Ralph Clavering: or, We Must Try Before We Can Do

This information made Lilly’s heart very sad.

“He may die, and so unprepared,” she whispered to herself. “Oh, may he be graciously preserved!”

How many, young as Ralph Clavering, have been cut off in the midst of their evil doings! An old woman and her daughter, the occupants of the cottage, gladly consented to give up the best accommodation their small abode offered to their wealthy neighbours. Mr Clavering, who had just reached the Hall, scarcely comprehended at first what had happened. Lilly had to repeat her tale. At length, when he really understood what had occurred, like a frantic person he threw himself into the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive on as fast as the horses could go.

“What a wretched, miserable hole for my boy!” he exclaimed as he entered the cottage.

“Poor young master bean’t accustomed to cottage rooms,” observed the old woman, Dame Harvey, to her daughter. She could not forget that, humble as was her cottage, it was her own, and that she was bestowing a favour on those she had admitted within it. She was conscious at the same time that she was doing her duty towards them as a Christian, and this made her overlook, without complaint, many other slights she received. It was an anxious night to all concerned in Ralph’s welfare. Doctor Morison feared that he had received a concussion of the brain, but could not decide whether it would prove serious till the next day. Mr Clavering scarcely left his son’s bedside, nor would Lilly, had not Biddy filled her place, and she then consented to lie down on some chairs in a back room, where a large fire had been made up, a cart with fuel having arrived from the Hall. Ralph breathed painfully, it was evident that his life hung by a thread.

Chapter Three

Two days passed by, and it seemed very uncertain whether Ralph Clavering would recover. Lilly, by the doctor’s orders, had to return home, but she begged that Biddy might remain to watch the invalid, and a more faithful nurse could not have been found. She, indeed, discovered with sorrow the true estimation in which her cousin was held at Clavering Hall; for among all the pampered servants not one volunteered, or seemed anxious to attend by his bedside. When he was well he ordered them roughly about, and abused them if they did not obey his often unreasonable commands. Now, as mean and irreligious persons are wont to do, they retaliated by treating him with neglect. Mr Clavering, whose fears for his son’s life were fully aroused, only rushed out of the cottage for a few minutes at a time to calm his agitation, or to give way to his grief, and then hurried back to his bedside. He had sent for the housekeeper to attend on Ralph, but Mrs Gammage declined coming on the plea that her mistress required her attendance, and that her own health was so delicate that she should die of cold in Dame Harvey’s cottage. The dame, therefore, and her daughter volunteered their services, and more careful attendants could not have been found. Mrs Harvey had been in service in her youth, and as she observed knew how to attend on gentlefolks. Food, and bedding, and furniture and all sorts of things had been sent from the Hall, and as the cottage was neat and clean, Mr Clavering might well have been thankful that his son had so comfortable a refuge.

Lilly rode over every morning from the Hall, and generally again in the afternoon, but she was not allowed to remain many minutes at a time with her cousin. For several days the doctor continued to look grave, and said that he might possibly recover, but that he must not yet hold out too strong hopes on the subject.

“I do trust he may recover,” she answered. “It would be so dreadful for him to die, and I really think that there is some good in him.”

“There is no good thing in any of us, young lady,” remarked the doctor; “yet I pray that if he lives the very best of things may be put into him – a new heart, or we cannot hope to see him changed from what he was.”

“I will pray that he may recover, and that he may get a new heart,” said Lilly, artlessly.

“Do, Miss Vernon,” said Doctor Morison. “Human skill avails us nothing without God’s aid.”

Lilly rode home much happier. She could not have much of what might properly be called affection for her cousin, for his behaviour had prevented that, but she sincerely pitied him, and was anxious for his welfare.

Day after day passed by. “I will tell you to-morrow what to hope,” answered Dr Morison to her usual inquiries. Lilly cantered home more anxious than ever to make her report to her aunt.

“Of course he will die,” observed Mrs Clavering; “what have we to expect?”

“God is ever merciful and good,” said Lilly, calmly.

The lady stared. “I shall not believe that he will live till I see him recovered,” she answered.

“We can pray that he may, dear aunt, at all events,” replied Lilly.

The next day Lilly rode off at an early hour to Dame Harvey’s cottage. Dr Morison arrived nearly at the same moment. She waited anxiously for his report. He remained, it seemed, a very long time with his patient. At last he appeared with a smile on his countenance. “He will yet do well. He requires careful nursing more than anything else, and I hope that in a few days he will be strong enough to be removed to the Hall.” Lilly rode back to carry the joyful news to her aunt.

Mr Clavering, when he heard this opinion, poured out expressions of gratitude to the doctor, and called him the preserver of his son’s life, assuring him that there was nothing he would not do to show his sense of the obligation.

“Give thanks where they are due,” said Dr Morison. “And, my dear sir, you cannot please me more than by endeavouring to correct his faults, and to bring him up in the way he should go.”

“A very odd man, that doctor,” said Mr Clavering, to himself. “Under other circumstances I should think his remarks highly impertinent.”

Dame Harvey could hardly be persuaded to take the sum of money offered her by Mr Clavering. She had only done her duty, and she had done it without thought of reward; she would have done the same for any poor neighbour who would have been unable to repay her. Mr Clavering was incredulous as to her disinterestedness. Lilly took her part.

“I am sure, uncle, she nursed Ralph so kindly and gave up her cottage to him simply from kindness of heart,” she observed. “Had any young nobleman been thrown from his horse out hunting would you not have taken him in, and kept him till he was well, without thought of reward? Papa used to say that the poor feel as we do, and often more acutely, and that we should treat their feelings with the same consideration that we should those of the rich.”

“You have vast experience, Miss Lilly, about such matters,” answered Mr Clavering, with a laugh. “I know that the poor pull down my fences, and do all sorts of mischief, and I judge them by their deeds.”

“And how do the rich treat each other, and how would they behave if they were exposed to the temptations of poverty?” argued Lilly, with unusual vehemence.

“We have put up your Irish spirit, young lady,” answered her uncle, laughing. “However, I dare say that you are right, and I have no doubt of Dame Harvey’s good intentions.”

Ralph having as the doctor said, once turned the corner, got rapidly well. Lilly was in hopes that from what had occurred his character would have improved, indeed, while he still remained weak and unable to help himself he was far less dictatorial than he used to be, and more than once, though not, perhaps, in the most gracious of ways, expressed himself obliged for what had been done for him.

“He’ll do better by-and-by,” thought his sanguine cousin. “He is fretful now from his long confinement. When he gets out in the fresh air he will recover his temper.”

Chapter Four

There is an old saying that, “What is born in the grain is shown in the fruit.” No sooner had Ralph Clavering recovered his physical strength than he was himself again in all other respects, or even still more dictatorial and abusive if any one offended him than before. At first Lilly was in despair. At last she recollected her own motto, “We must try before we can succeed.”

“Yes, I will try again, and very hard before I give it up in despair.”

The winter had been very severe, and numbers of labourers had been thrown out of work. Ralph was allowed at first only to drive out in the carriage. One day as he was waiting in the porch, filled with the warm sunshine, for his luxurious vehicle to come to the door, two ragged objects were seen approaching up the avenue. One was a thin and tall dark man, the other was a lad of the same foreign complexion. A frown gathered on Ralph’s brow as he saw them. “What do you want here, you fellows?” he shouted out.

“Food and money to pay the doctor, young master,” answered the man, coming up to the floor. “The rest of the family are down with sickness camped in Fouley Copse, and they’ll die if they don’t get help.”

“Then you are gipsies, and we don’t encourage gipsies,” said Ralph.

“You wouldn’t let us die, young master, would you?” asked the man, humbly.

“No fear of that, I’m up to you,” cried Ralph, growing angry. “Be off with you.”

“I’ve always heard that one good turn deserves another, and believed it too, gipsy though I am, but I am not likely to get it this time,” said the man, eyeing Ralph with a glance of contempt.

Just then Lilly, hearing her cousin speaking loudly, came to the hall door. No sooner did she see the man than she exclaimed, “Why, that is the kind gipsy who carried you to Dame Harvey’s cottage, and would take no reward. What is it you want, poor man? Tell us, that we may do what we can.”

The gipsy repeated his previous story.

“We will go there immediately, and carry some food and other things for your family,” she said. “But you are hungry yourselves, Ralph, tell Mrs Gammage that she must let them have some dinner, and that she must put up some food and blankets, and some other things for you to carry.”

Ralph demurred. Lilly grew impatient. “If we do not find matters as they are described, we can but bring the things back,” she observed.

This satisfied her cousin, who had thus suddenly become so scrupulous. It is wonderful how careful people are not to make a mistake in doing an act of charity.

“Blessings on thee, young mistress! You remember me, then, sweet lady?” said the gipsy.

“I do, indeed,” answered Lilly; “but I did not hear your name.”

“Arnold I am called in this country, sweet lady,” answered the gipsy. “My people are not wont to ask favours, but we are starving; and though you call us outcasts and heathens, we can be grateful.”

Ralph had gone to ask Mrs Gammage, very much to that lady’s astonishment, to give the gipsies some food. Still greater was her surprise when he insisted on having some provisions put up to carry to their encampment. “Cousin Lilly will have it so,” he answered, when she expostulated with him on the subject.

This settled the matter; and the gipsies, being invited into the servants’ hall, had a more abundant meal placed before them than they had seen for many a day.

Ralph felt a pleasure which he had never before experienced, as he got into the pony-carriage with the stores the housekeeper had provided. Lilly rode by his side, and away they went. They got to the encampment before Arnold and his son could reach it. It was in the centre of a thick copse, which sheltered the tents from the wind. They had need of such shelter, for the tents were formed of old canvas thickened by mats of rushes, but so low, that they scarcely allowed the inmates to sit upright. They took the gipsies completely by surprise, and Lilly saw at a glance that Arnold had in no way exaggerated their miserable condition. Great was the astonishment, therefore, of the poor people at having a plentiful supply of provisions presented to them. Lilly, who soon saw that those who were most ill were far beyond her skill, promised to send Dr Morison to them.

Lilly and Ralph were still at the encampment when Arnold and his son arrived. Their expressions of gratitude, if not profuse, were evidently sincere. So reduced were the whole party to starvation, that it seemed likely, had aid not arrived, they must all soon have died. There were two or three girls and boys sitting on the ground, covered up with old mats, their elf-locks almost concealing their features, of which little more than their black sparkling eyes were visible, while some smaller children were crouching down under the rags which their mother had heaped over her. There was an iron pot hanging from a triangle over the fire; but it contained but a few turnips and other vegetables, not a particle of meat. Even the pony which drew the family cart looked half-starved, as if sharing the general distress.