“I suffer for conscience’ sake, my child!” said he, with a dignity that was only tremulous from the acute sensitiveness of his character; “I must do what my conscience bids. I have borne long with self-reproach that would have roused any mind less torpid and cowardly than mine.”
My Lady Ludlow’s Tea-party
From My Lady Ludlow.
Mrs. Brooke is a rough diamond, to be sure. People have said that of me, I know. But, being a Galindo, I learnt manners in my youth and can take them up when I choose. But Mrs. Brooke never learnt manners, I’ll be bound. When John Footman handed her the tray with the tea-cups, she looked up at him as if she were sorely puzzled by that way of going on. I was sitting next to her, so I pretended not to see her perplexity, and put her cream and sugar in for her, and was all ready to pop it into her hands—when who should come up but that impudent lad Tom Diggles (I call him lad, for all his hair is powdered, for you know that it is not naturally grey hair) with his tray full of cakes and what not, all as good as Mrs. Medlicott could make them. By this time, I should tell you, all the parsonesses were looking at Mrs. Brooke, for she had shown her want of breeding before; and the parsonesses, who were just a step above her in manners, were very much inclined to smile at her doings and sayings. Well! what does she do but pull out a clean Bandana pocket-handkerchief, all red and yellow silk; spread it over her best silk gown—it was, like enough, a new one, for I had it from Sally, who had it from her cousin Molly, who is dairy-woman “at the Brookes’,” that the Brookes were mighty set-up with an invitation to drink tea at the Hall. There we were, Tom Diggles ever on the grin (I wonder how long it is since he was own brother to a scarecrow, only not so decently dressed), and Mrs. Parsoness of Headleigh—I forget her name, and it’s no matter, for she’s an ill-bred creature, I hope Bessy will behave herself better—was right-down bursting with laughter, and as near a hee-haw as ever a donkey was; when what does my lady do? Ay! there’s my own dear Lady Ludlow, God bless her! She takes out her own pocket-handkerchief, all snowy cambric, and lays it softly down on her velvet lap, for all the world as if she did it every day of her life, just like Mrs. Brooke, the baker’s wife; and when one got up to shake the crumbs into the fireplace, the other did just the same. But with such a grace! and such a look at us all! Tom Diggles went red all over; and Mrs. Parsoness of Headleigh scarce spoke for the rest of the evening; and the tears came into my old silly eyes; and Mr. Gray, who was before silent and awkward in a way which I tell Bessy she must cure him of, was made so happy by this pretty action of my lady’s that he talked away all the rest of the evening, and was the life of the company.
The Foxglove
From Ruth, 1853
Writing of the old traditions of Cheshire, Mrs. Gaskell said, “I was once saying to an old blind country-woman how much I admired the foxglove. She looked mysteriously solemn as she told me they were not like other flowers; they had ‘knowledge’ in them!”
“I have an annual holiday, which I generally spend in Wales; and often in this immediate neighbourhood.”