The Complete Short Stories of Elizabeth Gaskell. Elizabeth Gaskell

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.

      She had not made up her mind where we should drive to when she got into the carriage again. John Footman stood, bareheaded, waiting for orders.

      “To