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Tag: Penny Novel

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Twelfth Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Twelfth Instalment

    Margaret Oliphant’s essay ‘The Byways of Literature: Reading for the Million’ (1858) is something of a seminal study in literature and popular culture. Her elegant piece is by turns endearing — particularly in her approval of our man Smith — and a worry for its tone of condescension towards ‘the Million,’ meaning the multitude, the ‘lower classes’.

    Let us give the masses all credit for their gift of reading; but before we glorify ourselves over the march of intelligence, let us pause first to look into their books.

    There is an irony, which is to some extent to be borne out:

    These unfortunate masses! When first the schoolmaster began to be abroad, how tenderly we took care of the improvement of their minds, and how zealously exerted ourselves to make literature a universal dominie, graciously enlightening the neophyte on every subject under heaven!

    Edinburgh-born ‘Mrs Oliphant’ (née Wilson, 1828–97) did not herself hail from an aristocratic background but a more bourgeois family. Her father was employed as a clerk in the customs and excise service, and she was afforded an education solid enough for her subsequently to produce more than ninety novels, among more than one hundred books. She was well received by critics and was Queen Victoria’s favourite novelist.

    Margaret Oliphant (1828–97)

    She fell out of currency until the late twentieth century, when some of her works returned into print, in an atmosphere of renewed interest in women’s writing. Merryn Williams compares her to Jane Austen and George Eliot and considers her ‘indispensible reading for anyone interested in women in the nineteenth century‘ (Women in the English Novel, 1800–1900).

    Bear in mind that the occasional tone of condescension I mentioned is characteristic of the era, in which a revolution in industry — including the attachment of a steam engine to a rotary printing press capable of printing on both sides of a sheet of paper — made possible the production of millions of copies of a single page in a day, and thus the birth of a mass media. Political, moral and financial imperatives came into play: on the one hand, considerations of the education, edification, ‘betterment’ and socializing of the masses; on the other, anxieties about the breakdown of social order.

    Questions arose such as, What kind of reading is appropriate for the working class (obviously, something useful)? And even fears about the ‘contamination’ of one class by another — more than a metaphor when it came down to instituting public libraries.

    In her essay, Oliphant writes of a summer afternoon in a cathedral town. She has charge of a restless child, whom she takes to a grassy patch by the cathedral, beyond the ‘verdant turf of the cathedral close’, having spent sixpence on some miscellaneous literature to amuse her with. The child is more fascinated with the ‘living daisies outside better than the dead effigies within’, and Oliphant spreads the papers out on the grass.

    Grave literature and learning, decorum and dignity, the authorities of society, stood represented in those grave old houses, from which no careless human eye looked out; and scattered over the daisies, with the wind among their leaves, lay the unauthoritative, undignified, unlearned broadsheets, which represent literature to a great portion of our country people, despite of all the better provision made for their pleasure.

    There could not possibly be a more marked or total contrast than between the object of our immediate attention and the scene.

    Thus is revealed an epiphany, which is not too far from the reader-response and reception theories of nowadays, to the effect that, ‘the multitude’, the reading public — those girls in the mills — will freely take what it pleases and do as it likes with the literature that is put in front of it. And so it ought.

    But here’s the good part. Whom should she uncover from her little trove of cheap writings among the daisies? Of course:

    Here is one personage, for instance, whom rival publications vie for the possession of, and whom the happy successful competitor advertises with all the glow and effusion of conscious triumph,—J. F.; nay, let us be particular,— John Frederick Smith, Esq. This gentleman is a great author, though nobody (who is anybody) ever was aware of it […]

    [Y]et we protest we never read a word of his writings, nor heard a whisper of his existence, until we spread out our sixpenny budget of light literature upon the June daisies. What matter? His portrait, from a photograph by Mayall, may be had in those regions where his sway is acknowledged; and the everybody, who is nobody, bestows upon him that deep-rolling subterraneous universal applause which is fame.

    CHAPTER TWELVE

    Goliah Gob’s Watch — Great Excitement in the Village of Deerhurst — Two Fathers and Two Sons — Viscount Allworth and Lord Bury — The Schoolmaster and Benoni

    Our readers, we flatter ourself, will step back with pleasure to see what some of their old acquaintances have been doing all this time.

    There was great excitement in the village of Deerhurst when it was known that Goliah Gob had received a splendid gold watch from one of the girls he assisted to rescue, and the interest was still further increased by the mysterious manner in which it had been conveyed to him — left at his mother’s farm by an itinerant preacher who had slept at the house overnight, and found on the table in his room, addressed to the honest rustic.

    It was a great puzzle to him, no doubt. But the London lawyer knew how to choose his agents.

    Peggy Hurst spitefully declared, without ever seeing it, that the watch would prove brass. Even Susan doubted, but it might be otherwise.

    We wonder if she had an eye to future contingencies. At any rate, she gave her mother, who watched her with the stealthiness of a lynx, no reasonable cause of complaint. She quitted her home, which had become intolerably dull since the departure of William, only on Sundays, to accompany her father to church. Not even his wife’s influence could prevent the old man from attending it. He had done naught to disgrace himself, he said, and would not give his neighbours cause to blame him.

    Mrs. Hurst prudently abstained. She had not forgotten the scene in the justice room at Squire Tyrell’s, the insults of the crowd, and above all, the triumphant, jeering glances of the Widow Gob.

    Absenting herself from church was the one weak spot in the programme she had traced for keeping Goliah and her daughter apart. There might be nothing between them at present; she admitted that, and determined within herself there never should be if she could prevent it.

    The last few days had greatly intensified her hatred of the Gob dynasty.

    ‘Mind and return as soon as the service is over,’ she said, after carefully tying her husband’s cravat.

    ‘I don’t expect anyone will invite us to stay,’ observed her husband, dryly.

    ‘And look closely after Susan,’ added his wife.

    ‘Aye, aye. I’ll take care on her.’

    ‘And watch if she exchanges looks or words with any of the singers in the organ galleries.’

    ‘I can’t,’ said the farmer.

    ‘Nonsense, Peter.’

    ‘I won’t,’ he added, firmly. ‘Susan be a good girl. Why should I play the spy upon her and feel ashamed to look my own child in the face? And it is my opinion there be naught to spy out. Now you know my meaning.’

    Mrs. Hurst looked thunderstruck. It was the first symptom of rebellion against domestic government that had occurred since they had been married. No wonder it startled, if it did not greatly alarm her.

    As for her daughter, she appeared rather amused than otherwise at her mother’s astonishment. Possibly she also did not place much confidence in her father’s resolution.

    ‘Peter,’ gasped his wife, in a tragic tone, ‘answer me one question.’

    ‘I will if I can.’

    ‘Are you in your right senses?’

    ‘No.’ The admission seemed to afford Peggy considerable relief.

    ‘I thought not,’ she muttered.

    ‘But I am coming to them,’ added her husband.

    Catching up his hat with an air of determination, the speaker quitted the kitchen, and, accompanied by Susan, started on his way to church; and Peggy, disconcerted by forebodings of the approaching end of her reign, sank into her easy chair to meditate.

    The truth was, she had stretched her authority too far. She muttered to herself: ‘He misses Willie, and the loss has made him mad.’

    This conclusion appeared to afford her considerable relief.

    ‘It can’t last, and it sha’n’t last,’ she resumed. ‘Why, Peter never ventured to cry snip unless I first said snap! and now — We shall see, we shall see. I’d rather die than give in to him. What would Mrs. Gob say?’

    Many wives have made similar resolutions before, and yet been obliged eventually to yield. Patience, gentle reader; the domestic battle is only just commenced. A shot from the outposts; nothing more.

    Up to our present writing we have barely alluded to the village schoolmaster, and yet he is destined to play an important part in our tale, as well as his treacherous son, Benoni.

    Theophilus Blackmore — or old Theo, as his pupils called him — seemed to have been born without any strong moral perceptions; and yet he was neither dissipated in his habits, vindictive in temper, nor naturally inclined to cruelty. He had no sympathies, no hates, but looked upon life as a mathematical problem, which, once solved, could have no further interest for him.

    His one solitary passion was for books; provided that were gratified, the world with its petty rivalries, jealousies, ambitions and crimes, might jog on as it pleased. They were the one necessity of his existence; he hungered for them.

    Reading had made him a ripe scholar. Science rendered him familiar with the latest discoveries; and yet he had never applied his knowledge to any practical or useful purposes.

    The Village Schoolmaster (1881), Charles West Cope. Source: Leicester Arts and Museums. Public Domain.

    When we say the old man had no sympathies, we ought to have admitted one exception. He felt a sort of dreamy kind of regard for his son Benoni. He had educated, but failed to make a man of him. All the higher qualities of manhood were lacking — honor, truthfulness, courage, fidelity in friendship.

    The fatal influences of his childhood clung to the young hypocrite still.

    How the old schoolmaster ever thought of marrying was a wonder to most persons who knew him. Possibly he wanted a cook or housekeeper. Certain it is that love had small, if any, share in his resolution. Since the death of his wife he had never been known to allude to her. In short, there appeared to be a mystery about the man which no one had ever been able to fathom.

    For several days the continued presence of Benoni in the house failed to excite his attention. When he did notice it he attributed it to the absence of his companion, Willie. As weeks passed, and the youth still avoided going to the village, or event attending church service on Sundays, the curiosity of Theophilus Blackmore became excited; not that he thought of questioning him. He knew his soon too well for that. Truthfulness was not one of Benoni’s characteristics. He took a surer way, and speedily learnt from his pupils the story of the boy’s treachery.

    Some parents would have felt grieved — would have remonstrated, corrected; not so the old bookworm. He regarded it as a thing that was to be — a mere incident in the drama of existence.

    The state of quietude was broken by a very unusual circumstance — the arrival of a visitor, who drove directly to their solitary abode, and remained nearly two hours in close conversation with the owner. Vainly did Benoni try to catch the subject — he was not above listening — but the door of the room was kept locked till the departure of the stranger.

    The following day his father delighted his pupils by informing them that for three days they might take a holiday — business of importance obliging him to pass that period in London. In short, he at once dismissed them, and as they quitted the school-room, settled himself down to one of his favourite authors. The curiosity of his son was excited to the highest pitch.

    ‘Did you say you were going to London?’ he demanded, alter a pause, trusting that his father might impart something more.

    ‘Did you not hear me?’

    ‘Am I to accompany you?’

    ‘No.’

    The querist looked terribly disappointed.

    ‘I have never been in London,’ he observed.

    ‘And what would you do there?’ inquired Mr. Blackmore, sharply. ‘You have not a single friend or acquaintance there that I am aware of. You might have had one, but foolishly lost him by your treachery.’

    The youth colored deeply.

    ‘To preserve a friend,’ added the speaker, ‘we must observe the laws which govern friendship — truth, honor, sincerity.’

    ‘Do you reproach me?’ exclaimed Benoni, getting excited.

    ‘I never indulge in reproaches,’ observed his father, for the first time raising his eyes from the volume before him. ‘They do no good. Besides, you would not feel them.’

    ‘And whose the fault?’ retorted the young man. ‘Yours! You trained me to distrust the natural feelings of the heart, calling them weakness; taught me to be as cold and artificial as yourself; and now find fault with your own work.

    ‘I tried to make you a philosopher,’ said the schoolmaster.

    ‘And trained a hypocrite,’ replied his son.

    ‘We will not dispute on terms,’ remarked the book-worm. ‘They are convertible, as mathematics teaches. What folly induced you to release the two ruffians in the Red Barn?’

    ‘They were from the Bittern’s Marsh,’ answered the youth, sullenly.

    ‘Ah!’ ejaculated his hearer.

    ‘And recognised me.’

    ‘That gave the act some show of reason,’ observed Mr. Blackmore after a pause. ‘An excuse, but not a necessity,’ he added. ‘You should have consulted me.’

    ‘There was no time for consultation. I had to decide,’ replied his son. ‘Consult, indeed! Father,’ he continued, ‘has there ever existed the least confidence between us? I know as little of your past life as of the future. That you are a cold selfish hypocrite, I have long since discovered; but there my knowledge ends. It would be better for us to part.’

    ‘What!’ said the old man sarcastically. ‘The tiger cub would break its chain?’

    ‘You should have forged it stronger,’ was the muttered reply.

    His parent closed the book he had been reading, and commenced pacing up and down the room for several minutes, muttering to himself, ‘Kismet! Kismet!’ the Arabic word for fate. Suddenly he paused in his peregrination, and fixed his glaring blue eyes upon the inflamed countenance of the speaker.

    ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘It is time that we should part. Cold as you think me, I will not suffer you to cast yourself upon the world without some chance of escaping shipwreck. But you must leave the means to me. This visit to London is most opportune. Yes, yes,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I will insist upon it. You must await my return. My absence will not exceed three days. Promise me.’

    Benoni pledged his word to remain. Nor that the speaker placed much reliance upon it; he trusted more to the fact that, with the exception of a few shillings, he knew him to be penniless. That same evening he started upon his journey, and at the time appointed returned to Deerhurst.

    Vainly did his son try to read in his face the success or disappointment of his hopes. The countenance of the Sphinx could not have been more impassive. Unable to endure the suspense of doubt, he boldly questioned him.

    ‘Have you succeeded?’ he demanded.

    ‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘In a week or two you will enter the office of Brit and Son, London.’

    ‘What are they?’

    ‘Lawyers.’

    ‘Only lawyers!’ remarked Benoni, in a tone of disappointment.

    ‘Did you expect to be articled to a cabinet minister?’ asked his father, sarcastically. ‘Such personages do not generally take apprentices.’

    ‘No. But I –‘

    ‘Shall I tell you what a lawyer really is?’ continued, the former, interrupting him. ‘He is the depository of secrets affecting the honor, and sometimes the fortune, and sometimes the lives, of his clients; an agent to baffle the ends of justice more frequently than to assist them. The fortunes of the fools who trust them pass through their hands, which are birdlimed, and some of the feathers of the golden geese are sure to stick to them. Only lawyers!’ he repeated. ‘You are unworthy to be my pupil if you fail to find your advantage in this.’

    ‘But all lawyers are not alike,’ suggested the young man.

    ‘Perhaps not,’ was the reply. ‘I only state the rule, and waste no time or thought upon the exceptions, I know what is best for you.’

    His son thought so, too, and began to feel pleased with the idea, although it was not the profession he would have chosen. But, then, it promised change — change from the dreary, dull, unloving home to the busy realities of life; activity, success, and possibly revenge upon his former friend, Willie, whose honest scorn of his treachery had deeply stung him.

    Two weeks before the departure of Benoni for London there was to be a wedding at Deerhurst church, which Susan naturally felt desirous of attending. All girls like to be present at weddings; at least we never knew one that did not.

    Peggy Hurst made but a faint attempt to prevent her daughter from going. The wish was so natural. Then her father spoke out, and somehow his wife felt less inclined to oppose him than formerly. It did not appear quite so safe. She was a tactician in her way, and husbanded her forces for serious occasions.

    The church was crowded, as is usual on such occasions. The farmer met several old friends and acquaintances, who appeared something less inclined than lately to censure him very strongly. The fact was, they knew where the shoe pinched. They were mostly married men, and had worn it themselves, Opinions, like the weathercock, were veering round in the old man’s favour.

    Whilst he was chatting with some and shaking hands with others Susan contrived to slip from his side, and made her way to the organ-gallery. Behind the instrument she found Goliah. Of course she appeared very much surprised.

    ‘Dear me, Mr. Gob,’ she exclaimed. ‘You here!’

    ‘Ees,’ answered the rustic; ‘beant this the place?’

    She had forgotten, for the instant, a message she had sent him. There was no time for coquetting. She felt that, and came at once to her purpose.

    ‘I am uneasy in my mind’ she began. ‘Benoni is about leaving for London, and I have written a letter to put my cousin on his guard, for I feel certain some treachery is intended. He has twice held long talks with mother at the bottom of the orchard. I dare not post it in the village. Mother and post-mistress are too intimate. Can’t you take it?’

    ‘You may swear to that,’ replied her admirer — ‘not that I ever heard of thee swearing. I be goin’ wi’ a load of hay in the mornin’. Dear! Dear!’ he added. ‘I do feel mortal bad.’

    ‘What can be the matter with you?’ inquired Susan, archly .

    ‘I think it be love. And now the murder’s out!’

    ‘Nonsense!’ said the village beauty, as she disappeared down the gallery staircase. ‘Mrs. Gob’s dumplings were too heavy! It can only be indigestion!’

    The honest fellow looked after her wistfully.

    ‘It beant dumplings,’ he muttered. ‘Mother’s dumplings are allays light. What will I do?’ he added. ‘Sartin it be love!’

    We think so, too.

    Viscount Allworth would have made an excellent stage manager of a vaudeville theatre. Neither was he without some talent for tragedy. His mise en scene, too, was admirable. He could set his face to any expression he pleased, for, like the Roman actor who of old had worn the mask so long, his features took the impress of bronze.

    For several days his lordship had been expecting a visit from his son, and remained at home, watching with calm confidence his arrival. No sooner did he perceive the brougham enter the square than he walked deliberately to the mirror in the dressing-room, to arrange his countenance for the occasion. Satisfied of his artistic success, he seated himself at a table. The bell had rung for the performance. He was ready.

    ‘Welcome, my dear boy!’ he exclaimed, as the young man entered the apartment. ‘I am glad you are come. I have been anxiously expecting you.’

    ‘Doubtless, my lord,’ was the reply, ‘for the honour of our name is dear to me.’

    ‘The honour of our name is untouched.’

    ‘Hear me, father –‘

    ‘You must first hear me,’ interrupted the aged hypocrite, with well-affected dignity. ‘Unjust accusations are always regretted; forbearance rarely is so. You have heard the rumours?’

    Lord Bury bowed in the affirmative. I have done everything in my power to stifle them — not without success, I flatter myself. Something also I have exacted by way of atonement. Clarence Marsham has quitted the army.’

    ‘His debts compelled him.’

    ‘Not so,’ observed his parent. ‘Lady Allworth was quite prepared to pay them but I refused to listen to any compromise.’

    ‘And where is the scoundrel now?’ demanded the visitor, the, frown upon his brow slightly relaxing.

    ‘In France.’

    ‘Paris?’

    ‘I presume so.’

    At the very moment he uttered the equivocating lie the speaker had a letter dated from Dinent, in Brittany, written by his step-son, in his pocket.

    ‘What more can I do?’ continued his father. ‘I cannot divorce my wife because her son has acted like a fool. Is it not better to let the rumors quietly die out than to create any further scandal? My own conduct has been perfectly clear in the affair, but I leave the decision with you.’

    ‘Possibly you are right,’ observed Lord Bury, after reflecting on the circumstances. ‘At least, I shall not oppose it; but this acquiescence, forced upon me by consideration for my cousin, Kate, will not prevent me from proceeding immediately to Paris and calling Clarence to account.’

    ‘I have no opinion to offer on that point,’ observed the viscount, gravely. ‘And now, Egbert,’ he continued, ‘weigh all that has taken place calmly; question me on any point of my conduct you please, I am ready to answer you.’

    ‘Father,’ replied the young guardsman, ‘I would fain believe, and dare not question you, lest some painful doubts should be re-awakened. God forgive you if you have deceived me!’

    It is a hard thing to force upon a son the terrible conviction that his father is a villain. Lord Bury took his leave, hoping and trusting probably against his better reason. A few minutes after his departure Lady Allworth entered the dressing-room. She had overheard every word that passed.

    ‘Admirable!’ she said. ‘Yes; I think I have pretty well mystified him. We have now a clear field before us. ‘But the bonds?’ he added, eagerly.

    ‘Shall be paid the instant you have signed the lease of the Bittern’s Marsh.’

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes, References, Further Reading

    dominie: Scottish English term for a schoolmaster.

    [Margaret Oliphant], The Byways of Literature: Reading for the Million’, Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine 84 (August 1858) 200-16. Available at Internet Archive. [Author’s name not given on the text.]

    John Sutherland, ed., Longman Companion to Victorian Fiction, 2d ed. (Routledge, 1988).

    Victorian Fiction Research Guides, ‘Margaret Oliphant‘.

    Lewis C. Roberts, ‘Disciplining and Disinfecting Working-Class Readers in the Victorian Public Library’, Victorian Literature and Culture, Vol. 26, No. 1 (1998),105-132.

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Eleventh Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Eleventh Instalment

    This chapter presents insights into the motivations and machinations in play at the ‘higher end’ of society. A far cry from Mrs. Hurst’s scheme to have William and Goliah banged up for the ‘theft’ of the horse and wagon, motivated partially by her rivalry with Mrs. Gob over her excellent butter.

    Nevertheless, the differences appear to be more in terms of their degrees of subtlety and complexity rather than in essence. Smith presents the moral attributes of the characters in a system of defined binary oppositions, which work at times to undercut each other in the same character. Someone who wears a ‘black hat’ in the first instance may be shown subsequently to have redeeming qualities to some extent. (Cinema quite commonly applies similar techniques.)

    It seems on cue to turn, as we do in the present chapter, to a deeper context of meaning for his play of morality and human nobility. The scene in the regimental headquarters of the Royal Life Guards and Horse Guards (also known as The Blues) serves to diminish the importance of the social hierarchy per se, with this proximity to royalty and empire.

    These are the two most senior regiments of the Royal Household Cavalry, dating to the restoration of Charles II in 1660. They boasted an illustrious record of service at home and abroad in any number of theatres of war over the subsequent centuries, including Waterloo.

    In the Victorian era, the British Empire had become one upon which ‘the sun never set’. A certain mode of history — ‘Whig historiography’ — assumed popularity, one that viewed this position of world leadership as a logical and inevitable development, a march towards global enlightenment based on the principles enshrined in British governance.

    Lord Macaulay’s (1800–1859) five-volume History of England (1848) is considered the archetype of Whig history. But guess in whose history we can discern shades? Correct: in John Frederick Smith’s own volume of the nine-volume Cassell’s lIlustrated History of England (1874):

    The slow building of a constitution which finds no parallel in the world is the most distinctive, as it is the largest feature in English history … If we do not profit in heart and head by the experience which the ages have gathered for us — if we do not grow, as they would have us, not only in wisdom but in humility, in moderation, in humanity — we have to blame, not these unerring teachers, but ourselves.

    Preface to Volume 1

    The Celtic queen Boadicea leading the British revolt against the Romans, 60/61 CE. Frontispiece to Cassell’s Illustrated History of England Vol. 1 (cropped).

    CHAPTER ELEVEN

    Clara Meredith Does not Feel Quite Satisfied with Herself — The Sketch — Return of her Cousin to London

    Clara was seated in the library, thinking over the events of the last few days, and taking herself to task for her conduct to her cousin. To be sure, his neglecting to make her acquaintance in London — her first season, too — was unkind, to say the least of it; but had she the right to resent it, and turn him into ridicule on his arrival in the country? After turning the circumstances over in her mind she came to the conclusion that she had not. It was undignified, to say the least of it; and she felt dissatisfied with herself, and all the more so that he had endured her sarcasm with such polished good humour.

    That her cousin was ultra-fashionable, and not a little fastidious, she did not doubt; but that he merited the title some of her dear friends in London had given him of a “cynical, heartless man,” she could not believe. Had he not danced with the May Queen at her request; defended her from the insulting familiarity of Burcham? Shaken hands with Tom Randal as he reluctantly yielded to his right to protect his rustic sweetheart?

    What better proofs of manhood could he have given?

    ‘Clara,’ said his lordship, as he entered the library, ‘I am come to fulfil my promise. I told you when I made it that I was not much of an artist; but I have done my best.’

    He placed the sketch in her hand.

    The young lady coloured slightly as she received it. She had secretly hoped he had forgotten it; but Bury was a man of his word. Despite the seriousness of her late thoughts she could not help laughing gaily as she contemplated the drawing. It was really exceedingly well done for an amateur, and he had carried out her description to the letter. There stood the old mansion in the distance; Clara, in a short frock and blue sash, screaming on the bank of the pond; his lordship floundering in the water. One of the famous red morocco shoes floating on the surface, and a goose swimming after it.

    The last, by-the-by, was an introduction of the artist’s own, intended, probably, as a slight epigram on the playful malice which had recalled the incidents.

    ‘I am glad,’ observed Clara, recovering her seriousness, ‘that you have recollected your promise, and yet it scarcely amounted to one. But why represent me twice?’

    ‘I scarcely understand you, cousin.’

    His cousin pointed to the goose sailing after the shoe. His lordship smiled.

    ‘I am ever so much obliged to you,’ resumed the fair girl, after a pause. Is it really mine?’

    ‘Undoubtedly, since you have honored me by accepting it. Shall the drawing find a place in your album, or be sent as a contribution to the next fancy fair?’

    ‘Neither one nor the other,’ answered his cousin, with a show of feeling at which she felt provoked with herself. ‘I can dispose of it in a far more fitting way. And yet it is a almost a pity,’ she added, as she crushed the sketch in her little hand, dropped it into the fire, stood watching it until it was consumed, and then, with a quiet courtesy, quitted the room.

    Lord Bury stood for some little time gazing after her in silence. Possibly the problem was becoming interesting to him.

    ‘Pshaw!’ he muttered, as he took up a newspaper to while away the time till luncheon. ‘Why should I feel surprised? Good blood will tell.’

    Had he said good principles, the observation, we suspect, would have been more germane to the matter, as our friend, Shakespeare, says.

    Three days after the interview in the library, which neither of the cousins thought fit to allude to again, Lord Bury, who had just received his letters, informed Sir George that he was obliged to start the following morning, on particular business, for London.

    ‘Nothing unpleasant, I trust. Can I be of any use?’

    ‘Exceedingly unpleasant, uncle, for it concerns the honor of one who ought to be very dear to me. Unfortunately,’ he added, ‘you cannot be of the slightest assistance to me.’

    ‘That scamp of a father, I suppose,’ thought his host, who had noticed the word “ought.” ‘He is always getting himself into some infernal scrape or another. Older, too, than I am.’

    Of course he kept these reflections to himself.

    ‘Possibly I may be able to renew my visit,’ said his lordship, ‘in the shooting season. That is, if I have not worn out my welcome.’

    ‘We are homespun, Egbert,’ observed his relative, ‘and can stand a vast amount of wear and tear. Come when you will, always glad to see you, Make it a promise, and I will keep the home cover for you. Make it your home if you like.

    ‘That is,’ he added, noticing the blush upon his daughter’s cheek, ‘as long as I live, Of course I cannot answer for my successor.’

    ‘That would be unreasonable, Sir George,’ observed the nephew, who had noticed the blush and the correction of the speaker’s offer. ‘Thanks, I will not abuse your hospitality.’

    The next day Lord Bury started for London.

    ‘Well, Sparks,’ said his lordship, when the sergeant-major entered the room the morning after his arrival at headquarters, to report on the condition of his company, ‘anything important?’

    ‘Not very,’ answered the old soldier. ‘There has been a fine young fellow here from the country, who wants to enlist, but won’t engage in any company but yours. Such a chest! Stands six feet two; straight as a pike-staff. Knows the points of a horse as well as the regimental vet, himself. Hope we shan’t lose him.’

    ‘But why in my company?’ demanded Lord Bury.

    ‘Heard that you were a kind officer, most likely.’

    ‘No flattery, Sparks. Did the young fellow you were speaking of give his name?’

    ‘Tom Randal, my lord.’

    ‘Find him; bring him to me instantly,’ exclaimed the officer, greatly interested. ‘You said truly, he is a fine fellow — a man every inch of him.’

    In a few minutes the lover of the pretty Phœbe entered the luxuriously-furnished room of the officer, who frankly held out his hand to him.

    Although the countenance of the new recruit flushed with a momentary satisfaction, he did not accept it.

    ‘You forget,’ he observed, ‘that I am about to become a private soldier.’

    ‘No, I do not,’ replied his lordship; ’till you are enlisted, you are a free man, and a prince might shake hands with you. Once in the ranks,’ he added, ‘it would be different; but that will be neither your fault nor mine.’

    The hand was again extended, and this time cordially shaken. The sergeant discreetly withdrew. He thought it best to leave the officer and his rustic friend together.

    Tom Randal, after the quarrel with his father, had made the best of his way to London on foot; for he had very little money, and proceeded at once to the barracks of the Guards. Our readers know the rest. Vainly did his aristocratic friend try to argue him out of his intention to enlist, pointing out the difficulty of obtaining his discharge when once he had taken the fatal shilling.

    ‘The colonel,’ he added, is a good man — a kind man — but will never consent to let a fine young fellow like you leave the regiment when once engaged in it,’ and advised him to take a few days to consider of it.

    ‘Not an hour, my lord,’ replied the lover of Phœbe. ‘I have lost the only girl I can ever love, and all through my father’s prejudice, pride, and obstinacy. It has cost him his son,’ he added. ‘He shall find I can be as resolute as he is. My mind is made up.’

    Trooper of the Royal Horse Guards, 1828. (Created 1847) Public Domain. Source: Wikipedia

    Lord Bury sent for Sergeant Sparks, and Tom Randal quitted the room, duly enlisted into his majesty’s first regiment of Life Guards.

    The poor fellow, we suspect, had inherited some of the old farmer’s temper; if so, the army was, perhaps, the best school to work it out of him.

    The expiration of his leave of absence was not the only motive which brought his lordship to London. He could easily have obtained a prolongation of it. He had received a letter from one of his most intimate friends, informing him of certain ugly rumours that were whispered in society of an attempt to force his cousin, Lady Kate Kepple, into an unequal marriage with Clarence Marsham, and that Lord Allworth’s name was unpleasantly mixed up with the transaction. ‘Of course,’ added the writer, ‘I do not vouch for the correctness of these reports; but as they are levelled at the honor of your family, I felt it my duty to inform you of them. All I really know is that the chancellor has deprived your father of the guardianship of Lady Kate’s person, and that his step-son has sold out of the army. The last two facts I affirm on my knowledge. There the duty of friendship ends. It is for you to act as you think best.’

    On his way to town, the young guardsman had perused the letter at least a dozen times, and each reading added to his mortification. As we before observed, he was both proud and honorable, weak in some things and extremely sensitive; but, then, we are not drawing a perfect character; absolute perfection, we fear, would be just a little insipid.

    His first visit was to Montague House. There, at least, he expected to learn the truth. Its owner, with whom he was a favorite, received him nervously. Our readers have not forgotten her intense dread of scandal, and the feeling increased tenfold when he had explained the object of his visit.

    ‘It it possible!’ she exclaimed, ‘that, despite my precautions, the unfortunate story has leaked out?’

    ‘It is true, then?’

    ‘I cannot deny it.’

    Lord Bury rose to take his leave.’

    ‘Egbert! Egbert! cannot the affair be hushed up?’

    ‘Impossible!’ was the reply. ‘At present it is only whispered; in a week’s time it will be a common topic of conversation in half the drawing-rooms in London. It is my duty,’ he added, firmly, ‘to see that your conduct and Kate’s should be unquestioned.’

    Again he moved towards the door.

    ‘Stay,’ said her ladyship, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘You do not know all.’

    ‘For Heaven’s sake, let me hear it, aunt!’

    ‘Kate escaped from Allworth Park in boy’s clothes; walked all one night in them, and slept the next in a barn.’

    ‘Is that the worst?’

    ‘What could be worse?’ replied the aristocratic old maid, blushing deeply as the veiled meaning of his question dawned upon her mind. ‘Is not Kate living — slowly recovering her health and spirits?’

    A terrible suspicion passed from the heart of Lord Bury. He knew the speaker too well to doubt her word for an instant. A third time he was about to depart.

    ‘Stay,’ said Lady Montague, ‘Do tell me where you are going.’

    ‘To see my father,’ answered her visitor, gloomily. ‘I have a hard task before me, but will not shrink from it.’

    This time he succeeded in quitting the room.

    ‘Poor Egbert!’ sighed Lady Montague, as he disappeared. ‘He is very much to be pitied. Why did my sister marry Allworth? I told her he was a roue, repeated all the evil reports I ever heard of him, warned her every way; but it was of no use — seemed to increase her infatuation. If she had accepted some plain country gentleman, or even a bishop’s son I should not so much have minded, although, of course, it would have been a misalliance. But no, she would have a peer. Poor girl; she paid dearly enough for her folly. And yet,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘I do not think it was all ambition. At the worst,’ continued her ladyship, ‘Kate and I can return to Montague Castle, live like nuns, and when we die, leave our fortunes to found a hospital for old maids.’

    However improbable, the project certainly was not an impossible one, although somehow we have an idea that Lady Kate will feel but little disposed to join in it.

    Viscount Allworth never believed it would be possible to keep the disgraceful escapade of his stepson from the knowledge of society — he knew the world too well for that — so he prudently resolved to make his own share in the transaction appear as harmless as possible. What he most feared was the indignation of his own son, who had lately shown a spirit which startled him.

    ‘Bury behaved exceedingly well in the Chellston affair,’ he muttered to himself, as he turned the incidents over in his scheming brain. ‘Must keep friends with him if possible.’

    Having traced a line of conduct for himself, Lord Allworth was not the man to be easily moved to depart from it; and the less so, that for the first time for years he found himself — thanks to the Chellston trickery — tolerably at ease in his pecuniary affairs; hence the firmness with which he insisted on Clarence Marcham’s retirement from the army.

    ‘Absurd!’ exclaimed his wife, when he informed her of his determination. ‘A mere boyish folly; the world soon forgets such things.’

    ‘In some persons, perhaps, but not in others,’ remarked the husband, gravely. ‘You made no objection when I stated my intention to Lady Montague.’

    ‘Because I did not believe you to be serious. In fact I never know when you. are serious. I considered it merely a sop thrown to the old Cerberus.’

    His lordship appeared greatly shocked.

    ‘I wish, Lady Allworth,’ he observed, but without losing his temper, ‘that you would be a little more refined in your expressions. I am aware that the defects of early education and associations are hard to overcome. Still it may be done. You will oblige greatly by striving to recollect this the next time you speak of my first wife’s sister, a woman of high birth, large fortune, and spotless reputation.’

    There was a momentary lull in the stormy conversation. The viscountess bit her lips to avoid giving expression to her rage at his provoking coolness.

    The husband — and we feel there are but too many like him in the world — enjoyed his wife’s mortification exceedingly.

    ‘I perceive what you are driving at,’ observed the angry woman. ‘You require money?’

    ‘No.’

    The lady gazed at him with astonishment. It was the first time in her married life she had received such an answer to a similar question.

    ‘Money,’ continued the speaker, ‘is an excellent thing in its way. I can’t imagine how some people contrive to exist without it; but it is not everything. Listen to me — my conduct is not so unkind as you suspect. You are far from being a fool, Lady Allworth. I know that you can control your temper on some occasions, and act with prudence.’

    The wife could scarcely repress a smile; she recollected how cleverly she had contrived to outwit him in the settlement of her fortune.

    ‘I have seen the commander-in-chief,’ added the speaker; ‘the affair has got wind through the rascally lawyers. I suspect Clarence is in bad odor at the Horse Guards — very bad. His royal highness is decidedly of opinion that he ought to sell out; and you know what such an opinion from such a quarter means. The price of his commission I am told, will barely pay his debts.’

    ‘Debts!’ gasped the astonished mother; ‘why, his allowance has been most liberal!’

    ‘Not feeling the slightest interest in the subject,’ said his lordship, ‘I made no inquiry as to their amount. You perceive the step is inevitable. Clarence had better return to France; living is cheap there; great resort for half-pay people. But he must decide quickly; in three days he will be arrested.’

    It is quite true that Viscountess Allworth loved her son, but, then, she loved herself a great deal more, and did not care to impoverish herself to pay off his liabilities. He must do that, she thought, by a wealthy marriage. So far from having abandoned the project, she clung to it more tenaciously than ever. Two days afterwards the unmanly scapegrace landed in France.

    We scarcely need to remind our readers that these last arrangements were made during Lord Bury’s visit to the country.

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes and References

    ‘as our friend, Shakespeare, says’: ‘The phrase would be more germane to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides’ (Hamlet, V, 2).

    ‘[to take] the fatal shilling’: sign up as a soldier, ‘from the former practice of giving a shilling to a recruit when he enlisted’, wordhistories.net

    Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Baron, 1800-1859, History of England from the Accession of James the Second (1901). Digital facsimile available at the Internet Archive. Link opens Vol. 1.

    Smith, John Frederick, Cassell’s Illustrated History of England (1874). Beautifully illustrated digital facsimile available at the Internet Archive. Link opens Vol. 1.

    While all nine volumes of Cassell’s Illustrated History are sometimes attributed to Smith, Andrew King and John Plunkett reveal that he actually only wrote the first. Subsequently Cassell ‘realized that Smith was less concerned with facts than narrative drive’ and handed the rest of the work over to William Howitt (1792–1879) (King and Plunkett, Victorian Print Media, OUP, 2005, p. 415).

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Recap

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Recap

    I’ll keep good the promise made by the 1883 newspaper sources for this reconstructed penny blood mystery, by providing their mid-way summary. The author of the novel is the Englishman John Frederick Smith, the most popular writer of the mid-nineteenth century — but in later years all but forgotten. The annotated instalments include contextual notes along with glimpses of the life of this intriguing writer.

    In order that new readers may begin with the following installment of this story, and understand it just the same as though they had read it all from the beginning, we here give a synopsis of that portion of it which has already been published:

    Two girls, clad in male attire, one evening appealed for help to William Whiston, nephew of Farmer Hurst, of Deerhurst. William — who was accompanied by two friends, Goliah Gob and Benoni Blackmore — gave the fugitives refuge in his uncle’s red barn. Soon afterwards a tramp, named Bunce, took refuge in the barn, and two ruffians came there also, in pursuit of the girls. Bunce defended the girls against the ruffians, till Goliah Gob, a young fellow of gigantic size and strength, came to his assistance. The ruffians were overpowered and bound.

    Isaac Israëls (1865-1934), Bois de Boulogne (1904). Public Domain. Source: 1stdibs.com

    Goliah then summoned William and Benoni, and after consultation William and Goliah set out in a waggon for London with the girls, who proved to be Lady Kate Kepple, an heiress, and her maid Martha. Lady Kate was fleeing from Clarence Marsham, an officer in the Guards, who attempted to force her to marry him. They arrived safely in London, where Kate went to the protection of her aunt, Lady Montague.

    William called on his uncle, Lawyer Whiston, and told him the story. The old lawyer was Lady Montague’s legal adviser, and was delighted to find what part his nephew had played in Lady Kate’s escape.

    Benoni had been left in charge of the bound ruffians in the red barn, with directions to hand them over to the authorities in the morning, but he set them free, and told such a story to Farmer Hurst that Mrs. Hurst insisted on having William and Goliah arrested for stealing the farmer’s horse and waggon. This was done, but Lawyer Whiston came down from London, rescued them, and overwhelmed the Hursts and Benoni with exposure and shame.

    William, who was half-owner of the Hurst farm, then went to London with his uncle.

    Goliah loved Susan Hurst (William’s cousin), and Mrs. Hurst hated him for it. Lawyer Whiston, to whom Bunce showed some old family papers, provided handsomely for the wanderer, and Lady Kate Kepple sent William and Goliah each a handsome watch as a token of her gratitude.

    Clarence Marsham, the persecutor of Lady Kate, was a step-son of an unprincipled nobleman, Lord Allworth, who, after the death of his wife, married Clarence’s mother for her money. Lord Allworth had a son of his own — Egbert, Lord Bury — whom he had swindled out of an estate called Chellston, that Egbert had inherited from his mother. Sir George Meredith, Egbert’s uncle, had bought Chellston.

    Clara Meredith, sole child of Sir George Meredith was a beauty and an heiress. Egbert — Lord Bury — was on a visit to Chellston. Clara felt piqued at Lord Bury, who was an officer of the Guards and noted for his exclusiveness, because when she was on her first visit to London the season before, he did not call upon her. For this reason she snubbed him, reminded him how he had fallen into the duck pond when he was a boy, and requested him to make her a drawing of the scene.

    At the May Day festival Lord Bury defended the May Queen, Phœbe Burr, from a ruffian named Burcham, until her lover, Tom Randal, came upon the scene, and claimed the right to act as her champion. Farmer Randal, Tom’s father, was so incensed at his son for avowing his love for Phoebe that a quarrel ensued and Tom ran away. Clara was a friend of Phœbe’s and resolved to help her to marry Tom despite his father’s opposition.

    This is the state of affairs at Chellston when the following chapter opens …

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Next instalment will be Chapter Eleven. All the previous chapters are available at Furin Chime website. 

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Tenth Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Tenth Instalment

    Smith lingers over May Day while introducing a new source of conflict. The early twenty-first century reader may wince at the themes of gender and morality so firmly foregrounded. In our era we have the advent of LGBT rights, and concurrent with them, the destabilization, at least, of traditional gender identifications; such that perhaps the only truly defining characteristic remains the (optional) ability of a woman to bear offspring.

    Women’s rights and equality, moreover, have been hard fought for and to an extent achieved, and we have come to expect the equivalent participation of women across the gamut of human endeavour, from politics and world leadership to sport. At the same time, the advance of a particular set of human rights collides with others and frictions arise with traditional religious ideas.

    From the modern perspective, the Victorian ethos is beheld as the epitome of repression against which the progressive West measures its freedom of thought and existential identity. Though John Ruskin himself has been the butt of many jokes, there are few better spokespeople for the ideology of a culture that fundamentally prefigures our own.

    His lecture ‘Of Queens’ Gardens’, published as one half of Sesame and Lilies (1865), outlines his ideals of femininity, defining the woman’s sphere as passive in relation to the man’s, and in the private domain of the home. At the same time, he ‘urges women to abandon trivial feminine pursuits in order to act as a moral force in countering the ills of society’ (Norton Anthology of English Literature).

    Here are some quotations from Ruskin’s lecture, referring to the ‘place’ (the home) and ‘power’ of women, which echo in the instalment to follow:

    We are foolish … in speaking of the ‘superiority’ of one sex to the other, as if they could be compared in similar things. Each has what the other has not: each completes the other and is completed by the other: they are nothing alike, and the happiness and perfection of both depends on each asking and receiving from the other what the other only can give …

    The man’s power is active, progressive, defensive. He is eminently the doer, the creator, the discoverer, the defender …

    But the woman’s power is for rule, not for battle, — and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet ordering, arrangement, and decision. She sees the qualities of things, their claims and their places …

    This is the true nature of home — it is the place of Peace; the shelter, not only from all injury, but from all terror, doubt, and division … And wherever a true wife comes, this home is always round her.

    Of Queens’ Gardens (p. 20 ff.)

    CHAPTER TEN

    The May Day Sports Interrupted — The Bully and the Gentleman — A Manly Lover — A Poor Girl’s Resolution

    ‘What is the meaning of this disgraceful scene?’ demanded the baronet, walking in the midst of the crowd, composed mostly of his old and new tenants. ‘Nephew, will you explain?’

    ‘Better, ask some one else, uncle,’ replied the guardsman, laughingly. ‘You forget that I am a particeps criminis in the affair.’

    This was the first intimation of the relation between their landlord and the unknown gentleman.

    The bully began to feel cowed.

    ‘I need not ask,’ added Sir George, ‘since I see Mr. Burcham present. It is time these public outrages were put a stop to.’

    ‘High time,’ said the rector.

    ‘Leave him to me,’ exclaimed the lover of the pretty May Queen, ‘and I will answer for it he will not be in a hurry to recommence.’

    ‘And what have you to do with it?’ inquired the baronet mildly, for the speaker was rather a favorite with the old gentleman from his sporting accomplishments.

    ‘That is what I should like to know,’ muttered Farmer Randal.

    ‘Sir George,’ replied the young man, respectfully, ‘Phœbe is my betrothed wife. I love her very dearly, and she loves me. It is my right to defend her. Don’t cry, Phœbe,’ he added, ‘there is nothing to be ashamed of in an honest affection, although it is rather tough to be forced to speak of such things. When that thing, who calls himself a gentleman, tried to force her to dance with him — no modest girl could do so — your nephew stood forward like a man to protect her. God bless him! If ever he wants a true heart and a tolerably strong arm to defend him, he knows where to find them.’

    The glowing countenance of the speaker, his untaught natural eloquence, and manly avowal of his love produced a favorable effect upon his hearers.

    ‘I was at a distant part of the green,’ continued Tom Randal, ‘when the row commenced. Burcham — Squire, as he calls himself — had already received some punishment. I claimed the right to finish him, which my lord here — I recollect him now — reluctantly consented to. It was my right to defend her, and I would have pounded the rascal to a jelly, if your honour and your friends had not interfered; but I only put off paying my debts: the first time we meet I intend to take a receipt in full.’

    ‘Very proper,’ said the baronet. ‘How very natural, I meant to say,’ he added, correcting himself; ‘but unfortunately, it would be illegal. Mr. Burcham you had better retire.’

    ‘I shall do nothing of the kind,’ replied the cowardly ruffian, sullenly. Conscious that in the presence of so many magistrates, no further contest would be permitted, he resolved to brave it out. ‘This is May Day, and though you are lord of the manor, the green is free to all.’

    ‘Who conduct themselves respectably,’ observed Sir George; ‘but vagrants, disorderly characters, and disturbers of the peace, I am fully authorised to remove. I shall commit you.’

    ‘I can give bail,’ observed Burcham with a sneer.

    ‘Or place you in the stocks,’ added Sir George, thoroughly roused.

    At this there was a general shout of laughter.

    ‘And any magistrate present, I feel certain, will sign the warrant. Call the constables.’

    As the bully said, he could easily have found bail, and lawyers to defend him, for he had plenty of money; but the stocks! Nothing could ever efface the ridicule of such an exposition. With an oath of future vengeance he broke through the crowd, and ran with the fleetness of a hound till he had cleared the village green. There was a general hiss on his flight.

    During the rest of the day the sports were languidly carried out. Tom Randal never for an instant quitted the side of Phœbe. Vainly did his father call to him, his mother and sisters beckoned to him; summons and signs were alike unheeded. He knew his place, and stuck to it.

    For several years the young farmer, who with Lord Bury had fairly divided the honours of the day, had been an object of speculation amongst those of his own class, who had daughters to dispose of in marriage. Mothers, of course, condoled with Mrs. Randal on her son’s having been so easily entrapped; the girls pouted and tossed their heads indignantly.

    ‘Phœbe Burr indeed!’ observed one.

    ‘Hasn’t an acre of land in the parish!’

    ‘Nor in any other parish,’ added a third. ‘The old organist can’t have saved much.’

    The last observation, unfortunately, was strictly true, the old man’s salary being only forty pounds a year, and for that he had to train the choir, as well as attend two weekly services.

    ‘Tom was always a soft-hearted fool,’ said one of his sisters, spitefully. She was not only jealous of her brother, but detested the object of his choice.

    ‘Hold thee tongue, Bess!’ exclaimed her father, angrily. Not that he did not feel quite as much displeased at his son’s choice as the rest of the family, or had not come to a conclusion to break it off; but the old man was quite shrewd enough to perceive that abusing Phœbe was not the way to do it. ‘Thee was always envious of the gal because she has a prettier face than thine. It be only calf-love,’ he added, ‘and will die off of itself, if let alone.’

    We question if the speaker felt much confidence in his own prediction. Still he was resolved to give the boy a chance. If Tom listened to reason, well and good; if not, then he would see.

    If it were possible to tempt us to bet, we rather think we should feel inclined to back the son. How frequently have we seen prudent resolutions made, and fail from lack of temper in carrying them out. We suspect it will prove so with the farmer.

    How frequently can one coarse mind destroy the enjoyment of many. To the May Day Queen her ephemeral dignity had proved anything but a source of pleasure; her name had been made the theme of village gossip, the sport of every tongue — and we know how charitable they are, especially in rustic communities. As soon as Sir George and his guests returned to the Hall, poor Phœbe retired to her father’s cottage. Her lover accompanied her. It had been by her own repeated requests that Tom had abstained from paying her any marked attentions, and kept at a distance from her mimic court. Not that he felt ashamed of his choice; on the contrary, he felt proud of it, and proved the depth as well as manlinesss of his attachment by proclaiming it openly to the world.

    Queen of the May, 1875. Julia Margaret Cameron (British, 1815-1879). Albumen print from wet collodion negative. Public Domain. Source: Internet Archive (Cleveland Museum of Art)

    With tender, truthful words, such as dwell on memory’s page long after they are uttered, he sought to soothe her delicacy and wounded pride, till he had the satisfaction of seeing something like a smile on her pale face. The shades of evening had fallen when he rose to depart. At the request of her lover, Phœbe consented to accompany him as far as the garden gate. Perhaps he thought to steal a kiss; if so, who shall blame him?

    On reaching the limit of the enclosure the lovers paused; neither of them liked to say the word ‘good-night,’ and yet each felt that it was time to speak it.

    ‘I fear, Tom,’ said the fair girl, breaking their mutual silence, ‘that I can never be your wife.’

    ‘You will! You must!’ exclaimed the young farmer, impetuously.’What would life be without you?’

    ‘You forget that you have a father,’ the maiden hesitatingly replied; ‘and that without his consent I never will be yours.’

    ‘Phœbe! Phœbe!’ ejaculated her lover, imploringly.

    ‘I will bring discord into no family,’ continued the former; ‘happiness would fail to follow it. Remember how angry your father looked; how repeatedly he called you when you proclaimed the right to protect me.’

    ‘You do not know how well he loves me,’ replied her suitor, trustfully. ‘ He will fret and fume and rage at first — for I cannot conceal from myself that he has other views respecting me — but when he finds my happiness is really at stake, he will yield at last.’

    ‘Never!’ exclaimed a harsh voice near them.

    The next instant Farmer Randal broke through the hedge, where he had been a concealed listener to their conversation.

    ‘I did not think, father,’ observed Tom, greatly hurt, ‘that you would play the spy upon me.’

    ‘Aye, thee father; and thee will find that his heart baint half so soft as thee do think. Leave that artful minx, and come home with me.’

    The countenance of his son flushed, and then became pale. He had never disobeyed a command of his parent yet.

    ‘I will follow you in a few minutes,’ he replied. ‘I cannot accompany you now.’

    ‘Come home, I say,’ repeated the angry man.

    ‘For Heaven’s sake! go with him,’ whispered the terrified girl.

    ‘I will not!’ said her lover, firmly. ‘I am glad the discovery has been made, although it has not occurred in the manner I could have wished. I love her, father. You must have some memories in your heart to tell you what a first love means. You know that I am industrious. I will work harder than ever to please you. We are both young — willing to wait, if you exact the sacrifice; but one thing is certain: if Phœbe consents, she shall be my wife.’

    ‘Wife?’ repeated the old man, scornfully. ‘Why she hasn’t a penny! Knowing what a soft-hearted fool thee art, her mother has trained the artful hussy to catch thee.’

    In his wrath the speaker would have struck his son a blow; but Tom caught his wrist in an iron grasp, and held it firmly till his father’s eyes quailed beneath his reproachful gaze.

    ‘Do not disgrace my manhood by an outrage it would be sacrilege to resent by a blow that must separate us for ever,’ replied his son, disengaging his wrist.

    ‘Thee has driven me half mad!’ was the reply.

    Phœbe felt that it was time to interfere. The slanderous accusation against the mother she so dearly loved had aroused her indignation, and she confronted the speaker with eyes lit up by scorn at the outrage.

    ‘Mr. Randal,’ she said, ‘it is quite true that Tom and I love each other dearly — very dearly; equally true that I am poor. I do not deny it, Poorer, perhaps, than you suspect. But it is a wicked falsehood to accuse my mother of plotting to entrap your son.’

    ‘Maybe I was wrong there,’ growled the farmer.

    ‘You have a right to object to our marriage. I also have the right, to respect myself. Never will I consent to become the wife of your son till his father asks me.’

    The old man gave a low, chuckling laugh.

    ‘Phœbe!’ exclaimed her lover, greatly agitated.

    ‘I have said it, and you know that I can keep my word, And now, Tom,’ she added, blushingly, ‘take the kiss you asked for — in this world probably the last; for rest assured of this, the lips you have once pressed shall never be pressed by another.’

    The kiss was given and received. The lovers lingered over that parting embrace as if their heartstrings were twined together. Phœbe was the first to recover from the conflicting emotions which agitated both, and tearing herself from the arms of the young farmer, tottered rather than walked into her father’s humble cottage.

    The poor fellow stood gazing after her, the image of mute despair.

    ‘Come home, Tom,’ said the old man, mildly, for he, too, felt touched by the sorrow of his son. ‘She be a good gal, after all,’ he added.

    ‘God forgive you, father; you have broken my heart,’ murmured the poor fellow.

    The next instant he bounded over the hedge and disappeared. The farmer tried to follow him, thinking to soothe him with soft promises of future indulgence, but soon gave up the chase for want of breath.

    ‘Ah, well,’ he muttered, as he sank panting on one of the benches prepared for the May Day visitors — ‘I beant as spry as I once wor. Ugh! Tom can outrun me. Then what a grip he has! I am glad I didn’t strike him — not that he would have hit back again; too manly for that.

    ‘It be all calf love,’ he continued, ‘felt it once myself. Father wouldn’t hear of it, so I sulked for three days; refused my food; but, then, I milked the cows in the barn, and that kept me up like. I wonder if the boy will think of that. He will be back in three days, or four at the furthermost, and then I’ll buy him the colt that he took a fancy to. That will make it all right.’

    Here we must anticipate the progress of events and inform our readers that not only did the four days but as many weeks, nay, months, elapse before Farmer Randal received the least intelligence of his son.

    Although Sir George Meredith, on hospitable cares intent, did his best to entertain his guests, the dinner somehow passed heavily. He told his best stories, and scarcely elicited a smile. His daughter too, appeared dull and dispirited; her cousin calm as usual, as might have been expected, for his lordship rarely indulged in sentiment. Being in the Guards, of course he had a horror of gushing.

    The rector and his lady were the first to move; the worthy man had his sermon to write.

    ‘Hang the sermon!’ exclaimed his host. Struck by the impropriety of the expression, he instantly added: ‘I don’t mean that; excellent things in their way. I thought to make a night of it. Preach one of your old ones; that about the Pelagians. Like to hear it again; never understood it.’

    ‘Nor any one else,’ the speaker might have added.

    The suggestion was artfully made, but failed in its intended effect, although the subject was a favorite one with the learned churchman, who looked upon the denial of original sin with orthodox horror. Possibly the last observation of the baronet — that he never understood, the sermon — had something to do with the reverend gentleman’s refusal to remain.

    The Nevilles went next — that is to say, all but Rose. She and Clara Meredith had long been intimate friends. They compared observations, criticised men creatures together, and had no secrets from each other. Girls are something like boys in one respect — they must have a confidant till they win a lover, and then their confessions become more guarded; not that friendship has grown cold — it has only become discreet.

    Older readers can easily understand why Rose Neville remained at the Hall for a few days.

    Captain Waterpark and Lord Wiltshire and the rest of the guests soon followed. And the owner of the Hall began to feel in an irritable humor.

    ‘Well, Bury,’ he observed, ‘I suppose you find yourself considerably bored by your visit. Had you written to inform me of’ your intention, I would have asked some of your set down to meet you.’

    ‘Not at all necessary, my dear uncle,’ replied his lordship. ‘So far from feeling bored, I have been highly amused. Fond of studying character.’

    ‘Pretty specimen, that fellow Burcham,’ said the baronet. ‘Glad you thrashed him. Would have done it myself had I been ten years younger. Believe I can do it now. Great mind to try it.’

    ‘Oh, papa! papa!’ exclaimed Clara.

    ‘Don’t look frightened, pet,’ said her father. ‘I am not going to make myself so ridiculous as that.

    His nephew felt delighted to hear there is a limit; if rather a wide one, to the eccentricities of his relative.

    ‘Mr. Burcham in society?’ he asked.

    ‘No,’ answered Sir George pettishly; ‘admitted to the hunt; a mere outsider. Can’t avoid that; he owns the best cover in the country.’

    ‘But not to the county balls,’ observed Rose Neville.

    ‘Or at any house where there are ladies in the family,’ added Clara.

    ‘I see; a native of the debatable land,’ said her cousin.

    The ladies retired; they had their own little confidences to make and compare notes on the events of the day.

    Albert Anker (1831 — 1910). Still Life with two glasses of red wine, a bottle of wine, a corkscrew and a plate of biscuits on a tray. Public Domain. Source: Wikimedia Commons

    ‘You have made out anything but a pleasant time,’ observed the uncle to his nephew; ‘do better, I trust, tomorrow. Touch the bell — thank you.’

    The summons was answered by the butler, whom his master ordered to bring up a bottle of choice Burgundy.

    ‘No such wine to be had in the market now,’ observed the old gentleman, complacently eyeing the sparkling nectar. ‘Don’t often produce it. Stock getting low. We will finish it together.’

    ‘One glass, with pleasure,’ replied Lord Bury, ‘and then good night. I have a drawing to make for my cousin in the morning.’

    ‘O, nonsense! Put it off.’

    ‘Impossible; I have given a promise.’

    The glass was taken, and his lordship withdrew to his own room.

    ‘Milksop!’ growled his relative, distastefully. ‘Not a headache in a hogshead of the wine. No, he is not,’ he added, as kindlier thoughts and recollections stole over him; ‘and hang me if I don’t call out the first man who utters a word against him; could not have done it better myself in my best days; perhaps not quite so well.’

    This was rather a remarkable admission for the speaker to make, who, like most old men, prided himself on what he had been.

    ‘How well he has behaved,’ he continued, pursuing his reflections, ‘to that old scamp, his father. It was a cruel trick he played him. The loss of Chellston must have galled him. Wish I had not bought it now. Not that I suspected foul play till the lawyer told me all about it in confidence. If the boy is not a fool, the estate may be his again. But mum — must not breathe that thought, even to myself. Clara would never forgive me. I wonder if she likes the fellow.’

    The baronet pursued his reflections till the Burgundy was exhausted, and then, with the assistance of his valet and the butler, retired to bed, to awake in the morning with all the premonitory symptoms of a violent attack of gout.

    The fit proved an unusually severe one. Whilst it lasted Clara and Rose were his constant attendants. At the end of ten days the violence of the attack had considerably abated, and the patient, who had been anything but patient, insisted, on the twelfth, that his daughter and her friend should take a canter to recover the roses they had lost.

    Their first visit was to the cottage of the old organist. They found poor Phœbe greatly changed. Her eyes had lost their lustre; the innocent mirth which once sparkled in them was gone; and the two dark circles which grief had drawn around them showed too plainly the effects of sorrow. As they noticed the change the indignation of her visitors at the cruelty of Farmer Randal became roused, and the heiress then and there made a vow not to rest till she had brought the old man to his senses.

    ‘You are very kind,’ said the ex-May Queen, ‘and I feel so grateful. I am sure Tom would. I am quite hopeless. When his father told me that I had ensnared his son by arts and wiles, I bore it patiently; but when he accused my dear, good mother of plotting with me to entrap him, I felt so angry and unforgiving that I declared I would never be his son’s wife unless his father came to our cottage to ask me.’

    ‘Very proper,’ exclaimed Rose Neville.

    ‘The farmer is a slandering, wicked, unreasonable monster. I see I must take him into my own hands. Entrap, indeed! As if any modest girl would lay herself out to entrap any man. How little does he know our sex,’ she added.

    Hem! We are not quite certain that we can honestly endorse the last observation, but we believe the speaker was sincere in making it.

    ‘Have you heard from Tom?’ asked the young lady.

    ‘No,’ replied the poor girl, yielding to her tears. ‘I know that everything is at an end between us; still he might have written or sent a message that he was safe, just in a friendly way. Dear, dear, I shall never see him again.’

    ‘You shall!’ exclaimed Clara Meredith, pained by the sorrow of her former playmate. ‘More, you shall be his wife, and I will give you your wedding dress. I have not the slightest idea how I shall bring it about. You know I never yet set my mind on anything that I did not, accomplish. Don’t fret; make haste to recover your good looks; that is a duty every girl owes herself. Tom must not find you changed when he comes back.’

    The two visitors quitted the cottage to resume their ride, leaving hope and consolation behind them.

    ‘O, if he should soon return. I only want to know that he is safe.’

    Probably she thought so. The heart dissembles even to itself.

    It was not without design, or rather the hope of meeting the old man, that the fair equestrians returned to the Hall by way of the Randal farm. They were not disappointed, but came upon the occupant walking moodily along the shady land connecting it with the high road.

    The ladies checked their horses.

    Some are born with tact, others never can acquire it. The first lead gently and almost imperceptibly to the point they seek; the latter jump at it, and frequently miss it.

    ‘Well, farmer,’ said the heiress, as her father’s richest tenant stood bareheaded before her, ‘how is the good dame?’

    ‘Not very well, my lady; trouble has come upon us. Tom has run away.’

    ‘Sorry to hear it. I thought he was such a good son.’

    ‘He beant a bad one,’ replied the father, quickly; ‘he be only a fool; gone off because I would not listen to his marrying Burr the organist’s daughter. I ha’ been to Ipswich, Yarmouth, and even as far as Norwich, to find him, but can’t hear naught of him. I fear he’s gone and listed.’

    ‘I regret to hear it,’ repeated Clara, with difficulty repressing her satisfaction, for she began to read the speaker rightly; ‘but you have some consolation.’

    ‘Have I, my lady?’

    ‘Two excellent daughters.’

    ‘Yes, to be sure; the gals are well enough!’

    ‘Bess, I hear, is to marry young Watson.’

    ‘Some talk on it, my lady.’

    ‘So that if Tom should get shot, drowned at sea, or never come back, there will be no danger of the farm going out of the family. To be sure,’ she added, carelessly, ‘it will not be a Randal. Good-day.’

    ‘I fear, Clara,’ observed her friend, after they had resumed their ride, ‘that our sex are naturally inclined to be a little cruel. Did you notice how the old man winced when you alluded to the possibility of his son’s being shot or drowned?’

    ‘I did notice it replied the heiress; ‘but I thought of Phœbe, and conscience told me I was right. The farmer has a hard nature. It is only by constantly hammering one can produce the least impression.’

    I must be cruel only to be kind.

    ‘I have resolved,’ added the speaker, ‘to see my old playmate happy with her lover, who really deserves her, and begin to think I perceive the way.’

    ‘It will not be a Randal,’ repeated the farmer, several times to himself. The words had stung him deeply. ‘It shan’t be a Watson, anyway. I’ll shut my gals up fust — make nuns of ’em. I ha’ heard that nuns don’t marry. Tom be a bad boy, though I wouldn’t own to it, to cross his old father. Why, I always let him have his own way.’

    The speaker should have added, when it happened to be his own as well. Clara Meredith was right. Some men have hard natures and require a deal of hammering.

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes and Further Reading

    I’ll keep good the promise made by one of my 1883 newspaper sources:

    In tomorrow’s issue a synopsis will be given of that portion of The Mystery of the Marsh which has already been published, in order that new readers may be enabled to take up the following chapters with a knowledge of what has preceded.

    Perhaps not tomorrow as such, but before the next instalment, anyway.

    ‘on hospitable cares intent’: Generic misquotation from Milton’s Paradise Lost, ‘on hospitable thoughts intent’ (5.332). Sir Walter Scott (Redgauntlet, Ch. 11, 1824) and Anthony Trollope’s brother Tom Trollope (A Summer in Brittany, 1840) also use the misquoted phrase.

    ‘the Pelagians’: Followers of Pelagius (c. 354 — post-418), a monk and theologian, probably born in Britain, who espoused a belief in the freedom of human will, especially concerning the question of spiritual salvation, as opposed to inherent dependency upon Adam’s original sin.

    ‘native of the debatable land’: Originally a specific politico-geographical reference, as in Walter Scott’s Introduction to Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802 — 03): “At this time [mid-16th C], also, the Debateable Land, a tract of country, situated betwixt the Esk and Sarke, claimed by both kingdoms, was divided by royal commissioners, appointed by the two crowns.” By the nineteenth century, the term had been extended to apply to other, comparable regions. (See Claire Lamont and Michael Rossington, Romanticism’s Debatable Lands [Macmillan, 2007]).

    Hence Burcham, while considered persona non grata and not invited to respectable affairs, has no problem posting bail, and though ‘a mere outsider’, owns ‘the best cover in the country’ and must therefore be admitted to the hunt.

    ‘I must be cruel only to be kind‘: Italics added to the quotation from Hamlet, Act 3, scene 4, 173-9, which is differentiated typographically in the newspaper copies.

    Holly Furneaux, ‘Victorian Sexualities’, online at the British Library website.

    John Ruskin, ‘Of Queens’ Gardens‘, Ballantyne Press (1902). Beautiful digital facsimile available free online at Internet Archive (see above link).

  • J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Ninth Instalment

    J.F. Smith’s Mystery of the Marsh — Ninth Instalment

    Picture a May Day festival on an English village green, complete with Morris dancers and maypole, the main setting for this instalment. May Day is a tradition widespread in the Northern Hemisphere, celebrating fertility and the return of Spring. There are indeterminate roots in the pagan Roman Floralia, dedicated to the goddess Flora, in which participants danced and wore floral wreaths.

    The popularity of the festival was intermittent across the centuries. Some argue that the British May Day tradition in its present form was a reinvention of the Victorians, who formalized and cleansed it of risqué pagan elements.

    Despite the fact that they were, in reality, the usual celebrants, adolescents were excluded from direct participation in such sentimentalized representations. It would seem that even the image of teenagers of both sexes gathering flowers in the woods on a spring morning might have been considered immoral (as the practice itself certainly was considered; maying’s potential as an opportunity for youthful sexual adventures was one reason why the festivals had nearly been suppressed early in the century.)

    Louise Lippincott, Lawrence Alma Tadema: Spring (1990)

    In 1881 John Ruskin (1819–1900), the uber-influential writer, art critic, and social reformer, inaugurated a new style of May Festival at Whitelands College in London, which was emulated throughout England. He borrowed from European festivals, with their Queen of May and weaving together of ribbons that hung down from the top of the maypole. Students elected, in Ruskin’s words, the ‘nicest and likablest’ among them to be May Queen — someone ‘full of pure and uncontending natural worth’ (The Companion).

    Ruskin, by Herbert Rose Barraud, 1885. Public Domain. Source: LIFE Photo Archive; Wikimedia Commons

    It is tempting to see in Smith’s use of the festival, below, an emphatic nod to Ruskin, given the wholesome nature of his own heroes and heroines, and his constant promotion of values inherent in a rural way of life. In particular, his passage on the adverse effects of aspects of contemporary change — ‘an unnatural system of forcing’ — upon youth and courtship, is redolent of Ruskin’s polemic against nineteenth-century industrial capitalism.

    CHAPTER NINE

    The May-Day Festival — An Old-Fashioned Country Squire and his Guests — Arrival of an Unexpected Visitor

    Sir George Meredith felt extremely gratified by his purchase of Chellston; not that he cared much about the revenue derived from it, being already sufficiently rich, but it rounded his estate and increased his interests in the county. He could now turn the elections. The world said that he wanted a peerage; they were mistaken; he had twice refused it. Probably his having no son had something to do with it.

    On his rare visits to London the fashionable world in which his ancient name and large fortune entitled him to move, pronounced him a little coarse; not in mind, for he was manly, upright, and honest. But, then, he shocked their conventionalities, not by any positive vulgarisms — he was too much of a gentleman for that — but by doing things in his own way. For instance, when he gave a dinner-party, he would invite any of his neighbors from the country who happened to be in town. Frock-coats might occasionally be seen at them, and even top-boots.

    Our readers, probably, will wonder why a man so perfectly indifferent to the usage of the world — he never neglected its proprieties — should have been so generally welcomed. The reason will appear sufficiently plain when we inform them that he had an only daughter — the greatest heiress in the eastern counties.

    Clara Meredith was not strictly beautiful; some did not consider her even pretty. She possessed a fine figure, black, curly hair, eyes of the same color that sparkled with wit and humour. Sometimes there appeared a slight touch of sarcasm in her conversation. It was not very pronounced, but it made her enemies. The only thing society really admired in her was her horsemanship. Trained by her father to the hunting-field, she had become a matchless rider. Her first appearance in the Park created quite a sensation. Clara had been presented at court; passed one season in London, which she pronounced a bore, and then returned joyously to her home, vowing never again to quit it. Her father and friends laughed at her, predicting that she would one day change her resolution. The saucy girl shook her head and merely answered:

    ‘We shall see.’

    Possibly she felt piqued. Not by her want of success at balls, routs, and flower shows; but she did think it strange that her cousin, Lord Bury, had not been introduced to her. It was negligent on his part, to say the least of it. They had never met since they were both children; but his lordship had seen her in the Park, and pronounced her not his style of girl — an opinion he kept strictly to himself, and only imparted it to his father when that scheming nobleman ‘hinted’ at a marriage between them. As our readers may recollect, his lordship scouted the idea.

    Chellston lay heavy on his heart. Not so much for the value of the place as its associations. His boyhood had been passed there. At Chellston he had experienced a mother’s love, rode his first pony, fired his first shot upon its lands. Having an idle week upon his hands, Lord Bury made up his mind to revisit the still fondly-remembered spot. It was his last chance of doing so, for the London season was about to commence. The first of May was near at hand.

    ‘It will be the more galling,’ he thought. ‘I must visit with those I do not care to meet — wear a smiling face. The world must not suspect how shamelessly I have been duped. The honor of our name must be preserved.’

    Chellston, really, is a very pretty village, situated a few miles from Scole, on the borders of Norfolk. In the centre an extensive green, dotted on the skirts with comfortable-looking farmhouses; it had also a church, school, and, what is rarely now to be met with in once merry England, a lofty May-pole, the pride of the inhabitants, who were entitled, by long-established custom, to cut down the tallest tree once in ten years growing on the adjacent common. Some said a charter existed to that effect. Be that as it may, in our time the lord of the manor had never disputed the right.

    Poets love to dwell on the resemblance between human life and the seasons of the year. Youth and May are both the springtime of the future. First they put forth delicate, sensitive leaves, which shrink alike from the cold embrace of winter and too sudden contact with the summer’s sultry breath.

    The world has lost much of its freshness. Since the race of life became so keenly contested from an unnatural system of forcing, the human plant loses in perfume more than it gains in strength; and even that is fictitious. The mere boy springs like a young gladiator from the school-room into the arena; advances by antagonism; the warning cry, ‘Woe to the conquered,’ excites instead of restraining him. His courage may be high, but it is pitted against the craft of age; his impulses pure, till the cynical lessons of experience force him to change his weapons, and the battle is renewed upon more equal ground.

    The result is generally unfortunate. Youth has no latent forces to rely upon.

    Even in that sex whose domain is beauty, whose influence has civilised the world, whose smile adds lustre to the poet’s wreath and the soldier’s laurel, without whose presence home becomes an empty word, the change has been equally great. What we complain of is, there are more women and fewer girls — girls in the artless, loving, lovable sense of the word. Courtship has lost much of its charm since Cupid’s shafts have been aimed at the pocket rather than the heart.

    Toilet, too, has become an important enemy to matrimony.

    Oh! for the days when simple muslin was an institution as sacred to girlhood as satins and velvets to matron dignity and honoured age; when a bright-coloured ribbon, more or less, a rose in the hair, made all the difference between morning and evening dress; when dainty feet, instead of being confined in instruments of torture, which cripple them, were cased in tiny slippers; when girls could dance and —

    Patience, reader! Patience! These murmurings are but the echoes of an old man’s dreams, drawn from his recollections of a world that has passed away.

    On the first of May not only the population of Chellston but most of the neighbouring villages were on foot at an early hour. Great preparations had been made; the May-pole duly garlanded; a rustic throne of turf and spring flowers erected for the mimic queen — an uncommonly pretty, modest girl, the daughter of John Burr, organist of the village church.

    Seats also had been prepared for Sir George Meredith, his family and friends. As lord of the manor, he held it almost a religious duty to attend the May-Day games, distribute prizes to the morris dancers, and keep order by his presence.

    Just as the baronet was about to proceed to the green, accompanied by his daughter and guests, a carriage drove up to the door of the mansion, and a servant announced Lord Bury. The eyes of Clara and her father met; those of the former had a rather saucy expression in them.

    ‘At last,’ said the old gentleman, ‘it is time that he renewed his acquaintance with us. I thought the loss of Chellston,’ he added, in a whisper, ‘would bring him down.’

    ‘Come to look over the estate and its incumbrances,’ answered the young lady, warily. ‘I wonder what he is like?’ The question was asked mentally.

    ‘If I thought that, I’d –‘

    What her father would have done, most probably will never be known, for his words were cut short by the appearance of his nephew, whom he received with just that fitting amount of cordiality due to a relative and a visitor — nothing more. Sir George was not without tact.

    ‘Allow me to introduce you to my friends. The Nevilles, mother and two daughters;  Lord Wiltshire and his sisters, our worthy rector and his wife — ought to have named them first; Captain Waterpark — but, of course, you are acquainted with him, seeing that you are both in the army; Count Villa Benson, and others, are on the lawn; and last,’ he added, ‘your saucy cousin Clara.’

    His daughter courtesied demurely.

    ‘You mean mischief, Clara,’ whispered her friend, Rose Neville, to the heiress. I can read it in your eyes.’

    ‘Perhaps,’ was the reply.

    Lord Bury received the introductions with well-bred ease, but rather coldly — but, then, it must be remembered that he was in the Guards; shook hands with the Nevilles and Wiltshire — they were of the best families in the county; elevated his eyebrows slightly at the supposition that he and Captain Waterpark were already acquainted, being both in the army. The speaker ought to have known that the Guards had a club-house of their own and rarely fraternised with the line. Having done all he considered necessary, he turned his attention to Clara. His first attempts at conversation were anything but successful.

    ‘I should scarcely have known you, cousin,’ he said, in that soft, low tone with which a true gentleman invariably addresses those of the opposite sex. ‘You are so grown.’

    ‘I have had nothing else to do,’ answered the young lady, very quietly. ‘You, too, are changed — almost a man — so different from the little boy in red morocco shoes and black velvet jacket that used to go birds’ nesting with me! Do you recollect falling from the willow-tree? How you floundered in the pond till the farmer’s son pulled you out with a hay-rake, and how you cried over the loss of one of your pretty red shoes?’

    The gravity with which the speaker had commenced her reply appeared to give way to the remembrance of the scene, and she laughed heartily.

    ‘Is the girl an idiot, or merely trying to make me appear ridiculous?’ thought her cousin, as he bowed to conceal his annoyance at the scarcely suppressed smile on the countenances of the guests which the description had called up.

    ‘I have frequently thought,’ added the heiress, ‘how much I should like to have a sketch of the scene; it would make such an interesting picture. The old towers in the distance, your lordship floundering like a Newfoundland dog — a very young one, of course, for old ones swim beautifully; the farmer’s boy with the hay-rake, and poor I, screaming like a frightened goose at the edge of the pond. O, it would be delicious.’

    ‘What does Clara mean by red shoes, Newfoundland dogs, and pond?’ muttered Sir George Meredith to himself, ‘I must put a stop to this folly.’

    Perhaps he had better let it alone.

    Whether the new owner of Chellston entertained similar ideas to Viscount Allworth on the subject of a marriage of their children, we cannot venture to decide; certainly he had never hinted at such a project. He loved his daughter too well, and felt too proud of her to offer her hand to anyone.

    Lord Bury no longer asked himself if his cousin were an idiot. He had seen too much of the world not to detect her real character at once. She was piqued, and had taken her own way of showing it; Clara had passed a season in London. His lordship must have known it, yet he had never once called or proffered the slightest attention, although they were such near relatives.

    The young guardsman was as generous as he was proud, and he reflected on his conduct, scarcely blamed her; still he felt mortified, and determined to meet her with her own weapons. As they were neither of them in love, the combat promised to be an amusing one.

    ‘My friends tell me,’ he observed, ‘that I possess some talent with the pencil. I will do my best to carry out your idea, on one condition.’

    That I stand and scream on the edge of the pond?’ asked Clara archly.

    ‘That you accept it when it is finished,’ added her cousin, gracefully; ‘not that it will be worthy of you, but recollections go for something.’

    ‘Can’t wait any longer,’ exclaimed the baronet, looking at his watch. ‘The tenants and villagers will  think I am dead or laid up with a fit of the gout. Egbert, give your cousin your arm. May Day is a sort of family festival. Never mind your travelling dress; your valet will arrange your things long before you return.’

    This was the first intimation that he expected his nephew to take up his residence at the Hall.

    ‘Mrs. Neville, accept my escort, The rector will take charge of his wife, and the rest of our young friends pair off as they please. Hey for the green.’

    The arrangements were made just as the speaker suggested. Everyone felt satisfied, with the exception perhaps of Clara. She had fenced well — made the first hit — but felt that the second one counted against her.

    Sarcasm is a dangerous game for girls to play at; they get the worst of it, especially if the weapons of their antagonists are polished ones.

    ‘An Old English Custom Dancing Round the Maypole on the Village Green’, engraving, c. 1896, from The Graphic newspaper (cropped). Robert Walker Macbeth (1848-1910).

    When Sir George Meredith and his friends appeared upon the green the rustic crowd set up a loud shout of welcome, and a chorus of young girls sang the following madrigal, set to music by the old organist in honor of the day:

    Come, gentle May,
    Spring for thy sweet breath is sighing;
    Fading away,
    The cold storms of winter are dying;
    And maidens fair
    Are seeking their woodland bowers,
    To deck their hair
    With wreaths of thy beautiful flowers.

    During the execution of the music, Phœbe Burr, the daughter of the composer, and elected queen of the day, quitted her father’s cottage and walked with modest gracefulness towards the rustic seat prepared for her reception. She was dressed simply in white; not an ornament of any kind except a wreath of maythorn, which contrasted admirably with her dark flowing hair and sparkling black eyes. We question if coquetry itself could have devised a more striking costume. The crowd stared at first, for hitherto the maidens chosen to preside over the rural festival had been accustomed to attire themselves in all the finery they could beg or borrow from the ladies’ maids of the neighbouring gentry.

    The change was a great innovation, but it took.

    ‘She is very beautiful, is she not?’ observed Clara to her cousin.

    ‘Dangerously so,’ replied his lordship, abstractedly.

    The young lady repeated the word, archly.

    ‘Not to me,’ continued  the young guardsman; ‘for I have long since schooled my heart to offer no homage to beauty which honor could not accept.’

    ‘Ah! yes, I understand; birth, wealth, and all those troublesome kind of things,’ said his cousin. ‘To some minds they are indispensable.’

    ‘Birth, certainly,’ said her cousin, ‘as far as it guarantees careful training and high principles; but no farther. As for wealth,’ he added, ‘I can afford to, dispense with that, although I have lost Chellston –‘

    ‘It was a cruel trick Lord Allworth played you.’

    ‘Not a word more upon that subject, I entreat you,’ interrupted her companion, hastily. ‘I have made no complaint; shall make none. The honour of my father is sacred to me as my own, and has never been questioned by me.’

    Clara Meredith regarded him earnestly, and read in his open countenance the perfect sincerity of his words. They had the true ring in them.

    ‘Have I misjudged him?’ she asked herself. ‘They described him to me in London as a mere moth of pleasure, an empty-headed coxcomb, a thing without heart or brains. Now I begin to find that he has both.’

    This little mental soliloquy has let our readers into one secret — that the heiress had been exceedingly curious respecting the character of her cousin, and received her impressions from those the least likely to judge him fairly. Of course the allusion to Chellston and Lord Allworth was dropped.

    ‘At any rate,’ she added, ‘he is not effeminate.’ This had been one of the charges brought against his lordship.

    As soon as Phœbe Burr had taken her seat the maidens chosen to attend upon her during the day advanced with a prettily decorated basket filled with small bouquets of the May flower. It was the privilege of the queen to present them to the lord of the manor and his guests.

    As the girls presented their gifts, they sang a species of invocation, in which only female voices joined:

    Bright Queen of the May Day, young Queen of an hour,
    Whose throne is the greensward; whose sceptre a flower;
    Come forth in thy beauty and reign in thy bower.
    We have rifled the green woods as rifles the bee,
    We have stripped of its blossoms the white hawthorne tree;
    And are come with the sweet spoils in homage to thee.

    When the mimic queen presented Clara with her floral tribute the heiress kissed her upon the cheek. They were about the same age; had been playmates in childhood; and the young lady still retained an affectionate attachment for her simple friend.

    ‘Cousin,’ she whispered in the ear of her companion, ‘you could afford me a very great pleasure.’

    ‘To hear is to obey,’ replied his lordship. ‘Tell me how.’

    ‘Commence the sports by dancing with the May Day Queen.’

    ‘Will that be fitting?’

    ‘Fitting!’ repeated the wilful girl. ‘My father always did so till age and the gout compelled him to give up the privilege. True, he was not in the Guards.’

    This last observation, we fear, had a touch of her old sarcasm.

    ‘It cannot be out of place,’ replied her cousin, ‘to follow the example of Sir George Meredith, although I am in the Guards.’

    Clara felt the reproof, and coloured to the temples.

    ‘Present me to her sylvan majesty,’ he added.

    The invitation was given, and frankly accepted. Phœbe was no coquette, and felt pleased with her partner, who treated her with as much deference as he would have shown to a duchess. His lordship not having visited the neighbourhood since he was a child in red morocco shoes, scarcely a person out of his own set recognised him. There were many surmises that followed, naturally. By the peasantry and young farmers he was set down to be one of their own class, to which error the simplicity of his plain travelling dress not a little contributed.

    The dance being ended, Lord Bury led the mimic queen back to her rustic throne, thanked her for the honor she had conferred, and returned to the side of his cousin.

    Scarcely had he withdrawn from the group, when a tall young fellow, familiarly known by the name of Ned Burcham, or the Squire, broke through the circle. Although possessed of some property, and of a respectable family, he held an anomalous position in the neighbourhood, being as the Neville girls said, neither fish nor fowl — in other words, he was not recognised in society. The exclusion was a just one, his manners and mind being equally coarse.

    Still he was not without his admirers amongst the lower orders, who made way for him.

    ‘Why, Phœbe, girl,’ he exclaimed, ‘you look deucedly pretty, but you ought to have waited. You might have known that I intended to stand up in the first round with you, and not have given your hand to that puppy. But come! It is not too late.’

    He held out his hand. The May Queen saw that he had been drinking, and shrank back timidly.

    ‘Thank you, squire,’ she answered, hesitatingly, ‘but I do not intend to dance again. I have so much to do; the prizes to distribute, and –‘

    ‘Nonsense!’ interrupted the uncouth suitor, seizing her not very gently by the band. ‘I know better than that. We shall be waited for.’

    Phœbe uttered a faint scream, and there were a few cries of ‘Shame!’

    ‘Bury,’ said the heiress, her face flushing with indignation at the insult to her former playmate, ‘see if that drunken fellow, Burcham, is not trying to drag the May Queen from her seat.’

    To relinquish the arm of his cousin, dart back to the spot he had so lately quitted, and hurl the ruffian sprawling upon the grass, was with his lordship the work of an instant.

    Squire Ned rose to his feet, and stood glaring on his antagonist with a look of mingled rage and astonishment that anyone should presume to interfere with his amusements.

    ‘Who are you?’ he growled, at last.

    ‘A man. Perhaps you will inform me how things like you designate themselves,’ was the reply.

    ‘I? O, I am gentleman.’

    ‘A what? A gentleman!’ repeated his lordship, in a tone of contempt more cutting than anger, more galling than passion. ‘Pooh! you are not even the outline of one. You do not know the meaning of the word. Not one of these honest rustics who witnessed your ruffianly conduct but possesses a better claim to the title than you can show.’

    ‘At any rate, I can fight,’ observed the infuriated bully, stung to the quick by the retort. At the same instant he rushed upon his antagonist with the intention, as he proclaimed aloud, of giving the young puppy a lesson. Ned Burcham could not have selected a more intractable scholar. Eton had trained his lordship, Oxford given him his degree in more sciences than one, and the Guards — whatever their folly and shortcomings — failed to make him effeminate. Thrice did the village tyrant measure his length upon the sward beneath his well-planted blows. It was the general opinion of the crowd that Squire Ned had found his match at last.

    In justice to my fellow-countrymen I cannot avoid making one observation. Englishmen have been accused of showing undue subserviency to rank and wealth — in fact, to celebrity of every kind — and with some reason, perhaps; but this much I can fearlessly assert for them — true manliness and courage will always excite their admiration.

    The third time Squire Ned went down a hearty cheer was given for the young stranger.

    The contest was about to be renewed, when a young farmer, his eyes flashing with passion, arrived upon the scene. He was powerfully built, and if not remarkably handsome, had an open, manly countenance.

    ‘Thanks,’ he said, grasping the hand of Lord Bury warmly. ‘If ever you require a friend, call upon Tom Randal. You must leave this bully to me.’

    ‘O, dear, no!’ replied the guardsman, ‘I have not half done with him yet. He will stand considerably more pounding yet.’

    ‘I tell you, it’s my right.’

    ‘Can’t see it,’ was the cool rejoinder.

    ‘I repeat that it is. I am the accepted lover of Phœbe Burr. And now the murder is out.’

    The mother, father, and two maiden aunts of the speaker, wealthy farmers, lifted up their hands in speechless astonishment. His sister only smiled; probably she was in his confidence.

    ‘Well,’ said his lordship, after reflecting for an instant, ‘that certainly does make a difference, and I at once withdraw my claim. On my honour, I do it reluctantly.’

    The contest, however, was not destined to be renewed.

    The baronet and the gentlemen of his party had now reached the scene of contention. Several of the latter, as well as their host, were magistrates, and Lord Wiltshire a deputy lieutenant of the county.

    This edition © 2019 Furin Chime, Michael Guest

    Notes and Further Reading

    ‘measure his length upon the sward’: ‘Sward’ is a literary term for an expanse of short grass. Thus the phrase means to knock him down.

    ‘the murder is out’: said when something is suddenly revealed or explained. A similar expression is ‘murder will out’, as in Chaucer’s Nun’s Priest’s Tale (c. 1386): ‘Mordre wol out that se we day by day’ (OED). 

    Louise Lippincott, Lawrence Alma Tadema: Spring (1990). Available online (pdf) at Getty Publications Virtual Library.

    The Companion, available online from The Guild of St. George, a charitable education trust founded by John Ruskin in 1871. For the quotations see, for example, numbers 8 (2008) and 11 (2011).

    Spence, Margaret E., ”The Guild of St George: Ruskin’s attempt to translate his ideas into practice” (1957), Bulletin of the John Ryland’s Library.  Available online at escholar, University of Manchester Library.