CHAPTER XXII.
THE CLAN AGAIN
Once more the relations met together, this time by invitation. They would have preferred separate and individual treatment. Each one received a letter, inviting him or her to the hotel on the afternoon of such a day. Each came expectant, hopeful, confident; and their faces dropped when they found, each in turn, that all had been invited together. They mounted the stairs; they entered the room; they stood about or they sat down in silence. If they spoke, it was to remark in murmurs on the interesting motives of certain persons in connection with rich cousins. The broken one, shabbier than ever, sat hanging his head. "I wouldn't ha' come," he said aloud, "if I'd expected a crowd like this." But the draper of Mare Street, Hackney, stood erect, his hand thrust into his bosom, as one who is gently rocked and lulled upon his own motives, as upon the cradle of the deep.
Presently John Haveril came in, accompanied by Dick, who attended as a kind of private secretary, and took no part in the proceedings until the end.
John carried in his hand a bundle of papers. "Well," he said, "you're all come, I think – all come." He turned over the papers, and nodded to the writer of each letter in turn. "All come. I invited you all to come." He spoke gravely and with dignity – in his most dignified manner.
"First, sir" – the self-constituted spokesman offered his hand – "we trust that you continue in good health, in the midst of your truly colossal responsibilities."
"Yes, sir, yes – I continue pretty well." Again he looked round. "Perhaps you will all sit down."
"I, for one, should be ashamed to sit." The draper spoke with reproach in his voice, for the rest had taken chairs. "Ashamed, sir, while you are standing."
It was something like the old-fashioned reading of the will, but before the funeral instead of after. They sat expectant, hungrily expectant. Out of so many millions, surely, surely something would come to every one! Would it take the form of hundreds?
"Alma," said the pew-opener, coming along in the omnibus, "he's got a good heart; you can see it in his deep blue eye. He's bound to give us what we ask – and Alice my own first cousin and all, and you but one removed."
"Perhaps Cousin Charles has been at him behind our backs."
It is disheartening to observe the readiness with which young ladies on a certain social level ascribe and suspect the baser springs of action.
"Trust him!" The lady of the pews should have learned more Christian charity. "But I hope he won't be able to poison Cousin John's mind against honest people. I call him 'Cousin-John-by-marriage,' not 'Mr. Haveril,' and I say he took us over with Alice when he married her. A man marries, my dear, into his wife's family. Alma!"
"What is it, mother?"
"They've got no children. Somebody must have it when they go. Why not you and me?"
"Why not, mother? We could make a good use of it."
"We could. Ah!" She closed her eyes for the space of a furlong.
"Mother, how much did you ask for?"
"A hundred and twenty pounds. I could do it for less, perhaps, because there's my own furniture. He must give it; he can't refuse – and me Alice's first cousin, and you but one removed. My dear, I've always longed to have a Margate lodging-house since I stood upon Margate jetty as a girl, and paid a Margate bill as a grown woman, before you were born."
"I've asked for seventy pounds. I believe I could start respectably for less; but seventy would be plenty. And oh! to sit behind your own counter, covered with dolls and fancy-work and pretty things, and have no work to do! Oh!" She clasped her hands in ecstasy.
"Yes, Alma; it's all very well if the people come in to buy your things. But what do you know about shops and what to charge?"
"Come to that, mother, what do you know about keeping lodgings?"
It was with speculations such as these, with castles in the air or in Spain, that the cousins beguiled their way towards the Hôtel Métropole. The fancy of the broken one dwelt upon the tobacco-shop. It seems that this kind of shop attracts many of the best and brightest. There is so little to do; the money drops in all day long; you can smoke your own tobacco morning, noon, and night, while the laughing hours dance along and strew the way with roses. The bankrupt looked, indeed, as if roses would be a change for him after his long staying among the flagons and the apples.
"I asked you, when you were here last" – John Haveril remained standing – "to send me letters if you wanted me to do anything. I wanted to know quite clearly what you wanted. You have done so. I find, as I expected, that you all want me to give you money."
"Excuse me, sir," said the spokesman, "we distinguish between begging and borrowing. To give – to bestow alms – upon unworthy persons" – he looked severely at the bankrupt, who paid no heed – "or upon persons who are best left in their own humble station in life" – he waved an insulting hand towards the pew-opener – "is one thing; to advance capital which will be regarded as a loan, to be repaid with interest, is quite another thing. To solicit alms, as has been done, I fear, by some in this room, is one thing; to offer an investment, on the solid security of a sterling and established place of business, is quite another thing."
"Very true," said John Haveril. "Very true."
"Where the security is a concern – a concern, sir, improving every day, with four and twenty young ladies as shop-assistants – "
"Fed on scrag of mutton and margarine!" observed the pew-opener, aloud.
" – in a promising suburb and in a crowded highway, with the electric light, a carriage often at the door, and the proprietor a churchwarden – a very different thing," he concluded, running down and forgetting the construction of his sentence.
The others said nothing; but the Board school teacher examined the pictures on the wall, and was absorbed for the moment in art criticism.
"You all want money," John Haveril repeated; "that is the reason why I invited you here to-day."
"Why shouldn't we?" asked the broken one. "You are the only one of the family who has got any money. As for this fellow" – he indicated the draper – "hollow, hollow! There's no stability in him, I know. Where I am there he ought to be – down among the dead men."
"Where a few pounds would be the making of us, and them not so much as missed," said the pew-opener, "why not?"
"I don't know," continued the capitalist, "that you've got any claim on me. You cut your cousin Alice off – out of the family – for her first marriage."
"What else," asked the spokesman, "could we do? She married an actor, sir – a common actor. No doubt she has long since repented her early choice. How different from her second venture – her second prize! Ah! a prize indeed."
"Some of us were not born then," said the Board school teacher. "I'd as soon marry an actor as a draper – sooner, too." She was a sharp-faced girl, quick and ready – perhaps too quick – with woman's most formidable weapon. "Actors don't sweat shop-girls."
"Alice tells me," John Haveril went on slowly, "that none of you ever made any kind of inquiry after her, or answered her letters – except one – Will – also an actor, who is now deceased."
"How could we, when some of us hadn't even got into the cradle?" asked the teacher.
"I didn't quarrel with Alice," said the bankrupt. "I never saw her nor heard of her. And I didn't quarrel with Cousin Will. Why," he added conclusively, "I borrowed money of him."
"If she had been in want," John Haveril added, "would you have helped her because she was your cousin?"
"Since I, for one, never heard that she was in want" – again the teacher – "how can I tell what I should have done? It's like this, Mr. Haveril – you must know it yourself. It isn't respectable to have cousins ragged and in want. If I could afford it, I would give them money to go away. Look at that Object" – she pointed to the bankrupt. "Object, I call him."
"Object yourself!" retorted the broken one.
"Is he a credit to the family? No; I've got no money to spare, or I'd pay him to go right away. Same with Cousin Alice. Don't talk to us about cousinly love. We like respectability."
"Very good," said John Haveril.
"Cousin Alice has brought you a lot of relations," Alma continued, emboldened. "Here we are, fawning, like Cousin Charles; begging, like Cousin Alfred; and telling you the truth, like me."
"One, sir, one at least" – this was, of course, the draper – "has ever been ready to acknowledge the tie of blood."
"I'm sure," said the pew-opener, "if Alice had come to my humble place, which she never did – "
"Never," her daughter added.
" – there'd have been a cup of tea made in no time, and a chair by the fire."
"You have among you" – John Haveril pointed to the bankrupt – "a cousin who is poor and distressed. What have you done for him? Which of you has helped this unfortunate man?"
"Not one," the unfortunate replied for all; while Charles regarded his fallen relation vindictively. "Not one," the bankrupt continued. "And now your guilty hearts are exposed and your greedy natures brought to light. Grabbers and grubbers – every one. And this to me – to me – Mr. Haveril, the only gentleman of the lot! What do they care about gentlemen?"
"You ask me, all of you, to help you with gifts or loans of money. On what pretence? Because I am your cousin's husband – "
"Cousin-John-by-marriage," said the pew-opener. "You took us over as your own when you married Alice. You married into the family. That you can't deny."
"If that is the reason why I am to help you, why don't you help this cousin?"
"Hear! hear!" from the cousin indicated.
"He is in the last stage of poverty and misery."
"Because it serves him right." The draper once more stepped forward, while the rest of the family murmured assent.
"Outside," said John, "it is raining, with a cold wind; he has no great-coat, – nothing but a thin jacket; the soles of his boots are parting – "
"Help him? He's always been a disgrace to the family," said the pew-opener.
"You ask me, however, to help you, and you offer no reference as to character."
"Reference? What reference do you want?" asked the Board school teacher. "Haven't I got a responsible situation? Isn't mother in a responsible situation? Mr. Haveril, I wouldn't talk about this poor ragamuffin, if I were you. It's beneath you. Give him a great-coat yourself, and in ten minutes it will be five shillings, and in an hour it will be drunk. Help him? I wouldn't help Cousin Alfred if I had hundreds – nor Cousin Charles if I had millions."
"You wouldn't," said the bankrupt, "if it was an angel from heaven; you'd see him starve first."
"Some of us, my dear sir," the draper explained sadly, "have to draw the line at disgrace. Character, in business, goes a long way. Bankruptcy brings disgrace even upon those members of the family who are otherwise regarded with respect."
"You think it is a mistake to give money?"
Cousin Charles retracted. "We must distinguish between giving and advancing. I would recommend the advance – the advance only – of capital to those who can help themselves."
"My friend, if you can help yourself, you want no help."
"In a sense, most true; in fact, profoundly true," Cousin Charles replied. "I will make a note of those words. They shall become my motto: 'Those who can help themselves want no help.' So truly wise."
"And if so," John continued, "to help those who cannot help themselves is throwing money away."
"It is – it is." He pointed to the bankrupt. "Why help him? He cannot help himself. I have always felt that to help my cousin Alfred is a sin – if waste of money is sinful. He failed, sir; he became a bankrupt in Mare Street, only five doors from my place of business; with my surname over his door. I wonder I survived it."
"You'll survive your own failure next," said the bankrupt.
"Come back to your own case, mister. You agree that one should not help those who can help themselves. Let us lay hold on that. If you can help yourself, why do you want help? You've helped yourself, I understand, to a flourishing business. You are evidently, therefore, beyond the necessity of further help. You want me to advance you a large sum of money. Why? You have shown that you can help yourself. Very well; the best thing you can do is to go on helping yourself."
Cousin Charles changed colour. His face dropped, to use the familiar expression.
"Sweating four and twenty girls in black with white cuffs," murmured the teacher.
"This," John continued, slowly and with weight, "is my answer to your letter. Go on, as you have already begun, trusting to yourself alone. It is best for you. If you are on the downward grade, you would only be saved for a time. If you are going up, the advance you ask would not help you. That is my answer, mister, to your letter."
The draper grew very red in the face. "Then," he asked, "you – you – you refuse – you actually refuse this trifling assistance?"
"Actually."
"You hear, Charles," said the bankrupt.
"Am I in my senses?" He looked round him. "The husband of my cousin Alice, much loved – 'sweet Alice, Ben Bolt' – a man of millions, refuses me an advance, upon undeniable security, of a simple thousand pounds. Why, the bank will do it for me with alacrity."
"Then go to the bank."
The poor man changed from red to white. His cheeks became flabby. His arms, which had been folded, dropped. He suddenly grew limp. It is rather terrible to see a confident, aggressive man become suddenly limp. Perhaps he had built confidently on this advance; perhaps he was not quite so substantial as he boasted and as he seemed; perhaps that great shop, with four and twenty girls in black with white cuffs, all in a row, was haunted by the spectre of which nobody talks, though it is seen daily by so many – the grisly, threatening, lean, gaunt, fierce-eyed ghost called Bankruptcy.
He clapped his hat on his head. He recovered a little. He tried to smile. He assumed some show of dignity. He even laughed. Then he replied, with genuine heartfelt emotion, "The Lord forgive you!" and walked out of the room.
John Haveril turned to the pew-opener. "Here is your letter," he said; "I return it to you. Why should I give you anything? You are fifty years of age, you say. You have a son in good employ. You have a daughter – this girl, I suppose – in the School Board service. You have a reasonably good situation."
The lady's face dropped and lengthened. "Oh!" she cried; "don't refuse! don't refuse! It's such a trifle to you; you would never miss it, and never feel it. And it would be the making of me – it would indeed."
John Haveril shook his head with the deliberation and the expression of a bear. His mind was made up. The woman went on, but feebly —
"You can't like to own – you so rich, and all – that you've got a cousin in such a humble place as mine."
"You might help her to be respectable," her daughter put in.
"You can be respectable in any situation. I am quite as proud of you in your present situation as if you were what you want to be – a lodging-house keeper at Margate." He turned to her daughter. "My dear," he said kindly, "you are a little fool."
"Why? Oh, why?" – and her heart sank.
"Because you want to give up the best work that a woman can do, where there's pay enough, and holidays, and respect – "
The girl shook her head. "You don't know," she moaned, "the work and the drudgery."
"And to change it for the worst work in the world. My dear, you should be proud of being what you are. If you were in the States, you would feel proud of your work. What? Give up that work for a miserable little shop, where you must cheat to make both ends meet? Don't be silly. Go back and thank God, my dear, that He has put you where you can do some good."
She sat down and pulled out her pocket-handkerchief. Her mother stood beside her, her lips moving, her cheek flaming.
"Shall I give you back your letter?" John Haveril asked.
She took it, tore it up, threw the fragments on the floor, seized her mother by the arm, and dragged her out; whether in repentance or in anger the bystanders could not know.
They were all gone now, except the bankrupt.
"You've got my letter, too," he said. "What are you going to do for me?"
"The kindest thing would be to drop you in the river. Alice has left it to me. Well, you are a hopeless creature. Whatever is done for you will be money thrown away. I did think of asking your cousin, the draper, to give you a place in his shop. You might sweep it out and water the floor, and carry out the parcels – or you might walk up and down outside in uniform, and a gold band to your cap."
"Mr. Haveril – sir – I am a gentleman. Don't insult a fallen gentleman, sir; I've employed my own shop-assistants."
"But I fear he would do nothing for you."
"I came here – one day three weeks ago – you were away – I knew that. I gave Alice some secret information just for her own ear, not the kind of thing she would tell you."
"Get on, man!"
"I told her – you don't know, of course; I told her you ought to know – you suppose he's dead."
"Man! man!" said John.
"Alice's first husband – Anthony Woodroffe. You think he's dead. I told her where he was."
"Where?" Dick sat up, suddenly. "Anthony Woodroffe?"
"Why should I ask whether he's dead or alive?"
"That's what Alice said. As for me, I told her I was astonished. 'Alice,' I said, 'I did think you were respectable.'"
"What does this man mean?" asked Dick. "Anthony Woodroffe?"
"Well, boy," said John, "this chap brought us the news where he was. We thought, on the whole, there was no need to tell you – so we didn't tell you. I've been to see him. He's pretty comfortable."
"He is pretty comfortable," said Anthony's late companion between the boards. "If Abraham's bosom is better than the cold kerb, and softer than the doss-house, he is quite comfortable – for he died this morning."
"Where did he die?" asked Dick.
"In the Marylebone Workhouse Infirmary." The man got up and shuffled away. As he went out of the room, he held out his hand, and there was the chink of coin.
"My father dead!"
"Ay, lad, he's dead. What better for you and everybody? I've seen him, on and off, most days. He was a hardened sinner, if ever there was one."
"Dead! I have been taught to regard him with a kind of loathing; but – we can only have one father. Dead! In a workhouse infirmary!"
"He has left two sons. You are not the only one."
"Two sons. Yes" – concerning his half-brother Dick could not choose but speak vindictively – "the other will hear to-morrow who his father was. He shall hear also that his father is dead. He and I will be the mourners at the pauper's funeral."
CHAPTER XXIII.
ONE MORE ATTEMPT
"That man again!" Lady Woodroffe threw the card into the fire. "Tell him I will not see him. No. Let him come up."
It was Richard Woodroffe, proposing to make his last attempt. Before doing so, he had run down to Birmingham and seen the newly-found witness. He was a most trustworthy person; he picked out the photograph of Lady Woodroffe from a bundle of photographs; he remembered the case and the lady perfectly well. There was, therefore, no doubt possible that she had been in Birmingham at that time, and that she had lost her own son.
"Sir" – she sat up in her chair with angry eyes – "this is persecution! I have already given a patient hearing to your most impudent story."
"You have, Lady Woodroffe." Neither her angry looks nor her presence disconcerted him now. He was so perfectly certain of his cause, and of her shameless falsehood, that he stood before her at ease, and even with some appearance of dignity.
"I even took the trouble to invite your friend, the person for whom you profess to act, the woman with the delusion – "
"You did." He did not wait to be invited. He took a chair and sat down in it.
"In order to convince her of her absurdity."
"In which you failed. Because, after all your talk, there remained the solid fact – the death of Sir Humphrey's son."
"Sir Humphrey had one son only, who is still living. I was wrong in thinking that a plain statement of facts could move the poor mad woman. She brought with her a young person, who encouraged her to insult me. They even attempted to assault me, I believe. After the grossest abuse, they carried off a bundle of baby-linen, and things that I had treasured, for reasons which I fear you are incapable of understanding."
"No, Lady Woodroffe, on the contrary, I understand them very well. You brought them out on this occasion with the intention of showing this poor lady what I must venture to call your defiance."
"My defiance? Certainly; I accept the word. My defiance. You appear to be almost as polite as your friends, Mr. Woodroffe."
"You could not have chosen a more effective manner of announcing your intentions. 'There!' you said, 'these clothes which you made with your own fingers show that it is your boy; yet you shall not have him, and I defy you to prove that he is yours.'"
"You are correct on one point. I do defy you to prove that fact."
"Very well; I am here to-day to tell you that I have advanced one more step, and a very important step it is."
"Important or not, I defy you to prove the fact. This is not, however, exactly an acknowledgment. But I shall not argue with you; I believe I ought to hand you over at once to my lawyers, to be dealt with for conspiracy."
Richard Woodroffe smiled. "I wish you would," he said. "I should like nothing better than the publicity of an action."
"Oh," she groaned, "the pertinacity of the black-mailer!"
"I shall not be insulted, whatever you say. I am here to tell you that the proofs have now closed round you so completely, that there is not left, I verily believe, a single loophole of escape."
Lady Woodroffe rose with dignity. "You talk to me, sir – to me? – of escape and loophole. Go, sir – go to my solicitors."
"Certainly." Richard continued, however, to occupy his chair. "I will go to your solicitors whenever you please. I would rather go to them than come here. But for the sake of others, I would prefer that you should acknowledge the fact, and let the son go back to his mother. He is my own half-brother, but it is not fraternal affection that prompts me in this research, I assure you. If you refuse to hear me, I shall have to go to your solicitors through Mrs. Haveril's solicitors."
"Oh, go on, then!"
She sat down again, and crossed her hands in her lap, assuming something of the expression of a person bored to death by a very bad sermon.
"I have certain evidence in my hands, then" – he could not avoid a smile of satisfaction – "which connects you with the dead child – your child."
Lady Woodroffe caught her breath and started, as if in sudden pain.
"Go on, sir."
"I will tell you what it is. You arrived one evening at the Great Midland Hotel, Birmingham, with an Indian ayah and a child. You engaged three rooms – a sitting-room and two bedrooms; you explained that the child had been taken suddenly and alarmingly ill in the train; you sent out for a medical man; he came; he kept the maids running about with hot water, and the boys going out for remedies and prescriptions; he stayed with you all night, watching the case; in the morning your child was dead; three days afterwards you buried him. There is no monument over the child's grave, because you made an arrangement with the help of Dr. Robert Steele, and substituted another child for him, and you went away two or three days after the funeral, and disappeared. The rooms were taken in your name; the books of the hotel prove so much."
"Oh! This man is tedious – tedious – with his repetitions."
"I have been down to Birmingham again. I have now found an old waiter who remembers the circumstance perfectly well – Indian ayah and sick baby and funeral. He says he remembers you, but that I doubt. I have also found the medical man who was called in. He not only remembers the case, which he entered at the time in his note-book, but he also remembers you – "
"After four and twenty years – !"
" – and picked you out of a bundle of photographs. I think you will admit that this is an important step?"
She made no reply. Her face was drawn and twisted with the pain of listening.
"What is wanted now," Richard added, "is the connection of yourself and the child. If we fail there – "
"You will fail."
"We shall ask Sir Robert."
"You will fail."
"Then we shall give publicity to the case – I don't quite know how. All the world shall understand. You will have to explain – "
"All the world? It is the High Court of Justice that you must address. I shall look to the judge to protect me. Remember it is in my power to prove that I was in Scotland at that very time."
"On that very day when the child died?"
"On that very day," she replied, firmly and without hesitation.
"Lady Woodroffe, I cannot believe what you say."
"You can prove what you like," she repeated, "but you cannot prove that I bought the child."
"To speak plainly, I don't believe one word about your proving an alibi, Lady Woodroffe, any more than I believe that remarkably bold falsehood about the child's clothes. We shall prove the death of the child beyond a doubt. You can then, if you please, find out something that will amuse the world about Humphrey. As for the publicity – "
"Since you will only prove that a woman took my name, I care nothing. My reputation is not likely to be injured by such a story. Who will believe against my word – that I – Lady Woodroffe – a leader, sir, in a world of which you and your like know nothing – the world which advances humanity – the world of religion and of charity – the world which combats vice unceasingly – should condescend to a crime so ignoble and so purposeless?"
"I am not concerned with your credibilities, Lady Woodroffe. I learn that you made a large use of them with Mrs. Haveril, and only desisted when they proved a failure. Then you took to defiance."
"The publicity will fall upon the fashionable physician, the great man of science, the head of his profession, who will have to acknowledge that he found a child and bought it for a certain unknown person – a noble way for a young physician to earn a fee! The publicity will also fall upon the now notorious lady who has got up in the world since she sold her only child for fifty pounds, to keep it and herself out of the workhouse. No injurious publicity will fall upon me, other than the discovery of some woman who once took my name."
"You are identified by your photograph. You forget that."
"Can I? After four and twenty years? Can any woman of my age – forty-nine – be identified, by a stranger, with another woman of twenty-five or thereabouts? Now, Mr. Richard Woodroffe, what else have you got to say?"
"I have only this to say. I came here to-day, Lady Woodroffe, in the hope that what I have told you would show you the danger of your position. For the sake of this lady, who is worn almost to death by the anxiety of her situation, I hoped that you would confess."
"Confess! I to confess! You speak as if I were a common criminal."
"No," said Richard, "not common by any means."
Lady Woodroffe left her chair and stepped over to the fireplace. She looked older, and the authority went out of her very strangely. She laid her hand on the shelf, as if for support, and she spoke slowly – with no show of anger – slowly, and with sadness.
"I think, sir, I do think, that if you could consider the meaning of this charge to a person in my position, the suffering you inflict upon me, the mischief you may do to me, and I know not how many more, by persisting in this charge, you would abandon it."
"I cannot; I am acting for another."
"You are playing a game to win. I don't accuse you of sordid motives. You want to win."
"Perhaps I do."
"Have you asked yourself the simple question, whether it is possible for me to commit such a crime, and then to confess?"
"I have to win this game, Lady Woodroffe. I think I have won it."
"It is not won yet. And believe me, sir, it will not be won unless I choose."
"We can place you in a very awkward position, anyhow."
"Mr. Richard Woodroffe, you came here to make a final appeal to me; it is my turn to make a final appeal to you. I am a woman, as perhaps you know, of very considerable importance in the world. Such a charge as you bring against me would not only crush me, if it were proved, but it would dislocate or ruin a great many associations and institutions of which I am the very soul. Thousands of orphans, working girls, Magdalens, and sinners, would lose their best friend. I am their best friend; my tongue and my pen keep up the stream which flows in to their relief. Is it not possible for that woman to think of these things? Or, there is the boy. He is partly, I suppose, what he is by education, partly by his nature; take away from him his position as a gentleman of rank and family, send him out disgraced to make his own way in the world, and he will sink like lead. You call him your half-brother. Well, Mr. Woodroffe, he is not a young man of many virtues; in fact, he has many vices."
"That I can well believe."
"If he has seven devils now, after this disclosure he will have seventy-seven devils."
"That also I can well believe. But, of course, I do not think about him."
"Then, Mr. Woodroffe, can you not persuade that poor woman to go home, to be content with what she has seen and you have proved?"
"No, I cannot."
"Can you not remind her that she sold the child on the condition that she would never trouble about him, or seek to know where he might be living?"
"No, I cannot. She has seen her son; she knows who he is; she wants your acknowledgment. Give her that, and, I don't know, in fact, what will happen afterwards."
Lady Woodroffe sat down and sighed heavily. "Be it so," she said. "You will go on; you will do your worst."
Richard Woodroffe regarded her with a sense of pity, and even of respect. The woman had supported her position by a succession of shameless lies; she was now virtually confessing to him that they were lies. But she had so much to lose – her great position among religious and charitable people, her reputation, the respect which her blameless life and her great abilities had won for her. All these things were threatened.