in it, no, not so much by opening her lips for an "Amen." Nor would she speak on the way back to Court lands. Her daughter was in a flutter of alarm. By the tightening of the lips, the stiffening of the nostrils, and the hard whistling tone of the old lady's breath as blown off, it was obvious that a storm was brewing. How it would break she hardly knew. On entering the hall at Courtlands, Old Madam turned to her daughter, and said:
"Margaret, order my carriage at once."
"But, mother—what is the meaning of this? You are going to stay with us some weeks."
"Order my carriage at once."
"Stay at all events for our early dinner."
"Order my carriage, I say."
Not another word would she utter till the carriage arrived; then, as she stepped into it, she turned to Charles Baring, and said:
"Mr. Baring, never, so long as I live, shall you set foot in Lew House! A pony and groom, a seat at my table, and a pew in the parish church, and a bedroom shall be entirely and heartily at the disposal of my grandson, William. To him will I bequeath the estate. Not to you."
Then she drove away and she and Charles Baring never met again.
The old lady died in 1795, and her grandson, William, at once came into the estate as well as what remained at Staverton by bequest of Joan Gould.
When Old Madam heard of the death of her son, unmarried, at Shaldon, and without issue, she sat up in an arm-chair with high back, once upholstered with stamped and gilt leather, and which we still preserve, brooding over the question whether she should go to Bath and amuse herself there with cards, or remain at Lew and do her utmost to recover the family fortunes. The sun rose and shone in her face while still seated. She had made up her mind to the latter alternative. But that she had intended to spend her last days at Bath is apparent from the number of the little purses she had knitted, to contain the guineas she intended to venture every evening. These we still have.
In the ballroom now hang two full-length portraits that
