble

Apartment Looking On To The Lawn In Front. Mrs. Ashton,  A Tall,

Delicate-Looking Woman,  With A Gentle Face,  Was Standing Before A

Painting Just Come Home And Hung Up; To Look At Which The Rector And

His Wife Had Gone Into The Room.

 

It Was The Portrait Of A Sweet-Looking Girl With A Sunny Countenance. The

Features Were Of The Delicate Contour Of Mrs. Ashton's; The Rich Brown

Hair,  The Soft Brown Eyes,  And The Intellectual Expression Of The Face

Resembled The Doctor's. Altogether,  Face And Portrait Were Positively

Charming; One Of Those Faces You Must Love At First Sight,  Without

Waiting To Question Whether Or Not They Are Beautiful.

 

"Is It A Good Likeness,  Jabez?" Asked The Rector,  Whilst Mrs. Ashton Made

Room For Him With A Smile Of Greeting.

 

"As Like As Two Peas,  Sir," Responded Jabez,  When He Had Taken A Long

Look. "What A Face It Is! Oftentimes It Comes Across My Mind When I Am

Not Thinking Of Anything But Business; And I'm Always The Better For It."

 

"Why,  Jabez,  This Is The First Time You Have Seen It."

 

"Ah,  Ma'am,  You Know I Mean The Original. There's Two Baptisms To-Day,

Sir," He Added,  Turning Away; "Two,  And One Churching. Mrs. Luttrell And

Her Child,  And The Poor Little Baby Whose Mother Died."

 

"Mrs. Luttrell!" Repeated The Rector. "It's Soon For Her,  Is It Not?"

 

"They Want To Go Away To The Seaside," Replied The Clerk. "What About

That Notice,  Sir?"

 

"I'll See To It Before Sunday,  Jabez. Any News?"

 

"No,  Sir; Not That I've Heard Of. My Wife Wanted To Persuade Me She

Saw--"

 

At This Moment A White-Haired Old Serving-Man Entered The Room With

A Note,  Claiming The Rector's Attention. "The Man's To Take Back The

Answer,  Sir,  If You Please."

 

"Wait Then,  Simon."

 

Old Simon Stood Aside,  And The Clerk,  Turning To Mrs. Ashton,  Continued

His Unfinished Sentence.

 

"She Wanted To Persuade Me She Saw Young Lord Hartledon Pass At Six

O'clock This Morning. A Very Likely Tale That,  Ma'am."

 

"Perhaps She Dreamt It,  Jabez," Said Mrs. Ashton,  Quietly.

 

Jabez Chuckled; But What He Would Have Answered Was Interrupted By The

Old Servant.

 

"It's Mr. Elster That's Come; Not Lord Hartledon."

 

"Mr. Elster! How Do You Know,  Siildren's Bird Of Wisdom." They Are In The Form Of Quaint

Letters Of Advice,  And My Sister Adopted The _Spectator's_ Method Of

Writing As An Eye-Witness In The First Person,  So Far As Was Possible

In Addressing A Very Youthful Class Of Readers. She Had A Strong

Admiration For Many Of Both Steele And Addison's Papers.

 

       *       *       *       *       *

 

The List That I Promised To Give Of Julie's Published Stories Is Now

Completed; And,  If Her Works Are To Be Valued By Their Length,  It May

Justly Be Said That She Has Not Left A Vast Amount Of Matter Behind

Her,  But I Think That Those Who Study Her Writings Carefully,  Will

Feel That Some Of Their Greatest Worth Lies In The Wonderful

Condensation And High Finish That They Display. No Reviewer Has Made A

More Apt Comparison Than The American One In _Every Other Saturday_,

Who Spoke Of "Jackanapes" As "An Exquisite Bit Of Finished Work--A

Meissonier,  In Its Way."

 

To Other Readers The Chief Value Of The Books Will Be In The High

Purpose Of Their Teaching,  And The Consciousness That Julie Held Her

Talent As A Direct Gift From God,  And Never Used It Otherwise

Than To His Glory. She Has Penned Nothing For Which She Need Fear

Reproach From Her Favourite Old Proverb,  "A Wicked Book Is All The

Wickeder Because It Can Never Repent." It Is Difficult For Those Who

Admire Her Writings To Help Regretting That Her Life Was Cut Off

Before She Had Accomplished More,  But To Still Such Regrets We Cannot

Do Better Than Realize (As A Kind Friend Remarked) "How Much She Has

Been Able To Do,  Rather Than What She Has Left Undone." The Work Which

She Did,  In Spite Of Her Physical Fragility,  Far Exceeds What The

Majority Of Us Perform With Stronger Bodies And Longer Lives. This

Reflection Has Comforted Me,  Though I Perhaps Know More Than Others

How Many Subjects She Had Intended To Write Stories Upon. Some People

Have Spoken As If Her _Forte_ Lay In Writing About Soldiers Only,  But

Her Success In This Line Was Really Due To Her Having Spent Much Time

Among Them. I Am Sure Her Imagination And Sympathy Were So Strong,

That Whatever Class Of Men She Was Mixed With,  She Could Not Help

Throwing Herself Into Their Interests,  And Weaving Romances About

Them. Whether Such Romances Ever Got On To Paper Was A Matter

Dependent On Outward Circumstances And The State Of Her Health.

 

One Of The Unwritten Stories Which I Most Regret Is "Grim The

Collier"; This Was To Have Been A Romance Of The Black Country Of

Coal-Mines,  In Which She Was Born,  And The Title Was Chosen From The

Description Of A Flower In A Copy Of Gerarde's _Herbal_,  Given To Her

By Miss Sargant:--

 

     _Hieracium Hortense Latifolium,  Sine Pilosella Maior_,  Golden

     Mouseeare,  Or Grim The Colliar. The Floures Grow At The Top As It

     Were In An Vmbel,  And Are Of The Bignesse Of The Ordinary

     Mouseeare,  And Of An Orenge Colour. The Seeds Are Round,  And

     Blackish,  And Are Carried Away With The Downe By The Wind. The

     Stalks And Cups Of The Flours Are All Set Thicke With A Blackish

     Downe,  Or Hairinesse,  As It Were The Dust Of Coles; Whence The

     Women Who Keepe It In Gardens For Novelties Sake,  Have Named It

     Grim The Colliar.

 

I Wish,  Too,  That Julie Could Have Written About Sailors,  As Well As

Soldiers,  In The Tale Of "Little Mothers' Meetings," Which Had Been

Suggested To Her Mind By Visits To Liverpool. The Sight Of A Baby

Patient In The Children's Hospital There,  Who Had Been Paralyzed And

Made Speechless By Fright,  But Who Took So Strange A Fancy To My

Sister's Sympathetic Face That He Held Her Hand And Could Scarcely Be

Induced To Release It,  Had Affected Her Deeply. So Did A Visit That

She Paid One Sunday To The Seamen's Orphanage,  Where She Heard The

Voices Of Hundreds Of Fatherless Children Ascending With One Accord In

The Words,  "I Will Arise And Go To My Father," And Realized The Love

That Watched Over Them. These Scenes Were Both To Have Been Woven Into

The Tale,  And The "Little Mothers" Were Boy Nurses Of Baby Brothers

And Senjoying Himself--But That Was Soon Glossed Over; And He Told Her How His

Brother Was Coming Down On The Morrow With A Houseful Of Guests,  And He,

Val,  Had Offered To Go Before Them With The Necessary Instructions. He

Did Not Say _Why_ He Had Offered To Do This; That His Debts Had Become So

Pressing He Was Afraid To Show Himself Longer In London. Such Facts Were

Not For The Ear Of That Fair Girl,  Who Trusted Him As The Truest Man She

Knew Under Heaven.

 

"What Have You Been Doing,  Anne?"

 

He Pointed To The Maps,  And Miss Ashton Laughed.

 

"Mrs. Graves Was Here Yesterday; She Is Very Clever,  You Know; And When

Something Was Being Said About The Course Of Ships Out Of England,