A Lady of England: The Life and Letters of Charlotte Maria Tucker. Agnes Giberne
and Curaçoa. Now do you know, my wise old Tutor, in spite of your white hair and all your learning, I think that I could puzzle you.
Wrig. It would be difficult, Madam, to place a limit to your powers.
Nell. Tell me, why is Botany Bay called Botany Bay?
Wrig. I am not, I must own, aware from what the name is derived. Probably the Botanist has there discovered some new and curious specimens of plants.
Nell. O you must have come from Dunse or the Scilly Isles. Botany Bay is called Botany Bay, because blossoms of the birch and sprigs of the gallows-tree are transplanted there without their leaves.
Wrig. I see! I see! Ha, ha!
Nell. I wonder if Miss Cob will understand a joke—if she will ever perpetrate a pun. Do you know I fancy her such a prim old quiz? I should like to know whether she will play at chess with Papa, or teach me the guitar, as you do. Do you think that she will endure this house?
Wrig. The total want of all society, except that which the walls of Grimhaggard Hall have the honour constantly to enclose, may perhaps have an effect upon the lady’s spirits not altogether exhilarating; but when your brother returns from College, perhaps he may be accompanied by some of his fellow-students.
Nell. Students; what an idea! When my Father would sooner see a Goblin than a young man under any circumstances!
Wrig. Is not this rather a peculiar—rather a singular—I would say prejudice? Could such a word be applicable to the excellent Mr. Cramp?
Nell. I should say very singular indeed, did I not know its cause.
Wrig. Is it presumptuous to inquire what that cause may be?
Nell. O I’ll tell you in a moment. It all arises out of the freaks and folly of Mr. Grim of Grimhaggard Hall, who had, I am sorry to say, the kindness to leave us this property, and thereby consigned me to the dolefuls for the rest of my life.
Wrig. Was the estate bequeathed under any unpleasant conditions? I never heard your respected father complain of such.
Nell. O it is all right to my father because it was all left to him. But you shall hear. This Mr. Grim had a promising nephew, … and this nephew, Mr. Atherton by name, was very naturally considered as Mr. Grim’s heir, the old gentleman never having persuaded any lady to marry him, and reign like another Proserpine over the gloomy shades of Grimhaggard Hall.
Wrig. How then came the estate to your Father?
Nell. Have a little patience, my dear Mr. Wriggle, and you shall be as learned as myself upon the subject. Well, this old uncle quarrelled with this young nephew. I think that it was about politics or some such absurdity; the elder was a Tory and the junior a Radical; no, the young one was the Tory, and the old one the Radical; and this radical question was the root of the quarrel. Now what do you think the spiteful old gentleman did?
Wrig. Disinherited his nephew, and left the property to Mr. Cramp.
Nell. That would have been a pretty severe lesson to the young man; but what do you say to the affectionate uncle leaving such a clause as this in his will? That my father must only have and hold this said Grimhaggard Hall, on condition of poor Mr. Atherton’s never even crossing the threshold of what he once considered his home! The place must be perfectly heir-tight. If he ever passes twelve hours under this roof, the whole estate is to revert to him.
Wrig. Such a clause argues little charity; but perhaps it may ultimately prove for the benefit of him whom it was designed to injure.
Nell. Ah, you think that Mr. Atherton may still manage to get his property out of his old uncle’s clause! I am sure I wish that Mr. Grim had left the dull place to him, or any one but us; but then my Father is not of my mind. Yet even he has not an atom of enjoyment of his prize, from the perpetual fear of losing it. He has heard that young Atherton is very sharp and clever; of course he will try to regain his rights by any means that may present themselves; so I really believe that Papa expects him to appear some day or other through the key-hole. The gate is kept constantly locked—luckily, one can see the high-road from the house—nothing in the shape of a Man is permitted to pass it; we have even parted with all men-servants, lest Mr. Atherton should manage to get in disguised as a lackey. Grimhaggard Hall is a regular Convent. A travelling pedlar is regarded with suspicion; the butcher-boy must hand the leg of mutton over the gate; the young apothecary is an object of terror—I could not have a tooth pulled out, were I to die for it. Dear me, how it is raining! The weather seems endeavouring to find out whether it be possible to make Grimhaggard Hall look a little duller than usual.
Wrig. I hope Miss Cob may be fortunate in having finer weather for her journey to-morrow.
Nell. She is on the road to-day, like John Gilpin’s hat and wig. She was to leave Puddingham this morning, and rest to-night at the Jolly Bridecake at Mouseton. I hope the coach is provided with oar and rudders, for she will certainly have to swim for it! …
In the midst of this talk an artist’s gig is smashed outside the front gate; and the artist, Mr. Scull, being much shaken, is actually admitted within the walls of the old Hall, to the great disquiet of Mr. Cramp, who is determined that, come what may, the young man shall not remain through the night. It is a pelting day, and no other conveyance seems likely to pass; while the artist is plainly unable to walk the distance which separates Grimhaggard Hall from the next town. While this matter is still under discussion, a ring at the front-door bell is heard, and ‘a woman of very singular appearance’ is seen ‘standing in the rain, without an umbrella, as if water were her native element.’
Nell. Who can it be? [Runs to the window.] Why, how tall she is! she looks as though she had grown a foot since that dress was made for her. What an extraordinary figure! Why, Sarah is actually letting her in. Papa, we have not had so many visitors since we came here. Grimhaggard Hall is growing quite gay.
Cramp. I will go and meet this strange guest. [Exit.]
Nell. It cannot be—it cannot be Miss Cob! Such a governess would kill me either with terror or with laughter.
Wrig. You were in expectation, Madam, of some one remarkable for eccentricity. We must not always judge of the qualities of the mind by the singularity of the exterior.
Enter Mr. Cramp and Miss Cob.
Cramp. Miss Cob—my daughter. [Nelly makes a curtsey, Miss Cob a bow.]
Nell. [Aside to Wriggle.] I shall never keep my countenance.
Wrig. [Aside.] That is to be regretted, for it is a very fair one.
Cramp. We did not expect you to-night, Ma’am. Did you not purpose sleeping at Mouseton?
Miss C. The inn was chock-full.
Cramp. But how came you to be on foot? You never have walked all the way! Where is your conveyance? It would be of the utmost service to me.
Miss C. Smashed on the road.
Cramp. Well, if all the gigs and cabs in England are not in coalition against me this day! And where is your luggage?
Miss C. Coming. You did not expect me to carry it on my back, like a snail, did ye?
Wrig. Miss Cob, like an experienced general, leaves her baggage in the rear.
Nell. I should rather have expected to find it in the van. You are very wet, Ma’am; shall I help you off with your cloak?
Miss C. O never mind. I’m neither sugar nor salt; only it’s a plaguy thing to have one’s dress so long, walking through such a bog.
Nell. [Aside.] How long she may have had her dress, I know not; but in one sense I am sure it is short enough.
Miss C. This seems a good big house, but rather too much like a prison. Have you those bars on all the windows?
Cramp.