Chapter 117
turning to her mistress, "as just let things alone and leave 'em to me, you'll find they'll be done. What's a few clothes to pack?" indignantly repeated Margery. "And there's nothing else that we may take. If I put up but a pair of sheets or a tin dish-cover, I should be called a thief, I suppose."
_There_ lay the great grievance of Margery's present mood--that everything, except the "few clothes," must be left behind. Margery, for all her crustiness and her outspoken temper, was a most faithfully attached servant, and it may be questioned if she did not feel the abandonment of their goods more keenly than did even Maria and George.
The things were not hers: every article of her own, even to a silver cream-jug which had been the boasted treasure of her life, she had been allowed to retain; even to the little work-box of white satin-wood, with its landscape, the trees of which Miss Meta had been permitted to paint red, and the cottage blue. Not an article of Margery's that she could remove but was sacred to her: but in her fidelity she did resent bitterly having to leave the property of her master and mistress, that it might all pa.s.s into the hands of strangers.
Maria, debarred from a.s.sisting, wandered in her restlessness through some of the more familiar rooms. It was well that she should pay them a farewell visit. From the bedroom where the packing was going on, to George's dressing-room, thence to her own sitting-room, thence to the drawing-room, all on that floor. She lingered in all. A home sanctified by years of happiness cannot be quitted without regret, even when exchanged at pleasure for another; but to turn out of it in humiliation, in poverty, in hopelessness, is a trial of the sharpest and sorest kind.
Apart from the pain, the feeling was a strange one. The objects crowding these rooms: the necessary furniture costly and substantial; the elegant ornaments of various shapes and sorts, the chaste works of art, not necessary, but so luxurious and charming, had hitherto been their own--hers in conjunction with her husband's. They might have done what they pleased with them. Had she broken that Wedgwood vase, there was no one to call her to account for it: had she or George chosen to make a present of that rare basket in medallion, with its speaking likenesses of the beauties of the whilom gay French court, there was no one to say them nay; had they felt disposed to change that fine piano for another, the liberty to do so was theirs. They had been the owners of these surroundings, master and mistress of the house and its contents. And now? Not a single article belonged to them: they were but tenants on sufferance: the things remained, but their right in them had pa.s.sed away. If she dropped and broke only that pretty trifle which her hand was touching now, she must answer for the mishap. The feeling, I say, was a strange one.
She walked through the rooms with dry eyes and a hot brow. Tears seemed long ago to have gone from her. It is true she had been surprised into a few that day, but the lapse was unusual. Why should she make this farewell visit to the rooms, she began asking herself. She needed it not to remember them. Visions of the past came crowding upon her memory; of this or the other happy day spent in them: of the gay meetings when they had received the world; of the sweet home hours when she had sat there alone with him of whom she had well-nigh made an idol--her husband.
Mistaken idolatry, Mrs. George G.o.dolphin! mistaken, useless, vain idolatry. Was there ever an earthly idol yet that did not mock its wors.h.i.+pper? I know of none. We make an idol of our child, and the time comes when it will turn and sting us: we make an idol of the G.o.d or G.o.ddess of our pa.s.sionate love, and how does it end?
Maria sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, thinking more of the past than of the future. She was getting to have less hope in the future than was good for her. It is a bad sign when a sort of apathy with regard to it steals over us; a proof that the mind is not in the healthy state that it ought to be. A time of trial, of danger, was approaching for Maria, and she seemed to contemplate the possibility of her sinking under if with strange calmness. A few months ago, the bare glance at such a fear would have unhinged her: she would have clung to her husband and Meta, and sobbed out her pa.s.sionate prayer to G.o.d in her dire distress, not to be taken from them. Things had changed: the world in which she had been so happy had lost its charm for her; the idol in whose arms she
Meanwhile Mrs. Charlotte Pain, in her looped-up petticoats and nicely-fitting kid boots, was tripping jauntily through the streets of Prior's Ash. Mrs. Pain had been somewhat vacillating in regard to her departure from that long-familiar town; she had reconsidered her determination of quitting it so abruptly; and on the day she went out of Lady G.o.dolphin's Folly, she entered on some stylish lodgings in the heart of Prior's Ash. Only for a week or two; just to give her time to take proper leave of her friends she said: but the weeks had gone on and on, and Charlotte was still there.
Society had been glad to keep Charlotte. Society of course shuts its lofty ears to the ill-natured tales spread by low-bred people: that is, when it finds it convenient so to do. Society had been pleased to be deaf to any little obscure t.i.t-bits of scandal which had made vulgarly free with Charlotte's name: and as to the vague rumours connecting Mr.
Verrall with George G.o.dolphin's ruin, no one knew whether that was not pure scandal too. But if not, why--Mrs. Pain could not be justly reflected on for the faults of Mr. Verrall. So Charlotte was as popular and das.h.i.+ng in her hired rooms as she had been at Lady G.o.dolphin's Folly, and she had remained in them until now.
But now she was really going. This was the last day of her sojourn at Prior's Ash, and Charlotte was walking about unceremoniously, bestowing her farewells on any one who would receive them. It almost seemed as if she had only waited to witness the removal from the Bank of Mr. and Mrs.
George G.o.dolphin.
She walked along in exuberant spirits, nodding her head to everyone: up at windows, in at doorways, to poor people on foot, to rich ones in carriages; her good-natured smile was everywhere. She rushed into shops and chatted familiarly, and won the shopkeepers' hearts by asking if they were not sorry to lose her. She was turning out of one when she came upon the Rector of All Souls'. Charlotte's petticoats went down in a swimming reverence.
"I am paying my farewell visits, Mr. Hastings. Prior's Ash will be rid of me to-morrow."
Not an answering smile crossed the Rector's face: it was cold, impa.s.sive, haughtily civil: almost as if he were thinking that Prior's Ash might have been none the worse had it been rid of Mrs. Charlotte Pain before.
"How is Mrs. Hastings to-day?" asked Charlotte.
"She is not well."
"No! I must try and get a minute to call in on her. Adieu for the present. I shall see you again, I hope."
Down sank the skirts once more, and the Rector lifted his hat in silence. In the ultra-politeness, in the spice of sauciness gleaming out from her flas.h.i.+ng eyes, the clergyman read incipient defiance. But if Mrs. Pain feared that he might be intending to favour her with a little public clerical censure, she was entirely mistaken. The Rector washed his hands of Mrs. Pain, as Lady G.o.dolphin did of her step-son, Mr.
George. He walked on, a flash of scorn lighting his face.
Charlotte walked on: and burst into a laugh as she did so. "Was he afraid to forbid my calling at the Rectory?" she asked herself. "He would have liked to, I know. I'll go there now."
She was not long reaching it. But Isaac was the only one of the family she saw. He came to her charged with Mrs. Hastings's compliments--she felt unequal to seeing Mrs. Pain.
"I hear you are going to London," said Charlotte. "You have found some situation there, George G.o.dolphin tells me."
Isaac threw his eyes--they were just like the Rector's--straight and full into her face. In her present spirit, half mischievous, half defiant, she had expressly paraded the name of George, as her informant, and Isaac thoroughly understood her. Charlotte's eyes were dancing with a variety of expressions, but the chief one was good-humoured malice.
"I am going into a bank in Lombard-street. Mr. G.o.dolphin got me into it."
"You won't like it," said Charlotte.
"I dare say not. But I think myself lucky to get it."
"There will be one advantage," continued Charlotte good-naturedly--"you can come and see us. You know Mrs. Verrall's address. Come as often as you can; every Sunday, if you like; any week-day evening: I'll promise you a welcome beforehand."
"You are very kind," briefly returned Isaac. They were walking slowly to the gate, and he held it open for her.
"What's Reginald doing?" she asked. "Have you heard from him lately?"
"Not very lately. You are aware that he is in London, under a master of navigation, preparatory to pa.s.sing for second officer. As soon as he has pa.s.sed, he will go to sea again."
"When you write to him, give him our address, and tell him to come and see me. And now good-bye," added Charlotte heartily. "And mind you don't show yourself a m.u.f.f, Mr. Isaac, but come and see us. Do you hear?"
"I hear," said Isaac, smiling, as he thawed to her good-humour. "I wish you a pleasant journey, Mrs. Pain."
"Merci bien. Good-bye."
The church clock boomed out five as Charlotte pa.s.sed it, and she came to a standstill of consideration. It was the hour at which she had ordered dinner to be ready.
"Bother dinner!" decided she. "I can't go home for that. I want to see if they are in their lodgings yet. Is that you, Mrs. Bond?"
Sure enough, Mrs. Bond had come into view, and was halting to bob down to Charlotte. Her face looked pale and pinched. There had been no supply of strong waters to-day.
"I be a'most starving, ma'am. I'm waiting here to catch the parson, for I've been to his house, and they say he's out. I dun know as it's of any good seeing him, either. 'Tain't much he has to give away now."
"I am about to leave, Mrs. Bond," cried Charlotte in her free and communicative humour.
"More's the ill-luck, and I have heered on't," responded Mrs. Bond.
"Everybody as is good to us poor goes away, or dies, or fails, or sum'at. There'll soon be nought left for us but the work'us. Many's the odd bit o' silver you have given me at times, ma'am."
"So I have," said Charlotte, laughing. "What if I were to give you this, as a farewell remembrance?"
She took a half-sovereign out of her purse, and held it up. Mrs. Bond gasped: the luck seemed too great to be realized.
"Here, you may have it," said Charlotte, dropping it into the trembling hand held out. "But you know you are nothing but an old sinner, Mrs.
Bond."
"I knows I be," humbly acquiesced Mrs. Bond. "'Tain't of no good denying of it to you, ma'am: you be up to things."
Charlotte laughed, taking the words, perhaps, rather as a compliment.
"You'll go and change this at the nearest gin-shop, and you'll reel into bed to-night blindfold. That's the only good you'll do with it. There, don't say I left Prior's Ash, forgetting you."
She walked on rapidly, leaving Mrs. Bond in her ecstasy of delight to waste her thanks on the empty air. The lodgings George had taken were at the opposite end of the town, nearer to Ashlydyat, and to them Charlotte was bound. They were not on the high-road, but in a quiet side lane. The house, low and roomy, and built in the cottage style, stood in the midst of a flouris.h.i.+ng garden. A small gra.s.s-plat and some flowers were before the front windows, but the rest of the ground was filled with fruit and vegetables. Charlotte opened the green gate and walked up the path, which led to the house.
The front door was open to a small hall, and Charlotte went in, finding her way, and turned to a room on the left: a cheerful, good-sized, old-fas.h.i.+oned parlour, with a green carpet, and pink flowers on its walls. There stood Margery, laying out tea-cups and bread and b.u.t.ter.
Her eyes opened at the sight of Mrs. Pain.
"Have they come yet, Margery?"
"No," was Margery's short answer. "They'll be here in half an hour, maybe; and that'll be before I want 'em--with all the rooms and everything to see to, and only me to do it."
"Is that all you are going to give them for tea?" cried Charlotte, looking contemptuously at the table. "I should surprise them with a dainty dish or two on the table. It would look cheering: and they might soon be cooked."