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Chapters (44)
  1. Lark Rise to Candleford
  2. Copyright
  3. LARK RISE
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. OVER TO CANDLEFORD
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  22. 18
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  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
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  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. CANDLEFORD GREEN
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  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
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  44. 39

Here and there the barrier of caste was overstepped. Perhaps by some young man or girl who, in advance of their time, realized that the population beyond their park gates were less “the poor” in a lump than individual men and women who happened to have been born to poverty. Of such it was sometimes said: “He’s different, Master Raymond is; you can say anything to him, he’s more like one of ourselves than one of the gentry. Makes you split your sides, he does, with some of his tales, and he’s got a feeling heart, too, and don’t button his pockets too tight. Good thing if there were more like him.” Or: “Miss Dorothy, now, she’s different. No asking questions and questions when she comes to see anybody; but she sets her down and if you’ve a mind to tell her anything, you can and know it won’t go no further. I udn’t mind seeing her come in when I was in the Godspeed of washday, and that’s saying something.”

On the other hand, there were old nurses and trusted maids who had come to be regarded as individuals and loved as true friends, irrespective of class, by those they served. And the name of “friend,” when applied to them in words, gave them a deeper satisfaction than any material benefit. A retired lady’s maid, whom Laura knew later, spoke to her many times with much feeling of what she evidently regarded as the crown of her experiences. She had been for many years maid to a titled lady moving in high society, had dressed her for royal courts, undressed and put her to bed in illness, travelled with her, indulged her innocent vanities, and knew, for she could not help knowing, being so near her person, her most intimate griefs. At last “Her Ladyship,” grown old, lay upon her deathbed and her maid, who was helping to nurse her, happened to be alone in the room with her, her relatives, none of whom were very near ones, being downstairs at dinner. “‘Raise me up,’ she said, and I raised her up, and when she put her arms round my neck to help lift her, she kissed me and said, ‘My friend,’” and Miss Wilson, twenty years after, considered that kiss and those two words a more ample reward for her years of devotion than the nice cottage and annuity she received under the will of the poor lady.

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Mrs. Herring