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 Hathaway. My dears, if you are tired, or if you have anything to do for Mrs Medlicott, I can drop you at Barford Corner, and it is but a quarter of an hour’s brisk walk home.”
But luckily we could safely say that Mrs Medlicott did not want us; and as we had whispered to each other, as we sat alone in the coach, that surely my lady must have gone to Job Gregson’s, we were far too anxious to know the end of it all to say that we were tired. So we all set off to Hathaway. Mr Harry Lathom was a bachelor squire, thirty or thirty-five years of age, more at home in the field than in the drawing room, and with sporting men than with ladies.
My lady did not alight, of course; it was Mr Lathom’s place to wait upon her, and she bade the butler, – who had a smack of the gamekeeper in him, very unlike our own powdered venerable fine gentleman at Hanbury, – tell his master, with her compliments, that she wished to speak to him. You may think how pleased we were to find that we should hear all that was said; though, I think, afterwards we were half sorry when we saw how our presence confused the squire, who would have found it bad enough to answer my lady’s questions, even without two eager girls for audience.
“Pray, Mr Lathom,” began my lady, something abruptly for her, – but she was very full of her subject, – “what is this I hear about Job Gregson?”
Mr Lathom looked annoyed and vexed, but dared not show it in his words.
“I gave out a warrant against him, my lady, for theft, – that is all. You are doubtless aware of his character; a man who sets nets and springes in long cover, and fishes wherever he takes a fancy. It is but a short step from poaching to thieving.”
“That is quite true,” replied Lady Ludlow (who had a horror of poaching for this very reason): “but I imagine you do not send a man to gaol on account of his bad character.”
“Rogues and vagabonds,” said Mr Lathom. “A man may be sent to prison for being a vagabond; for no specific act, but for his general mode of life.”
He had the better of her ladyship for one moment; but then she answered –
“But in this case, the charge on which you committed him is for theft; now his wife tells me he can prove he was some miles distant from Holmwood, where the robbery took place, all that afternoon; she says you had the evidence before you.”
Mr Lathom here interrupted my lady, by saying, in a somewhat sulky manner – “No such evidence was brought before me when I gave the warrant. I am not answerable for the other magistrates’ decision, when they had more evidence before them. It was they who committed him to gaol. I am not responsible for that.”
My lady did not often show signs of impatience; but we knew she was feeling irritated, by the little perpetual tapping of her high-heeled shoe against the bottom of the carriage. About the same time we, sitting backwards, caught a glimpse of Mr Gray through the open door, standing in the shadow of the hall. Doubtless Lady Ludlow’s arrival had interrupted a conversation between Mr Lathom and Mr Gray. The latter must have heard every word of what she was saying; but of this she was not aware, and caught at Mr Lathom’s disclaimer of responsibility with pretty much the same argument which she had heard (through our repetition) that Mr Gray had used not two hours before.
“And do you mean to say, Mr Lathom, that you don’t consider yourself responsible for all injustice or wrong-doing that you might have prevented, and have not? Nay, in this case the first germ of injustice was your own mistake. I wish you had been with me a little while ago, and seen the misery in that poor fellow’s cottage.” She spoke lower, and Mr Gray drew near, in a sort of involuntary
