Authors: Elizabeth Gaskell
All this time I have wandered from Mr. Gray. Of course, we first saw him
in church when he read himself in. He was very red-faced, the kind of
redness which goes with light hair and a blushing complexion; he looked
slight and short, and his bright light frizzy hair had hardly a dash of
powder in it. I remember my lady making this observation, and sighing
over it; for, though since the famine in seventeen hundred and ninety-
nine and eighteen hundred there had been a tax on hair-powder, yet it was
reckoned very revolutionary and Jacobin not to wear a good deal of it. My
lady hardly liked the opinions of any man who wore his own hair; but this
she would say was rather a prejudice: only in her youth none but the mob
had gone wigless, and she could not get over the association of wigs with
birth and breeding; a man's own hair with that class of people who had
formed the rioters in seventeen hundred and eighty, when Lord George
Gordon had been one of the bugbears of my lady's life. Her husband and
his brothers, she told us, had been put into breeches, and had their
heads shaved on their seventh birthday, each of them; a handsome little
wig of the newest fashion forming the old Lady Ludlow's invariable
birthday present to her sons as they each arrived at that age; and
afterwards, to the day of their death, they never saw their own hair. To
be without powder, as some underbred people were talking of being now,
was in fact to insult the proprieties of life, by being undressed. It
was English sans-culottism. But Mr. Gray did wear a little powder,
enough to save him in my lady's good opinion; but not enough to make her
approve of him decidedly.
The next time I saw him was in the great hall. Mary Mason and I were
going to drive out with my lady in her coach, and when we went down
stairs with our best hats and cloaks on, we found Mr. Gray awaiting my
lady's coming. I believe he had paid his respects to her before, but we
had never seen him; and he had declined her invitation to spend Sunday
evening at the Court (as Mr. Mountford used to do pretty regularly—and
play a game at picquet too—), which, Mrs. Medlicott told us, had caused
my lady to be not over well pleased with him.
He blushed redder than ever at the sight of us, as we entered the hall
and dropped him our curtsies. He coughed two or three times, as if he
would have liked to speak to us, if he could but have found something to
say; and every time he coughed he became hotter-looking than ever. I am
ashamed to say, we were nearly laughing at him; half because we, too,
were so shy that we understood what his awkwardness meant.
My lady came in, with her quick active step—she always walked quickly
when she did not bethink herself of her cane—as if she was sorry to have
us kept waiting—and, as she entered, she gave us all round one of those
graceful sweeping curtsies, of which I think the art must have died out
with her,—it implied so much courtesy;—this time it said, as well as
words could do, "I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,—forgive me."
She went up to the mantelpiece, near which Mr. Gray had been standing
until her entrance, and curtseying afresh to him, and pretty deeply this
time, because of his cloth, and her being hostess, and he, a new guest.
She asked him if he would not prefer speaking to her in her own private
parlour, and looked as though she would have conducted him there. But he
burst out with his errand, of which he was full even to choking, and
which sent the glistening tears into his large blue eyes, which stood
farther and farther out with his excitement.
"My lady, I want to speak to you, and to persuade you to exert your kind
interest with Mr. Lathom—Justice Lathom, of Hathaway Manor—"
"Harry Lathom?" inquired my lady,—as Mr. Gray stopped to take the breath
he had lost in his hurry,—"I did not know he was in the commission."
"He is only just appointed; he took the oaths not a month ago,—more's
the pity!"
"I do not understand why you should regret it. The Lathoms have held
Hathaway since Edward the First, and Mr. Lathom bears a good character,
although his temper is hasty—"
"My lady! he has committed Job Gregson for stealing—a fault of which he
is as innocent as I—and all the evidence goes to prove it, now that the
case is brought before the Bench; only the Squires hang so together that
they can't be brought to see justice, and are all for sending Job to
gaol, out of compliment to Mr. Lathom, saying it his first committal, and
it won't be civil to tell him there is no evidence against his man. For
God's sake, my lady, speak to the gentlemen; they will attend to you,
while they only tell me to mind my own business."
Now my lady was always inclined to stand by her order, and the Lathoms of
Hathaway Court were cousins to the Hanbury's. Besides, it was rather a
point of honour in those days to encourage a young magistrate, by passing
a pretty sharp sentence on his first committals; and Job Gregson was the
father of a girl who had been lately turned away from her place as
scullery-maid for sauciness to Mrs. Adams, her ladyship's own maid; and
Mr. Gray had not said a word of the reasons why he believed the man
innocent,—for he was in such a hurry, I believe he would have had my
lady drive off to the Henley Court-house then and there;—so there seemed
a good deal against the man, and nothing but Mr. Gray's bare word for
him; and my lady drew herself a little up, and said—
"Mr. Gray! I do not see what reason either you or I have to interfere.
Mr. Harry Lathom is a sensible kind of young man, well capable of
ascertaining the truth without our help—"
"But more evidence has come out since," broke in Mr. Gray. My lady went
a little stiffer, and spoke a little more coldly:—
"I suppose this additional evidence is before the justices: men of good
family, and of honour and credit, well known in the county. They
naturally feel that the opinion of one of themselves must have more
weight than the words of a man like Job Gregson, who bears a very
indifferent character,—has been strongly suspected of poaching, coming
from no one knows where, squatting on Hareman's Common—which, by the
way, is extra-parochial, I believe; consequently you, as a clergyman, are
not responsible for what goes on there; and, although impolitic, there
might be some truth in what the magistrates said, in advising you to mind
your own business,"—said her ladyship, smiling,—"and they might be
tempted to bid me mind mine, if I interfered, Mr. Gray: might they not?"
He looked extremely uncomfortable; half angry. Once or twice he began to
speak, but checked himself, as if his words would not have been wise or
prudent. At last he said—"It may seem presumptuous in me,—a stranger
of only a few weeks' standing—to set up my judgment as to men's
character against that of residents—" Lady Ludlow gave a little bow of
acquiescence, which was, I think, involuntary on her part, and which I
don't think he perceived,—"but I am convinced that the man is innocent
of this offence,—and besides, the justices themselves allege this
ridiculous custom of paying a compliment to a newly-appointed magistrate
as their only reason."
That unlucky word "ridiculous!" It undid all the good his modest
beginning had done him with my lady. I knew as well as words could have
told me, that she was affronted at the expression being used by a man
inferior in rank to those whose actions he applied it to,—and truly, it
was a great want of tact, considering to whom he was speaking.
Lady Ludlow spoke very gently and slowly; she always did so when she was
annoyed; it was a certain sign, the meaning of which we had all learnt.
"I think, Mr. Gray, we will drop the subject. It is one on which we are
not likely to agree."
Mr. Gray's ruddy colour grew purple and then faded away, and his face
became pale. I think both my lady and he had forgotten our presence; and
we were beginning to feel too awkward to wish to remind them of it. And
yet we could not help watching and listening with the greatest interest.
Mr. Gray drew himself up to his full height, with an unconscious feeling
of dignity. Little as was his stature, and awkward and embarrassed as he
had been only a few minutes before, I remember thinking he looked almost
as grand as my lady when he spoke.
"Your ladyship must remember that it may be my duty to speak to my
parishioners on many subjects on which they do not agree with me. I am
not at liberty to be silent, because they differ in opinion from me."
Lady Ludlow's great blue eyes dilated with surprise, and—I do
think—anger, at being thus spoken to. I am not sure whether it was very
wise in Mr. Gray. He himself looked afraid of the consequences but as if
he was determined to bear them without flinching. For a minute there was
silence. Then my lady replied—"Mr. Gray, I respect your plain speaking,
although I may wonder whether a young man of your age and position has
any right to assume that he is a better judge than one with the
experience which I have naturally gained at my time of life, and in the
station I hold."
"If I, madam, as the clergyman of this parish, am not to shrink from
telling what I believe to be the truth to the poor and lowly, no more am
I to hold my peace in the presence of the rich and titled." Mr. Gray's
face showed that he was in that state of excitement which in a child
would have ended in a good fit of crying. He looked as if he had nerved
himself up to doing and saying things, which he disliked above
everything, and which nothing short of serious duty could have compelled
him to do and say. And at such times every minute circumstance which
could add to pain comes vividly before one. I saw that he became aware
of our presence, and that it added to his discomfiture.
My lady flushed up. "Are you aware, sir," asked she, "that you have gone
far astray from the original subject of conversation? But as you talk of
your parish, allow me to remind you that Hareman's Common is beyond the
bounds, and that you are really not responsible for the characters and
lives of the squatters on that unlucky piece of ground."
"Madam, I see I have only done harm in speaking to you about the affair
at all. I beg your pardon and take my leave."
He bowed, and looked very sad. Lady Ludlow caught the expression of his
face.
"Good morning!" she cried, in rather a louder and quicker way than that
in which she had been speaking. "Remember, Job Gregson is a notorious
poacher and evildoer, and you really are not responsible for what goes on
at Hareman's Common."
He was near the hall door, and said something—half to himself, which we
heard (being nearer to him), but my lady did not; although she saw that
he spoke. "What did he say?" she asked in a somewhat hurried manner, as
soon as the door was closed—"I did not hear." We looked at each other,
and then I spoke:
"He said, my lady, that 'God help him! he was responsible for all the
evil he did not strive to overcome.'"
My lady turned sharp round away from us, and Mary Mason said afterwards
she thought her ladyship was much vexed with both of us, for having been
present, and with me for having repeated what Mr. Gray had said. But it
was not our fault that we were in the hall, and when my lady asked what
Mr. Gray had said, I thought it right to tell her.
In a few minutes she bade us accompany her in her ride in the coach.
Lady Ludlow always sat forwards by herself, and we girls backwards.
Somehow this was a rule, which we never thought of questioning. It was
true that riding backwards made some of us feel very uncomfortable and
faint; and to remedy this my lady always drove with both windows open,
which occasionally gave her the rheumatism; but we always went on in the
old way. This day she did not pay any great attention to the road by
which we were going, and Coachman took his own way. We were very silent,
as my lady did not speak, and looked very serious. Or else, in general,
she made these rides very pleasant (to those who were not qualmish with
riding backwards), by talking to us in a very agreeable manner, and
telling us of the different things which had happened to her at various
places,—at Paris and Versailles, where she had been in her youth,—at
Windsor and Kew and Weymouth, where she had been with the Queen, when
maid-of-honour—and so on. But this day she did not talk at all. All at
once she put her head out of the window.
"John Footman," said she, "where are we? Surely this is Hareman's
Common."
"Yes, an't please my lady," said John Footman, and waited for further
speech or orders. My lady thought a while, and then said she would have
the steps put down and get out.
As soon as she was gone, we looked at each other, and then without a word
began to gaze after her. We saw her pick her dainty way in the little
high-heeled shoes she always wore (because they had been in fashion in
her youth), among the yellow pools of stagnant water that had gathered in
the clayey soil. John Footman followed, stately, after; afraid too, for
all his stateliness, of splashing his pure white stockings. Suddenly my
lady turned round and said something to him, and he returned to the
carriage with a half-pleased, half-puzzled air.
My lady went on to a cluster of rude mud houses at the higher end of the
Common; cottages built, as they were occasionally at that day, of wattles
and clay, and thatched with sods. As far as we could make out from dumb
show, Lady Ludlow saw enough of the interiors of these places to make her
hesitate before entering, or even speaking to any of the children who
were playing about in the puddles. After a pause, she disappeared into
one of the cottages. It seemed to us a long time before she came out;
but I dare say it was not more than eight or ten minutes. She came back
with her head hanging down, as if to choose her way,—but we saw it was
more in thought and bewilderment than for any such purpose.