Tales of English life, including Middleton and the Middletons ... With illustrations

Preface

. Sjfftyy^l^ ANY years since I began a series of stories, drawn & * entirely from my own experience, and descriptive of \ P\wjJ$> English life, as it then existed. In those days locomotion was slow, commerce and agriculture were comparatively inert, and the state of society much more prosaic than in this busy, stirring age of marvellous scientific discoveries and mechanical appliances. But there were compensations ; money had another scale of value, fortunes were then considered large vvhich would now be insignificant, tastes were simpler, wants were fewer, whilst life was equally rich in happiness and in do mestic virtues. Two of these tales are from a pen which possessed a rare gift of pictorial description and truthful portraiture. They were written for this series by my lamented husband, at a time when a deep domestic sorrow wholly occupied my mind As is fitting, they take their place amongst my stories, which in this present year I have had the opportunity of thoroughly revising. MARY HOWITT. Marienruhe, Meran, Tyrol, October \%th, 1881. CONTENTS. PAGE SOWING AND REAPING :

Part II

— ALICE FRANKLIN - - - - 94 MY UNCLE THE CLOCKMAKER - - - - - 180 STRIVE AND THRIVE - - - - - - - 270 ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS ----- 347 LOVE AND MONEY - - - - - - - - 45 J MIDDLETON AND THE MIDDLETONS - - - I SOWING AND REAPING >:---:•

PART I.

— THE DURANTS. -__o«

Chapter I

A CHARACTER. TALL, gloomy house, of a very dingy, unpromising aspect, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, was inhabited, at the beginning of this century, by Sir Thomas Durant, one of the most sagacious lawyers of the day. By birth he was a gentleman, the younger son of the Durants of Stanton-Combe, an old, though decayed family, in the county of Northumberland. The family estate was greatly encumbered by debts and mortgages, and, owing to the sudden death of his father, he was left unprovided for. Edward, the elder son, took all, excepting the mother's jointure. The younger son was penniless ; and, as if to increase his difficulties, had been bred to no profession. In talents and temper the young men were as different as in for tune. The elder brother was of weak mind, and with that pliant, easy temper which is frequently its accompaniment ; the younger was active and enterprising, subtle in intellect, and by temper, resent ful and implacable.

He seemed naturally made to rule, and the other to submit ; and such might have been their fate, had not the elder, to the amazement of everyone, when the period of mourning for the father had just passed, brought home a bride — a haughty country beauty, without fortune, but impatient of restraint, and per fectly capable, and very willing, to take the place of governor. The first act of her supremacy was to desire that the brother should choose his profession ; to enable him to do which, she pre sented him with a few hundred pounds. He flung back the money with ineffable disdain, and vowed to raise himself to wealth and power by his own unassisted efforts ; assuring his sister-in-law, at the same time, that she should live to repent the day in vvhich she forced him thus from the home of his ancestors.

It is a common thing for angry people to utter threats ; therefore, when Mr. Thomas Durant said further, that his children should live under that roof when hers were beggars, she only laughed, and thought no more of it. Thomas Durant went straight to London, and commenced his career by writing for lawyers. To London his mother followed him, and besought him earnestly to share the home she was still enabled to enjoy. He, however, was of that resolute temper which, when once fairly in the strife against difficulty, has a pride in the combat : he repulsed every offer of assistance, and even every expression of sympathy. The mother, nevertheless, established herself near him, and, unable to force assistance upon him, or to wring from him either affection or complaint, satisfied herself by knowing that he was not only alive, but able to keep himself above want.

What, therefore, he would not receive from her in her life time, she resolved to leave him. Private accumulation had ever been the secret pleasure of her life. She continued, therefore, to practise every possible self-denial. She lived a female miser, and at her death, which occurred after a residence of five years in London, bequeathed him five thousand pounds. "With this sum he took chambers, and commenced the study of the law, under more prosperous circumstances than he had known before. It would be needless to go through the succession of years in which he worked his upward way, extending his personal ambition as he acquired reputation in his profession. In his fortieth year he married, and his marriage was one of those riddles which now and then occur in social life, and would defy an Œdipus to solve.

His wife was a fair young creature, with a few thousand pounds to her fortune, who married, as many another woman marries, for a home, and purchased, in so doing, certain misery for herself. She, and one sister, were the children of a gentleman who died young in India. They were brought up by one of Mr. Durant's clients, in whose house he first made his wife's acquaintance. In two years' time the other sister married also, but both marriages were unfortunate ; the sister's husband dying in the AVest Indies, of the yellow fever, within the first twelve months of their marriage. The only consolation in Mrs. Durant's case A CHARACTER. 3 was, that her unhappiness was of short duration. In three years' time Mr. Thomas Durant was left a widower, with a little son. The first evidences of human kindness were given towards this child ; and it is but justice to the father to say, that every possible care was taken of his early youth.

The first eight years of his life were passed in the country, under experienced and judicious care. AVhen his father brought him home, it seemed requisite to have some superior female in the family, who might undertake the charge of the child, and also make the home more comfortable for his sake. Mr. Thomas Durant looked round among his female acquaintance to find such a one as he required ; the choice seemed as difficult to make as if matrimony had again been his object. At length he bethought himself of his late wife's sister. He had seen enough of her to believe her possessed of the same meekness and patience as his late wife ; besides, she had been unfortunate. AVhen she lost her husband she lost also the bulk of her property, and was reduced now to a meagre income, in the midst of heartless relations, who he knew would but little relish having to contribute to her support.

She would not be very particular — nay, he thought she would be humbly thankful, to have a home offered to her. He was right. Some things the widow wished different ; but, wearing weeds for her husband, a little daughter to provide for, and relations, cold-visaged as creditors, around her, she scarcely hesitated. Besides, her sister's child was dear to her, and for his sake she was willing to concede many things. Beyond all this, Mr. Thomas Durant offered a remuneration which would enable her to make yearly savings. Mrs. Franklin, for such was her name, undertook the charge of her brother-in-law's family on one condition, that her little daughter should reside with her. Mr. Thomas Durant thought that the child, being a girl, would be easily managed, and as she grew up might be useful in the house, and he consented.

It was, as we have said, a dreary house in which he lived ; but his hard, habitually cold manners were even more dreary and dis couraging than his dwelling. Still he had the power of assuming a smile to strangers, with a plausibility of manner, and smooth ness of voice, that made many a one say he was not so bad as his character. But to those from whom he had nothing to gain, or whom he wished to keep at a distance, the insensibility of his eye, and the cold indifference of his voice, were chilling in the extreme. Nay, he absolutely seemed to shut his senses from such, as if he could neither hear nor see them, nor could they become palpable to him. Towards Mrs. Franklin his manners were as cold as possible, i — within the verge of civility. Still he permitted her to make some little alteration in his domestic establishment, and by degrees the general aspect of the place became more cheerful and comfortable.

His own tastes and desires in return were studied and gratified. His chair was placed to an inch where he liked it best ; his slippers and gown were ready for him before he called for them ; but he repaid none of these little attentions either by a gratified look, or an acknowledgment of satisfaction ; he was aware of them, how ever, and found the comfort of them, and if they had been with held would have resented it. He was one of the unamiable, with whom there can be no interchange of good offices. To Alice, Mrs. Franklin's daughter, it was not known that he had ever spoken a word. His manners had repelled her as a child. She sat with him and her mother at meals ; she accompanied them in his coach twice every Sunday to church ; for he made a great profession of religion, was a regular attendant on its ordinances, and rigorously required the same from all those about him.

She had sat with him in his pew, and, as she grew up, had taken the sacrament at the same time with himself, yet he no more appeared to see her than if he had been blind. To him she was a nonen tity — at least seemed so. She tried to persuade herself that he had forgotten her. She wished she could forget him, for his presence acted like a torpedo on her spirit. Thus years went on ; and Mr. Thomas Durant's professional prospects became brighter and brighter ; and almost to his own surprise he found himself one of the first lawyers in London. The fairest honours of the profession lay before him. He was made Solicitor-General, and knighted. Of Sir Thomas Durant's son we have but little at present to say. At twenty he promised, in process of time, to become a lawyer as sagacious as his father ; for no expense had been spared in his pro fessional education, and at that age he left home for three years' travel and study.

Sir Thomas Durant, full of schemes for his own advantage, always suspected others of the same propensity. AVe will open our next chapter with a proof of this fact A REMOVAL. 5

Chapter II

A REMOVAL. ' Sister Franklin,' said Sir Thomas Durant, settling himself one evening in his easy-chair ; ' Sister Franklin, your daughter is a very pretty young woman.' There were two things in these few words that terrified Mrs. Franklin — the subject of them, and the kindness of his address : they could portend no good. ' Your daughter is a well-grown and passingly handsome young woman, sister Franklin. AVhat is her name ?' ' Alice,' replied she. ' A good name too,' remarked he. ' I used to be partial to the name of Alice. But I know not, sister Franklin, why she should avoid me.' ' She is timid,' replied she ; ' but I am glad you like her.' ' Oh no, no !' said he ; ' I have no particular liking for her.' ' I beg your pardon ; I misunderstood you.' ' No offence at all, sister Franklin. The girl, I say, is modest — has a neat way of walking.

I used to think much of a woman's gait. She is modest, too : how old may she be ?' 'Eighteen, last January.' ' Eighteen !' returned he ; ' upon my word, and a fine young woman too. You are looking out for a husband, I suppose ?' and Sir Thomas smiled. Mrs. Franklin laid down her work and looked at him, wondering to what all this tended ' You are thinking of getting her married ?' ' My good sir, how can you be so absurd ?' ' Absurd !' he returned ; ' pray, Mrs. Franklin, what was your sister's age when I married her ?' ' Eighteen,' replied she, and again took up her work. ' But, sister Franklin,' continued he, after a few moments' pause, ' I am serious about your daughter ; young women are never so well off as when they are married ; do you deny that ?' ' By no means. A woman's greatest happiness is to be well married — but to be well married implies a great deal, Sir Thomas.' ' A fine young fellow, with seven or eight hundred a year, you would call a good match for your daughter ?' ' As far as money went,' replied Mrs. Franklin ; ' but I consider other qualifications even more important than money.' ' And, pray, what other qualifications might you require ?' ' High moral principle, a deep sense of religion ; and I should like to know what had been his conduct as a son and a brother.

A man's character, or a woman's either, is only truly known at home.' ' Humph !' said Sir Thomas ; and then, after a pause, he added, ' I should not object to give your daughter a couple of hundreds, or so, to buy wedding-clothes.' Mrs. Franklin looked him full in the face, for she was greatly surprised. ' I would not object, I say, to furnish her wardrobe, provided she married to please me. You would trust me, sister Franklin, to choose her a husband?' Mrs. Franklin could not divine his meaning ; he could not intend to recommend his own son. She was puzzled. ' I owe you,' Sir Thomas,' she said, ' my sincerest thanks ; but, indeed, I have no thought of marrying my daughter at present' ' Then, pray, Airs. Franklin, what do you mean to do with her ?' ' Upon my word, I had no thought but of her remaining with me as heretofore.

Am I to understand that you do not wish it ?' ' To be sure not !' ' AVill you explain yourself fully ?' ' Am I, Mrs. Franklin,' returned he, in a tone very like anger, ' to keep a girl in my house who will be plotting and scheming how she may marry my son ? I want my son at home ; but so long as that girl is in the house, he shall not enter it !' ' I will answer for it,' said the mother, ' that she will not entertain such an idea.' ' She will !' replied he, raising his voice in extreme anger ; ' and I tell you, once for all, Mrs. Franklin, that my son shall not return while that girl is in the house !' ' But, if my daughter goes, I go also.' ' Sister Franklin,' resumed Sir Thomas, in a voice of the most oily placidity, ' you are over-hasty — it is the way with women. I would fain see your daughter well married' ' My daughter,' returned she, 'will not marry at present.' ' Again, my dear madam, you are over-hasty.

You know Mr. Sharpie— my friend — Mr. Anthony Sharpie ?' Mrs. Franklin lifted up her hand involuntarily, and made no reply ; and Sir Thomas went on — ' Mr. Sharpie 'is an excellent, and an amazingly clever young man.' 'Young!' said she; 'Mr. Sharpie must be forty at least; my daughter is but eighteen.' ' Mr. Sharpie,' pursued Sir Thomas, without noticing her obser- A REMOVAL. 7 vation, 'is not as disagreeable to your daughter as I am. She gives him her company occasionally, Mrs. Franklin.' ' Such a thing shall never be !' exclaimed she, with indignation ; ' my daughter shall maintain herself by her own labour — shall die unmarried, before I will sacrifice her to that man !' ' Hoity, toity ! for what shall she not marry Mr. Sharpie ?' ' He is a man for whom I entertain utter contempt. He is a sharper in practice, a libertine in morals, an infidel in religion !' Sir Thomas grew pale with anger. ' I know what you aim at,' said he, between his teeth. ' I understand you ; and I know, too, what that meek-faced girl aims at !

Out of my house, and see what beggary will bring you to !' 'Sir Thomas,' said Mrs. Franklin, with an unruffled voice, 'we will go !' ' Begone !' returned he, striking his fist on the table. Sir Thomas Durant had quite overshot his mark ; for to part with Mrs. Franklin, his clever housekeeper, was the last thought he would have entertained. But it was too late to undo what was done ; and the mother and daughter left the house that very night, and were received with kind welcome under the roof of a humble friend. Here, however, they did not remain many days. In a small house at Richmond, with one man and one maid servant, lived Mr. Nehemiah Netley, a retired tradesman. He was a remarkably small man, and had been a dealer in gloves, ribbons, lace, and ladies' bonnets, and was as dapper and precise in his person as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox.

He had a pink complexion, and hair perfectly white ; was the uncle of Mrs. Franklin, and an old bachelor. Mr. Netley was not more singular in appearance than in mind, always contriving to think differently to everybody else. How, or whether, he had maintained the integrity of his opinions with equal pertinacity when he had a multitude of fair customers to please, we know not ; perhaps he was now indemnifying himself for former self-denial. However that might be, he had quarrelled with a large circle of nephews and nieces, and first and second cousins ; yet for all this he neglected none of them, but looked in upon all of them occasionally, as he passed their doors in his walks ; though he declared he liked none of them. When his nephew, the husband of Mrs. Franklin, died of the yellow fever, he persisted that he must have been imprudent; when her relations talked of assisting the widow and her child, he opposed the project, saying ' they had much better assist themselves.' AVhen everybody censured Mrs. Franklin for becoming housekeeper to Sir Thomas Durant, he said she had done right ; and yet when he met her he upbraided her for so doing.

Accordingly, when he heard, one morning, at the house of a niece, that she had suddenly left, and was now without a home, nor would, probably, ever get the arrears of money Sir Thomas owed her, he called them ' a set of cold-hearted wretches,' said ' she was worth them all put together !' and as he repeated this to himself for the fourth time, tripped lightly out of the house, and walked more briskly than common on his way home. That same evening a hackney-coach stopped at the house where Mrs. Franklin and her daughter were then staying, and Mr. Netley, scarcely treading heavier than a child, entered the room where they sat. 'Niece Franklin,' he began, without further salutation, 'you see what you have brought yourself to by looking for wheaten loaves on a burdock-bush !' ' I am not surprised by my situation,' said she. ' But you ought to be surprised ; I should have been much better pleased if you had been surprised, for then you would have been deceived, and I should have pitied you !

And pray what do you mean to do now?' 'As yet I have not decided' 'So this is your daughter,' said he, looking towards Alice; ' pray, whom may you reckon her like ?' ' I think her like what her poor dear father was,' returned Mrs. Franklin, with a sigh. ' Nonsense !' said the old man, ' not a bit. He was a dark man — black hair, and dark eyes ; she is very like me !' Alice coloured to the roots of her hair, and certainly increased the likeness, if there were any, and her mother smiled. 'Well, you know, Mrs. Franklin,' again began Mr. Netley, after a minute's pause, ' at least a woman of your good sense ought to know, that people should maintain themselves — you need not answer — and that they should be as little chargeable to their acquaintances as may be.' Mrs. Franklin looked distressed, and the old gentleman con tinued—-' I don't often invite my relations to my house — it is a bad habit — but still I choose to invite you.

I can find you some thing to do.' Mrs. Franklin felt that under her relation's pertinacity there was kindness, and she accepted his invitation. They were soon, there fore, established at Richmond ; and Alice found, that under his roof she could give way to the buoyant gladness of her heart A REMOVAL. 9 without dread. The springtime of her life seemed now to have come ; and while she diffused gladness through the quiet house, she every day became dearer to its master. Before we close this chapter we must say a word or two respect ing Mr. Anthony Sharpie. He was the son of a John Sharpie, who held the stewardship of Stanton-Combe, in the days of Sir Thomas's father. AVhen the masculine and managing lady, who had dismissed Sir Thomas, took upon herself the conduct of affairs, she and the steward quarrelled.

He made his complaint to the exiled brother in London, who advised him to send his son to London to study law, to go himself back to Stanton-Combe, and humble himself to the reigning powers. He did so, and was reinstated ; maintaining, unknown, to his mistress, a good under standing with Sir Thomas. In process of time he died, but no second steward filled his place, and his son Anthony, then a growing solicitor in London, was made legal adviser and confidant of the lady of Stanton-Combe. He was the devoted creature of his patron, and not only by possessing the confidence of Mrs. Durant, but through his yearly visits to the hall, could impart to Sir Thomas whatever information he required. Such was the Anthony Sharpie whom Sir Thomas Durant designed for the husband of the fair Alice Franklin.

Chapter III. Stanton-combe And Its People

The house and manor of Stanton-Combe had been in the family of the Durants from the time of the seventh Henry. The acme of the family splendour was in the reign of AVilliam and Mary, when a marriage with a rich city heiress enabled the then possessor, Richard, to assume a greater style of living. The portraits of the family, by Wissing and Sir Godfrey Kneller, bore testimony to the liberal expenditure of the house, as well from the value of the paintings themselves, as from the splendour of the dress and jewels both of men and women. Many were the traditions of the honour and glory of those days, which descended like rays of light through the darker times that succeeded. From those splendid days, in which it was said that the very stone balustrades of the garden-terrace were gilded, the troubles and embarrassments of the house commenced.

The city heiress left five sons and nine daughters to be provided for; three of whom marrying into noble families of small estate, were a drain upon the parent-wealth ; while all the others, living to a good old age, kept up, as annuitants, an inexhaustible claim. At the end of that generation they were but little the better for the two hundred thousand pounds of the fair Kitty Perkins ; nay, they were so much the worse, since they had acquired habits of expensive living. From thattime each succeeding generation found itself in narrower circumstances. The family lived upon the glory that had been. The furniture of the house grew dimmer ; the family jewels fewer ; woods were felled, and farms sold, till at length nothing remained which was not strictly entailed— the house itself, and the home farm — and even upon this, the father of Edward and Thomas Durant had taken up money.

It was said that his embarrassed circumstances shortened his days. Edward Durant, as we have said, married a domineering, high spirited dame. She had been the tyrant of her father's house ; and the mild, pliant temper of her husband yielded to her without a struggle. The first six months of her wedlock left her undivided sovereign over house and land, man-servant and maid-servant, ox and ass, and everything that the place contained. Her husband wept when both his mother and brother were summarily dismissed ; but he kept his tears from his wife's knowledge. He sent sundry presents of game and fish to them in London, for these were things he could obtain with his own hand. They were always unacknow ledged, but his kind heart was not discouraged, and at length he unfortunately ventured to add a turkey to the game.

In three weeks' time this hamper was returned with its unaccepted contents, and a large amount of carriage to pay. Mrs. Durant thus dis covered her husband's offence — and more, that a favourite turkey, which was supposed to have been worried, had been offered to his brother, and was now sent back with a cost of ten shillings ! Poor man ! he never sent turkeys and game again to London. Mrs. Durant was not only masculine in her temper, but in her tastes and manners. She could rein in a fiery horse whose mettle defied the skill of a groom ; she saddled her own steed, and mounted it with the agility of a man, and scoured over the country in the chase, or on business, with a speed and horsemanship that equalled the most experienced riders of the other sex. She in variably drove the carriage, after the first two months of their marriage ; for at that time, as they were passing one evening through a wood, they were beset by robbers, and he, it was said, prayed her to take the reins.

The lady fired off her pistols, reloaded them in an instant, did as he desired her, and never after wards resigned the reins into his hands ; he, good, easy man, sitting by her side, willingly committing himself to the guidance of an arm as strong as his own, and to a mind much stronger. The carriage, however, soon ceased to be used at all ; horseback was much more suited to the lady's taste, and Mr. Durant himself walked on foot. The style of Mrs. Durant's person was in perfect accordance with her habits ; she was somewhat above the middle height, with considerable pretensions to beauty, even when her youth was passed. Her features were masculine, but finely formed ; dark, keen eyes ; a mouth indicative of strong character, with teeth rather large, but beautifully white and regular ; a clear, but dark complexion, well-pencilled brows, and hair black and glossy.

She was unquestionably a fine woman. Her dress was peculiar, but characteristic : she wore her hair confined in a black silk net, with short ringlets on her temples, small gold rings in her ears, to vvhich, when in high costume, were suspended immense gold pendants ; invariably a blue riding-habit, worn at home of a walking length. AVhen she went out, she merely added a long blue cloth riding-skirt, with a black beaver hat, belted with a gold buckle, to vvhich, when intending to make a better appearance than ordinary, she added a small black feather. Her feet were invariably cased in strong leather boots ; and she was known, the whole country over, as 'Jack Durant' Of course, such a person did not hold much intercourse with the ladies of her neighbourhood ; they regarded her as hardly respect able; while she thought of them as inferior creatures — dolls of larger growth.

She had, however, one female friend, the widow of Sir Sampson Thicknisse, of Starkey, in the county of Durham. Lady Thicknisse was a stout, stately, and most important personage, whose husband, a vehement fox-hunter, had been, in his lifetime, a great admirer of Mrs. Durant and her spirited horsemanship. About the time of Mrs. Durant's marriage, Sir Sampson was thrown from his horse in a steeple-chase, and broke his neck. He left no children, and the estate would have passed to a collateral branch, had not Lady Thicknisse, who considered herself skilled in law, and was deep-read in wills, deeds, and settlements, discovered certain flaws in some deed or title which enabled her to keep pos session of Starkey, whilst the heir-at-law, Sir Lynam Thicknisse, then a minor, inherited the entailed property in Hertfordshire.

Such was Mrs. Durant's sole female friend. A very different person to her was the slenderly-portioned maiden sister of Sir Sampson, Mrs. Betty Thicknisse, several years the senior both of her brother and sister-in-law. AVhere Lady Thicknisse wore lace, Mrs. Betty wore lawn. The satins, gold and silver brocades of Lady Thicknisse, were tabinets and ducapes with Mrs. Betty ; Mrs. Betty arranged the dinners which the other ate, and got up her lace ruffles, and made up her lace caps ; Mrs. Betty visited the poor — Lady Thicknisse gave away beef at Christmas ; Mrs. Betty read her Bible in her closet, Lady Thicknisse always kept hers open on a stand beside her ; Lady Thicknisse was the dear friend and honoured confidante and counsellor of Mrs. Durant ; Mrs. Betty was the respected acquaintance of Mrs. Durant's husband That alone implied a great difference.