The Queen's Pardon

Front matter

THE QUEEN'S PARDON. BY A1ARY EYRE. " Time, as be courses onwards, still unrolls The volume of concealment! In the future, As in the optician's glassy cylinder, The un distinguish able blots and colours Of the dim past, collect and shape themselves To scare or to reward." S. T. Coleeidge. LONDON: JAMES BLACKWOOD, PATERNOSTER ROW. [the right of translation is reserved.] PKEFACE. No easy matter to write a preface, dear reader — whatever you may fancy. Boys and girls, indeed, generally skip prefaces as dull and prosy — but your knowing ones — your critics — pounce upon them at once. To them they are the aroma of the flower — the sample of the vintage. How they sniff the odour of the one up their critical nostrils ; and hold the other up to the light to see if it be clear and sparkling; and if little golden motes mantle on the brim, and dance upon the surface ; — and taste it again and again, to ascertain whether it is full-bodied and fruity — old enough to have all crude ness and asperity mellowed down — yet not so old as to have be come flavourless, colourless, and insipid.

Who will tell me how I shall propitiate these deciders of my destiny ? Who will teach me how to draw the line between too much self-confidence on the one hand, and a modesty that may prove a hinderance to my success on the other ? The whole world professes — I know — to admire modesty. — Ah, me ! I have lived long enough to see that it is very apt to take people at their own valuation if they speak humbly of themselves. " Why" — asks Mr. Anthony Trollope — " are all vessels A — No. 1 — is there such a thing as a ship B — No. 21" No, there is no such thing. If any vessel were proclaimed to be second-rate no one would sail in her. We do not quite rival the Australians yet, and advertise our lamps as " twin brothers to the Sun and Moon" — but all who have anything to sell in these days, must speak well of their merchandise, if they hope to find a mart.

Whatever a person lack, to lack confidence in himself, or in the merit of the wares he offers, is to ensure failure. Therefore, oh, Critics ! and, oh, Beaders ! whatever inward tremblings I may experience on account of this venture of mine, I dare not entreat your leniency, or express the smallest doubt of my own powers ; for if I do, you will be down upon me at once. If I write — " Painfully conscious of many faults and imperfections." — " What in the world does she publish for, then?" — is the sure and certain response. Should I commence — "Yielding to the solicitations of, perhaps, too-partial friends." How often, after quoting such an exordium, have I seen some ruthless reviewer thus proceed to flay the unfortunate author, and hang his skin up in terrorem, a warning to all evil doers : — " We are really weary of this oft-repeated excuse for bringing a badly written book before the world. Why is the public to have this load of crude, ill-digested ideas, mawkish

Preface

. 8 sentimentality, and ungrammatical phrases foisted upon it ? Why, if the author were so well aware of the worthlessness of his offer ing, could he not content himself with printing a few copies of his book for private distribution to these "too-partial friends," and spare us the trouble of reading such nonsense ? " You see, Mr. Trollope, no ship dare advertise itself as B — No 2. — Even my poor little barque is compelled to assure the world it is A — 1 ; lest — which the gods forfend ! — it be set down as Z — 26. I was a young, hopeful girl when this story first presented itself to my imagination. I felt I could not write it properly then, for I knew too little of life. I laid it up in the chambers of my memory to be written some day. Other stories I did write, burnt, and forgot. Over this I brooded till it became to me at least an actual truth.

I could no more have altered the names or characters of any of my dramatis personce than those of my actual living friends. William and Agnes — the kindly Scot, and more especially little Alice — were to me realities. By innumerable little touches and strokes, the sculptor chisels his statue into what perfection he may, with what power God has gifted him : but he never departs from that first conception : when his beautiful ideal rose before him— grand, majestic, glorious beyond his utmost art to imitate. Day by day, and hour by hour ; fed and nourished by sun, and dew, and breezes ; the germ hidden in the earth unfolds into stem and branches, leaves and flowers ; but tree or plant — it is the same, in essential form, that lay perfect, but undeveloped in the seed. When I sat down to write this vision of my youth, I was a grave, thoughtful woman.

I had suffered, sorrowed, and acted. I had been a wanderer in other lands than mine, and felt an exile's long ing for the "old home." At least I brought to my task some knowledge of character, and some experience of life. How I have executed it, it is not for me to say. I have not aimed at much. My story is simply a woman's story of everyday domestic life, diversified by some of those strange events which do now and then break in upon the monotony of the quietest lives. De Quincy and Longfellow have both said, that "every life is a romance." It is even so. There are tragedies in every house, and there are come dies too. Unwritten real histories are stranger than any fictions. If to have thought and felt much, and suffered deeply, be the necessary consecration of an author, then I may hope that what I have written is worth reading. Lastly, I have to make my acknowledgments to Mr. William Howitt, and other writers on Australia, whose works I have consulted. MARY EYRE.

Chapter I

London in August. Close, hot, suffocating; not a breath of air to refresh or invigorate. Streets, windows, foot passengers, even the very baskets of pinks and roses carried by the flower-women, all looked equally hot and dusty. The streets were nearly empty; and the few persons in them were evidently no idle loungers, for they walked swiftly and steadily along the pavement, looking neither to the right nor left. The road in the middle seemed occupied chiefly by hackney coaches and waggons — few carriages passed ; the season was over — London was out of town ! The young men in Mr. Langton's shop, in Old Bond Street, were in their shirt sleeves, rolling up silks and putting away bales of goods, for it was evening. One of them went to the door and stood there for a moment, hoping to get a little fresh air, but in vain: he passed his silk handkerchief over his flushed and heated face, and exclaimed, " Thank God, in three days more, I shall be out of all this dust in the country."

" You are going on Wednesday, then, Norton," said the foreman. " I envy you." " Go with me then down to my father's, if you like. I can promise you a hearty welcome ; and as the season is over, Mr. Langton can spare you well enough." The invitation was accepted as it was given, and on Wednesday morning the two young men mounted the coach together that was to convey them into Kent. William Gray, Mr. Langton's foreman, was a cockney. B He was born and brought up in London. His knowledge of the country was bounded by various visits paid on Sundays and holidays to Twickenham, Highgate, or Hampstead ; to him the whole journey was one long delight. He was enchanted with the deep bright green of the trees by the road side, the purple and golden vetches that trailed over the hedges, the lowing of the cattle that couched in the deep strong grass of those wide meadows; with the cheerful songs of the birds, and with the large fields of ripe corn, some cut and standing in sheaves ready to be carried, some, of a late kind, still waving — a sea of gold in the sun.' How different from dusty London !

When the coach stopped at the small town where they were to dine and change coaches, Norton had some difficulty in persuading him to stay quietly in the inn and eat his dinner, and probably would not have suc ceeded but for a hint he gave, that if out of the way when the " True Blue" came, they might lose their places. Gray wanted to ramble in the beautiful fields they had passed before entering the little town. " Nonsense ! " said Norton. " Have patience till you reach my father's, then you shall ramble as much as you .please ; but now have the kindness to eat your dinner ; and mind," he added, laughingly, " don't disgrace your self and me in the eyes of coachy — don't, for goodness' sake, show your cockney ignorance, and call an oak an elm, or take wheat for barley, but just hold your tongue, and ask no questions till you get to Elmingham."

" But I do know an elm from an oak, and — " began William Gray ; but he was stopped by the quizzing look of his young friend, who held up his finger with a warning glance as the waiter brought in dinner. They had barely time to make a hearty meal, interspersed with gay bantering from Norton about town cockneys, and merry retorts from the other, when a horn sounded, there was a rumble over the stones in the street, and the " True Blue" stopped before the inn. Norton jumped up, rang for the waiter, threw down the money for his bill, hastily tossed off the ale that remained in his glass, caught up his carpet-bag, and exclaimed, " Now for Elmingham, and three weeks of such rural felicity as you poor cockney never even dreamed of!" Again they mounted the coach, and whirled along the smooth even roads, edged by luxuriant thick branching hedges and shady trees, and winding between rich pastures or highly-cultivated fields and hop-grounds, through that sort of scenery so peculiarly English, and which tells such a tale of wealth and prosperity.

Here and there were gentlemen's country seats, and Norton pointed them out to his companion. He knew every inch of the road, and discussed with the coachman the history and character of the occupants of every mansion. " So — steady, there — steady," said that worthy, reining in the horses more tightly as they began to descend the hill ; then pointing with his whip to a noble Elizabethan mansion standing in a beautiful park, " You see the Colonel died unmarried last year, and the eldest son (he's the only one now) is a terrible wild scamp ; if he dies unmarried too, the title will be extinct, for there's none o' the name that I know on." " Pity, too, that a fine place like that should go to the crown for want of heirs. Should'nt you like to be able to claim kindred, Gray, and be Lord Graybourne % I should, I know."

William stood up, put his hands on the rail of the coachman's seat, and looked at the noble and stately pile, at the deer feeding in the glades between the trees, and the broad river that skirted one side of the park, with intense admiration. The coachman turned and looked at him, " Be you a Gray, Sir ? You be main like the family." _ " I wish I were one of them," said he, " if it would give me a chance of that fine old place ; but, alas ! I am only the son of a London tradesman, and cannot claim any such high relationship." " There's the Grange!" said Norton, in the joyous tone FARDON. in which we greet an old friend. " I hope all are well there." " Aye, aye," said coachy, flourishing his whip, " they're all right. I saw farmer Benson, and spoke to him yesterday. I took a niece of his wife's down there last week ; a pretty young girl, too — I reckon she's come for the harvest home.

Old Benson, he's a rare one for keep ing up old fashions, and he always has a grand harvest supper and a dance ; but, master George, here we are at your house, and there's your father coming to meet you. Guard, I say, here — master George's carpet-bag, and the other gen'l'man's. Thankee, gen'l'men, thankee," and he touched his hat in acknowledgment of the liberal fee he received from the two young men. "Good bye, coachy," shouted Norton. "Good bye, sir;" and the "True Blue" rolled merrily off into the distance. The young men lifted their carpet bags, and hastily passed through the white gate into the field, up which the old farmer was leisurely advancing to meet them. Father and son shook hands warmly, "Glad to see you looking so well," and, " How are you George," were the first words either spoke.

Then Norton, turning, introduced his friend, Mr. William Gray. " Glad to see you, too, sir," said the farmer, heartily, extending his hand, and grasping that of Gray as in a vice, "We shall make no stranger of you, sir. We are only plain farmer folks ; but if he can put up wi' plain fare, any friend of my son's is welcome." He looked at George, as he said this, with an air of mingled fondness and pride, which seemed to say, " I know he never makes improper friends." They turned to the house. Like many farm-houses, one end of it, the kitchen entrance, abutted on the field they were now in, as did the farm-yard. To the ri<riit was a flower garden, backed by one of the famous Kentish orchards. Old Mr. Norton walked forwards alone, and entered. "Where's mother1?" said he. A portly pleasant-faced matron of five-and-forty came forward, and was instantly clasped in the arms of her son.

" George ! " said she. " George is come ! " screamed a boy about ten years of age, running to the foot of the stairs, " Lucy, Agnes, Mary, all of you — George is come ! " and then, satisfied with being the first to proclaim the glad tidings to his sisters, he too came up, half shyly, to meet the London brother. We pass over those three weeks of an existence so novel and delightful to William Gray. We pass over the making hay of the " after-math," or second crop of grass, made by some farmers, who prefer to mow the first very early before the wet season sets in, and the walking or riding up shady lanes in the evening, and the barley shearing, and the nut-gathering, and the harvest-home at the Grange. Few English men and women but have seen and can fancy all this for themselves. But one thing we must tell them, that to both these young men those three happy weeks were fraught with events of the deepest interest, for they both lost their hearts, William Gray to his friend's eldest sister, Agnes, and George Norton to that " pretty girl," niece to farmer Benson of the Grange, of whom the coachman had spoken.

They went hack to London engaged men, to look for and prepare homes for their future wives. It was early spring when they again returned to Brook-farm, and when the two mar riages took place. " This is London, darling," said William Gray, letting down the coach window. " The approach is not very interesting or inviting, to be sure, through these narrow, dirty streets, but it will improve as we get more into the town, and I hope you will be happy here." Agnes put her hand into his, and turned to him with a smile, which said plainer than words could do, "that she could be happy anywhere with him'' The other passengers smiled too. " Clearly a new-married couple," whispered an old gentleman to his wife. Perhaps he thought of the time when they w7ere young and just married. Agnes looked with eager curiosity out of the window7.

She had heard so much from her infancy of this wonder ful London — longed to see it so much. She was struck with awe, as all reflecting minds, who see it for the first time, must be, with the bustle, the activity, the life of the streets. A sense of power, such as she had never felt before, seemed to thrill through her as she gazed on that sea of human heads, each man and woman walking on so eagerly, with such an expression of business in their faces ; on the never-ceasing crowd of coaches, carriages, carts, gigs, horses, drays — all apparently mingled in inextricable confusion ; and on the perfect coolness and air of ease with which each driver guided his vehicle through the entanglement. She wondered at the im mense, powerful horses in the drays, unlike any horses she had ever seen before — at the endless rows of shops and houses through which the coach defiled.

" What a wonderful place it is, dear, this London, that I so longed to see ! " said she, as they got out of the coach when it stopped ; " but are we far from home now . " " A little way," said he, smiling. " Two trunks, two carpet-bags, a bonnet, and a hat-box— thank you, coach man. Here's something for yourself." They were shown into a neat parlour; and when William followed the luggage, which he had gone to see after, into the room, he found Agnes at the window, still gazing with wonder at the busy, peopled streets. " Would you like to see something of it, dear % " said he. " We'll have dinner first, and then I'll show you some of the sights." They had some simple refreshment; but what a pleasant repast it was ! It was the first time they had sat down together alone, husband and wife, to their meal, for hitherto they had been staying with some relations of Agnes.

After dinner, they went out through the crowded streets and busy thoroughfares. First to St. Paul's; and Agnes, who had never seen any minster half so large, was greatly struck by its grandeur and size. They went over it. Through the whispering gallery, up into the ball, from whence, bewildered, she could look down on the vast huge city, spread out like a map below, with the broad Thames, dwindled to a narrow brook, bisecting it, and tall ships, with their forests of masts, carts, waggons, and drays, horses and carriages, all looking like so many children's toys, and the men and women in the streets like dolls. It is hard to look down on such a scene and believe in its reality. One fancies it a dream, or a picture in a puppet-show. Then they came down, and he took her through St. Paul's church-yard, that emporium of gay and cheap ribbons and dresses ; down Ludgate Hill, over Black friar's Bridge — to my thinking, one of the most beautiful parts of London.

There, on either side the black-looking old bridge, flows the calm noble river, covered with vessels of all sizes plying backwards and forwards, walled in by grim tall black houses, above which, from the dense dark mass, numberless churches lift their tall slender spires, or square heavy towers, pre-eminent to heaven, as if to say, that amid earth and earth's cares one higher thought, one higher aim, should ever pre dominate. On they went, along the Surrey side, Agnes marvel ling at the sooty bricks of the houses, the dingy window panes, which a country person would imagine could not possibly admit any light through them, and the murky sombre hue of everything around, till they reached Hungerford Suspension Bridge. They paused before crossing it to admire the lightness of its structure, hanging, as it seems to do, in air; and again, as they traversed it, Agnes stopped to admire the broad beautiful Thames, and the many splendid edifices that flanked and rose above its 'margin ; and so homewards past the famous Temple Bar and the house that was Cardinal Wolsey's, up Fleet Street, to their inn.

They may live in Belgravia who will, I had rather live in Finch Lane. Give me the activity, the bustle, of the city — a life that has an aim, a purpose — the elevation of spirits that the very sight of all that strenuous, active, intelligent labour gives ; not the listless vacuity — the conventional tame ness of fashionable existence. When they had rested awhile, William Gray ordered a chaise and took his wife home. He said something in a low tone to the driver, what she did not hear. She had but one thought and one feeling just now; she was going to William's house, which was henceforward to be her home. How strange, and yet how pleasant it all seemed. He took his place beside her, and the chaise drove on through street after street, square after square. Agnes thought London interminable.

At last, they came out upon a high road, upon shady lanes opening from it, and meadows beyond, all fresh, green, spring-like. Here and there was a rich citizen's villa, or gentleman's seat. " Why, this is the country! I thought we were to live in London, William." He only smiled. " No streets, no squares, nothing but green fields. How cool and fresh it looks after London." " I thought you would like it," was his quiet reply. " It is very pretty — very pleasant. Still, I am a little disappointed. I thought we were not to pay any more visits — that we were going home." " You long to see your new home, then — our house ? " said he, putting his arm round her. " Oh ! so much ! above all things ! " The words were little ; the look which accompanied them said, that for her, home and he who was its master were the whole world.

" Well, so you shall, my love — in time." " Which way, please sir ? " asked the driver. " Down that lane there, the first turn to your left hand, the first bow-windowed cottage." They came to a common (so it seemed), at the beginning of which were two ponds, whose high embankments rose considerably above the road. On a gentle slope, on the left-hand side, stood a pretty white cottage, all festooned with the bright green leaves and shoots of a young vine and other creepers, for it was early spring. At the garden gate in front stood her brother George and his wife, smiling. " Why, there's George and Emily ! " exclaimed Agnes, more and more bewildered, for George too had talked of living in London. William let down the chaise window, sprang out, and lifted Agnes from it carefully. " Not very heavy," said he, as he placed his slight girlish wife safely on the ground.

In an instant she had embraced her brother and sister, and they were all three arm-in-arm walking up the grassy slope to the house, leaving William to see after the luggage. When it was all safely brought in, and the driver dismissed, they had tea together. What a merry tea it was ! Emily presided, and did the honours, and seemed much to enjoy the delight Agnes took in the pretty bow-windowed room, and the beautiful prospect from the window — the two large silvery ponds gleaming through the trees like the bend of a river — the cattle coming down to drink, or browsing on the side — the gentle slope of the green hill, and, far beyond, the houses, spires, and pin nacles of mighty London. From the open casement the rich scent of a lilac-tree in full bloom wafted in, and pleasantly reminded Agnes of the country home she had left.

" Oh ! what a pretty place this is, George !" said she. " How beautiful and peaceful everything seems here ! I should like to live in just such a place — that is, if it suited William." Her auditors smiled. " Ah ! but," said Emily, " you haven't half seen it. Now we've done tea, and Martha shall take away, and we'll look over the house." Another wonder. It was Martha Leveridge, their own girl from Elmingham, who came up, smiling and blushing, and bobbed a curtsey. Agnes shook her warmly hy the hand. " How well you look, Martha. I see this place agrees with you." "Oh yes, missus," said Martha. "Hampstead be a rare healthy place, a'most as country-like as Elmingham, only we aint got no cows, and I misses 'em, poor things." "Well, take away, Martha," said George, in a meaning tone, " and get your tea; we want to show Mrs. Gray the house."

Martha laughed outright, bobbed another curtsey, said " Yes, sur," and withdrew. We need not follow them from room to room, nor up and down the garden. It was all delightful. The house so convenient and well arranged, such nice cupboards to put everything in, such pretty papers on the walls, so much prettier than the oak wainscot of the best parlour and the colour-stained walls of the other rooms, at Elmingham. And the garden, with its rustic seat under two lofty elms, its beds full of spring-flowers, was a paradise to a country girl who had expected never to see anything but stone pavements and dusty streets. " Ah, but you must go to the broad walk — that is, if you are not tired," said George. Agnes protested she was not at all tired. " Have supper ready against we come back, Martha," said he.

" Yes, sur," responded Martha, with evidently ill suppressed mirth dancing in her brown eyes, twitching the corners of her mouth, which she vainly endeavoured to keep still. " Martha seems very merry," said Agnes, laughing. " Oh yes," said Emily. " It must seem droll at first to her to see us all here, just as she used to see us at Elmingham ; and then, too, she's so proud of her promo tion to be the sole servant, instead of being only 'the girl,' as she was there. She's done nothing but grin ever since she arrived." They left the ponds behind them, and began to ascend a road that wound gently up a hill. " Now Agnes, mind," said George, " you're not to look back till Em or I tell you, mind that." " That's rather hard when I want to look about me so," said Agnes, gaily; "however, I'll try to be obedient for once."

"But you can look before you, and to the side," suggested William. "Look. That wooded hill over yonder is Highgate. There is a beautiful walk to it from hence through the fields ; George and I often used to walk it on a Sunday, when we did not think he would ever live at Hampstead." They came to some old poplar trees. " Now you may turn Agnes," said George. She turned. The sky was beautifully clear, and above shone the white moon, throwing a chastened radiance on every object. The huge shadows of the poplars fell athwart the road, the moon beamed through the dark firs on the hill side, and flickered on the grass at their feet. Below the hill, far beyond in the plain, lay London. The outline of the city was marked by thousands of lamps that glittered between the distant trees. It looked like a public illumination, or like the fairy palace of Aladdin.

All around them was hushed in the deep silence of night, broken only by their own voices, or the buzz of a beetle as it circled past them in its bungling rapid flight ; it seemed impossible to believe that they were within a short distance of all that whirl and tumult ; one would have thought the sound of so many voices, the roll of so many carts and carriages, the heavy tramp of so many feet, must have been heard miles off. Yet here all was still, calm, peaceful, as at Elmingham. " Is not this beautiful, Agnes ?" said William, pressing fondly the arm that rested on his. "Do you not like this?" But Agnes could not speak. She was of a suscep tible, imaginative nature, and the whole day had been to her a succession of excitement. She had never seen, never fancied, anything at once so peaceful and so bril liant as the scene before her.

She sat down and burst into tears. They crowded round her, fearing she was ill. " Let me cry a little," said she, as soon as she could speak, "it will do me good, these are pleasant tears." They sat down beside her on the fresh verdant turf, and, after a while, she composed herself. Who is there that is keenly alive to the beautiful in art and nature, that has not felt an irresistible desire to shed tears when any sublime or wonderful sight was first seen, and gazed on it with an oppressive, breathless rapture of delight, that but for such relief would have been overpowering? They did not go to the broad walk, for they thought Agnes had seen enough that day. They wandered about under the firs, and down the hill that leads towards the Highgate fields, watching the silver-edged clouds that flitted over the sky, inhaling the sweet breeze of the evening that came to them laden with the scent of the broom and gorse flowers.