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Updated: June 22, 2025
Nearly every night during all those years of changing, for even faithfulness has its tides, I put the snuffbox under my pillow, and Madame de Ferrier's key spoke to my ear. I would say to myself: "The one I love gave me this key. Did I ever sit beside her on a ledge of stone overlooking a sunken garden? so near that I might have touched her! Does she ever think of the dauphin Louis? Where is she?
At the meeting a heated speech was made by a gray-haired squire, an old friend and Oxford contemporary of John Ferrier's, who declared that he had it on excellent authority that the communicated article in the Herald, which had appeared on the morning of Ferrier's sudden death, had been written by Oliver Marsham.
I cannot give the effect of the timbre of Ferrier's voice, but his virility, his majestic seriousness, just tinctured by acuteness, and his thrill of half-restrained passion, all told heavily. Slowly the party dispersed to the tents on the lawn, and many were the languidly curious inquiries made about the strange young professor who had turned missionary.
She understood that he had lost interest in politics after and in consequence of John Ferrier's death; and she knew, of course, that he had refused the Attorney-Generalship, on the ground of the treatment meted out to his old friend and chief. During the month of Oliver's second election, moreover, she had been very conscious of Sir James's hostility to her son.
Ferrier's hazel eyes, set and almost lost in spreading cheeks, dwelt upon him thoughtfully. "All right; I will think of some. You explained the position to Miss Mallory?" "No," said Marsham, shortly. "How could I?" The alternatives flew through Ferrier's mind: "Cowardice? or delicacy?" Aloud, he said: "I am afraid she will not be long in ignorance. It will be a big fight for her, too."
They say that the character is indicated by the handwriting; if so, mine is crabbed enough. January 23. Still severe frost, annoying to sore fingers. Nothing on the roll. I sat at home and wrote letters to Wilkie, Landseer, Mrs. Hughes, Charles, etc. Went out to old Mr. Ferrier's funeral, and saw the last duty rendered to my old friend, whose age was " Like a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly,"
Miss Ferrier's novels, "Inheritance" and "Marriage," were greatly admired by Scott, and now, some sixty years later, are still widely read, and receive the honor of both cheap and expensive editions.
"Well, you're not. By the way, why are you looking so wan if she is beautiful and kind?" "I didn't say she was beautiful and kind for me, did I?" "No, of course not. She has jilted you, the wretch. Your dearest Annabel will console you, Lazarre!" She clasped my arm with both hands. "Madame de Ferrier's husband is alive!" "What consolation is there in that?" "A great deal for me.
He had omitted nothing. The stolen sentences made the point, the damning point, of the article. They were not exactly quoted as Ferrier's, but they claimed to express Ferrier more closely than he had yet expressed himself. "We have excellent reason to believe that this is, in truth, the attitude of Mr. Ferrier."
Ferrier's destiny was being settled in that cataclysm, had he only known it; his pride was smitten, and he was ready to "receive the kingdom of God as a little child," to begin to learn on a level with the darkened fishermen whom he had gently patronized.
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