University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
FLOOD CONTINUES TO RISE.

Richard had now commiseration from his friends, in
place of the congratulations that were still green in his
memory. To be pitied is sometimes more disagreeable
than to be blamed. The latter inspires rejoinder, while the
former leaves us nothing to say. One befogs us in an
uncomfortable stupidity; the other is like a bomb-shell in
the midst of our activity, and arouses the impulse of flight.
We extenuate our faults; we tremble at our misfortunes.
We can remonstrate with malediction; we must submit to
compassion.

The Mill-men expressed their pity chiefly in silence.
When they were filing their saws, or squinting at the mark,
or even bending over a cant-dog, they seemed to have one
eye on Richard, — not tauntingly, not even vulgarly curious,
— but with a sort of sympathy — with some genuine fellow-feeling;
— for Richard was respected and beloved in the
Mill. If they had only spoken, — if they had asked him
something, — it would have been a relief. No: he was
mistaken there. It would do him no good. He could not
continue the conversation.

In the grating, rumbling, screeching, of the building at
large, there was not much kindness indicated, but rather a
sullen mockery.

Silver sat on a pile of boards, and clumsily beckoned
Richard to his side. But Silver could n't speak; his tongue
was always thick, and now it filled his mouth, — filled it

even to the exclusion of his pipe, which he was obliged to
withdraw. Taking out the pipe, like unplugging a hogshead
of liquor, sometimes gives vent to words. It did not
help Silver; he was still thick and ropy. He struck his
from bar tremendously on a log before him, and got up.

Mr. Gouch, pointing quickly to the Dam, said, “There!”
and then, as he knocked up the bail-dog, he said, “There!”
and every time he struck, he repeated, “There!”

The Dam, Richard could render. But driving in the
bail-dog, — did that mean how the iron had gone into his
soul? Perhaps it did.

Mrs. Tunny entered Willow Croft with a mingled air of
disdain, triumph, and pity, over the whole of which was
spread a very thin layer of magnanimity. But neither
Roxy nor Richard was deceived or plagued by her.

Hitherto, Richard's fortune only was involved, while his
character remained untouched. But in a few days, the more
depressing intelligence reached his ears, that he was under
reproach, that baseness of conduct was assigned as the
cause of his dismissal, and that such a statement came
authentically from the Governor's Family itself.

Well, here was blame, if that suited him any better. I
think it did not. For now he would be expected either to
affirm or deny; and he could do neither.

Now, not only the iron entered his soul, but it seemed to
be rusting in, and gangrening everything in its neighborhood.
It was like a return stroke of the lightning. His
spirits, that had been bending like willows, appeared to be
fairly draggled in the mire. He had now the world to
encounter in its most dismal form, — that of contumely,
sarcasm, and neglect. Frederick, at the siege of Brescia,
when he could carry his point in no other way, exposed his
prisoners on his battering-rams to the stones of the besieged,

their friends. If Richard had one poor virtue in common
with the rest of mankind, he hardly dare present it to what
he conceived would be a general attack upon him. He
would prefer to retire from the contest. The river-logs,
with which his early years were familiar, in a freshet, are
sometimes carried high up the bank, or floated into a contiguous
flat, where the receding waters suffer them to mildew,
doze, and perish. Recent events, that had borne him a good
distance from his proper source, and precipitated him down
sundry cataracts, had at length landed him in a low thicket,
where he was willing to die.

He lessened his visits to the Old Town. There was
nothing pleasant there. One day he met Melicent. She
stiffly bowed; but this was owing as much to hesitancy of
feeling, as to purpose of will. Immediately afterwards,
a man inquired if he could direct him to Munk & St.
John's stable. He did not hear him, and replied, “No. 16
Victoria Square.” Mrs. Melbourne passed him without a
token of recognition. By this time, his heart had got pretty
well into his mouth, and, like Silver's tongue, there would
seem to be hardly anything else there; and he found it not
easy to swallow again. It would get into his eyes, too, as
big as a beam, and into his ears. We have said that Miss
Eyre had got into his heart; of course, she accompanied
that organ occasionally in its visits to the several senses.
He met Glendar, and Glendar looked as if he could eat
him; and Richard felt he should not be sorry if he did.

But Richard was a Christian, and the impulse of his life
had been, doing good and being good. Nor could he now
forget this original obligation. His closet, and the family
altar he had helped to rear at Willow Croft, and his Bible,
every day reminded him of it; — it caught his eye in large
street-bill type on the wall of his chamber, where Pastor

Harold recommended his young parishioners to post it; Sundays,
and the “Knuckle Lane” evenings, brought it round
to him.

What should he do? He read that if he had offended
his brother, before he offered his gift to the Lord, he must
go and be reconciled to his brother. He had offended Mrs.
Melbourne, and Miss Eyre, and perhaps Melicent. But
how to be reconciled! He would endeavor to be reconciled
in his own heart and before God, if he could not in outward
relation and before his fellows. If reviled, he would revile
not again, and abuse he would return with benisons. But
the wall of offence seemed to grow thicker and higher.

In naval engagements, the Athenians were wont to
reserve huge masses of lead in the tops of their vessels; and
when they could subdue the enemy in no other way, they
let fall these rather cogent junks, and sank his ship. There
were some things in reserve for Richard.

Now, Madam Dennington had a feeling in common rather
with her daughter than with her cousin-in-law. To be sure,
if Richard was what had been represented, there could be
no doubt as to the propriety of the course the Family
adopted respecting him. But had the case been sufficiently
investigated? Mrs. Melbourne conceded that the examination
might be extended, though she anticipated no favorable
result; nay, more, as if a new trial had been granted, she
was willing to act in the premises, and collect and revise
the evidence. She had had Mrs. Eyre closeted with her;
and when, in her black silk and green parasol, she started
on her tour of inquiry, who should be her cicerone but Miss
Eyre?

The forenoon's work resulted in a sort of council or
inquest, to be holden at Whichcomb's in the afternoon.
Mrs. Melbourne sent a candid and polite note to Richard,

informing him of what was a-foot, and inviting him to be
present. He chose rather to appear by attorney, and Roxy
went in his stead.

There were assembled at the Boarding House, — Front
Stairs Carpeted, and that was not Cain's, — in the “Ladies'
Parlor,” the head of the establishment, Mrs. Melbourne,
Miss Rowena, Mrs. Tunny, Mrs. Mellow, Mrs. Xyphers,
Miss Eyre, Mrs. Crossmore, Nurse, Miss Elbertina Lucetta,
Factory Girl, and Roxy.

Mrs. Whichcomb introduced the testimony. “It was a
Wednesday,” she said; “a Monday we did n't wash, which
sometimes is, and the next day the things froze on the line.
It was one of the coldest days that ever was; it was a heavy
wash, as Cain's folk know, for it is right in sight of their
basement, where they scour their pewter.”

“Won't you tell,” said Miss Eyre, “what he did in the
house!”

“It was a Wednesday, for I had been up late ironing,
and tending on the sick, and getting jellies, and carrying up
wood, which is to be found at Whichcomb's, and is a most
an excellent place to board at, as all the girls say, and nigh
upon twelve o'clock, when he came in and went right up to
No. 3. O Charley Walter! where is he now? My bones
were aching in bed when I heard it; and he staid with them
all night; for Miss Junia, and Violet that's dead and gone,
would n't dare to deny it. If Velzora Ann had only a
thought; for Miss Elbertina Lucetta was just as sure to tell
of it as the world; and there was n't a grain of need of his
going in there.”

“What did he go there for?” asked Roxy.

“I won't say it was for the silver spoon; I scorn to make
such a charge, if folks was sick, and he was mean enough
to do it, for they have what they please at Whichcomb's,

and the things are always on the table. He knows what
he was there for, and what never happened here before, as
Charley Walter said; and he owned the next morning, and
our reputation was good, and if they wanted to see them,
they could always do it in the Ladies' Parlor, Miss Elzena
knows, and the new comers know it the first day.”

“He must have been there with an evil intention,” said
Mrs. Melbourne. Mrs. Tunny winked; Mrs. Mellow sighed
a response.

“Rowena, what do you say?” Mrs. Melbourne put this
question.

“I do not know as I can say but it looks bad,” Miss Rowena
replied, with a most uncomfortable attempt at evasion.

“It does so!” ejaculated Mrs. Whichcomb.

“It is impossible!” exclaimed Roxy.

Now, Roxy was unfortunately situated. Ostensibly the
advocate of the accused, she really, by imputation, occupied
the dock in his place; or she appeared an interested and
most partial witness, and her word was worth just as much
as the prisoner's would be in room of it, and no more.

Where was the Old Man? He was an imbecile.
Where was Junia? Miss Eyre was willing Junia should
be called; and added, with an air of confidence that silenced
all expectation from this quarter, she hoped they would send
for her. She had heard, indeed, that she had gone to parts
unknown; but they might write.

“Did not Captain Creamer order Richard to stay by the
old man?” asked Roxy.

At this question and moment, a new champion of Richard
appeared, in Miss Freeling, the Dressmaker. She was
at work at Tunny's when Mrs. Melbourne called in the
morning. At some sacrifice of wages, and greater of Mrs.
Tunny's pleasure, she resolved to attend the examination,

and came in just as Roxy propounded the aforesaid question.
She declared Captain Creamer ought to be sent for, and his
testimony heard. Mrs. Melbourne saw the reasonableness
of this. Word was accordingly despatched to the old
employer of the arraigned; but he replied he would have
nothing to do with the fellow, and that nothing was too bad
for him, or after that sort: and this answer, while it palsied
Roxy, and horrified Miss Freeling, was what the rest
expected, as it entirely satisfied Mrs. Melbourne.

Moreover, by well-directed cross-questioning, Miss Eyre
drew from Roxy that Richard seemed very attentive to
Junia; that he obtained board for her at Willow Croft, and,
finally, that he went with her into the country.

So matters went on. Mrs. Tunny corroborated Miss
Eyre as to Richard's being some time alone with her, on
the back stairs, at a party at her house. What was herein
insinuated brought Miss Freeling to her feet. She was at
the same party, and had a long conversation with Richard;
she knew him better; he was a noble, high-minded man.
But Miss Freeling was like a stray grasshopper in a brood
of turkeys, each ready to devour her.

There was more than one mass of lead. Mrs. Crossmore,
disappointed Nurse, resident in Knuckle Lane, had seen
Richard in unseemly places, at unseemly hours.

Mrs. Xyphers, unfortunate woman, divorced from her
husband, fooled by Clover, now a crony, now an enemy of
Miss Eyre, — broken in spirit, confused in judgment, distrustful
of everybody, — was induced to say, what she believed
to be true, that she had no doubt Richard was base and
unprincipled.

Miss Elbertina Lucetta attempted no more than the confirmation
of Mrs. Whichcomb's story, that Richard was at

the house, suspiciously, one winter night. She occupied
the next chamber, and was awake with the tooth-ache.

Mrs. Mellow, Tract-distributor, had been in all parts of
the city; she had tried the public pulse on the Knuckle
Lane movement, raked for opposition to it, and collected
whatever gossiping items might work against it, or its
originators; and she was able to recount some things that
reflected, not positively, she said, but presumptively, on
Richard. But, from a little personal acquintance, she knew
him to be self-willed, bold, froward, and an instructor of evil
things; and she was ready to believe anything of him.
Especially, she said, “that a common laborer should seek to
intermarry in our best families; that one should stride from
the Saw-mill to the Governor's house; that, after rolling
logs and handling lumber all day, he should expect to dispose
of his fatigue in the evening on damask lounges, and
wear off his coarseness under silken curtains, — indicated an
efforntery as dangerous as it was detestable.”

Why pursue details, when the result announces itself?
Miss Freeling, with all her eloquence and good sense, could
not arrest judgment. Mrs. Melbourne, who had not only
the summing up, but the decision, of the case, said she was
satisfied; though the full extent of her satisfaction she kept
for other and more private ears.

Miss Rowena remained a silent spectator of proceedings.
She was not inclined to side with Mrs. Melbourne, but she
saw no loop-hole of extrication for Richard. At the close
of the meeting, she drew a long breath of mingled surprise
and disappointment, anguish and sorrow, and went home.

This may seem a tempest in a tea-pot to some; but it was
a very large tea-pot, and one that held water enough to
scald a good deal of happiness. If considerable events
sprung from small causes, the instance is not unparalleled.

A silver medal involved the Dutch in a long conflict with
Louis XIV. The true motive of the affair under review
may not have been apprehended by the majority of those concerned
in it; so Mr. Alison says the real object of a war is
never understood by the people, who are expected to fight
its battles, and not trouble themselves as to its meaning.

Mrs. Melbourne looked only on one side of a subject, and
when that happened to be a dark side, she looked a long
while, — so long, in fact, she saw nothing else. Where, in
all this matter, were Richard's obvious excellences? where
his piety, his benevolence, his heroism? where his straightforward
consistency, and his transparent probity of character?
She saw nothing of these. This was her position:
she attributed the virtues of Richard to ambition, and his
vices to intention. A feeling lurked in her heart, withal,
which Mrs. Mellow more broadly hinted, that one of Richard's
birth, connections, and calling, was ill-adapted for an
inmate in the Governor's Family. More than this, but in
connection with it, the different classes of society in the city
did not understand each other. Between what Miss Freeling
called the Pickle-eaters and the Gum-chewers, there
were strange mistakes. The Cashmere shawls mistrusted
what might lie under a Scotch plaid. In plain terms, the
Governor's Family did not perfectly understand Richard;
certainly the Mrs. Melbournism of the Family did not.

It will be remembered, moreover, that the evidence elicited
at Whichcomb's was not primary, but secondary; not
essential, but tributary; and, coming as it did on the heel
of Miss Eyre's more private communications, and in the
way of incidental circumstance, which some are so profound
as to tell us never lies, and confirming in all points what
had been directly asserted, it led to an overwhelming verdict
against Richard.

Roxy reported proceedings at Willow Croft; but Richard,
as if he had foreseen the course of things, manifested no
alarm. He had been so diligently racked, an additional
turn of the screw could not aggravate his distress. If he
had any lingering hopes of a favorable turn of affairs, or
plausible scheme for recovering the ground he had lost,
these were finally blasted. The little radicles of a tree
adhere tenaciously to the bank in which they have been
nourished, after the rising flood has mastered the branches
and trunk, and even undermined the main body of the root
itself; so the tenderness of nature cleaves to objects in
which it has had delight, when all energy and resolution
have given out; but this fond hold of sentiment and feeling
in Richard broke at last.

There were some sad hours at Willow Croft. The house
was shaded, at times, so effectually, the want of window-blinds
and overhanging trees would not have been felt.
While the matter was in some respects too deep for the
penetration, or rather for the business, of Munk, it was too
serious for him to trifle with; and at the same time, like the
effect of telling pleasant stories to a sick child, and making it
smile, he could not forbear those feathery sallies and sunny
quips in which he so much abounded. The change in
Roxy, so noble and so visible, gave her husband almost as
much delight as the sorrow of Richard did pain; and
especially as that change employed itself upon the sorrow,
and was an alleviation of it, and a visit of queenliness unto
it; and as it rejoiced Richard so, and made him sometimes
almost forget his sorrow, and made his sorrow seem so like
a dark night full of glow-worms, Munk could not but keep
some of his old flow of spirits.

“I have just read, in the evening paper,” said he,
knocking his pipe on the palm of his left hand, “that `Mr

Brunel acknowledged he had taken his first lessons for
forming the great Thames Tunnel from the ship-worm,
whose motions he observed as it perforated the wood, arching
its way onwards, and varnishing the roof of the passage
with its secretions.' The evil is big enough, — it is like a
mountain; and we are worms, — but perhaps we shall get
through it at some rate. Queen Victoria has some hard
times, — how she is going to tunnel that great English
nation, so things will run smooth and easy, I don't see;
but let us be good and happy, and happy and good.” He
had refilled his pipe, and uttered these last words simultaneously
with putting it in his mouth, and holding a Lucifer
match over the bowl to light it.

Richard would try to be good, but he found it hard to be
happy. That a sense of innocence will always insure
repose of spirit, — that, if the conscience be clear, the heart
will be light, — is rather a dogma of fancy than a conclusion
of fact. Those nations that employed the rack understood
human nature better than this; they knew that, as compression
of the waist drives the blood into the face, innocence
was susceptible of the strictures of pain to an extent
that blushes with apparent guilt; and demonstrated that
through exquisiteness of agony, the most virtuous man
in the world would confess himself the most criminal and
reprobate, — in a word, that our nature can be implicated in
baseness, by tempting it with sorrow.

Sometimes Richard gasped from a certain internal hollow
of pain; sometimes cold prickles ran over him from head
to foot, as if one were leisurely sprinkling him with a
water-pot full of fleas and frost; sometimes he played with
the children, but languidly, as an invalid takes a ride, and
not so much entering into the pleasure of the thing, as that
the pleasure of the thing may enter into him; sometimes he

fell heavily on his bed, — sometimes he paced energetically
his chamber; now he would be all strung up, and clenched,
and wiry, — again he was flaccid, limpsy, dissoluble as water.
He did not shed many tears, but there was a sort of burning
aridness, combined with a swollen tightness, back of his
eyes; at one time, he read all the papers, — at another, he
devoted his leisure to looking from the window.

Roxy was good to him, — very good. She made him the
best cup of tea, boiled his potatoes in the mealiest way,
lightened up the bread till it lay in slices on the plate like
tiers of new honeycomb from the Patent boxes. But oh,
she had to be so considerate! If she could have asked him
how he did, instead of complimenting the morning to him;
if she could have looked at his tongue, instead of half
ignoring his presence; if she could have asked him what
she should do for him, instead of having to try to do so
much; if she could have just inquired if he would have
some arrow-root, or green peas without butter, or a rasher
of pork; if she could have had the privilege of keeping the
children still, instead of feeling obliged to urge them to
entertain their Uncle; if she could have driven off the man
with the hand-organ and the monkey, instead of tempting
him with a few cents to the gate, to grind his organ,
and make his monkey dance; — then it would seem to be
better.

But there was Richard's Motto; sometimes it seemed to
fly out of the wall, like a wasp, and sting him in the face
when he looked at it.