Jane and the Man of the Cloth

Chapter 15 By the Buddie's Noisome Banks

20 September 1804, cont.

THE RIVER BUDDIE — WHICH I SHOULD SOONER CALL A STREAM — begins in the sweet grass of the high downs above Up Lyme, and ends in the salt freshness off the Cobb; but its narrow banks are crowded with a huddle of housing, and the district bears a very ill reputation. So much I had already known; but more salacious details were imparted to me by Miss Crawford, when I called upon that lady in the guise of charity, to solicit clothing for the bereaved Tibbits — for I should not like to appear in the neighbourhood without a clear purpose, lest my visit to the widow excite local speculation.

“Maggie Tibbit?” Miss Crawford said, peering at me over her spectacles as I sat in the Darby drawing-room. “If the woman had been possessed of sense, she should have married anyone but the man she did; and having committed that folly, she should have determined to bear fewer children. There are no less than five, you will understand, and all of them decidedly ill-favoured.”

“But deprived, nonetheless, of the support of a fa-ther,” I had rejoined mildly. “Winter is coming on, Miss Crawford, and the condescension of the ladies of St. Michael's could hardly be better bestowed. Consider what Mrs. Tibbit's anxieties must be — and how slim the wretched woman's resources — with so many pitiful mouths to feed!”

“Aye, Maggie's resources are slim enough,” Miss Crawford rejoined with a snort of contempt. “She has but one, as I'm sure you'll observe, do you persist in this foolish errand.”

I made no reply, but awaited the outcome of Miss Crawford's benevolence; and in an instant, she had tidied her needlework with an air of decision, and bestowed upon her visitor another withering look.

“I will turn over some part of the clothing we hold in store, against the needs of such pathetic objects, but I cannot undertake to pay the call in your stead, Miss Austen,” she told me severely. “I truly cannot. It would appear to countenance such behaviour as Mrs. Tibbit pursues, with the church's approbation. Soon all of Lyme's degraded women will be knocking at our doors.”

“Indeed,” I replied, with a demure look and inward rejoicing; for I had no wish for Miss Crawford's company, nor the discovery of her sharp ears, as I plied my questions. It but remained to follow her creaking black skirts into Darby's offices, and to have her turn over a quantity of clean linen, dutifully mended by the dutiful Lucy Armstrong (now returned to Bath in the company of her parents), and to enquire of Miss Crawford the approximate ages and sex of the Tibbit progeny. Despite her disinclination to involve herself in Maggie Tibbit's affairs, that charitable dame revealed herself well-acquainted with them. She could recite with dispatch the intelligence I required. I paused but to wonder what knowledge of my life she had amassed all unbeknownst; and then with the profusest of thanks and my bundle of clothing, I was handed into my hack chaise, and sent speedily on my way.

THE STENCH OF THE BUDDIE EMBRACED ME WELL BEFORE I encountered its ramshackle cottages; for the river here is little more than an open sewer, that churns all manner of refuse and human waste along its course, to end in the beaches and the sea. The odours that arise from its banks must be overwhelming in the stagnant heat of summer; but I was preserved from the most unhealthful effects, by a brisk breeze and the application of a kerchief, liberally doused with lavender-water, to my nose. I had wisely donned a simple and sturdy gown — my old grey muslin, of a military cut, with the charcoal braid — my brown wool being quite sandy about the hems, the result of my Charmouth adventure, and possessed of a great slit in its backside, acquired somehow in the course of that midnight wandering. The Leghorn straw I had left behind, as too fashionable and frivolous for a charity errand; a sober closed bonnet I had adopted instead, which afforded the added benefit of shielding my features.

The cobbles of the street were few, and gaping holes pocked its surface; I saw where last week's storm had carved a rut along the verge, and the soil was much eroded. Picking my way with care, therefore, I searched about for a not unfriendly face, intending to ask the way. Several fellows lounging in doorways I swiftly discarded, as bearing too fearsome an aspect, or appearing too befuddled by drink to answer any enquiry with sense; but at last I espied a matron, with a market-basket over her arm and a cap upon her head, and an apron both tidy and white despite the squalor of her environs; and deemed her a suitable guide.

“Excuse me, madam,” I said, with a bow at once stately and condescending, as befit my role, “would you be so good as to direct me to the Tibbit lodgings?”

The woman halted in her course, and stared at me with outrage; and then, depositing a mouthful of phlegm on the paving stones at my feet, continued along her way with a sweep of skirts.

I stared after her, all amazement, then glanced swiftly about the street. We undoubtedly had been observed; and yet, the faces of the Buddie's intimates bore a carefully-shuttered ignorance. Whatever could such behaviour mean? And how was I to discover the valuable Maggie, if her neighbours proved so taciturn and hostile?

“If ye be wan tin’ the Tibbits, ye've not far to go, miss. The voice came at my very feet; and with a start of surprise, I looked down upon the bent back of a cripple, in truth not above the middle age, but from his rough appearance and apparent ill-health, seeming as ancient as a relic of Shakespeare's time. He leered up at me, head craned at an awkward angle, his gnarled fingers gripping a stave. Involuntarily, I took a step backwards, and clutched tighter at my basket of clothing — for I should not like to be taken unawares by a footpad in just such a caricature, who would leave off his martyred stance and turn his cudgel upon my head.

But no blow did I receive — only a cackle of laughter, and a rattle of indrawn breath. ‘?G Sam's long past chasin’ the likes of ye, miss. The rheumaticks've got ‘im. Not but what ye ain't a sweet bit o’ goods, and right to keep yer wits about ye.”

“The Tibbits?” I managed, by way of reply.

The creature swung his head farther down the road. “The red ‘un, with two winders what looks out onto the street. Ye'll find it, certain sure. It've got a dead pullet nailed to the door.”

I should have hastened from him as fast as my legs could carry me, but that he shuffled nearer, and held out a withered palm, grinning repulsively through all his rotten teeth. I had just enough command of my wits to find my purse, and drop a coin at his feet. This he swiftly gathered up; and his laughter followed me the length of the narrow lane.

I thus found the Tibbits’ abode, and judged it to be occupied, from the squeals and cries of children within, which were all too frequently punctuated with slaps and the swift onset of tears. It was a poor sort of place, constructed of odd bits of timber, and with a roof in sad need of pitch, and a facade that wanted paint, and a frame too prone to precarious tilting; almost I might have thought it poised to slide into the river at its back, and should misgive the effects of another storm upon its eroding foundations. The river here was narrow enough, that the houses perched on the opposite bank were but a strong man's leap away — so that the effect of the massed housing was more evocative of London's stews, than of Lyme's cheerful cottages.[65]

To my horror, a chicken indeed adorned the Tibbits’ door — and had for some time, to judge by its decayed appearance, and the foul smell that drifted from its carcass (now, do not be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat). Traces of rotten vegetable matter I also discerned upon the portal's surface, and wondered at the tyranny to which the Tibbits were subjected. Was not the loss of a father, in so public and horrible a manner, tragedy enough?

Squeamish in the extreme of knocking upon such a door, I turned to a window, but found that nothing was visible through its oilcloth; and so, after an instant's hesitation, 1 was reduced to calling towards the house.

“Widow Tibbit! Pray come into the lane! I would speak with you a moment!”

A sudden silence greeted my words — a listening silence, I was certain — and then I heard the sound of chair legs pushed back from the table, and a hoarse whisper hissed: “You there, Tom, give a look through the winder and tell us?? it ‘tis. If it be that hussy Sue Watkins, you ‘eave this tater at ‘er ‘ead!”

This last intelligence caused me to feel no little dread, and from my knowledge of small boys, and their relishing of any opportunity for battle, to consider a retreat to the porch opposite. Tom's appearance at the window, however, prevented my flight.

“Taint ‘er,” he reported over his shoulder; and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Tis a lady.”

“A lady! What, wi'out a carriage?”

The sound of feet rapidly coursing towards the door, and a swift pull to its handle, that set the crucified pullet to jiggling; and I was as urgently waved inside by a woman I assumed to be the very Maggie I sought. Without a second thought, I mounted the two steps and eased past her, blinking somewhat as my eyes adjusted to the cottage's poor light.

“Maggie Tibbit, at yer servus,” the woman said, bobbing.

“Miss Austen,” I replied, and met the timorous stares of five very dirty children. One had a hand in its mouth, another hitched continually at his trousers, and the youngest took one look at my fine figure and burst into tears.

“There, there, Jackie boy,” said Maggie abruptly, as she scooped up the screaming child and unceremoniously offered it her breast, “the lady won't bite you.”

The Widow Tibbit was a blowsy-enough figure, as I had half-expected from the nature of Miss Crawford's disapproval. Her dark curls were undone about her face, and she was arrayed in a dressing gown of soiled silk, though the morning was well-advanced. There was rouge upon her cheeks, which might have benefitted from a bath, as should the rest of her person; and a dark substance trailed down her front, that I adjudged to be snuff — though what use a woman might have for such a substance, I could hardly imagine. On her feet were satin slippers that had once been red, and once very dear; and from the cloud of fumes she breathed in my general direction, I knew her to have been indulging in brandy.

The woman was a walking advertisement for the smuggler's trade; and that her larder should boast some excellent if contraband tea, though not an ounce of oats for her children's porridge, I swiftly surmised.

“Mrs. Tibbit—” I began.

“Plain Maggie? do, now Bill's been done for,” she replied, and knocked the child from her breast with a casual blow that immediately set it to wailing. “What biz-ness ‘uv ye got wit me?”

I lifted the basket of clothing from my arm, and opened its lid. “I thought your children might benefit from these few things collected by the women of St. Michael's.”

“That Crawford bitch ‘ave sent you, ain't she?” Maggie's countenance darkened and she advanced upon me pugnaciously, her protuberant lower lip revealing some very poor teeth indeed. “Reckon she's cackling summat fearsome, in all her black feathers, now old Mag's out on the street.”

Somewhat disconcerted, I took refuge in a backwards step and a folding of my gloved hands. “I received die clothing of Miss Crawford, assuredly, as she manages St. Michael's good works — but the desire to visit, and to bestow these things upon your children, was entirely mine, I promise you, Mrs. Tibbit.”

The widow pawed through the clothing, scattering chemises and shirts with a careless disregard for the dirtiness of her floor; but in considering the grime that covered her children's bodies, I recollected that the linen should not long survive in a pristine state, and forbore to vent my outrage. The scattered goods disappeared amidst a tangle of youthful limbs, like meat torn asunder by starving wolves. “‘ere!” cried the eldest, whom I recollected to be Tom. “You've never brought us shoes!” His expression of disgust might as readily have greeted the rotten pullet nailed to his front door, and in truth, the worn leather boot he held aloft bore an ill-begotten air. But Tom need not have worried — the shoe was snatched from his fingers by a fellow urchin of indeterminate sex, arrayed in what appeared to be a fisherman's overall many sizes too large; and borne from the house with a triumphant cackle. Tom dashed into the street in pursuit, a fearsome oath emanating from his childish lips. Their mother reached for a bottle resting on the worn oak settle and took a long draught. To my relief, she did not think to offer me a similar hospitality.

“The things'll do,” she declared, and thrust the empty basket aside. “What I wants to know, miss, is why you come — when us's strangers to each other.”

“Who could be unmoved by so much misfortune, as you have lately endured, Mrs. Tibbit?”

“Oh, most o’ Lyme — and that's a fact,” she rejoined sardonically. She spared a moment to place little Jack upon the floor, and shoo the remaining two urchins towards their fellows in the street. Then she turned to me with a calculating air.

“But my troubles is none o’ yer concern, miss. What you want o’ me?”

Any further attempt at explanation on my part was immediately forestalled by the street door's being once more thrust open, to reveal a massive fellow with a belligerent face leering upon the stoop. “Eh, Mag,” he said, by way of salutation. “I've brought you summat nice.”

“Not now, Joe. I've company.”

“Company?” The fellow spat out the word like a wounded animal, and slid into the room without need of further invitation. The newcomer was burly and forceful, a fisherman from the look of his callused hands and the odour that pervaded his person, and he was clearly all but overcome with the anger engendered by his fears. It required all my fortitude not to flee through the open door, so menacing was his aspect; and yet, some sensibility that Maggie Tibbit should not be left alone with such a man, urged me to stand my ground.

“Is that Matt Hurley slidin’ up yer skirts again, and Bill not dead a fortnight?” Joe advanced upon his object, his broad hands clenching convulsively.

“You cared little enough for waitin’ yersel, for all yer talkin’. Now get out. I've a lady to visit.”

As if acknowledging my presence for the first time— though how he could have overlooked the alien fact of cleanliness in that squalid room, I do not know — Joe swung his head around and met my gaze. An instant's mortification ensued, before the fellow pulled off his cap, and shifted uneasily on his feet; and then, blushing bright red, he backed his way to the door.

“I'll be leavin’ yer, Mags, until a better time, beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” he said, and felt behind him for the latch.

“You'll be leavin’ me for good, Joe Smollet — and good riddance to ye,” Maggie shot back, lifting high her youngest, the baby Jack. “If I could count the days you've promised me that length o’ silk, as you knows I've a need fer, and taken your bit o’ cuddle—”

“I've got that silk right outside, I have, all done up in paper, like,” Joe protested, halfway to the street

A calculating look o'erspread the slattern's features. “‘Ere now, Joe, don't be so asty,” she called. “You just leave that parcel ‘ere, so's it don't go wanderin’ with the first cove as passes by, and I'll tend to you proper, I will.”

Joe shot me a glance of embarrassment, but was nonetheless unequal to the force of Maggie's charms. He ducked back inside to deposit something wrapped in heavy brown paper in the entryway. “See you, Mags,” he said, with a sheepish nod for me, and thankfully pulled-to the door to the street

“‘E's not a bad sort, is Joe.” Maggie swooped down upon the package and shoved it under a truckle bed that sagged in one corner, its covers askew. “Woman's gotta live, don't she, and all these mouths to feed?”

“Indeed,” I said. “A length of silk should go far in filling your children's stomachs.”

“S'not like I'm a-goin’ to wear it.” She sat back on her heels, face black with mistrust

“You would sell it, then?” I enquired, as suddenly enlightened.

“Joo interested?”

Here was an opening to goodwill, indeed. I surveyed the widow's countenance and considered what I could afford. “I should like to see your silk, Mrs. Tibbit”

The package was swiftly drawn forth, somewhat dusty from its brief repose beneath the bed, and the fastenings undone for my benefit. Maggie pulled out a quantity of glorious stuff, of a peach-coloured hue much like Eliza's silk, and but wanting a feathered turban to complete the effect. I felt my heart lurch — what a thing it should be, to own such a gown!

“And the usual price of Mr. Smollet's goods …?” I enquired.

Maggie smiled, and then, as if recollecting her poor teeth, raised a hand to her lips. “That's rare stuff, that is.”

“I could find as good in the shops of Pound Street.”

“Not for what I'll charge ye.”

“Which would be?” I looked at her over the fabric's edge.

“Five guineas.”

I thrust the stuff in her arms and picked up my reticule. “Ridiculous. I am no fool, Mrs. Tibbit, and should never pay for the privilege of acting like one.”

“Three, then, and that's my final offer,” Maggie said without a second thought.

I measured out the silk according to the span of my arms, and found it to be roughly fifteen yards; enough for a gown with a ravishing train, the very essence of elegant attire. With Eliza's suggestions as to cut and fashion, it should all but make my winter balls — and I knew as well as Maggie that three guineas was but a fraction of what I should pay at Mr. Milsop's, for silk more legitimately won. If my conscience was besieged at this notion, I comforted myself with another thought — three guineas should go far in feeding the little Tibbits, if the sum survived their mother's fondness for the bottle.

“Done at three guineas,” I said, arranging the silk in careful folds, “if you will tell me how you came by this stuff.”

Her eyes shifted, and she snatched back the fabric. “‘ad it off'uv Joe, same's you saw yersel.”

“And he had it for services rendered, I imagine, to the Reverend himself.”

The effect of my words was extraordinary, and beyond my expectations. Maggie Tibbit all but collapsed upon the bed, my precious peach stuff crushed in her hands, and began to shake in an alarming fashion.

“Mrs. Tibbit!” I cried. “I fear you are unwell!”

She gestured desperately beyond me, at a loss for words.

I whirled about, and espied the brandy bottle still open upon the settee, and fetched it to her side. Several swigs having been consumed by the woman, she recovered her senses enough to fix upon me baleful eyes, and say with authority, “We never mentions that Reverend's name in this Ouse.”

“But he is known to you?” I crouched down at her feet, the better to fix her gaze.

“Hah!” she ejaculated. “As if the Reverend'd be known to the likes o’ Maggie Tibbit. No one knows ‘oo ‘e is, much less me. But my Bill knew,” she added darkly. “My pore Bill saw ‘is face, I reckon, just afore ‘e died.”

“You believe the Reverend responsible for your husband's hanging?”

She nodded and affected a melancholy air.

I hesitated — aware, at the moment, of the depth of my ignorance. “Mrs. Tibbit — forgive me — but was an inquest into your husband's death recently held by the coroner Mr. Carpenter?”

Her head shot up, and her eyes glittered with malice. “Death by misadventure,” she pronounced. “As if I don't know what ‘at means. It means they ain't askin’, and nobody's steppin’ up to tell. There's no justice for the likes o’ us, miss. That's for yer coroner!” And she spat into a corner of the room.

“But how is it you believe your husband a victim of the Reverend?” I probed, after an instant's painful pause.

“I knows as he was. All on account o’ that ship what went aground last spring, and Bill never the same since.”

“Aground?” At this, I did not need to affect surprise. “One of the Reverend's vessels?”

The widow nodded. “The Royal Belle it was. Bill worked as spotter, see, at the Lookout over to Puncknowle way.[66] He was s'posed to work the signals that night, and a powerful foggy one it was. But somethin’ musta went wrong, acos he never left the Three Cups. The Belle was grounded and lost with all hands aboard. Some local boys was among the crew, and some Frenchies, too, from the clothes they was wearing when they washed up on Chesnil beach. The Reverend never forgive my Bill for tarrying over ‘is tankard, and he ‘ad ‘is blood fer it.”

With a cursory look for dirt and a stifled sigh at the inevitability of stains, I drew forward the room's one good chair and settled myself near the widow. “What happened the night of the ship's grounding, Mrs. Tibbit?”

She shrugged, and ran a broad hand through her unbound hair, the impudent belligerence overlaid, of a sudden, with profound weariness. I knew then that for all her swagger, Maggie Tibbit had not done with mourning her murdered husband. I silendy pressed her hand. “Bill ‘ud never speak of it,” she said. “No matter how much I asked. Swore he'd made a mistake, is all, same's ever'body else, and cryin’ wouldn't make it undone.”

“But did he know he was to work the smugglers’ signals that night at Puncknowle? And was his staying at the Three Cups a deliberate omission, or merely an oversight?”

“Folks ‘round ‘ere would ‘ave it he did it for blunt,” Maggie said.

“For — blunt?”

“Coin. Money. That he was paid to ground the Belle,” the woman explained patiently. “But my Bill'd never do that. He'd friends on that cutter, and they never come back. Tell that to Nancy Harding.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Tibbit, I don't—”

“Nancy's the bitch as nailed the pullet to my door. Wouldn't give ‘er the pleasure o’ takin’ it off, I wouldn't. It can stay there, and look as foolish as Nancy ‘ersel, by my mind.”

I sat back, thoroughly at sea. “And why should the woman do such a thing?”

“‘Er son Bob was on the boat. Just fifteen, ‘e was. I'm not sayin’ as she ain't got a right to mourn, same as all o’ them — but a chicken?”

“The grounding occurred last spring, you said, and yet your husband's hanging came only two weeks ago. How do you account for it?”

She shrugged, and pulled herself to her feet, the soiled dressing gown sagging about her hips. “Screwin’ up their courage, more'n likely. Nancy Harding was, for certain sure — it took er long enough to show my Bill for a coward. She only stuck that chicken there the night afore he got took.”

“As a sort of — signal?” I enquired, with sudden inspiration.

“Dunno.”

I paused for reflection, and allowed the sense of this to sink in. “You speak of your husband's being taken. Did his murderers come to this very door?”

She shook her head and her eyes filled with tears. “? was at the Three Cups, same as always, ‘cept that night ‘e din’ come ‘ome. I reckon they bamboozled ‘im on the street, when be ‘adn't much fight in im, and strung ‘im up when no one was to see.”

Remembering the image of that fateful dawn — the surf crashing whitely over the gibbet and its terrible burden— I shivered involuntarily. How horrible to meet one's end at the hands of neighbours, and to know that pleas for help will avail one nothing, when the weight of community opinion has condemned one already to death! I understood, now, the positioning of the gibbet — Bill Tibbit had been executed in the very midst of the furious waters, in a manner to recall the deaths his carelessness had caused.

“Who is likely to have served your husband so rough a justice, Mrs. Tibbit?”

She eyed me warily over the lip of her brandy bottle, which must be fast approaching its dregs. “Why d'you want to know all this? What's my Bill to you?”

I hesitated, as if in consideration of her trustworthiness, then leaned a little closer. “You may have heard of Captain Percival Fielding,” I began.

Her eyes lit up, and she licked her lips with avidity. “‘Im what got popped out on the Charmouth road.”

“Exactly so.”

“And?” She was all enthusiasm for the intelligence.

“I was on terms of some intimacy with the Captain.” I cast my eyes downwards, to suggest a nearer interest than I felt The attitude was not lost upon my interlocutor.

“Sweet on ‘im, eh? And lookin’ fer answers?” Maggie slapped her thighs with relish. “Sad to say, miss, but you won't find ‘em near my Bill.”

“Your husband never knew Captain Fielding?”

“Not as I could say.”

I allowed my disappointment to be obvious. “I had thought it possible your husband performed a job of work for the Captain….”

“And if be did?” Maggie replied, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “There's still no call to kill ‘im.”

“But did your husband do some work for Captain Fielding — in his garden perhaps?”

She shrugged, with infinite disregard. “Makes no odds. My Bill drank what little ‘is labour fetched, and me never the wiser.”

I cast about for another approach. “Did your husband claim any of the local men as particular friends, Mrs. Tibbit?”

“A few,” she replied. “Leastways, until the Royal Belle went down.”

“And might he have worked in tandem with them?”

“In what?”

“Might they have gone out to work together?”

Her expression of bewildered irritation cleared of a sudden. “Matt Hurley,” she declared.

“The man who” — I hesitated, then found more acceptable words — “the man whom Mr. Smollet seemed to find so objectionable?”

“The very one,” she replied, with a gleam of satisfaction in her eye. “‘E's a rare one, is Matty. Likes to set ‘imsel up as foreman o’ the crews, what stands out on Broad o’ Mondays, waitin’ on people's fancy.”

This took a moment to decipher. “The local men wait in gangs on Broad Street of a Monday, in the hope that someone will purchase their labour?”

“That they do. Matty styles ‘imsel a gang ‘ead, ‘e does.”

I had seen such groups of men loitering about the street corners, and thought them merely idle rogues, never realising there was a purpose to their inactivity.

At this interesting juncture, a knock unfortunately came upon the door, and the dim shape of a head appeared through the window's stained oilcloth. Joe Smollet, I supposed; and Maggie should be little likely to turn him away again. Very well — I should take my leave. But a few questions yet remained to me.

“Where might? find Matthew Hurley?” I enquired.

“The Three Cups,” the widow said, with a dubious look; “not that a lady like yoursel ‘ud go to the pub o’ nights.” She crossed to the window and squinted through its murkiness, waggling her fingers. “I'm much obliged to yer fer the kids’ things, miss, but IVe bizness that wants attendinV’

“I understand.” I rose and brushed absent-mindedly at my skirts. “Have you any idea, Mrs. Tibbit, why a white flower should be left near your husband's gibbet?”

“A white flower,” she said, staring. “What white flower?”

“A lily, I believe. You knew nothing of it?”

“Not a whisper. Coo, that's odd, that is. What'd they go puttin’ a flower by Bill fer?”

“I cannot imagine,” I replied, “though the act itself bears a decidedly melancholy aspect.”

Maggie reached for the door latch and pulled it meaningfully — to suggest, I suppose, that the interview was at a close. I stepped over little Jack, who was rolling about in the dirt with a tomcat of ferocious appearance, and opened my purse.

“The price of your silk, Mrs. Tibbit,” I said.

She turned over the peach-coloured stuff with an expression of regret, but deemed my three guineas to afford a deeper satisfaction; and so we parted, equally pleased with our bargaining. I had learned from her a little to my purpose, but hardly enough; it remained to locate the resourceful Mr. Matt Hurley, an errand for another day.

BUT THE MOST CURIOUS EVENT OF THIS MORNING'S ACTIVITY occurred as I was wending my way out of the River Buddie district. For it was then I observed the approach of a carriage, that bore a familiar coat of arms upon the door, and within its depths, a lady much veiled, as I observed upon her leaning out the window in converse with her tyger. Mrs. Barnewall, if I was not utterly mistaken, and her carriage pulled up before Maggie Tibbit's very door.