AUNT RACHEL.*
Aunt Rachel is more than "a rustic sentimental comedy." Its pathos is at least as genuine as its humour, and short as the story is, Mr. Christie Murray may well be congratulated on its originality and its force. We should hardly have supposed it possible to give so many vivid pictures of rustic life within so very limited a space as this story covers. From the first quartette on the violins and violoncello to the ringing of the wedding-bells for Reuben Gold's marriage at the close, there is an undertone of music throughout the little story,—though, indeed, it is not without a few telling discords,—that gives a singular charm to its plain, and sometimes even rugged rusticity. The three old men's pride in the musical performances of their young colleague, which is even greater than their pride in themselves, though that is sufficiently great ; the girl's delight in it ; the grave approval of the uncle into whose heart the very soul of a sad and reticent music had entered ; the restlessness of the old Earl (whose great enjoy- ment it is to lop the overhanging boughs of his tenants' trees) under music which he cannot appreciate, but of which, in his desire to get his nominee returned to Parliament, he is obliged to affect admiration ; and the violent dislike of Aunt Rachel for the young musician, because he is the nephew of the man whom she falsely accuses of having jilted her, and because he so closely resembles his uncle in his gifts and temper, make up together a group of influences not altogether harmonious, but capable of being ultimately harmonised, which are so vividly repre- sented as to fascinate the reader's imagination. Even the quarrels of the crusty and disputatious violinist with his wife and son serve but to show how much the old man's curt and bitter temper has been softened by the music to which he is devoted, and how impossible he finds it not to yield at last to the spirit of the peace-maker. The sedate beauty of this little story would, indeed, not be what it is if there were not the fullest evidence that the writer understands fully the quarrelsome side of rustic life, and is not afraid to depict it as it is. The story is not an idyll, if an idyll necessarily implies the exclusion of the natural human discords. On the contrary, the dictatorial asperity of Aunt Rachel herself,—whose happiness has really been sacrificed to • Aunt Rachel: a Rustic fierititnental Comedy. By D. Christie Murray. 2 vols. London : Macmillan and Co.
her pride and tartness of nature,—as well as the angry intoler- ance of Sennacherib Eld with the younger Sennacherib for pleasing himself in the way of marriage, are sketched with the hand of a master ; but these happy and vivid sketches of human self-will do but serve to bring out the sad dignity and rustic beauty of the elder Gold's character,—the true subject of the story. The gentle, taciturn being whose love of the violin had been so profound that he could not bear to touch it again after hearing the tones brought out of it by Pa.ganini, and whose shyness of nature had been so deep that, after making his offer, he never ventured to repeat it when he received no answer to his letter, is sketched with a delicacy and force that make this little story almost more tragic than comic, though Mr. Christie Murray calls it "a rustic sentimental comedy." The only elements of true comedy in the story seem to us to be found in the relations of the Earl to his half-witted servant, and in the relations of Sennacherib the younger to his father and mother. The main thread of the story, the too late discovery by Ezra Gold that twenty-six years ago he had really been accepted by the girl whom he had loved, but whose acceptance of his offer he had never received, is given in a way which makes it the thread of a very sombre comedy indeed, not to call it a virtual tragedy. Mr. Christie Murray, however, shows his strength in the great skill with which he treats both elements of his tale. It is hardly possible to conceive a finer sketch of grave rustic pain and resignation than is contained in the scene in which the little formal, yellow note, showing that his offer had really been accepted by the girl he loved, is brought to Ezra Gold by his nephew, a generation after it had been written.
The comic scenes, however, lend themselves better to quotation than the sadder ones. What can be more admirable than the scene between the younger Sennacherib and his mother, when, after marrying against his father's consent, and accepting cheerfully the shilling with which his father cut him off, he comes back to converse with his mother on the subject, and to explain that he has a chance of getting for his father a pony which the latter had coveted ?-
"'They may be reconciled,' said Rachel. We must try to recon- cile them.'—' Reconcile Sennacherib Eld !' cried the wife dolefully. Ab, my dear, you don't know the man. Why, who's that ? There's somebody a-walking in as if the house belonged to 'em.' A young man in stand-up collar, and trousers supernaturally tight, appeared at the open door and nodded in a casual manner. Mornin', mother,' said the young man cheerfully. Wheer's the governor ?' Mrs. Sen- nacherib screamed, and running at the new-comer began to embrace him and to kiss him and cry over him. Theer, theer r he said, after kissing her off-hand. ' Tek it easy.'—' Oh, Snac!' cried his mother, if father should come in ! What should we do ?'—' Do ?' said the younger Sennacherib ; why, set me down afore the kitchen fire, an' mek me happetisin' afore he sets to work to eat me. How be you, mum ?' The younger Sennacherib's face was gay and impudent, with that peculiar mingling of gaiety and impudence which seems in- separable from freckles. His face was mottled with freckles, and the backs of his hands were of a dark yellowish brown with them. This is Miss Rachel Blythe,' said his mother, as was at school with me when I was a gell. This is my poor persecuted child, Miss Blythe.'
— ` Me, mum !' said the persecuted child, standing with his feet wide apart, and bending first one knee and then the other, and then bend- ing both together. The governor's out, is he P'—' He's only jest gone,' returned his mother ; but, Snac, you'll only auger him COMile in i' this way. You'd better wait a bit, and let things blow over.'
— ‘ Well,' said Snac, shouldn't ha' come for anythin' but business. But I've got a chance o' doing a bit o' trade with him. He's had his mind set on Bunch's pony this two 'ear, an' Bunch an' him bein' at daggers drawn theer was niver a chance to buy it. But me an' him bein' split old Bunch sells me the pony, and I called thinkin' he might like to have it.' He laughed with great glee, and flicked one tightly-clad leg with the whip he carried. Wait a bit, Snac,' his mother besought him. Let it blow over a bit afore approachin' him.'—' Wait for the Beacon Hill to blow over !' said Sim in answer. 'I've no more expectations as the one '11 blow over than th' other. He'll do what he says he'll do. That's the pattern he's made in. I've got no more hopes of turnin' the governor than I should have if I was to go and tell a hox to be a donkey. It's again his natur' to change, and nothing short of a merracle 'II alter him. But as for livin' at enmity with him—wheer's the use o' that ? He's all the feythers I've got, or am like to find at my time o' life, and I must just mek the best on him.'—' A most commendable and Christian resolution,' said Rachel, decisively.—' Very nice and kind of you to say so, mum,' Snac answered, setting his hat a little more on one side, and bending both knees with a rakish swagger. You can tell the governor as I called, mother. The pony's as genuine a bit of blood as is to be found in Heydon Hay. The p'ints of a hoes and a dog is a thing as every child thinks he knows about, but bless your heart, theer's nothing i' the world as is half so difficult t' understand, unless it is the ladies.' There was such an air of compliment about the saving clause that Rachel involuntarily inclined her head to it. You'll tell the governor as I was here, mother,' Sow concluded, stooping down to kiss her.—' You mustn't ask me to do that, Sufic,' she answered. 'I day' not name your name.'—' Rabbidge !' said Sumo
genially. 'Does he bite P'—' It's for your sake, Sem,' said his mother, not for mine. But I dar' not do Well, well, mayhap I shall light upon him i' the village, If I shouldn't, I'll look in again. Good mornin', mother, and good day to you, mum.'"
And equally admirable is the short conflict between Lord Barfield and Aunt Rachel as to the proposed lopping of her tree, in which his lordship is completely defeated, and yet in a sense compensated for his defeat by the enormous amount of amusement he extracts from the interview :—
"' Set up the ladder here, Joseph,' he said, pointing with the bill- hook to indicate the place. Joseph set down the ladder on the path- way, and leaning it across the close-clipped privet hedge, where numberless small staring eyes of white wood betrayed the recent presence of the shears, he propped it against the stout limb of a well- pruned apple-tree. His lordship, somewhat ostentatiously avoiding the eye of the inmate of the cottage, tacked his saw and his billhook under his left arm and mounted slowly, whilst Joseph made a great show of steadying the ladder. The little old woman opened the garden gate with a click, and slipped into the roadway. His lordship hung his saw upon a rung of the ladder, and leaning a little over took a grasp of the bough of a sweeping laburnum which overhung the road. 'My lord,' said a quick, thin voice, which in its blending of the character- istics of youth and age matched strangely with the speaker's aspect, this tenement and its surrounding grounds are my freehold. I can- not permit your lordship to lay a mutilating hand upon them.'—' God bless my soul,' said his lordship ; that's Rachel Blythe ! That must be Rachel Blythe.'—' Rachel Blythe, at your lordship's service,' said the little old lady. She dropped a cart little courtesy, at once as young and as old as everything about her, and stood looking up at him, with drooping hands crossed upon the garden shears. God bless my soul ! Dear me !' said his lordship. 'Dear me! God bless my soul !' He came slowly down the ladder and, surrendering his billhook to Joseph, advanced and proffered a tremulous white hand. Miss Blythe accepted it with a second curt little courtesy, shook it once up and down, and dropped it. 'Welcome back to Heydon Hay, Miss Blythe,' said the old nobleman, with something of an air of gallantry. You have long deprived us of your presence.' Perhaps Miss Blythe discerned a touch of badinage in his tone, and construed it as a mockery. She drew up her small figure in exaggerated dignity, and made much such a motion with her head and neck as a hen makes in walking. I have long been absent from Heydon Hay, my lord,' she answered. 'My good man,' turning upon Joseph, 'you may remove that ladder. His lordship can have no use for it here.'
= Oh, come, come, Miss Blythe,' said his lordship. Manorial rights, manorial rights. This laburnum overhangs the road and pre- vents people of an average height from passing.'—' If your lordship is aggrieved, I must ask your lordship to secure a remedy in a legal manner.'—' But really now. Observe, Miss Blythe, I can't walk under these boughs without knocking my hat off.' He illustrated this statement by walking under the boughs. His cap fell on the dusty road, and Joseph, having picked it up, returned it to him. Your lordship is above the average height,' said Miss Blythe, 'con-
siderably.'—' No, no,' the earl protested. Not at all, not at all.'— 'I beg your lordship's pardon, said the little old lady, with stately politeness. 'Nobody,' she added, who was not profoundly disloyal would venture to describe the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty RB undersized. I am but a barleycorn less in stature than her Most Excellent Majesty, and your lordship is yards taller than myself.'— 'My dear Miss Blythe—' his lordship began, with hands raised in protest against this statement.—' Your lordship will pardon me,' Miss _Blythe interposed swiftly, if I say that at my age—forgive me if I say at your lordship's also—the language of conventional gallantry is unbecoming.' The little old lady said this with so starched and prim an air, and through this there peeped so obvious a satisfaction in rebuking him upon such a theme, that his lordship had to flourish his
handkerchief from his pocket to hide his laughter. I have passed the last quarter of a century of my life,' pursued Miss Blythe, 'in an intimate if humble capacity in the service of a family of the loftiest nobility. I am not unacquainted with the airs and graces of the higher powers, but between your lordship and myself, at our respective ages, I cannot permit them to be introduced.' His lordship had a fit of coughing which lasted him two or three minutes, and brought the tears to his eyes. Most people might have thought that the cough bore a suspicious resemblance to laughter, but no such idea occurred to Miss Blythe. You are quite right, Miss Blythe,' said the old nobleman, when he could trust himself to speak. He was twitching and twinkling with
suppressed mirth, but he contained himself heroically. beg your pardon, and I promise that I will not again transgress in that manner. Bat really, that—that—fit of coughing has quite exhausted me for the moment. May I beg your permission to sit down P'"
The comedy in the story is perfect, but to our mind, the far more delicate painting of the sadder scenes shows still greater power. If Mr. Christie Murray often approaches the level he has reached in this tale, we may begin to congratulate ourselves on George Eliot having left behind her a successor who, without her reflective power or her occasionally pedantic analysis, can yet paint rustic society with something of her truth, breadth, and pathos.
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