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diff --git a/5843-0.txt b/5843-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1c70b7 --- /dev/null +++ b/5843-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,24423 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Step-Mother, by Charlotte M. Yonge + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Young Step-Mother + +Author: Charlotte M. Yonge + +Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5843] +Last Updated: October 13, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER *** + + + + +Produced by Sandra Laythorpe + + + + + + +THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER + +or, A CHRONICLE OF MISTAKES + +By Charlotte M Yonge + + + Fail--yet rejoice, because no less + The failure that makes thy distress + May teach another full success. + + Nor with thy share of work be vexed + Though incomplete and even perplexed + It fits exactly to the next. + ADELAIDE A PROCTOR + + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +‘Have you talked it over with her?’ said Mr. Ferrars, as his little +slender wife met him under the beeches that made an avenue of the lane +leading to Fairmead vicarage. + +‘Yes!’ was the answer, which the vicar was not slow to understand. + +‘I cannot say I expected much from your conversation, and perhaps we +ought not to wish it. We are likely to see with selfish eyes, for what +shall we do without her?’ + +‘Dear Albinia! You always taunted me with having married your sister as +much as yourself.’ + +‘So I shall again, if you cannot give her up with a good grace.’ + +‘If I could have had my own way in disposing of her.’ + +‘Perhaps the hero of your own composition might be less satisfactory to +her than is Kendal.’ + +‘At least he should be minus the children!’ + +‘I fancy the children are one great attraction. Do you know how many +there are?’ + +‘Three; but if Albinia knows their ages she involves them in a discreet +haze. I imagine some are in their teens.’ + +‘Impossible, Winifred, he is hardly five-and-thirty.’ + +‘Thirty-eight, he said yesterday, and he married very early. I asked +Albinia if her son would be in tail-coats; but she thought I was +laughing at her, and would not say. She is quite eager at the notion of +being governess to the girls.’ + +‘She has wanted scope for her energies,’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘Even +spoiling her nephew, and being my curate, have not afforded field enough +for her spirit of usefulness.’ + +‘That is what I am afraid of.’ + +‘Of what, Winifred?’ + +‘That it is my fault. Before our marriage, you and she were the whole +world to each other; but since I came, I have seen, as you say, that the +craving for work was strong, and I fear it actuates her more than she +knows.’ + +‘No such thing. It is a case of good hearty love. What, are you afraid +of that, too?’ + +‘Yes, I am. I grudge her giving her fresh whole young heart away to a +man who has no return to make. His heart is in his first wife’s grave. +Yes, you may smile, Maurice, as if I were talking romance; but only look +at him, poor man! Did you ever see any one so utterly broken down? She +can hardly beguile a smile from him.’ + +‘His melancholy is one of his charms in her eyes.’ + +‘So it may be, as a sort of interesting romance. I am sure I pity the +poor man heartily, but to see her at three-and-twenty, with her sweet +face and high spirits, give herself away to a man who looks but half +alive, and cannot, if he would, return that full first love--have the +charge of a tribe of children, be spied and commented on by the first +wife’s relations--Maurice, I cannot bear it.’ + +‘It is not what we should have chosen,’ said her husband, ‘but it has +a bright side. Kendal is a most right-minded, superior man, and she +appreciates him thoroughly. She has great energy and cheerfulness, and +if she can comfort him, and rouse him into activity, and be the kind +mother she will be to his poor children, I do not think we ought to +grudge her from our own home.’ + +‘You and she have so strong a feeling for motherless children!’ + +‘Thinking of Kendal as I do, I have but one fear for her.’ + +‘I have many--the chief being the grandmother.’ + +‘Mine will make you angry, but it is my only one. You, who have only +known her since she has subdued it, have probably never guessed that she +has that sort of quick sensitive temper--’ + +‘Maurice, Maurice! as if I had not been a most provoking, presuming +sister-in-law. As if I had not acted so that if Albinia ever had a +temper, she must have shown it.’ + +‘I knew you would not believe me, and I really am not afraid of her +doing any harm by it, if that is what you suspect me of. No, indeed; but +I fear it may make her feel any trials of her position more acutely than +a placid person would.’ + +‘Oho! so you own there will be trials!’ + +‘My dear Winifred, as if I had not sat up till twelve last night laying +them before Albinia. How sick the poor child must be of our arguments, +when there is no real objection, and she is so much attached! Have you +heard anything about these connexions of his? Did you not write to Mrs. +Nugent? I wish she were at home.’ + +‘I had her answer by this afternoon’s post, but there is nothing to +tell. Mr. Kendal has only been settled at Bayford Bridge a few years, +and she never visited any one there, though Mr. Nugent had met Mr. +Kendal several times before his wife’s death, and liked him. Emily is +charmed to have Albinia for a neighbour.’ + +‘Does she know nothing of the Meadows’ family?’ + +‘Nothing but that old Mrs. Meadows lives in the town with one unmarried +daughter. She speaks highly of the clergyman.’ + +‘John Dusautoy? Ay, he is admirable--not that I have done more than see +him at visitations when he was curate at Lauriston.’ + +‘Is he married?’ + +‘I fancy he is, but I am not sure. There is one good friend for Albinia +any way!’ + +‘And now for your investigations. Did you see Colonel Bury?’ + +‘I did, but he could say little more than we knew. He says nothing +could be more exemplary than Kendal’s whole conduct in India, he only +regretted that he kept so much aloof from others, that his principle and +gentlemanly feeling did not tell as much as could have been wished. He +has always been wrapped up in his own pursuits--a perfect dictionary of +information.’ + +‘We had found out that, though he is so silent. I should think him a +most elegant scholar.’ + +‘And a deep one. He has studied and polished his acquirements to +the utmost. I assure you, Winifred, I mean to be proud of my +brother-in-law.’ + +‘What did you hear of the first wife?’ + +‘It was an early marriage. He went home as soon as he had sufficient +salary, married her, and brought her out. She was a brilliant dark +beauty, who became quickly a motherly, housewifely, common-place +person--I should think there had been a poet’s love, never awakened +from.’ + +‘The very thing that has always struck me when, poor man, he has tried +to be civil to me. Here is a man, sensible himself, but who has never +had the hap to live with sensible women.’ + +‘When their children grew too old for India, she came into some little +property at Bayford Bridge, which enabled him to retire. Colonel Bury +came home in the same ship, and saw much of them, liked him better and +better, and seems to have been rather wearied by her. A very good woman, +he says, and Kendal most fondly attached; but as to comparing her with +Miss Ferrars, he could not think of it for a moment. So they settled at +Bayford, and there, about two years ago, came this terrible visitation +of typhus fever.’ + +‘I remember how Colonel Bury used to come and sigh over his friend’s +illness and trouble.’ + +‘He could not help going over it again. The children all fell ill +together--the two eldest were twin boys, one puny, the other a very +fine fellow, and his father’s especial pride and delight. As so often +happens, the sickly one was spared, the healthy one was taken.’ + +‘Then Albinia will have an invalid on her hands!’ + +‘The Colonel says this Edmund was a particularly promising boy, and poor +Kendal felt the loss dreadfully. He sickened after that, and his wife +was worn out with nursing and grief, and sank under the fever at +once. Poor Kendal has never held up his head since; he had a terrible +relapse.’ + +‘And,’ said Winifred, ‘he no sooner recovers than he goes and marries +our Albinia!’ + +‘Two years, my dear.’ + +‘Pray explain to me, Maurice, why, when people become widowed in any +unusually lamentable way, they always are the first to marry again.’ + +‘Incorrigible. I meant to make you pity him.’ + +‘I did, till I found I had wasted my pity. Why could not these Meadowses +look after his children! Why must the Colonel bring him here? I believe +it was with malice prepense!’ + +‘The Colonel went to see after him, and found him so drooping and +wretched, that he insisted on bringing him home with him, and old Mrs. +Meadows and her daughter almost forced him to accept the invitation.’ + +‘They little guessed what the Colonel would be at!’ + +‘You will be better now you have the Colonel to abuse,’ said her +husband. + +‘And pray what do you mean to say to the General?’ + +‘Exactly what I think.’ + +‘And to the aunts?’ slyly asked the wife. + +‘I think I shall leave you all that correspondence. It will be too +edifying to see you making common cause with the aunts.’ + +‘That comes of trying to threaten one’s husband; and here they come,’ +said Winifred. ‘Well, Maurice, what can’t be cured must be endured. +Albinia’a heart is gone, he is a very good man, and spite of India, +first wife, and melancholy, he does not look amiss!’ + +Mr. Ferrars smiled at the chary, grudging commendation of the tall, +handsome man who advanced through the beech-wood, but it was too true +that his clear olive complexion had not the line of health, that there +was a world of oppression on his broad brow and deep hazel eyes, and +that it was a dim, dreamy, reluctant smile that was awakened by the +voice of the lady who walked by his side, as if reverencing his grave +mood. + +She was rather tall, very graceful, and well made, but her features were +less handsome than sweet, bright, and sensible. Her hair was nut-brown, +in long curled waves; her eyes, deep soft grey, and though downcast +under the new sympathies, new feelings, and responsibilities that +crowded on her, the smile and sparkle that lighted them as she blushed +and nodded to her brother and sister, showed that liveliness was the +natural expression of that engaging face. + +Say what they would, it was evident that Albinia Ferrars had cast in +her lot with Edmund Kendal, and that her energetic spirit and love of +children animated her to embrace joyfully the cares which such a choice +must impose on her. + +As might have been perceived by one glance at the figure, step, and +bearing of Mr. Ferrars, perfectly clerical though they were, he belonged +to a military family. His father had been a distinguished Peninsular +officer, and his brother, older by many years, held a command in Canada. +Maurice and Albinia, early left orphans, had, with a young cousin, been +chiefly under the charge of their aunts, Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars, +and had found a kind home in their house in Mayfair, until Maurice had +been ordained to the family living of Fairmead, and his sister had gone +to live with him there, extorting the consent of her elder brother +to her spending a more real and active life than her aunts’ round of +society could offer her. + +The aunts lamented, but they could seldom win their darling to them for +more than a few weeks at a time, even after their nephew Maurice had--as +they considered--thrown himself away on a little lively lady of Irish +parentage, no equal in birth or fortune, in their opinion, for the +grandson of Lord Belraven. + +They had been very friendly to the young wife, but their hopes had all +the more been fixed on Albinia; and even Winifred could afford them some +generous pity in the engagement of their favourite niece to a retired +East India Company’s servant--a widower with three children. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + +The equinoctial sun had long set, and the blue haze of March east +wind had deepened into twilight and darkness when Albinia Kendal found +herself driving down the steep hilly street of Bayford. The town was not +large nor modern enough for gas, and the dark street was only lighted +here and there by a shop of more pretension; the plate-glass of the +enterprising draper, with the light veiled by shawls and ribbons, the +‘purple jars,’ green, ruby, and crimson of the chemist; and the modest +ray of the grocer, revealing busy heads driving Saturday-night bargains. + +‘How well I soon shall know them all,’ said Albinia, looking at her +husband, though she knew she could not see his face, as he leant back +silently in his corner, and she tried to say no more. She was sure that +coming home was painful to him; he had been so willing to put it off, +and to prolong those pleasant seaside days, when there had been such +pleasant reading, walking, musing, and a great deal of happy silence. + +Down the hill, and a little way on level ground--houses on one side, +something like hedge or shrubbery on the other--a stop--a gate +opened--a hollow sound beneath the carriage, as though crossing a wooden +bridge--trees--bright windows--an open door--and light streaming from +it. + +‘Here is your home, Albinia,’ said that deep musical voice that she +loved the better for the subdued melancholy of the tones, and the +suppressed sigh that could not be hidden. + +‘And my children,’ she eagerly said, as he handed her out, and, +springing to the ground, she hurried to the open door opposite, +where, in the lamp-light, she saw, moving about in shy curiosity and +embarrassment, two girls in white frocks and broad scarlet sashes, and +a boy, who, as she advanced, retreated with his younger sister to the +fireplace, while the elder one, a pretty, and rather formal looking girl +of twelve, stood forward. + +Albinia held out her arms, saying, ‘You are Lucy, I am sure,’ and +eagerly kissed the girl’s smiling, bright face. + +‘Yes, I am Lucy,’ was the well-pleased answer, ‘I am glad you are come.’ + +‘I hope we shall be very good friends,’ said Albinia, with the sweet +smile that few, young or old, could resist. ‘And this is Gilbert,’ as +she kissed the blushing cheek of a thin boy of thirteen--‘and Sophia.’ + +Sophia, who was eleven, had not stirred to meet her. She alone inherited +her father’s fine straight profile, and large black eyes, but she had +the heaviness of feature that sometimes goes with very dark complexions. +The white frock did not become her brown neck and arms, her thick black +hair was arranged in too womanly a manner, and her head and face looked +too large; moreover, there was no lighting-up to answer the greeting, +and Albinia was disappointed. + +Poor child, she thought, she is feeling deeply that I am an interloper, +it will be different now her father is coming. + +Mr. Kendal was crossing the hall, and as he entered he took the hand and +kissed the forehead of each of the three, but Sophia stood with the same +half sullen indifference--it might be shyness, or sensibility. + +‘How much you are grown!’ he said, looking at the children with some +surprise. + +In fact, though Albinia knew their ages, they were all on a larger scale +than she had expected, and looked too old for the children of a man of +his youthful appearance. Gilbert had the slight look of rapid growth; +Lucy, though not so tall, and with a small, clear, bright face, had the +air of a little woman, and Sophia’s face might have befitted any age. + +‘Yes, papa,’ said Lucy; ‘Gilbert has grown an inch-and-a-half since +October, for we measured him.’ + +‘Have you been well, Gilbert?’ continued Mr. Kendal, anxiously. + +‘I have the toothache, said Gilbert, piteously. + +‘Happily, nothing more serious,’ thrust in Lucy; ‘Mr. Bowles told Aunt +Maria that he considers Gilbert’s health much improved.’ + +Albinia asked some kind questions about the delinquent tooth, but the +answers were short; and, to put an end to the general constraint, she +asked Lucy to show her to her room. + +It was a pretty bay-windowed room, and looked cheerful in the firelight. +Lucy’s tongue was at once unloosed, telling that Gilbert’s tutor, Mr. +Salsted, had insisted on his having his tooth extracted, and that he had +refused, saying it was quite well; but Lucy gave it as her opinion that +he much preferred the toothache to his lessons. + +‘Where does Mr. Salsted live?’ + +‘At Tremblam, about two miles off; Gilbert rides the pony over there +every day, except when he has the toothache, and then he stays at home.’ + +‘And what do you do?’ + +‘We went to Miss Belmarche till the end of our quarter, and since that +we have been at home, or with grandmamma. Do you _really_ mean that we +are to study with you?’ + +‘I should like it, my dear. I have been looking forward very much to +teaching you and Sophia.’ + +‘Thank you, mamma.’ + +The word was said with an effort as if it came strangely, but it +thrilled Albinia’s heart, and she kissed Lucy, who clung to her, and +returned the caress. + +‘I shall tell Gilbert and Sophy what a dear mamma you are,’ she said. +‘Do you know, Sophy says she shall never call you anything but Mrs. +Kendal; and I know Gilbert means the same.’ + +‘Let them call me whatever suits them best,’ said Albinia; ‘I had +rather they waited till they feel that they like to call me as you have +done--thank you for it, dear Lucy. You must not fancy I shall be at +all hurt at your thinking of times past. I shall want you to tell me of +them, and of your own dear mother, and what will suit papa best.’ + +Lucy looked highly gratified, and eagerly said, ‘I am sure I shall love +you just like my own mamma.’ + +‘No,’ said Albinia, kindly; ‘I do not expect that, my dear. I don’t ask +for any more than you can freely give, dear child. You must bear with +having me in that place, and we will try and help each other to +make your papa comfortable; and, Lucy, you will forgive me, if I am +impetuous, and make mistakes.’ + +Lucy’s little clear black eyes looked as if nothing like this had ever +come within her range of observation, and Albinia could sympathize with +her difficulty of reply. + +Mr. Kendal was not in the drawing-room when they re-entered, there was +only Gilbert nursing his toothache by the fire, and Sophy sitting in the +middle of the rug, holding up a screen. She said something good-natured +to each, but neither responded graciously, and Lucy went on talking, +showing off the room, the chiffonieres, the ornaments, and some pretty +Indian ivory carvings. There was a great ottoman of Aunt Maria’s work, +and a huge cushion with an Arab horseman, that Lucy would uncover, +whispering, ‘Poor mamma worked it,’ while Sophy visibly winced, and +Albinia hurried it into the chintz cover again, lest Mr. Kendal should +come. But Lucy had full time to be communicative about the household +with such a satisfied, capable manner, that Albinia asked if she had +been keeping house all this time. + +‘No; old Nurse kept the keys, and managed till now; but she went this +morning.’ + +Sophy’s mouth twitched. + +‘She was so very fond--’ continued Lucy. + +‘Don’t!’ burst out Sophy, almost the first word Albinia had heard from +her; but no more passed, for Mr. Kendal came in, and Lucy’s conversation +instantly was at an end.’ + +Before him she was almost as silent as the others, and he seldom +addressed himself to her, only inquiring once after her grandmamma’s +health, and once calling Sophy out of the way when she was standing +between the fire and--He finished with the gesture of command, whether +he said ‘Your mamma,’ none could tell. + +It was late, and the meal was not over before bed-time, when Albinia +lingered to find remedies for Gilbert’s toothache, pleased to feel +herself making a commencement of motherly care, and to meet an +affectionate glance of thanks from Mr. Kendal’s eye. Gilbert, too, +thanked her with less shyness than before, and was hopeful about the +remedy; and with the feeling of having made a beginning, she ran down +to tell Mr. Kendal that she thought he had hardly done justice to the +children--they were fine creatures--something so sweet and winning about +Lucy--she liked Gilbert’s countenance--Sophy must have something deep +and noble in her. + +He lifted his head to look at her bright face, and said, ‘They are very +much obliged to you.’ + +‘You must not say that, they are my own.’ + +‘I will not say it again, but as I look at you, and the home to which I +have brought you, I feel that I have acted selfishly.’ + +Albinia timidly pressed his hand, ‘Work was always what I wished,’ she +said, ‘if only I could do anything to lighten your grief and care.’ + +He gave a deep, heavy sigh. Albinia felt that if he had hoped to have +lessened the sadness, he had surely found it again at his own door. He +roused himself, however, to say, ‘This is using you ill, Albinia; no one +is more sensible of it than I am.’ + +‘I never sought more than you can give,’ she murmured; ‘I only wish to +do what I can for you, and you will not let me disturb you.’ + +‘I am very grateful to you,’ was his answer; a sad welcome for a bride. +‘And these poor children will owe everything to you.’ + +‘I wish I may do right by them,’ said Albinia, fervently. + +‘The flower of the flock’--began Mr. Kendal, but he broke off at once. + +Albinia had told Winifred that she could bear to have his wife’s memory +first with him, and that she knew that she could not compensate to him +for his loss, but the actual sight of his dejection came on her with +a chill, and she had to call up all her energies and hopes, and, still +better, the thought of strength not her own, to enable her to look +cheerfully on the prospect. Sleep revived her elastic spirits, and with +eager curiosity she drew up her blind in the morning, for the first view +of her new home. + +But there was a veil--moisture made the panes resemble ground glass, and +when she had rubbed that away, and secured a clear corner, her range of +vision was not much more extensive. She could only see the grey outline +of trees and shrubs, obscured by the heavy mist; and on the lawn below, +a thick cloud that seemed to hang over a dark space which she suspected +to be a large pond. + +‘There is very little to be gained by looking out here!’ Albinia +soliloquized. ‘It is not doing the place justice to study it on a misty, +moisty morning. It looks now as if that fever might have come bodily out +of the pond. I’ll have no more to say to it till the sun has licked +up the fog, and made it bright! Sunday morning--my last Sunday without +school-teaching I hope! I famish to begin again--and I will make time +for that, and the girls too! I am glad he consents to my doing whatever +I please in that way! I hope Mr. Dusautoy will! I wish Edmund knew him +better--but oh! what a shy man it is!’ + +With a light step she went down-stairs, and found Mr Kendal waiting for +her in the dining-room, his face brightening as she entered. + +‘I am sorry Bayford should wear this heavy cloud to receive you,’ he +said. + +‘It will soon clear,’ she answered, cheerfully. ‘Have you heard of poor +Gilbert this morning?’ + +‘Not yet.’ Then, after a pause, ‘I have generally gone to Mrs. Meadows +after the morning service,’ he said, speaking with constraint. + +‘You will take me?’ said Albinia. ‘I wish it, I assure you.’ + +It was evidently what he wished her to propose, and he added, ‘She must +never feel herself neglected, and it will be better at once.’ + +‘So much more cordial,’ said Albinia. ‘Pray let us go!’ + +They were interrupted by the voices of the girls--not unpleasing voices, +but loud and unsubdued, and with a slight tone of provincialism, which +seemed to hurt Mr. Kendal’s ears, for he said, ‘I hope you will tune +those voices to something less unlike your own.’ + +As he spoke, the sisters appeared in the full and conscious rustling +of new lilac silk dresses, which seemed to have happily carried off all +Sophy’s sullenness, for she made much more brisk and civil answers, and +ran across the room in a boisterous manner, when her father sent her to +see whether Gilbert were up. + +There was a great clatter, and Gilbert chased her in, breathless and +scolding, but the tongues were hushed before papa, and no more was heard +than that the tooth was better, and had not kept him awake. Lucy seemed +disposed to make conversation, overwhelming Albinia with needless +repetitions of ‘Mamma dear,’ and plunging into what Mrs. Bowles and Miss +Goldsmith had said of Mr. Dusautoy, and how he kept so few servants, +and the butcher had no orders last time he called. Aunt Maria thought he +starved and tyrannized over that poor little sickly Mrs. Dusautoy. + +Mr. Kendal said not one word, and seemed not to hear. Albinia felt as if +she had fallen into a whirlpool of gossip; she looked towards him, and +hoped to let the conversation drop, but Sophy answered her sister, +and, at last, when it came to something about what Jane heard from +Mrs. Osborn’s Susan, Albinia gently whispered, ‘I do not think this +entertains your papa, my dear,’ and silence sank upon them all. + +Albinia’s next venture was to ask about that which had been her Sunday +pleasure from childhood, and she turned to Sophy, and said, ‘I suppose +you have not begun to teach at the school yet!’ + +Sophy’s great eyes expanded, and Lucy said, ‘Oh dear mamma! nobody does +that but Genevieve Durant and the monitors. Miss Wolte did till Mr. +Dusautoy came, but she does not approve of him.’ + +‘Lucy, you do not know what you are saying,’ said Mr. Kendal, and again +there was an annihilating silence, which Albinia did not attempt to +disturb. + +At church time, she met the young ladies in the hall, in pink bonnets +and sea-green mantillas over the lilac silks, all evidently put on for +the first time in her honour, an honour of which she felt herself the +less deserving, as, sensible that this was no case for bridal display, +she wore a quiet dark silk, a Cashmere shawl, and plain straw bonnet, +trimmed with white. + +With manifest wish for reciprocity, Lucy fell into transports over the +shawl, but gaining nothing by this, Sophy asked if she did not like the +mantillas? Albinia could only make civility compatible with truth by +saying that the colour was pretty, but where was Gilbert? He was on a +stool before the dining-room fire, looking piteous, and pronouncing his +tooth far too bad for going to church, and she had just time for a fresh +administration of camphor before Mr. Kendal came forth from his study, +and gave her his arm. + +The front door opened on a narrow sweep, the river cutting it off from +the road, and crossed by two wooden bridges, beside each of which stood +a weeping-willow, budding with fresh spring foliage. Opposite were +houses of various pretentious, and sheer behind them rose the steep +hill, with the church nearly at the summit, the noble spire tapering +high above, and the bells ringing out a cheerful chime. The mist had +drawn up, and all was fresh and clear. + +‘There go Lizzie and Loo!’ cried Lucy, ‘and the Admiral and Mrs. Osborn. +I’ll run and tell them papa is come home.’ + +Sophy was setting off also, but Mr. Kendal stopped them, and lingered a +moment or two, making an excuse of looking for a needless umbrella, +but in fact to avoid the general gaze. As if making a desperate plunge, +however, and looking up and down the broad street, so as to be secure +that no acquaintance was near, he emerged with Albinia from the gate, +and crossed the road as the chime of the bells changed. + +‘We are late,’ he said. ‘You will prefer the speediest way, though it is +somewhat steep.’ + +The most private way, Albinia understood, and could also perceive that +the girls would have liked the street which sloped up the hill, and +thought the lilac and green insulted by being conducted up the steep, +irregular, and not very clean bye-lane that led directly up the ascent, +between houses, some meanly modern, some picturesquely ancient, with +stone steps outside to the upper story, but all with far too much of +pig-stye about them for beauty or fragrance. Lucy held up her skirts, +and daintily picked her way, and Albinia looked with kindly eyes at +the doors and windows, secretly wondering what friends she should find +there. + +The lane ended in a long flight of more than a hundred shallow steps cut +out in the soft stone of the hill, with landing-places here and there, +whence views were seen of the rich meadow-landscape beyond, with +villages, orchards, and farms, and the blue winding river Baye in +the midst, woods rising on the opposite side under the soft haze of +distance. On the other side, the wall of rock was bordered by gardens, +with streamers of ivy or periwinkle here and there hanging down. + +The ascent ended in an old-fashioned stone stile; and here Sophy, +standing on the step, proclaimed, with unnecessary loudness, that Mr. +Dusautoy was carrying Mrs. Dusautoy across the churchyard. This had the +effect of making a pause, but Albinia saw the rector, a tall, powerful +man, rather supporting than actually carrying, a little fragile form +to the low-browed door leading into the chancel on the north side. The +church was handsome, though in the late style, and a good deal misused +by eighteenth-century taste; and Albinia was full of admiration as Mr. +Kendal conducted her along the flagged path. + +She was rather dismayed to find herself mounting the gallery stairs, and +to emerge into a well-cushioned abode, with the shield-bearing angel +of the corbel of an arch all to herself, and a very good view of the +cobwebs over Mr. Dusautoy’s sounding-board. It seemed to suit all +parties, however, for Lucy and Sophia took possession of the forefront, +and their father had the inmost corner, where certainly nobody could see +him. + +Just opposite to Albinia was a mural tablet, on which she read what +revealed to her more of the sorrows of her household than she had +guessed before: + + + ‘To the memory of Lucy, the beloved wife of Edmund Kendal. + Died February 18th, 1845, aged 35 years. + + Edmund Meadows Kendal, born January 20th, 1834. + Died February 10th, 1845. + + Maria Kendal, born September 5th, 1840. + Died September 14th, 1840. + + Sarah Anne Kendal, born October 3rd, 1841. + Died November 20th, 1843. + + John Augustus Kendal, born January 4th, 1842. + Died July 6th, 1842. + + Anne Maria Kendal, born June 12th, 1844. + Died June 19th, 1844.’ + + +Then followed, in the original Greek, the words, ‘Because I live, ye +shall live also.’ + +Four infants! how many hopes laid here! All the English-born children +of the family had died in their cradles, and not only did compassion for +the past affect Albinia, as she thought of her husband’s world of hidden +grief, but a shudder for the future came over her, as she remembered +having read that such mortality is a test of the healthiness of a +locality. What could she think of Willow Lawn? It was with a strong +effort that she brought her attention back to Him Who controlleth the +sickness that destroyeth at noon-day. + +But Mr. Dusautoy’s deep, powerful intonations roused her wandering +thoughts, and she was calmed and reassured by the holy Feast, in which +she joined with her husband. + +Mr. Kendal’s fine face was calm and placid, as best she loved to look +upon it, when they came out of church, and she was too happy to disturb +the quiet by one word. Lively and animated as she was, there was a sort +of repose and enjoyment in the species of respect exacted by his grave +silent demeanour. + +If this could only have lasted longer! but he was taking her along an +irregular street, and too soon she saw a slight colour flit across his +cheek, and his eyebrows contract, as he unlatched a green door in a high +wall, and entered a little flagged court, decorated by a stand destined +for flowers. + +Albinia caught the blush, and felt more bashful than she had believed +was in her nature, but she had a warm-hearted determination that she +would work down prejudices, and like and be liked by all that concerned +him and his children. So she smiled at him, and went bravely on into the +matted hall and up the narrow stairs, and made a laughing sign when he +looked back at her ere he tapped at the sitting-room door. + +It was opened from within before he could turn the handle, and a shrill +voice, exaggerating those of the girls, showered welcomes with such +rapidity, that Albinia was seated at the table, and had been helped +to cold chicken, before she could look round, or make much answer to +reiterations of ‘so very kind.’ + +It was a small room, loaded with knicknacks and cushions, like a +repository of every species of female ornamental handiwork in vogue for +the last half century, and the luncheon-tray in the middle of all, ready +for six people, for the two girls were there, and though Mr. Kendal +stood up by the fire, and would not eat, he and his black image, +reflected backwards and forwards in the looking-glass and in the little +round mirror, seemed to take up more room than if he had been seated. + +Mrs. Meadows was slight, shrunken, and gentle-looking, with a sweet tone +in her voice, great softness of manner, and pretty blue eyes. Albinia +only wished that she had worn mourning, it would have been so much more +becoming than bright colours, but that was soon overlooked in gratitude +for her affectionate reception, and in the warmth of feeling excited by +her evident fondness and solicitude for Mr. Kendal. + +Miss Meadows was gaily dressed in youthful fashion, such as evidently +had set her off to advantage when she had been a bright, dark, handsome +girl; but her hair was thin, her cheeks haggard, the colour hardened, +and her forty years apparent, above all, in an uncomfortable furrow on +the brow and round the mouth; her voice had a sharp distressed tone that +grated even in her lowest key, and though she did not stammer, she could +never finish a sentence, but made half-a-dozen disjointed commencements +whenever she spoke. Albinia pitied her, and thought her nervous, for she +was painfully assiduous in waiting on every one, scarcely sitting down +for a minute before she was sure that pepper, or pickle, or new bread, +or stale bread, or something was wanted, and squeezing round the table +to help some one, or to ring the bell every third minute, and all in +a dress that had a teasing stiff silken rustle. She offered Mr. Kendal +everything in the shape of food, till he purchased peace by submitting +to take a hard biscuit, while Albinia was not allowed her glass of water +till all manner of wines, foreign and domestic, had been tried upon her +in vain. + +Conversation was not easy. Gilbert was inquired after, and his aunt +spoke in her shrill, injured note, as she declared that she had done her +utmost to persuade him to have the tooth extracted, and began a history +of what the dentist ought to have done five years ago. + +His grandmother softly pitied him, saying poor little Gibbie was such +a delicate boy, and required such careful treatment; and when Albinia +hoped that he was outgrowing his ill-health, she was amused to find that +desponding compassion would have been more pleasing. + +There had been a transaction about a servant in her behalf: and Miss +Meadows insisted on hunting up a note, searching all about the room, and +making her mother and Sophy move from the front of two table-drawers, a +disturbance which Sophy did not take with such placid looks as did her +grandmother. + +The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at which there was a general +exclamation. + +‘I wonder what is the history of the name,’ said Albinia; ‘it sounds +like nothing but the diminutive of ewer. I hope she will not be the +little pitcher with long ears.’ + +Mr. Kendal looked as much amused as he ever did, but no one else gave +the least token of so much as knowing what she meant, and she felt as if +she had been making a foolish attempt at wit. + +‘You need not call her so,’ was all that Mrs. Meadows said. + +‘I do not like calling servants by anything but their true names,’ +answered Albinia; ‘it does not seem to me treating them with proper +respect to change their names, as if we thought them too good for them. +It is using them like slaves. + +Lucy exclaimed, ‘Why! grandmamma’s Betty is really named Philadelphia.’ + +Albinia laughed, but was disconcerted by finding that she had really +given annoyance. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘It is only a fancy +of my own. I am afraid that I have many fancies for my friends to +bear with. You see I have so fine a name of my own, that I have a +fellow-feeling for those under the same affliction; and I believe some +servants like an alias rather than be teased for their finery, so I +shall give Miss Eweretta her choice between that and her surname. + +The old lady looked good-natured, and that matter blew over; but Miss +Meadows fell into another complication of pros and cons about writing +for the woman’s character, looking miserably harassed whether she should +write, or Mrs. Kendal, before she had been called upon. + +Albinia supposed that Mrs. Wolfe might call in the course of the week; +but this Miss Meadows did not know, and she embarked in so many half +speeches, and looked so mysterious and significant at her mother, that +Albinia began to suspect that some dreadful truth was behind. + +‘Perhaps,’ said the old lady, ‘perhaps Mrs. Kendal might make it +understood through you, my dear Maria, that she is ready to receive +visits.’ + +‘I suppose they must be!’ said Albinia. + +‘You see, my dear, people would be most happy, but they do not know +whether you have arrived. You have not appeared at church, as I may +say.’ + +‘Indeed,’ said Albinia, much diverted by her new discoveries in the +realms of etiquette, ‘I was rather in a cupboard, I must allow. Ought we +to have sailed up the aisle in state in the Grandison pattern? Are you +ready?’ and she glanced up at her husband, but he only half heard. + +‘No,’ said Miss Meadows, fretfully; ‘but you have not appeared as a +bride. The straw bonnet--you see people cannot tell whether you are not +incog, as yet--’ + +To refrain from laughing was impossible. ‘My tarn cap,’ she exclaimed; +‘I am invisible in it! What shall I do? I fear I shall never be +producible, for indeed it is my very best, my veritable wedding-bonnet!’ + +Lucy looked as if she thought it not worth while to be married for no +better a bonnet than that. + +‘Absurdity!’ said Mr. Kendal. + +If he would but have given a good hearty laugh, thought Albinia, what a +consolation it would be! but she considered herself to have had a lesson +against laughing in that house, and was very glad when he proposed going +home. He took a kind, affectionate leave of the old lady, who again +looked fondly in big face, and rejoiced in his having recovered his +looks. + +As they arrived at home, Lucy announced that she was just going to speak +to Lizzie Osborn, and Sophy ran after her to a house of about the same +degree as their own, but dignified as Mount Lodge, because it stood +on the hill side of the street, while Mr. Kendal’s house was for more +gentility called ‘Willow Lawn.’ Gilbert was not to be found; but at four +o’clock the whole party met at dinner, before the evening service. + +Gilbert could eat little, and on going back to the fire to roast his +cheek instead of going to church, was told by his father, ‘I cannot +have this going on. You must go to Mr. Bowles directly after breakfast +to-morrow, have the tooth drawn, and then go on to Mr. Salsted’s. + +The tone was one that admitted of no rebellion. If Mr. Kendal interfered +little, his authority was absolute where he did interfere, and Albinia +could only speak a few kind words of encouragement, but the boy was +vexed and moody, seemed half asleep when they came home, and went to bed +as soon as tea was over. + +Sophy went to bed too, Mr. Kendal went to his study, and Albinia, after +this day of novelty and excitement, drew her chair to the fire, and as +Lucy was hanging wearily about, called her to her side, and made her +talk, believing that there was more use in studying the girl’s character +than even in suggesting some occupation, though that was apparently the +great want of the whole family on Sunday. + +Lucy’s first confidence was that Gilbert had not been out alone, but +with that Archibald Tritton. Mr. Tritton had a great farm, and was a +sort of gentleman, and Gilbert was always after that Archy. She thought +it ‘very undesirable,’ and Aunt Maria had talked to him about it, but he +never listened to Aunt Maria. + +Albinia privately thought that it must be a severe penance to listen to +Aunt Maria, and took Gilbert’s part. She supposed that he must be very +solitary; it must be a melancholy thing to be a twin left alone. + +‘And Edmund, dear Edmund, was always so kind and so fond of Gilbert!’ +said Lucy. ‘You would not have thought they were twins, Edmund was so +much the tallest and strongest. It seemed so odd that Gilbert should +have got over it, when he did not. Should you like to hear all about it, +mamma?’ + +It was Albinia’s great wish to lift that dark veil, and Lucy began, with +as much seriousness and sadness as could co-exist with the satisfaction +and importance of having to give such a narration, and exciting emotion +and pity. It was remarkable how she managed to make herself the heroine +of the story, though she had been sent out of the house, and had escaped +the infection. She spoke in phrases that showed that she had so often +told the story as to have a set form, caught from her elders, but still +it had a deep and intrinsic interest for the bride, that made her sit +gazing into the fire, pressing Lucy’s hand, and now and then sighing +and shuddering slightly as she heard how there had been a bad fever +prevailing in that lower part of the town, and how the two boys were +both unwell one damp, hot autumn morning, and Lucy dwelt on the escape +it had been that she had not kissed them before going to school. Sophy +had sickened the same day, and after the tedious three weeks, when +father and mother were spent with attendance on the three, Edmund, after +long delirium, had suddenly sunk, just as they had hopes of him; and +the same message that told Lucy of her brother’s death, told her of the +severe illness of both parents. + +The disease had done the work rapidly on the mother’s exhausted frame, +and she was buried a week after her boy. Lucy had seen the procession +from the window, and thought it necessary to tell how she had cried. + +Mr. Kendal’s had been a long illness; the first knowledge of his loss +had caused a relapse, and his recovery had long been doubtful. As soon +as the children were able to move, they were sent with Miss Meadows to +Ramsgate, and Lucy had joined them there. + +‘The day before I went, I saw papa,’ she said. ‘I had gone home for some +things that I was to take, and his room door was open, so he saw me on +the stairs, and called me, for there was no fear of infection then. Oh, +he was so changed! his hair all cut off, and his cheeks hollow, and he +was quite trembling, as he lay back on pillows in the great arm-chair. +You can’t think what a shock it was to me to see him in such a state. +He held out his arms, and I flung mine round his neck, and sobbed and +cried. And he just said, so faintly, “Take her away, Maria, I cannot +bear it.” I assure you I was quite hysterical.’ + +‘You must have wished for more self-command,’ said Albinia, disturbed by +Lucy’s evident pleasure in having made a scene. + +‘Oh, but it was such a shock, and such a thing to see the house all +empty and forlorn, with the windows open, and everything so still! Miss +Belmarche cried too, and said she did not wonder my feelings overcame +me, and _she_ did not see papa.’ + +‘Ah! Lucy,’ said Albinia, fervently, ‘how we must try to make him happy +after all that he has gone through!’ + +‘That is what grandmamma said when she got his letter. “I would be glad +of anything,” she said, “that would bring back a smile to him.” And Aunt +Maria said she had done her best for him, but he must consult his own +happiness; and so I say. When people talk to me, I say that papa is +quite at liberty to consult his own happiness.’ + +‘Thank you.’ + +Lucy did not understand the tone, and went on patronizing. ‘And if they +say you look younger than they expected, I don’t object to that at all. +I had rather you were not as old as Aunt Maria, or Miss Belmarche.’ + +‘Who thinks me so young?’ + +‘Oh! Aunt Maria, and grandmamma, and Mrs. Osborn, and all; but I don’t +mind that, it is only Sophy who says you look like a girl. Aunt Maria +says Sophy has an unmanageable temper.’ + +‘Don’t you think you can let me find that out for myself?’ + +‘I thought you wanted me to tell you about everybody.’ + +‘Ah! but tell me of the good in your brother and sister.’ + +‘I don’t know how,’ said Lucy. ‘Gilbert is so tiresome, and so is Sophy. +I heard Mary telling Jane, “I’m sure the new missus will have a heavy +handful of those two.”’ + +‘And what of yourself?’ said Albinia. + +‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said Lucy, modestly. + +Mr. Kendal came in, and as Albinia looked at his pensive brow, she was +oppressed by the thought of his sufferings in that dreary convalescence. +At night, when she looked from her window, the fog hung white, like +mildew over the pond, and she could not reason herself out of a spectral +haunting fancy that sickness lurked in the heavy, misty atmosphere. She +dreamt of it and the four babies, started, awoke, and had to recall +all her higher trust to enable her vigour to chase off the oppressive +imagination. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + +Fog greeted Mrs. Kendal’s eyes as she rose, and she resolved to make +an attack on the pond without loss of time. But Mr. Kendal was absorbed +nearly all breakfast-time in a letter from India, containing a scrap in +some uncouth character. As he finished his last cup of tea, he looked +up and said, ‘A letter from my old friend Penrose, of Bombay--an +inscription in the Salsette caves.’ + +‘Have you seen the Salsette caves? + +‘Yes.’ + +She was longing to hear about them, but his horse was announced. + +‘You said you would be engaged in the morning while I ride out, +Albinia?’ he said, ‘I shall return before luncheon. Gilbert, you had +better go at once to Mr. Bowles. I shall order your pony to be ready +when you come back.’ + +There was not a word of remonstrance, though the boy looked very +disconsolate, and began to murmur the moment his father had gone. +Albinia, who had regarded protection at a dentist’s one of the offices +of the head of a family, though dismayed at the task, told Gilbert that +she would come with him in a moment. The girls exclaimed that no one +thought of going with him, and fearing she had put an affront on his +manliness, she asked what he would like, but could get no answer, only +when Lucy scolded him for lingering, he said, ‘I thought _she_ was going +with me.’ + +‘Amiable,’ thought Albinia, as she ran up to put on her bonnet; ‘but I +suppose toothache puts people out of the pale of civilization. And if he +is thankless, is not that treating me more like a mother?’ + +Perhaps he had accepted her escort in hopes of deferring the evil hour, +for he seemed discomfited to see her so quickly ready, and not grateful +to his sisters, who hurried them by saying that Mr. Bowles would be gone +out upon his rounds. + +Mr. Bowles was amazed at the sight of Mrs. Kendal, and so elaborate in +compliments and assurances that Mrs. Bowles would do herself the honour +of calling, that Albinia, pitying Gilbert, called his attention back. + +With him the apothecary was peremptory and facetious. ‘He had expected +that he should soon see him after his papa’s return!’ And with a +‘soon be over,’ he set him down, and Albinia bravely stood a desperate +wringing of her hand at the tug of war. She was glad she had come, for +the boy suffered a good deal, and was faint, and Mr. Bowles pronounced +his mouth in no state for a ride to Tremblam. + +‘I must go,’ said Gilbert, as they walked home, ‘I wish papa would +listen to anything.’ + +‘He would not wish you to hurt yourself.’ + +‘When papa says a thing--’ began Gilbert. + +‘Well, Gilbert, you are quite right, and I hope you don’t think I +mean to teach you disobedience. But I do desire you, on my own +responsibility, not to go and catch an inflammation in your jaw. I’ll +undertake papa.’ + +Gilbert at once became quite another creature. He discoursed so much, +that she had to make him restore the handkerchief to his mouth; he held +open the gate, showed her a shoal of minnows, and tried to persuade her +to come round the garden before going in, but she clapped her hands +at him, and hunted him back into the warm room, much impressed and +delighted by his implicit obedience to his father. With Lucy and Sophy, +his remaining seemed likewise to make a great sensation; they looked at +Mrs. Kendal and whispered, and were evidently curious as to the result +of her audacity. Albinia, who had grown up with her brother Maurice and +cousin Frederick, was more used to boys than to girls, and was already +more at ease with her son than her daughters. + +Gilbert lent a ready hand with hammer and chisel, and boxes were opened, +to the great delight and admiration of the girls. They were all very +happy and busy setting things to rights, but Albinia was in difficulty +how to bestow her books. There was an unaccountable scarcity both of +books and book-cases; none were to be seen except that, in a chiffoniere +in the drawing-room, there was a row in gilded bindings, chiefly Pope, +Gray, and the like; and one which Albinia took out had pages which +stuck together, a little pale blue string, faded at the end, and in the +garlanded fly-leaf the inscription, ‘To Miss Lucy Meadows, the reward of +good conduct, December 20th, 1822.’ The book seemed rather surprised at +being opened, and Albinia let it close itself as Lucy said, ‘Those are +poor mamma’s books, all the others are in the study. Come in, and I’ll +show you.’ + +She threw open the door, and Albinia entered. The study was shaded with +a mass of laurels that kept out the sun, and made it look chill and sad, +and the air in it was close. The round library-table was loaded with +desks, pocket-books, and papers, the mantelpiece was covered with +letters, and book-shelves mounted to the ceiling, filled with the +learned and the poetical of new and old times. + +Over the fireplace hung what it needed not Lucy’s whisper to point out, +as ‘Poor mamma’s picture.’ It represented a very pretty girl, with +dark eyes, brilliant colour, and small cherry mouth, painted in the +exaggerated style usually called ‘ridiculously like.’ + +Albinia’s first feeling was that there was nothing in herself that could +atone for the loss of so fair a creature, and the thought became more +oppressive as she looked at a niche in the wall, holding a carved +sandal-wood work-box, with a silver watch lying on it. + +‘Poor Edmund’s watch,’ said Lucy. ‘It was given to him for a reward just +before he was ill.’ + +Albinia tried to recover composure by reading the titles of the books. +Suddenly, Lucy started and exclaimed, ‘Come away. There he is!’ + +‘Why come away?’ said Albinia. + +‘I would not have him find me there for all the world.’ + +In all her vexation and dismay, Albinia could not help thinking of +Bluebeard’s closet. Her inclination was to stay where she was, and take +her chance of losing her head, yet she felt as if she could not bear to +be found invading a sanctuary of past recollections, and was relieved to +find that it was a false alarm, though not relieved by the announcement +that Admiral and Mrs. Osborn and the Miss Osborns were in the +drawing-room. + +‘Before luncheon--too bad!’ she exclaimed, as she hurried upstairs to +wash off the dust of unpacking. + +Ere she could hurry down, there was another inundation streaming across +the hall, Mrs. Drury and three Miss Drurys, who, as she remembered, when +they began to kiss her, were some kind of cousins. + +There was talk, but Albinia could not give entire attention; she was +watching for Mr. Kendal’s return, that she might guard Gilbert from his +displeasure, and the instant she heard him, she sprang up, and flew into +the hall. He could not help brightening at the eager welcome, but when +she told him of Mr. Bowles’ opinion, he looked graver, and said, ‘I fear +you must not always attach credit to all Gilbert’s reports.’ + +‘Mr. Bowles told me himself that he must run no risk of inflammation.’ + +‘You saw Mr. Bowles?’ + +‘I went with Gilbert.’ + +‘You? I never thought of your imposing so unpleasant a task on yourself. +I fear the boy has been trespassing on your kindness.’ + +‘No, indeed, he never asked me, but--’ with a sort of laugh to hide the +warmth excited by his pleased, grateful look, ‘I thought it all in the +day’s work, only natural--’ + +She would have given anything to have had time to enjoy his epanchement +de coeur at those words, bit she was obliged to add, ‘Alas! there’s all +the world in the drawing-room!’ + +‘Who?’ + +‘Osborns and Drurys.’ + +‘Do you want me?’ + +‘I ran away on the plea of calling you.’ + +‘I’ll never do so again,’ was her inward addition, as his countenance +settled into the accustomed fixed look of abstraction, and as an +unwilling victim he entered the room with her, and the visitors were +‘dreadful enough’ to congratulate him. + +Albinia knew that it must be so unpleasant to him, that she blushed up +to the roots of her hair, and could not look at anybody. + +When she recovered, the first comers were taking leave, but the second +set stayed on and on till past luncheon-time, and far past her patience, +before the room was at last cleared. + +Gilbert hurried in, and was received by his father with, ‘You are very +much obliged to her!’ + +‘Indeed I am,’ said Gilbert, in a winning, pleasant manner. + +‘I don’t want you to be,’ said Albinia, affectionately laying her arm +on his shoulder. ‘And now for luncheon--I pitied you, poor fellow; I +thought you must have been famished.’ + +‘Anything not to have all the Drurys at luncheon,’ said Gilbert, +confidentially, ‘I had begun to wish myself at Tremblam.’ + +‘By the bye,’ said Mr. Kendal, waking as he sat down at the bottom of +the table, ‘how was it that the Drurys did not stay to luncheon?’ + +‘Was that what they were waiting for?’ exclaimed Albinia. ‘Poor people, +I had no notion of that.’ + +‘They do have luncheon here in general,’ said Mr. Kendal, as if not +knowing exactly how it came to pass. + +‘O yes,’ said Lucy; ‘Sarah Anne asked me whether we ate wedding-cake +every day.’ + +‘Poor Miss Sarah Anne!’ said Albinia, laughing. ‘But one cannot help +feeling inhospitable when people come so unconscionably early, and cut +up all one’s morning.’ + +The door was again besieged by visitors, just as they were all going out +to make the round of the garden, and it was not till half-past four +that the succession ceased, and Albinia was left to breathe freely, and +remember how often Maurice had called her to order for intolerance of +morning calls. + +‘And not the only people I cared to see,’ she said, ‘the Dusautoys and +Nugents. But they have too much mercy to call the first day.’ + +Mr. Kendal looked as if his instinct were drawing him study-wards, +but Albinia hung on his arm, and made him come into the garden. Though +devoid of Winifred’s gardening tastes, she was dismayed at the untended +look of the flower-beds. The laurels were too high, and seemed to choke +the narrow space, and the turf owed its verdant appearance to damp moss. +She had made but few steps before the water squished under her feet, +and impelled her to exclaim, ‘What a pity this pond should not be filled +up!’ + +‘Filled up!--’ + +‘Yes, it would be so much less damp. One might drain it off into the +river, and then we should get rid of the fog.’ + +And she began actively to demonstrate the convenient slope, and the +beautiful flower-bed that might be made in its place. Mr. Kendal +answered with a few assenting sounds and complacent looks, and Albinia, +accustomed to a brother with whom to assent was to act, believed the +matter was in train, and that pond and fever would be annihilated. + +The garden opened into a meadow with a causeway leading to a canal bank, +where there was a promising country walk, but the cruel visitors had +left no time for exploring, and Albinia had to return home and hurry up +her arrangements before there was space to turn round in her room--even +then it was not what Winifred could have seen without making a face. + +Mr. Kendal had read aloud to his wife in the evening during the stay at +the sea-side, and she was anxious not to let the habit drop. He liked +it, and read beautifully, and she thought it good for the children. She +therefore begged him to read, catching him on the way to his study, and +coaxing him to stay no longer than to find a book. He brought Schlegel’s +Philosophy of History. She feared that it was above the young ones, but +it was delightful to herself, and the custom had better be established +before it was perilled by attempts to adapt it to the children. Lucy +and Sophy seemed astonished and displeased, and their whispers had to be +silenced, Gilbert learnt his lessons apart. Albinia rallied her spirits, +and insisted to herself that she did not feel discouraged. + +Monday had gone, or rather Albinia had been robbed of it by +visitors--now for a vigorous Tuesday. Her unpacking and her setting +to rights were not half over, but as the surface was habitable, she +resolved to finish at her leisure, and sacrifice no more mornings of +study. + +So after she had lingered at the door, to delight Gilbert by admiring +his pony, she returned to the dining-room, where the girls were loading +a small table in the window with piles of books and exercises, and Lucy +was standing, looking all eagerness to show off her drawings. + +‘Yes, my dear, but first we had better read. I have been talking to your +papa, and we have settled that on Wednesdays and Fridays we will go +to church; but on these days we will begin by reading the Psalms and +Lessons.’ + +‘Oh,’ said Lucy, ‘we never do that, except when we are at grandmamma’s.’ + +‘Pray are you too old or too young for it?’ said Albinia. + +‘We did it to please grandmamma,’ said Sophy. + +‘Now you will do it to please me,’ said Albinia, ‘if for no better +reason. Fetch your Bibles and Prayerbooks.’ + +‘We shall never have time for our studies, I assure you, mamma,’ +objected Lucy. + +‘That is not your concern,’ said Albinia, her spirit rising at the +girls’ opposition. ‘I wish for obedience.’ + +Lucy went, Sophy leant against the table like a post. Albinia regretted +that the first shot should have been fired for such a cause, and sat +perplexing herself whether it were worse to give way, or to force the +girls to read Holy Scripture in such a mood. + +Lucy came flying down with the four books in her hands, and began +officiously opening them before her sister, and exhorting her not to +give way to sullenness--she ought to like to read the Bible--which of +course made Sophy look crosser. The desire to establish her authority +conquered the scruple about reverence. Albinia set them to read, and +suffered for it. Lucy road flippantly; Sophy in the hoarse, dull, dogged +voice of a naughty boy. She did not dare to expostulate, lest she should +exasperate the tempers that she had roused. + +‘Never mind,’ she thought, ‘when the institution is fixed, they will be +more amenable.’ + +She tried a little examination afterwards, but not one answer was to +be extracted from Sophy, and Lucy knew far less than the first class +at Fairmead, and made her replies wide of the mark, with an air of +satisfaction that nearly overthrew the young step-mother’s patience. + +When Albinia took her Bible upstairs, she gave Sophy time to say what +Lucy reported instantly on her entrance. + +‘Dear me, mamma, here is Sophy declaring that you ought to be a +charity-schoolmistress. You wont be angry with her, but it is so funny!’ + +‘If you were at my charity school, Lucy,’ said Albinia, ‘the first +lesson I should give you would be against telling tales.’ + +Lucy subsided. + +Albinia turned to Sophy. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘perhaps I pressed this on +when you were not prepared for it, but I have always been used to think +of it as a duty.’ + +Sophy made no answer, but her moody attitude relaxed, and Albinia took +comfort in the hope that she might have been gracious if she had known +how to set about it. + +‘I suppose Miss Belmarche is a Roman Catholic,’ she said, wishing to +account for this wonderful ignorance, and addressing herself to Sophy; +but Lucy, whom she thought she had effectually put down, was up again in +a moment like a Jack-in-a-box. + +‘O yes, but not Genevieve. Her papa made it his desire that she should +be brought up a Protestant. Wasn’t it funny? You know Genevieve is +Madame Belmarche’s grand-daughter, and Mr. Durant was a dancing-master.’ + +‘Madame Belmarche’s father and brother were guillotined,’ continued +Sophy. + +‘Ah! then she is an emigrant?’ + +‘Yes. Miss Belmarche has always kept school here. Our own mamma, and +Aunt Maria went to school to her, and Miss Celeste Belmarche married Mr. +Durant, a dancing-master--she was French teacher in a school in London +where he taught, and Madame Belmarche did not approve, for she and her +husband were something very grand in France, so they waited and waited +ever so long, and when at last they did marry, they were quite old, and +she died very soon; and they say he never was happy again, and pined +away till he really did die of grief, and so Genevieve came to her +grandmamma to be brought up.’ + +‘Poor child! How old is she?’ + +‘Fifteen,’ said Lucy. ‘She teaches in the school. She is not at all +pretty, and such a queer little thing.’ + +‘Was her father French?’ + +‘No,’ said Sophy. + +‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘You know nothing about it, Sophy. He was French, but +of the Protestant French sort, that came to England a great many years +ago, when they ran away from the Sicilian Vespers, or the Edict of +Nantes, I don’t remember which; only the Spitalfields weavers have +something to do with it. However, at any rate Genevieve has got +something in a drawer up in her own room that she is very secret about, +and wont show to anybody.’ + +‘I think it is something that somebody was killed with,’ said Sophy, in +a low voice. + +‘Dear me, if it is, I am sure it is quite wicked to keep it. I shall +be quite afraid to go into her room, and you know I slept there all the +time of the fever.’ + +‘It did not hurt you,’ said Sophy. + +Albinia had been strongly interested by the touching facts, so +untouchingly narrated, and by the characteristic account of the Huguenot +emigration, but it suddenly occurred to her that she was promoting +gossip, and she returned to business. Lucy showed off her attainments +with her usual self-satisfaction. They were what might be expected from +a second-rate old-fashioned young ladies’ school, where nothing was +good but the French pronunciation. She was evidently considered a great +proficient, and her glib mediocrity was even more disheartening than +the ungracious carelessness or dulness--there was no knowing which--that +made her sister figure wretchedly in the examination. However, there was +little time--the door-bell rang at a quarter to twelve, and Mrs. Wolfe +was in the drawing-room. + +‘I told you so,’ whispered Lucy, exultingly. + +‘This is unbearable,’ cried Albinia. ‘I shall give notice that I am +always engaged in the morning.’ + +She desired each young lady to work a sum in her absence, and left them +to murmur, if they were so disposed. Perhaps it was Lucy’s speech that +made her inflict the employment; at any rate, her spirit was not as +serene as she could have desired. + +Mr. Kendal was quite willing that she should henceforth shut her door +against company in the morning; that is to say, he bowed his head +assentingly. She was begging him to take a walk with her, when, at +another sound of the bell, he made a precipitate retreat into his +study. The visitors were the Belmarche family. The old lady was dark +and withered, small, yet in look and air, with a certain nobility and +grandeur that carried Albinia back in a moment to the days of hoops +and trains, of powder and high-heeled shoes, and made her feel that the +sweeping courtesy had come straight from the days of Marie +Antoinette, and that it was an honour and distinction conferred by a +superior--superior, indeed, in all the dignity of age, suffering, and +constancy. + +Albinia blushed, and took her hand with respect very unlike the +patronizing airs of Bayford Bridge towards ‘poor old Madame Belmarche,’ +and with downcast eyes, and pretty embarrassment, heard the stately +compliments of the ancien regime. + +Miss Belmarche was not such a fine specimen of Sevres porcelain as +her mother. She was a brown, dried, small woman, having lost, or never +possessed, her country’s taste in dress, and with a rusty bonnet over +the tight, frizzly curls of her front, too thin and too scantily robed +to have any waist, and speaking English too well for the piquant grace +of her mother’s speech. Poor lady! born an exile, she had toiled, and +struggled for a whole lifetime to support her mother; but though care +had worn her down, there was still vivacity in her quick little black +eyes, and though her teeth were of a dreadful colour, her laugh was so +full of life and sweetness, that Albinia felt drawn towards her in a +moment. + +Silent and demure, plainly dressed in an old dark merino, and a +white-ribboned faded bonnet, sat a little figure almost behind her +grandmother. Her face had the French want of complexion, but the eyes +were of the deepest, most lustrous hue of grey, almost as dark as the +pupils, and with the softness of long dark eyelashes--beautiful eyes, +full of light and expression--and as she moved towards the table, there +was a finish and delicacy about the whole form and movements, that made +her a most pleasing object. + +But Albinia could not improve her acquaintance, for in flowed another +party of visitors, and Madame curtsied herself out again, Albinia +volunteering that she would soon come to see her, and being answered, +‘You will do me too much honour.’ + +Another afternoon devoured by visitors! Every one seemed to have come +except the persons who would have been most welcome, Mr. Dusautoy, and +Winifred’s friends, the Nugents. + +When, at four o’clock, she had shaken hands with the last guest, she +gave a hearty yawn, jumped up and shook herself, as she exclaimed, +‘There! There! that is done! I wonder whether your papa would come out +now?’ + +‘He is in his study,’ said the girls. + +Albinia thought of knocking and calling at the door, but somehow it +seemed impossible, and she decided on promenading past his window to +show that she was ready for him. But alas! those evergreens! She could +not see in, and probably he could not see out. + +‘Ha!’ cried Lucy, as they pursued their walk into the kitchen garden, +‘here are some asparagus coming up. Grandmamma always has our first +asparagus.’ + +Albinia was delighted to find such an opening. Out came her knife--they +would cut the heads and take them up at once; but when the tempting +white-stalked, pink-tipped bundle had been made up and put into a +basket, a difficulty arose. + +‘I’ll call the boy to take it,’ said Lucy. + +‘What, when we are going ourselves?’ said Albinia. + +‘Oh! but we can’t.’ + +‘Why? Do you think we shall break down under the weight?’ + +‘O no, but people will stare.’ + +‘Why--what should they stare at?’ + +‘It looks _so_ to carry a basket--’ + +Albinia burst into one of her merriest peals of laughing. + +‘Not carry a basket! My dear, I have looked _so_ all the days of my +life. Bayford must endure the spectacle, so it may as well begin at +once.’ + +‘But, dear mamma--’ + +‘I’m not asking you to carry it. O no, I only hope you don’t think it +too ungenteel to walk with me. But the notion of calling a boy away from +his work, to carry a couple of dozen asparagus when an able-bodied woman +is going that way herself!’ + +Albinia was so tickled that she could hardly check herself, even when +she saw Lucy looking distressed and hurt, and little laughs would break +out every moment as she beheld the young lady keeping aloof, as if +ashamed of her company, turning towards the steep church steps, willing +at least to hide the dreadful sight from the High Street. + +Just as they had entered the narrow alley, they heard a hasty tread, and +almost running over them with his long strides, came Mr. Dusautoy. +He brought himself up short, just in time, and exclaimed, ‘I beg your +pardon--Mrs. Kendal, I believe. Could you be kind enough to give me a +glass of brandy?’ + +Albinia gave a great start, as well she might. + +‘I was going to fetch one,’ quickly proceeded Mr. Dusautoy, ‘but your +house is nearer. A poor man--there--just come home--been on the tramp +for work--quite exhausted--’ and he pointed to one of the cottages. + +‘I’ll fetch it at once,’ cried Albinia. + +‘Thank you,’ he said, as they crossed the street. ‘This poor fellow has +had nothing all day, has walked from Hadminster--just got home, sank +down quite worn out, and there is nothing in the house but dry bread. +His wife wants something nearly as much as he does.’ + +In the excitement, Albinia utterly forgot all scruples about +‘Bluebeard’s closet.’ She hurried into the house, and made but one dash, +standing before her astonished husband’s dreamy eyes, exclaiming, ‘Pray +give me the key of the cellaret; there’s a poor man just come home, +fainting with exhaustion, Mr. Dusautoy wants some brandy for him.’ + +Like a man but half awake, obeying an apparition, Mr. Kendal put his +hand into his pocket and gave her the key. She was instantly opening the +cellaret, seeking among the bottles, and asking questions all the time. +She proposed taking a jug of the kitchen-tea then in operation, and +Mr. Dusautoy caught at the idea, so that poor Lucy beheld the dreadful +spectacle of the vicar bearing a can full of steaming tea, and Mrs. +Kendal a small cup with the ‘spirituous liquor.’ What was the asparagus +to this? + +Albinia told her to go on to Mrs. Meadows’, and that she should soon +follow. She intended to have gone the moment that she had carried in +the cup, leaving Mr. Dusautoy in the cottage, but the poor trembling +frightened wife needed woman’s sympathy and soothing, and she waited +to comfort her, and to see the pair more able to enjoy the meeting, in +their tidy, but bare and damp-looking cottage. She promised broth for +the morrow, and took her leave, the vicar coming away at the same time. + +‘Thank you,’ he said, warmly, as they came out, and turned to mount the +hill together. + +‘May I go and call on them again?’ + +‘It will be very kind in you. Poor Simkins is a steady, good sort of +fellow, but a clumsy workman, down-hearted, and with poor health, and +things have been untoward with him.’ + +‘People, who do not prosper in the world are not always the worst,’ said +Albinia. + +‘No, indeed, and these are grateful, warm-hearted people that you will +like, if you can get over the poor woman’s lackadaisical manner. But you +are used to all that,’ he added, smiling. ‘I see you know what poor folk +are made of.’ + +‘I have been living among them nearly all my days,’ said Albinia. ‘I +hope you will give me something to do, I should be quite forlorn without +it;’ and she looked up to his kind, open face, as much at home with him +as if she had known, him for years. + +‘Fanny--my wife--shall find work for you,’ he said. ‘You must excuse her +calling on you, she is never off the sofa, but--’ And what a bright look +he gave! as much as to say that his wife _on_ the sofa was better than +any one else _off_. ‘I was hoping to call some of these afternoons,’ he +continued, ‘but I have had little time, and Fanny thought your door was +besieged enough already.’ + +‘Thank you,’ said Albinia; ‘I own I thought it was your kindness in +leaving me a little breathing time. And would Mrs. Dusautoy be able to +see me if I were to call?’ + +‘She would be delighted. Suppose you were to come in at once.’ + +‘I wish I could, but I must go on to Mrs. Meadows’. If I were to come +to-morrow?’ + +‘Any time--any time,’ he said. ‘She is always at home, and she has +been much better since we came here. We were too much in the town at +Lauriston.’ + +Mr. Dusautoy, having a year ago come out of the diocese where had +been Albinia’s home, they had many common friends, and plunged into +‘ecclesiastical intelligence,’ with a mutual understanding of the topics +most often under discussion, that made Albinia quite in her element. ‘A +great Newfoundland dog of a man in size, and countenance, and kindness,’ +thought she. ‘If his wife be worthy of him, I shall reck little of all +the rest.’ + +Her tread the gayer for this resumption of old habits, she proceeded +to Mrs. Meadows’, where the sensation created by her poor little basket +justified Lucy’s remonstrance. There were regrets, and assurances +that the girl could have come in a moment, and that she need not have +troubled herself, and her laughing declarations that it was no trouble +were disregarded, except that the old lady said, in gentle excuse to her +daughter, that Mrs. Kendal had always lived in the country, where people +could do as they pleased. + +‘I mean to do as I please here,’ said Albinia, laughing; but the speech +was received with silent discomfiture that made her heartily regret it. +She disdained to explain it away; she was beginning to hold Mrs. and +Miss Meadows too cheap to think it worth while. + +‘Well,’ said Mrs. Meadows, as if yielding up the subject, ‘things may be +different from what they were in my time.’ + +‘Oh! mamma--Mrs. Kendal--I am sure--’ Albinia let Maria flounder, but +she only found her way out of the speech with ‘Well! and is not it the +most extraordinary!--Mr. Dusautoy--so rude--’ + +‘I should not wonder if you found me almost as extraordinary as Mr. +Dusautoy,’ said Albinia. + +Why would Miss Meadows always nettle her into saying exactly the +wrong thing, so as to alarm and distress the old lady? That want of +comprehension of playfulness was a strangely hard trial. She turned to +Mrs. Meadows and tried to reassure her by saying, ‘You know I have been +always in the clerical line myself, so I naturally take the part of the +parson.’ + +‘Yes, my dear,’ said Mrs. Meadows. ‘I dare say Mr. Dusautoy is a +very good man, but I wish he would allow his poor delicate wife more +butcher’s meat, and I don’t think it looks well to see the vicarage +without a man-servant.’ + +Albinia finally made her escape, and while wondering whether she should +ever visit that house without tingling with irritation with herself +and with the inmates, Lucy exclaimed, ‘There, you see I was right. +Grandmamma and Aunt Maria were surprised when I told them that you said +you were an able-bodied woman.’ + +What would not Albinia have given for Winifred to laugh with her? What +to do now she did not know, so she thought it best not to hear, and to +ask the way to a carpenter’s shop to order some book-shelves. + +She was more uncomfortable after she came home, for by the sounds when +Mr. Kendal next emerged from his study, she found that he had locked +himself in, to guard against further intrusion. And when she offered to +return to him the key of the cellaret, he quietly replied that he should +prefer her retaining it,--not a formidable answer in itself, but one +which, coupled with the locking of the door, proved to her that she +might do anything rather than invade his privacy. + +Now Maurice’s study was the thoroughfare of the household, the place for +all parish preparations unpresentable in the drawing-room, and Albinia +was taken by surprise. She grew hot and cold. Had she done anything +wrong? Could he care for her if he could lock her out? + +‘I will not be morbid, I will not be absurd,’ said she to herself, +though the tears stood in her eyes. ‘Some men do not like to be rushed +in upon! It may be only habit. It may have been needful here. It is base +to take petty offences, and set up doubts.’ + +And Mr. Kendal’s tender manner when they were again together, his gentle +way of addressing her, and a sort of shy caress, proved that he was +far from all thought of displeasure; nay, he might be repenting of his +momentary annoyance, though he said nothing. + +Albinia went to inquire after the sick man at her first leisure moment, +and while talking kindly to the wife, and hearing her troubles, was +surprised at the forlorn rickety state of the building, the broken +pavement, damp walls, and door that would not shut, because the frame +had sunk out of the perpendicular. + +‘Can’t you ask your landlord to do something to the house?’ + +‘It is of no use, ma’am, Mr. Pettilove never will do nothing. Perhaps if +you would be kind enough to say a word to him, ma’am--’ + +‘Mr. Pettilove, the lawyer? I’ll try if Mr. Kendal can say anything to +him. It really is a shame to leave a house in this condition.’ + +Thanks were so profuse, that she feared that she was supposed to possess +some power of amelioration. The poor woman even insisted on conducting +her up a break-neck staircase to see the broken ceiling, whence water +often streamed in plentifully from the roof. + +Her mind full of designs against the cruel landlord, she speeded up +the hill, exhilarated by each step she took into the fresh air, to the +garden-gate, which she was just unhasping when the hearty voice of the +Vicar was heard behind her. ‘Mrs. Kendal! I told Fanny you would come.’ + +Instead of taking her to the front door he conducted her across a +sloping lawn towards a French window open to the bright afternoon +sunshine. + +‘Here she is, here is Mrs. Kendal!’ he said, sending his voice before +him, as they came in sight of the pretty little drawing-room, where +through the gay chintz curtains, she saw the clear fire shining upon +half-a-dozen school girls, ranged opposite to a couch. ‘Ah!’ as he +perceived them, ‘shall I take her for a turn in the garden while you +finish your lesson?’ + +‘One moment, if you please. I did not know it was so late,’ and a face +as bright as all the rest was turned towards the window. + +‘Ah! give her her scholars, and she never knows how time passes,’ said +Mr. Dusautoy. ‘But step this way, and I’ll show you the best view in +Bayford.’ He took her up a step or two, to a little turfed mound, where +there was a rustic seat commanding the whole exquisite view of river, +vale, and woodland, with the church tower rising in the foreground. The +wind blew pleasantly, chasing the shadows of the clouds across the open +space. Albinia was delighted to feel it fan her brow, and her eager +exclamations contented Mr. Dusautoy. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was all Fanny’s +notion. She planned it all last summer when I took her round the garden. +It is wonderful what an eye she has! I only hope when the dry weather +comes, that I shall be able to get her up there to enjoy it.’ + +On coming down they found that Mrs. Dusautoy had dismissed her class, +and come out to a low, long-backed sloping garden-seat at the window. +She was very little and slight, a mere doll in proportion to her great +husband, who could lift her as easily and tenderly as a baby, paying her +a sort of reverential deference and fond admiration that rendered them a +beautiful sight, in such full, redoubled measure was his fondness repaid +by the little, clever, fairy-looking woman, with her playful manner, +high spirits, keen wit, and the active habits that even confirmed +invalidism could not destroy. She had small deadly white hands, a fair +complexion, that varied more than was good for her, pretty, though +rather sharp and irregular features, and hazel eyes dancing with +merriment, and face and figure at some years above thirty, would have +suited a girl of twenty. To see Mr. Dusautoy bringing her footstools, +shawls, and cushions, and to remember the accusation of starvation, was +almost irresistibly ludicrous. + +‘Now, John, you had better have been giving Mrs. Kendal a chair all this +time.’ + +‘Mrs. Kendal will excuse,’ said Mr. Dusautoy, as he brought her a seat. + +‘Mrs. Kendal has excused,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, bursting into a merry +fit of laughter. ‘Oh, I never heard anything more charming than your +introduction! I beg your pardon, but I laughed last evening till I was +worn out, and waked in the night laughing again.’ + +It was exhilarating to find that any one laughed at Bayford, and Albinia +partook of the mirth with all her heart. ‘Never was an address more +gratifying to me!’ she said. + +‘It was like him! so unlike Bayford! So bold a venture!’ continued Mrs. +Dusautoy amid peals of laughter. + +‘What is there to laugh at?’ said Mr. Dusautoy, putting on a look +between merriment and simplicity. ‘What else could I have done? I should +have done the same whoever I had met.’ + +‘Ah! now he is afraid of your taking it as too great a compliment! To +do him justice I believe he would, but the question is, what answer he +would have had.’ + +‘Nobody could have refused--’ began Albinia. + +‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Dusautoy. ‘Little you know Bayford. + +‘Fanny! Fanny! this is too bad. Madame Belmarche--’ + +‘Would have had nothing but eau sucre! No, John, decidedly you and +Simkins fell upon your legs, and you had better take credit for your +“admirable sagacity.”’. + +‘I like the people,’ said Albinia, ‘but they never can be well while +they live in such a shocking place. It is quite a disgrace to Bayford.’ + +‘It is in a sad state,’ said Mr. Dusautoy. + +‘I know I should like to set my brother upon that Mr. Pettilove, who +they say will do nothing,’ exclaimed Albinia. + +The Vicar was going to have said something, but a look from his wife +checked him. Albinia was sorry for it, as she detected a look of +suppressed amusement on Mrs. Dusautoy’s face. ‘I mean to ask Mr. Kendal +what can be done,’ she said; ‘and in the meantime, to descend from what +we can’t do to what we can. Mr. Dusautoy told me to come to you for +orders.’ + +‘And I told Mr. Dusautoy that I should give you none.’ + +‘Oh! that is hard.’ + +‘If you could have heard him! He thought he _had_ got a working lady at +last, and he would have had no mercy upon you. One would have imagined +that Mr. Kendal had brought you here for his sole behoof!’ + +‘Then I shall look to you, Mr. Dusautoy.’ + +‘No, I believe she is quite right,’ he said. ‘She says you ought to +undertake nothing till you have had time to see what leisure you have to +give us.’ + +‘Nay, I have been used to think the parish my business, home my +leisure.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, ‘but then you were the womankind of the +clergy, now you are a laywoman.’ + +‘I think you have work at home,’ said the Vicar. + +‘Work, but not work _enough!_’ cried Albinia. ‘The girls will help me; +only tell me what I may do.’ + +‘I say, “what you can,”’ said Mrs. Dusautoy. ‘You see before you a +single-handed man. Only two of the ladies here can be called coadjutors, +one being poor little Genevieve Durant, the other the bookseller’s +daughter, Clarissa Richardson, who made all the rest fly off. All the +others do what good they mean to do according to their own sweet will, +free and independent women, and we can’t have any district system, so I +think you can only do what just comes to hand.’ + +Most heartily did Albinia undertake all that Mrs. Dusautoy would let her +husband assign to her. + +‘Yes, John is a strong temptation,’ said the bright little invalid, ‘but +you must let Mrs. Kendal find out in a month’s time whether she has work +enough.’ + +‘I could think my wise brother Maurice had been cautioning you,’ said +Albinia, taking leave as of an old friend, for indeed she felt more +at home with Mrs. Dusautoy than with any acquaintance she had made in +Bayford. + +Albinia told her husband of the state of the cottages, and railed at Mr. +Pettilove much to her own satisfaction. Mr. Kendal answered, ‘He would +see about it,’ an answer of which Albinia had yet to learn the import. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + +There are some characters so constituted, that of them the old proverb, +that Love is blind, is perfectly true; they can see no imperfection in +the mind or body of those dear to them. There are others in whom the +strongest affections do not destroy clearness of vision, who see their +friends on all sides, and perceive their faults and foibles, without +loving them the less. + +Albinia Kendal was a person of the latter description. It might almost +be called her temptation, that her mind beheld all that came before it +in a clear, and a humorous light, such as only a disposition overflowing +with warm affection and with the energy of kindness, could have +prevented from bordering upon censoriousness. She had imagination, but +it was not such as to make an illusion of the present, or to interfere +with her almost satirical good sense. Happily, religion and its earthly +manifestation--charity regulated her, taught her to fear to judge lest +she should be judged, strengthened her naturally fond affections, and +tempered the keenness that disappointment might soon have turned to +sourness. The tongue, the temper, and the judgment knew their own +tendencies, and a guard was set over them; and if the sentinel were ever +torpid or deceived, repentance paid the penalty. + +She had not long seen her husband at home before she had involuntarily +completed her view of his character. Nature must have designed him for +a fellow of a college, where, apart from all cares, he might have +collected fragments of forgotten authors, and immortalized his name by +some edition of a Greek Lyric poet, known by four poems and a half, +and two-thirds of a line quoted somewhere else. In such a controversy, +lightened by perpetually polished poems, by a fair amount of modern +literature, select college friendships, and methodical habits, Edmund +Kendal would have been in his congenial element, lived and died, and had +his portrait hung up as one of the glories of his college. + +But he had been carried off from school, before he had done more than +prove his unusual capacity. All his connexions were Indian, and his +father, who had not seen him since his earliest childhood, offered him +no choice but an appointment in the civil service. He had one stimulus; +he had seen Lucy Meadows in the radiant glory of girlish beauty, and had +fastened on her all a poet’s dreams, deepening and becoming more fervid +in the recesses of a reserved heart, which did not easily admit new +sensations. That stimulus carried him out cheerfully to India, and +quickened his abilities, so that he exerted himself sufficiently +to obtain a lucrative situation early in life. He married, and his +household must have been on the German system, all the learning on +one side, all the domestic cares on the other. The understanding and +refinement wanting in his wife, he believed to be wanting in all women. +As resident at a small remote native court in India, he saw no female +society such as could undeceive him; and subsequently his Bayford life +had not raised his standard of womankind. A perfect gentleman, his +superiority was his own work, rather than that of station or education, +and so he had never missed intercourse with really ladylike or +cultivated, female minds, expected little from wife, or daughters, or +neighbours; had a few learned friends, but lived within himself. He had +acquired a competence too soon, and had the great misfortune of property +without duties to present themselves obviously. He had nothing to do but +to indulge his naturally indolent scholarly tastes, which, directed as +they had been to Eastern languages, had even less chance of sympathy +among his neighbours than if they had been classical. Always reserved, +and seldom or never meeting with persons who could converse with him, +he had lapsed into secluded habits, and learnt to shut himself up in his +study and exclude every one, that he might have at least a refuge from +the gossip and petty cares that reigned everywhere else. So seldom was +anything said worth his attention, that he never listened to what was +passing, and had learnt to say ‘very well’--‘I’ll see about it,’ without +even knowing what was said to him. + +But though his wife had been no companion, the illusion had never died +away, he had always loved her devotedly, and her loss had shattered all +his present rest and comfort; as entirely as the death of his son had +taken from him hope and companionship. + +What a home it must have been, with Lucy reigning over it in her pert +self-sufficiency, Gilbert and Sophy running riot and squabbling, +and Maria Meadows coming in on them with her well-meant worries and +persecutions! + +When taken away from the scene of his troubles, his spirits revived; +afraid to encounter his own household alone, he had thought Albinia the +cure for everything. But at home, habit and association had proved too +strong for her presence--the grief, which he had tried to leave behind, +had waited ready to meet him on the threshold, and the very sense that +it was a melancholy welcome added to his depression, and made him less +able to exert himself. The old sorrows haunted the walls of the house, +and above all the study, and tarried not in seizing on their unresisting +victim. Melancholy was in his nature, his indolence gave it force, +and his habits were almost ineffaceable, and they were habits of quiet +selfishness, formed by a resolute, though inert will, and fostered by +an adoring wife. A youth spent in India had not given him ideas of +responsibilities beyond his own family, and his principles, though +sound, had not expanded the views of duty with which he had started in +life. + +It was a positive pleasure to Albinia to discover that there had been an +inefficient clergyman at Bayford before Mr. Dusautoy, and to know that +during half the time that the present vicar had held the living, Mr. +Kendal had been absent, so that his influence had had no time to work. +She began to understand her line of action. It must be her effort, in +all loving patience and gentleness, to raise her husband’s spirits and +rouse his faculties; to make his powers available for the good of his +fellow-creatures, to make him an active and happy man, and to draw him +and his children together. This was truly a task to make her heart throb +high with hope and energy. Strong and brave was that young heart, and +not self-confident--the difficulty made her only the more hopeful, +because she saw it was her duty. She was secure of her influence +with him. If he did exclude her from his study, he left her supreme +elsewhere, and though she would have given the world that their +sovereignty might be a joint one _everywhere_, still she allowed much +for the morbid inveterate habit of dreading disturbance. When he began +by silence and not listening, she could always rouse him, and give him +animation, and he was so much surprised and pleased whenever she entered +into any of his pursuits, that she had full hope of drawing him out. + +One day when the fog, instead of clearing off had turned to violent +rain, Albinia had been out on parish work, and afterwards enlivening +old Mrs. Meadows by dutifully spending an hour with her, while Maria +was nursing a nervous headache--she had been subject to headaches ever +since...an ominous sigh supplied the rest. + +But all the effect of Albinia’s bright kindness was undone, when the +grandmother learnt that Gilbert was gone to his tutor, and would have +to come home in the rain, and she gave such an account of his exceeding +delicacy, that Albinia became alarmed, and set off at once that she +might consult his father about sending for him. + +Her opening of the hall door was answered by Mr. Kendal emerging from +his study. He was looking restless and anxious, came to meet her, +and uncloaked her, while he affectionately scolded her for being so +venturesome. She told him where she had been, and he smiled, saying, +‘You are a busy spirit! But you must not be too imprudent.’ + +‘Oh, nothing hurts me. It is poor Gilbert that I am anxious about.’ + +‘So am I. Gilbert has not a constitution fit for exposure. I wish he +were come home.’ + +‘Could we not send for him? Suppose we sent a fly.’ + +He was consenting with a pleased smile, when the door opened, and there +stood the dripping Gilbert, completely wet through, pale and chilled, +with his hair plastered down, and his coat stuck all over with the +horse’s short hair. + +‘You must go to bed at once, Gilbert,’ said his father. ‘Are you cold?’ + +‘Very. It was such a horrid driving wind, and I rode so fast,’ said +Gilbert; violently shivering, as they helped to pull him out of his +great coat; he put his hand to his mouth, and said that his face ached. +Mr. Kendal was very anxious, and Albinia hurried the boy up to bed, +and meantime ordered quickly a basin of the soup preparing for dinner, +warmed some worsted socks at the fire, and ran upstairs with them. + +He seemed to have no substance in him; he had hardly had energy to +undress himself, and she found him with his face hidden on the pillow, +shivering audibly, and actually crying. She was aghast. + +The boys with whom she had been brought up, would never have given +way so entirely without resistance; but between laughing, cheering, +scolding, covering him up close, and rubbing his hands with her own, she +comforted him, so that he could be grateful and cheerful when his father +himself came up with the soup. Albinia noticed a sort of shudder pass +over Mr. Kendal as he entered, and he stood close by Gilbert, turning +his back on everything else, while he watched the boy eat the soup, +as if restored by every spoonful. ‘That was a good thought,’ was his +comment to his wife, and the look of gratitude brought a flush of +pleasure into her cheek. + + +Of all the dinners, this was the most pleasant; he was more gentle and +affectionate, and she made him tell her about the Persian poets, and +promise to show her some specimens of the Rose Garden of Saadi--she had +never before been so near having his pursuits opened to her. + +‘What a favourite Gilbert is!’ Lucy said to Sophia, as Albinia lighted a +candle and went up to his room. + +‘He makes such a fuss,’ said Sophy. ‘What is there in being wet through +to cry about?’ + +Albinia heard a little shuffle as she opened the door, and Gilbert +pushed a book under his pillow. She asked him what he had been reading. +‘Oh,’ he said, ‘he had not been doing it long, for the flickering of the +candle hurt his eyes.’ + +‘Yes, you had better not,’ said Albinia, moving the flaring light to a +less draughty part of the dingy whitewashed attic. ‘Or shall I read to +you?’ + +‘Are you come to stay with me?’ cried the boy, raising himself up to +look after her, as she moved about the room and stood looking from the +window over the trees at the water meadows, now flooded into a lake, and +lighted by the beams of a young moon. + +‘I can stay till your father is ready for tea,’ said Albinia, coming +nearer. ‘Let me see whether your hands are hot.’ + +She found her own hand suddenly clasped, and pressed to his lips, and +then, as if ashamed, he turned his face away; nor would she betray her +pleasure in it, but merely said, ‘Shall I go on with your book!’ + +‘No,’ said he, wearily turning his reddened cheek to the other side. ‘I +only took it because it is so horrid lying here thinking.’ + +‘I am very sorry to hear it. Do you know, Gibbie, that it is said there +is nothing more lamentable than for a man not to like to have his own +thoughts for his company,’ said she, gaily. + +‘Ah! but--!’ said Gilbert. ‘If I lie here alone, I’m always looking +out there,’ and he pointed to the opposite recess. She looked, but saw +nothing. ‘Don’t you know?’ he said. + +‘Edmund?’ she asked. + +He grasped her hands in both his own. ‘Aye! Ned used to sleep there. I +always look for him there.’ + +‘Do you mean that you would rather have another room? I would manage it +directly.’ + +‘O no, thank you, I like it for some things. Take the candle--look by +the shutter--cut out in the wood.’ + +The boys’ scoring of ‘E. & G. K.,’ was visible there. + +‘Papa has taken all he could of Edmund’s,’ said Gilbert, ‘but he could +not take that! No, I would not have any other room if you were to give +me the best in the house.’ + +‘I am sure not! But, my dear, considering what Edmund was, surely they +should be gentle, happy thoughts that the room should give you.’ + +He shuddered, and presently said, ‘Do you know what?’ and paused; then +continued, with an effort, getting tight hold of her hand, ‘Just before +Edmund died--he lay out there--I lay here--he sat up all white in bed, +and he called out, clear and loud, “Mamma, Gilbert”--I saw him--and +then--he was dead! And you know mamma did die--and I’m sure I shall!’ He +had worked himself into a trembling fit, hid his face and sobbed. + +‘But you have not died of the fever.’ + +‘Yes--but I know it means that I shall die young! I am sure it does! It +was a call! I heard Nurse say it was a call!’ + +What was to be done with such a superstition? Albinia did not think it +would be right to argue it away. It might be in truth a warning to him +to guard his ways--a voice from the twin-brother, to be with him through +life. She knelt down by him, and kissed his forehead. + +‘Dear Gilbert,’ she said, ‘we all shall die.’ + +‘Yes, but I shall die young.’ + +‘And if you should. Those are happy who die young. How much pain your +baby-brother and sisters have missed! How happy Edmund is now!’ + +‘Then you really think it meant that I shall’’ he cried, tremblingly. ‘O +don’t! I can’t die!’ + +‘Your brother called on what he loved best,’ said Albinia. ‘It may mean +nothing. Or rather, it may mean that your dear twin-brother is watching +for you, I am sure he is, to have you with him, for what makes your +mortal life, however long, seem as nothing. It was a call to you to be +as pure on earth as he is in heaven. O Gilbert, how good you should be!’ + +Gilbert did not know whether it frightened him or soothed him to see his +superstition treated with respect--neither denied, nor reasoned away. +But the ghastliness was not in the mere fear that death might not be far +off. + +The pillow had turned a little on one side--Albinia tried to smooth +it--the corner of a book peeped out. It was a translation of The Three +Musqueteers, one of the worst and most fascinating of Dumas’ romances. + +‘You wont tell papa!’ cried Gilbert, raising himself, in far more real +and present terror than he had previously shown. + +‘How did you get it? Whose is it?’ + +‘It is my own. I bought it at Richardson’s. It is very funny. But you +wont tell papa? I never was told not; indeed I was not.’ + +‘Now, Gilbert dear, will you tell me a few things? I do only wish what +is good for you. Why don’t you wish that papa should hear of this book?’ + +Gilbert writhed himself. + +‘You know he would not like it?’ + +‘Then why did you take to reading it?’ + +‘Oh!’ cried the boy, ‘if you only did know how stupid and how miserable +it has been! More than half myself gone, and Sophy always glum, and Lucy +always plaguing, and Aunt Maria always being a torment, you would not +wonder at one’s doing anything to forget it!’ + +‘Yes, but why do what you knew to be wrong?’ + +‘Nobody told me not.’ + +‘Disobedience to the spirit, then, if not to the letter. It was not the +way to be happier, my poor boy, nor nearer to your brother and mother.’ + +‘Things didn’t use to be stupid when Ned was there!’ sobbed Gilbert, +bursting into a fresh flood of tears. + +‘Ah! Gilbert, I grieved most of all for _you_ when first I heard your +story, before I thought I should ever have anything to do with you,’ +said Albinia, hanging over him fondly. ‘I always thought it must be so +forlorn to be a twin left solitary. But it is sadder still than I knew, +if grief has made you put yourself farther from him instead of nearer.’ + +‘I shall be good again now that I have you,’ said Gilbert, as he looked +up into that sweet face. + +‘And you will begin by making a free confession to your father, and +giving up the book.’ + +‘I don’t see what I have to confess. He would be so angry, and he never +told me not. Oh! I cannot tell him.’ + +She felt that this was not the right way to begin a reformation, and yet +she feared to press the point, knowing that the one was thought severe, +the other timid. + +‘At least you will give up the book,’ she said. + +‘O dear! if you would let me see whether d’Artagnan got to England. I +must know that! I’m sure there can’t be any harm in that. Do you know +what it is about?’ + +‘Yes, I do. My brother got it by some mistake among some French books. +He read some of the droll unobjectionable parts to my sister and me, but +the rest was so bad, that he threw it into the fire.’ + +‘Then you think it funny?’ + +‘To be sure I do.’ + +‘Do you remember the three duels all at once, and the three valets? Oh! +what fun it is. But do let me see if d’Artagnan got the diamonds.’ + +‘Yes, he did. But will this satisfy you, Gilbert? You know there are +some exciting pleasures that we must turn our backs on resolutely. I +think this book is one of them. Now you will let me take it? I will tell +your father about it in private, and he cannot blame you. Then, if he +will give his consent, whenever you can come home early, come to my +dressing-room, out of your sisters’ way, and I will read to you the +innocent part, so as to get the story out of your brain.’ + +‘Very well,’ said Gilbert, slowly. ‘Yes, if you will not let papa be +angry with me. And, oh dear! must you go?’ + +‘I think you had better dress yourself and come down to tea. There is +nothing the matter with you now, is there?’ + +He was delighted with the suggestion, and promised to come directly; +and Albinia carried off her prize, exceedingly hopeful and puzzled, +and wondering whether her compromise had been a right one, or a mere +tampering with temptation--delighted with the confidence and affection +bestowed on her so freely, but awe-struck by the impression which the +boy had avowed, and marvelling how it should be treated, so as to render +it a blessed and salutary restraint, rather than the dim superstitious +terror that it was at present. At least there was hope of influencing +him, his heart was affectionate, his will on the side of right, and in +consideration of feeble health and timid character, she would overlook +the fact that he had not made one voluntary open confession, and that +the partial renunciation had been wrung from him as a choice of evils. +She could only feel how much he was to be pitied, and how he responded +to her affection. + +She was crossing the hall next day, when she heard a confusion of +tongues through the open door of the dining-room, and above all, +Gilbert’s. ‘Well, I say there are but two ladies in Bayford. One is Mrs. +Kendal, and the other is Genevieve Durant!’ + +‘A dancing-master’s daughter!’ Lucy’s scornful tone was unmistakeable, +and so was the ensuing high-pitched querulous voice, ‘Well, to be sure, +Gilbert might be a little more--a little more civil. Not that I’ve a +word to say against--against your--your mamma. Oh, no!--glad to see--but +Gilbert might be more civil.’ + +‘I think so indeed,’ said Albinia. ‘Good morning, Miss Meadows. You see +Gilbert has come home quite alive enough for mischief.’ + +‘Ah! I thought I might be excused. Mamma was so uneasy--though I know +you don’t admit visitors--my just coming to see--We’ve been always so +anxious about Gilbert. Gibbie dear, where is that flannel I gave you for +your throat?’ + +She advanced to put her finger within his neck-tie and feel for it. +Gilbert stuck his chin down, and snapped with his teeth like a gin. Lucy +exclaimed, ‘Now, Gilbert, I know mamma will say that is wrong.’ + +‘Ah! we are used to Gilbert’s tricks. Always bear with a boy’s antics,’ +said Miss Meadows, preventing whatever she thought was coming out of +Mrs. Kendal’s month. Albinia took the unwise step of laughing, for her +sympathies were decidedly with resistance both to flannels and to the +insertion of that hooked finger. + +‘Mr. Bowles has always said it was a case for great care. Flannel next +the skin--no exposure,’ continued Miss Meadows, tartly. ‘I am sure--I +know I am the last person to wish to interfere--but so delicate--You’ll +excuse--but my mother was uneasy; and people who go out in all +weathers--’ + +‘I hope Mrs. Meadows had my note this morning.’ + +‘O yes! I am perfectly aware. Thank you. Yes, I know the rule, but +you’ll excuse--My mother was still anxious--I know you exclude visitors +in lesson-time. I’m going. Only grandmamma would be glad--not that she +wishes to interfere--but if Gilbert had on his piece of flannel--’ + +‘Have you, Gilbert?’ said Albinia, becoming tormented. + +‘I have been flannel all over all my life,’ said Gilbert, sulkily, ‘one +bit more or less can make no odds.’ + +‘Then you have not that piece? said Albinia. + +‘Oh, my dear! Think of that! New Saxony! I begged it of Mr. Holland. A +new remnant--pink list, and all! I said it was just what I wanted +for Master Gilbert. Mr. Holland is always a civil, feeling man. New +Saxony--three shillings the yard--and trimmed with blue sarsenet! Where +is it, Gilbert?’ + +‘In a soup dish, with a crop of mustard and cress on it,’ said Gilbert, +with a wicked wink at Albinia, who was unable to resist joining in the +girls’ shout of laughing, but she became alarmed when she found that +poor Miss Meadows was very near crying, and that her incoherency became +so lachrymose as to be utterly incomprehensible. + +Lucy, ashamed of her laughter, solemnly declared that it was very wrong +of Gilbert, and she hoped he would not suffer from it, and Albinia, +trying to become grave, judicial, and conciliatory, contrived to +pronounce that it was very silly to leave anything off in an east wind, +and hoping to put an end to the matter, asked Aunt Maria to sit down, +and judge how they went on with their lessons. + +O no, she could not interrupt. Her mother would want her. She knew Mrs. +Kendal never admitted visitors. She had no doubt she was quite right. +She hoped it would be understood. She would not intrude. In fact, +she could neither go nor stay. She would not resume her seat, nor let +anything go on, and it was full twenty minutes before a series of little +vibrating motions and fragmentary phrases had borne her out of the +house. + +‘Well!’ cried Gilbert, ‘I hoped Aunt Maria had left off coming down upon +us.’ + +‘O, mamma!’ exclaimed Lucy, ‘you never sent your love to grandmamma.’ + +‘Depend upon it she was waiting for that,’ said Gilbert. + +I’m sure I wish I had known it,’ said Albinia, not in the most judicious +manner. ‘Half-past eleven!’ + +‘Aunt Maria says she can’t think how you can find time for church when +you can’t see visitors in the morning,’ said Lucy. ‘And oh! dear mamma, +grandmamma says gravy soup was enough to throw Gilbert into a fever.’ + +‘At any rate, it did not,’ said Albinia. + +‘Oh! and, dear mamma, Mrs. Osborn is so hurt that you called on Mrs. +Dusautoy before returning her visit; and Aunt Maria says if you don’t +call to-day you will never get over it, and she says that--’ + +‘What business has Mrs. Osborn to ask whom I called on?’ exclaimed +Albinia, impatiently. + +‘Because Mrs. Osborn is the leading lady in the town,’ said Lucy. ‘She +told Miss Goldsmith that she had no notion of not being respected.’ + +‘And she can’t bear the Dusautoys. She left off subscribing to anything +when they came; and he behaved very ill to the Admiral and everybody at +a vestry-meeting.’ + +‘I shall ask your papa before I am in any hurry to call on the Osborns!’ +cried Albinia. ‘I have no desire to be intimate with people who treat +their clergyman in that way.’ + +‘But Mrs. Osborn is quite the leader!’ exclaimed Lucy. They keep the +best society here. So many families in the county come and call on +them.’ + +‘Very likely--’ + +‘Ah! Mrs. Osborn told Aunt Maria that as the Nugents called on you, and +you had such connexions, she supposed you would be high. But you wont +make me separate from Lizzie, will you? I suppose Miss Nugent is a +fashionable young lady.’ + +‘Miss Nugent is five years old. Don’t let us have any more of this +nonsense.’ + +‘But you wont part me from Lizzie Osborn,’ said Lucy, hanging her head +pathetically on one side. + +‘I shall talk to your father. He said, the other day, he did not wish +you to be so much with her.’ + +Lucy melted into tears, and Albinia was conscious of having been first +indiscreet and then sharp, hurt at the comments, feeling injured by +Lucy’s evident habit of reporting whatever she said, and at the failure +of the attempt to please Mrs. Meadows. She was so uneasy about the +Osborn question, that she waylaid Mr. Kendal on his return from riding, +and laid it before him. + +‘My dear Albinia,’ he said, as if he would fain have avoided the appeal, +‘you must manage your own visiting affairs your own way. I do not wish +to offend my neighbours, nor would I desire to be very intimate with any +one. I suppose you must pay them ordinary civility, and you know what +that amounts to. As to the leadership in society here, she is a noisy +woman, full of pretension, and thus always arrogates the distinction to +herself. Your claims will establish themselves.’ + +‘Oh, you don’t imagine me thinking of that!’ cried Albinia, laughing. ‘I +meant their behaving ill to Mr. Dusautoy.’ + +‘I know nothing about that. Mr. Dusautoy once called to ask for my +support for a vestry meeting, but I make it a rule never to meddle with +parish skirmishes. I believe there was a very unbecoming scene, and that +Mr. Dusautoy was in the minority.’ + +‘Ah, Edmund, next time you’ll see if a parson’s sister can sit quietly +by to see the parson beaten!’ + +He smiled, and moved towards his study. + +‘Then I am to be civil?’ + +‘Certainly.’ + +‘But is it necessary to call to-day?’ + +‘I should suppose not;’ and there he was, shut up in his den. Albinia +went back, between laughing and vexation, and Lucy looked up from her +exercise to say, ‘Does papa say you must call on the Osborns?’ + +It was undignified! She bit her lip, and felt her false position, as +with a quiver of the voice she replied, ‘We shall make nothing but +mischief if we talk now. Go on with your business.’ + +The sharp, curious eyes did not take themselves off her face. She leant +over Sophy, who was copying a house, told her the lines were slanting, +took the pencil from her hand, and tried to correct them, but found +herself making them over-black, and shaky. She had not seen such a +line since the days of her childhood’s ill-temper. She walked to the +fireplace and said, ‘I am going to call on Mrs. Osborn to-day. Not that +your father desires it, but because I have been indulging in a wrong +feeling.’ + +‘I’m sure you needn’t,’ cried Gilbert. ‘It is very impertinent of +Mrs. Osborn. Why, if he is an admiral, she was the daughter of an old +lieutenant of the Marines, and you are General Sir Maurice Ferrars’ +first cousin.’ + +‘Hush, hush, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, blushing and distressed. ‘Mrs. +Osborn’s standing in the place entitles her to all attention. I was +thinking of nothing of the kind. It was because I gave way to a wrong +feeling that I mean to go this afternoon.’ + +On the Sunday, when Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to pay their weekly visit +to Mrs. Meadows, they found the old lady taking a turn in the garden. +And as they were passing by the screen of laurels, Gilbert’s voice was +heard very loud, ‘That’s too bad, Lucy! Grandmamma, don’t believe one +word of it!’ + +‘Gilbert, you--you are, I’m sure, very rude to your sister.’ + +‘I’ll not stand to hear false stories of Mrs. Kendal!’ + +‘What is all this?’ said Mr. Kendal, suddenly appearing, and discovering +Gilbert pirouetting with indignation before Lucy. + +Miss Meadows burst out with a shower of half sentences, grandmamma +begged that no notice might be taken of the children’s nonsense, Lucy +put on an air of injured innocence, and Gilbert was beginning to speak, +but his father put him aside, saying, ‘Tell me what has happened, +Sophia. From you I am certain of hearing the exact truth.’ + +‘Only,’ growled Sophy, in her hoarse boy’s voice, ‘Lucy said mamma said +she would not call on Mrs. Osborn unless you ordered her, and when you +did, she cried and flew into a tremendous passion.’ + +‘Sophy, what a story,’ exclaimed Lucy, but Gilbert was ready to +corroborate his younger sister’s report. + +‘You know Lucy too well to attach any importance to her +misrepresentations,’ said Mr. Kendal, turning to Mrs. Meadows, ‘but +I know not what amends she can make for this most unprovoked slander. +Speak, Lucy, have you no apology to make?’ + +For Lucy, in self-defence, had begun to cry, and her grandmother seemed +much disposed to do the same. Miss Meadows had tears in her eyes, +and incoherencies on her lips. The distress drove away all Albinia’s +inclination to laugh, and clasping her two hands over her husband’s arm, +she said, ‘Don’t, Edmund, it is only a misunderstanding of what really +happened. I did have a silly fit, you know, so it is my fault.’ + +‘I cannot forgive for you as you do for yourself,’ said Mr. Kendal, with +a look that was precious to her, though it might have given a pang to +the Meadowses. ‘I did not imagine that my daughter could be so lost to +the sense of your kindness and forbearance. Have you nothing to say, +Lucy?’ + +‘Poor child! she cannot speak,’ said her grandmother. ‘You see she is +very sorry, and Mrs. Kendal is too kind to wish to say any more about +it.’ + +‘Go home at once, Lucy,’ said her father. ‘Perhaps solitude may bring +you to a better state of feeling. Go!’ + +Direct resistance to Mr. Kendal was never thought of, and Lucy turned +to go. Her aunt chose to accompany her, and though this was a decided +relief to the company she left, it was not likely to be the best thing +for the young lady herself. + +Mr. Kendal gave his arm to Mrs. Meadows, saying gravely that Lucy must +not be encouraged in her habit of gossiping and inaccuracy. Mrs. Meadows +quite agreed with him, it was a very bad habit for a girl, she was very +sorry for it, she wished she could have attended to the dear children +better, but she was sure dear Mrs. Kendal would make them everything +desirable. She only hoped that she would remember their disadvantages, +have patience, and not recollect this against poor Lucy. + +The warm indignation and championship of her husband and his son were +what Albinia chiefly wished to recollect; but it was impossible to free +herself from a sense of pain and injury in the knowledge that she lived +with a spy who would exaggerate and colour every careless word. + +Mr. Kendal returned to the subject as they walked home. + +‘I hope you will talk seriously to Lucy about her intolerable +gossiping,’ he said. ‘There is no safety in mentioning any subject +before her; and Maria Meadows makes her worse. Some stop must be put to +it.’ + +‘I should like to wait till next time,’ said Albinia. + +‘What do you mean?’ + +‘Because this is too personal to myself.’ + +‘Nay, your own candour is an example to which Lucy can hardly be +insensible. Besides, it is a nuisance which must be abated.’ + +Albinia could not help thinking that he suffered from it as little as +most people, and wondering whether it were this which had taught him +silence. + +They met Miss Meadows at their own gate, and she told them that dear +Lucy was very sorry, and she hoped they would take no more notice of a +little nonsense that could do no one any harm; she would be more on her +guard next time. + +Mr. Kendal made no answer. Albinia ventured to ask him whether it would +not be better to leave it, since her aunt had talked to her. + +‘No,’ he said; ‘Maria has no influence whatever with the children. +She frets them by using too many words about everything. One quiet +remonstrance from you would have far more effect.’ + +Albinia called the culprit and tried to reason with her. Lucy tried at +first to battle it off by saying that she had made a mistake, and Aunt +Maria had said that she should hear no more about it. ‘But, my dear, I +am afraid you must hear more. It is not that I am hurt, but your papa +has desired me to talk to you. You would be frightened to hear what he +says.’ + +Lucy chose to hear, and seemed somewhat struck, but she was sure that +she meant no harm; and she had a great deal to say for herself, so +voluble and so inconsequent, that argument was breath spent in vain; and +Albinia was obliged to wind up, as an ultimatum, with warning her, that +till she should prove herself trustworthy, nothing interesting would be +talked of before her. + +The atmosphere of gossip certainly had done its part in cultivating Mr. +Kendal’s talent for silence. When Albinia had him all to herself, he was +like another person, and the long drives to return visits in the country +were thoroughly enjoyable. So, too, were the walks home from the dinner +parties in the town, when the husband and wife lingered in the starlight +or moonlight, and felt that the weary gaiety of the constrained evening +was made up for. + +Great was the offence they gave by not taking out the carriage! + +It was disrespect to Bayford, and one of the airs of which Mrs. Kendal +was accused. As granddaughter of a Baron, daughter of one General +Officer and sister of another, and presented at Court, the Bayford +ladies were prepared to consider her a fine lady, and when they found +her peculiarly simple, were the more aggrieved, as if her contempt +were ironically veiled. Her walks, her dress, her intercourse with the +clergy, were all airs, and Lucy spared her none of the remarks. Albinia +might say, ‘Don’t tell me all Aunt Maria says,’ but it was impossible +not to listen; and whether in mirth or vexation, she was sure to be +harmed by what she heard. + +And yet, except for the tale-bearing, Lucy was really giving less +trouble than her sister, she was quick, observant, and obliging, and +under Albinia’s example, the more salient vulgarities of speech and +manner were falling off. There had seldom been any collision, since it +had become evident that Mrs. Kendal could and would hold her own; +and that her address and air, even while criticised, were regarded as +something superior, so that it was a distinction to belong to her. How +many of poor Albinia’a so-called airs should justly have been laid to +Lucy’s account? + +On the other hand, Sophy would attend to a word from her father, +where she had obstinately opposed her step-mother’s wishes, making her +obedience marked, as if for the very purpose of enforcing the contrast. +It was a character that Albinia could not as yet fathom. In all +occupations and amusements, Sophy followed the lead of her elder sister, +and in her lessons, her sole object seemed to be to get things done with +as little trouble as possible, and especially without setting her mind +to work, and yet in the very effort to escape diligence or exertion, she +sometimes showed signs of so much ability as to excite a longing desire +to know of what she would be capable when once aroused and interested; +but the surly, ungracious temper rendered this apparently impossible, +and whatever Albinia attempted, was sure, as if for the very reason that +it came from her, to be answered with a redoubling of the growl of that +odd hoarse voice. + +On Lucy’s birthday, there was an afternoon party of her young friends, +including Miss Durant. Albinia, who, among the girlhood of Fairmead and +its neighbourhood, had been so acceptable a playmate, that her marriage +had caused the outcry that ‘there would never be any fun again without +Miss Ferrars,’ came out on the lawn with the girls, in hopes of setting +them to enjoy themselves. But they looked at her almost suspiciously, +retained their cold, stiff, company manners, and drew apart into +giggling knots. She relieved them of her presence, and sitting by the +window, watched Genevieve walking up and down alone, as if no one cared +to join her. Presently Lucy and Lizzie Osborn spoke to her, and she went +in. Albinia went to meet her in the hall; she coloured and said, ‘She +was only come to fetch Miss Osborn’s cloak.’ + +Albinia saw her disposing it over Lizzie’s shoulders, and then running +in again. This time it was for Miss Louisa’s cloak, and a third time +for Miss Drury’s shawl, which Albinia chose to take out herself, and +encountering Sophia, said, ‘Next time, you had better run on errands +yourself instead of sending your guests.’ + +Sophy gave a black look, and she retreated, but presently the groups +coalesced, and Maria Drury and Sophy ran out to call Genevieve into +the midst. Albinia hoped they were going to play, but soon she beheld +Genevieve trying to draw back, but evidently imprisoned, there was an +echo of a laugh that she did not like; the younger girls were skipping +up in the victim’s face in a rude way; she hastily turned round as in +indignation, one hand raised to her eyes, but it was instantly snatched +down by Maria Drury, and the pitiless ring closed in. Albinia sprang to +her feet, exclaiming aloud, ‘They are teasing her!’ and rushed into the +garden, hearing on her way, ‘No, we wont let you go!--you shall +tell us--you shall promise to show us--my papa is a magistrate, you +know--he’ll come and search--Jenny, you shall tell!’ + +Come with me, Genevieve,’ said Albinia, standing in the midst of the +tormentors, and launching a look of wrath around her, as she saw tears +in the young girl’s eyes, and taking her hand, found it trembling +with agitation. Fondling it with both her own, she led Genevieve away, +turning her back upon Lucy and her, ‘We were only--’ + +The poor girl shook more and more, and when they reached the shelter of +the house, gave way to a tightened, oppressed sob, and at the first +kind words a shower of tears followed, and she took Albinia’s hand, and +clasped it to her breast in a manner embarrassing to English feelings, +though perfectly natural and sincere in her. ‘Ah! si bonne! si bonne! +pardonnes-moi, Madame!’ she exclaimed, sobbing, and probably not knowing +that she was speaking French; ‘but, oh, Madame, you will tell me! Is it +true--can he?’ + +‘Can who? What do you mean, my dear?’ + +‘The Admiral,’ said Genevieve, looking about frightened, and sinking +her voice to a whisper. ‘Miss Louisa said so, that he could send and +search--’ + +‘Search for what, my dear?’ + +‘For my poor little secret. Ah, Madame, assuredly I may tell you. It +is but a French Bible, it belonged to my martyred ancestor, Francois +Durant, who perished at the St. Barthelemi--it is stained with his +blood--it has been handed on, from one to the other--it was all that +Jacques Durant rescued when he fled from the Dragonnades--it was given +to me by my own dear father on his death-bed, with a charge to keep +it from my grandmother, and not to speak of it--but to guard it as +my greatest treasure. And now--Oh, I am not disobeying him,’ cried +Genevieve, with a fresh burst of tears. ‘You can feel for me, Madame, +you can counsel me. Can the magistrates come and search, unless I +confess to those young ladies?’ + +‘Most decidedly not,’ said Albinia. ‘Set your mind at rest, my poor +child; whoever threatened you played you a most base, cruel trick.’ + +‘Ah, do not be angry with them, Madame; no doubt they were in sport. +They could not know how precious that treasure was to me, and they will +say much in their gaiety of heart.’ + +‘I do not like such gaiety,’ said Albinia. ‘What, they wished to make +you confess your secret?’ + +‘Yes. They had learnt by some means that I keep one of my drawers +locked, and they had figured to themselves that in it was some relic of +my Huguenot ancestors. They thought it was some instrument of death, and +they said that unless I would tell them the whole, the Admiral had the +right of search, and, oh! it was foolish of me to believe them for a +moment, but I only thought that the fright would, kill my grandmother. +Oh, you were so good, Madame, I shall never forget; no, not to the end +of my life, how you rescued me!’ + +‘We did not bring you here to be teased,’ said Albinia, caressing her. +‘I should like to ask your pardon for what they have made you undergo.’ + +‘Ah, Madame!’ said Genevieve, smiling, ‘it is nothing. I am well used to +the like, and I heed it little, except when it falls on such subjects as +these.’ + +She was easily drawn into telling the full history of her treasure, as +she had learnt from her father’s lips, the Huguenot shot down by the +persecutors, and the son who had fled into the mountains and returned +to bury the corpse, and take the prized, blood-stained Bible from the +breast; the escapes and dangers of the two next generations; the +few succeeding days of peace; and, finally, the Dragonnade, when the +children had been snatched from the Durant family, and the father and +mother had been driven at length to fly in utter destitution, and had +made their way to England in a wretched, unprovisioned open boat. The +child for whose sake they fled, was the only one rescued from the hands +of these enemies, and the tradition of their sufferings had been handed +on with the faithfully preserved relic, down to the slender girl, their +sole descendant, and who in early childhood had drunk in the tale +from the lips of her father. The child of the persecutors and of the +persecuted, Genevieve Durant did indeed represent strangely the history +of her ancestral country; and as Albinia said to her, surely it might be +hoped that the faith in which she had been bred up, united what was true +and sound in the religion of both Reformed and Romanist. + +The words made the brown cheek glow. ‘Ah, Madame, did I not say I +could talk with you? You, who do not think me a heretic, as my dear +grandmother’s friends do, and who yet can respect my grandmother’s +Church.’ + +Assuredly little Genevieve was one of the most interesting and engaging +persons that Albinia had ever met, and she listened earnestly to her +artless history, and pretty enthusiasms, and the story which she could +not tell without tears, of her father’s care, when the reward of her +good behaviour had been the reading one verse in the quaint black letter +of the old French Bible. + +The conversation lasted till Gilbert made his appearance, and Albinia +was glad to find that his greeting to Genevieve was cordial and +affectionate, and free from all that was unpleasant in his sisters’ +manner, and he joined himself to their company when Albinia proposed +a walk along the broad causeway through the meadows. It was one of +the pleasantest walks that she had taken at Bayford, with both her +companions so bright and merry, and the scene around in all the beauty +of spring. Gilbert, with the courtesy that Albinia’s very presence had +infused into him, gathered a pretty wild bouquet for each, and Albinia +talked of cowslip-balls, and found that neither Gilbert nor Genevieve +had ever seen one; then she pitied them, and owned that she did not know +how to get through a spring without one; and Gilbert having of course +a pocketful of string, a delicious ball was constructed, over which +Genevieve went into an inexpressible ecstasy. + +All the evening, Gilbert devoted himself to Genevieve, though more than +one of the others tried to attract him, playing off the follies of more +advanced girlhood, to the vexation of Albinia, who could not bear to see +him the centre of attention to silly girls, when he ought to have been +finding his level among boys. + +‘Gilbert makes himself so ridiculous about Jenny Durant,’ said his +sisters, when he insisted on escorting her home, and thus they brought +on themselves Albinia’s pent-up indignation at their usage of their +guest. Lucy argued in unsatisfactory self-defence, but Sophy, when +shown how ungenerous her conduct had been, crimsoned deeply, and though +uttering no word of apology, wore a look that gave her step-mother for +the first time a hope that her sullenness might not be so much from want +of compunction, as from want of power to express it. + +Oh! for a consultation with her brother. But he and his wife were taking +a holiday among their kindred in Ireland, and for once Albinia could +have echoed the aunts’ lamentation that Winifred had so many relations! + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + + +Albinia needed patience to keep alive hope and energy, for a sore +disappointment awaited her. Whatever had been her annoyances with the +girls, she had always been on happy and comfortable terms with Gilbert, +he had responded to her advances, accommodated himself to her wishes, +adopted her tastes, and returned her affection. She had early perceived +that his father and sisters looked on him as the naughty one of the +family, but when she saw Lucy’s fretting interference, and, Sophia’s +wrangling contempt, she did not wonder that an unjust degree of blame +had often fallen to his share; and under her management, he scarcely +ever gave cause for complaint. That he was evidently happier and better +for her presence, was compensation for many a vexation; she loved him +with all her heart, made fun with him, told legends of the freaks of +her brother Maurice and cousin Fred, and grudged no trouble for his +pleasure. + +As long as The Three Musqueteers lasted, he had come constantly to +her dressing-room, and afterwards she promised to find other pleasant +reading; but after such excitement, it was not easy to find anything +that did not appear dry. As the daughter of a Peninsular man, she +thought nothing so charming as the Subaltern, and Gilbert seemed to +enjoy it; but by the time he had heard all her oral traditions of the +war by way of notes, his attendance began to slacken; he stayed out +later, and always brought excuses--Mr. Salsted had kept him, he had +been with a fellow, or his pony had lost a shoe. Albinia did not care +to question, the evenings were light and warm, and the one thing she +desired for him was manly exercise: she thought it much better for him +to be at play with his fellow-pupils, and she could not regret the gain +of another hour to her hurried day. + +One morning, however, Mr. Kendal called her, and his look was so grave +and perturbed, that she hardly waited till the door was shut to ask in +terror, what could be the matter. + +‘Nothing to alarm you,’ he said. ‘It is only that I am vexed about +Gilbert. I have reason to fear that he is deceiving us again; and I +want you to help us to recollect on which days he should have been at +Tremblam. My dear, do not look so pale!’ + +For Albinia had turned quite white at hearing that the boy, on whom +she had fixed her warm affection, had been carrying on a course of +falsehood; but a moment’s hope restored her. ‘I did keep him at home +on Tuesday,’ she said, ‘it was so very hot, and he had a headache. I +thought I might. You told me not to send him on doubtful days.’ + +‘I hope you may be able to make out that it is right,’ said Mr. Kendal, +‘but I am afraid that Mr. Salsted has too much cause of complaint. It is +the old story!’ + +And so indeed it proved, when Albinia heard what the tutor had come +to say. The boy was seldom in time, often altogether missing, excusing +himself by saying he was kept at home by fears of the weather; but Mr. +Salsted was certain that his father could not know how he disposed of +his time, namely, in a low style of sporting with young Tritton, the son +of a rich farmer or half-gentleman, who was the pest of Mr. Salsted’s +parish. Ill-learnt, slurred-over lessons, with lame excuses, were +nothing as compared with this, and the amount of petty deceit, +subterfuge, and falsehood, was frightful, especially when Albinia +recollected the tone of thought which the boy had seemed to be catching +from her. Unused to duplicity, except from mere ignorant, unmanageable +school-children, she was excessively shocked, and felt as if he must be +utterly lost to all good, and had been acting a lie from first to last. +After the conviction had broken on her, she hardly spoke, while Mr. +Kendal was promising to talk to his son, threaten him with severe +punishment, and keep a strict account of his comings and goings, to be +compared weekly with Mr. Salsted’s notes of his arrival. This settled, +the tutor departed, and no sooner was he gone, than Albinia, hiding her +face in her hands, shed tears of bitter grief and disappointment. ‘My +dearest,’ said her husband, fondly, ‘you must not let my boy’s doings +grieve you in this manner. You have been doing your utmost for him, if +any one could do him good, it would be you.’ + +‘O no, surely I must have made some dreadful mistake, to have promoted +such faults.’ + +‘No, I have long known him not to be trustworthy. It is an evil of long +standing.’ + +‘Was it always so?’ + +‘I cannot tell,’ said he, sitting down beside her, and shading his brow +with one hand; ‘I have only been aware of it since he has been left +alone. When the twins were together, they were led by one soul of truth +and generosity. What this poor fellow was separately no one could know, +while he had his brother to guide and shield him. The first time I +noticed the evil was when we were recovering. Gilbert and Sophia were +left together, and in one of their quarrels injured some papers of +mine. I was very weak, and had little power of self-control; I believe I +terrified him too much. There was absolute falsehood, and the truth was +only known by Sophia’s coming forward and confessing the whole. It +was ill managed. I was not equal to dealing with him, and whether the +mischief began then or earlier, it has gone on ever since, breaking +out every now and then. I had hoped that with your care--But oh! how +different it would have been with his brother! Albinia, what would I not +give that you had but seen _him!_ Not a fault was there; not a moment’s +grief did he give us, till--O what an overthrow of hope!’ And he gave +way to an excess of grief that quite appalled her, and made her feel +herself powerless to comfort. She only ventured a few words of peace and +hope; but the contrast between the brothers, was just then keen agony, +and he could not help exclaiming how strange it was, that Edmund should +be the one to be taken. + +‘Nay,’ he said, ‘was not he ripe for better things? May not poor Gilbert +have been spared that longer life may train him to be like his brother?’ + +‘He never will be like him,’ cried Mr. Kendal. ‘No! no! The difference +is evident in the very countenance and features.’ + +‘Was he like you?’ + +‘They said so, but you could not gather an idea of him from me,’ said +Mr. Kendal, smiling mournfully, as he met her gaze. ‘It was the most +beautiful countenance I ever saw, full of life and joy; and there were +wonderful expressions in the eyes when he was thinking or listening. +He used to read the Greek Testament with me every morning, and his +questions and remarks rise up before me again. That text--You have seen +it in church.’ + +‘Because I live, ye shall live also,’ Albinia repeated. + +‘Yes. A little before his illness we came to that. He rested on it, as +he used to do on anything that struck him, and asked me, “whether it +meant the life hereafter, or the life that is hidden here?” We went over +it with such comments as I could find, but his mind was not satisfied; +and it must have gone on working on it, for one night, when I had been +thinking him delirious, he called me, and the light shone out of those +bright dark eyes of his as he said, joyfully, “It is both, papa! It is +hidden here, but it will shine out there,” and as I did not catch his +meaning, he repeated the Greek words.’ + +‘Dear boy! Some day we shall be glad that the full life and glory came +so soon.’ + +He shook his head, the parting was still too recent, and it was +the first time he had been able to speak of his son. It was a great +satisfaction to her that the reserve had once been broken; it seemed +like compensation for the present trouble, though that was acutely +felt, and not softened by the curious eyes and leading questions of the +sisters, when she returned to give what attention she could to their +interrupted lessons. + +Gilbert returned, unsuspicious of the storm, till his father’s stern +gravity, and her depressed, pre-occupied manner, excited his attention, +and he asked her anxiously whether anything were the matter. A sad +gesture replied, and perhaps revealed the state of the case, for he +became absolutely silent. Albinia left them together. She watched +anxiously, and hurried after Mr. Kendal into the study, where his manner +showed her not to be unwelcome as the sharer of his trouble. ‘I do not +know what to do,’ he said, dejectedly. ‘I can make nothing of him. It is +all prevarication and sulkiness! I do not think he felt one word that I +said.’ + +‘People often feel more than they show.’ + +He groaned. + +‘Will you go to him?’ he presently added. ‘Perhaps I grew too angry at +last, and I believe he loves you. At least, if he does not, he must be +more unfeeling than I can think him. You do not dislike it, dearest.’ + +‘O no, no! If I only knew what would be best for him!’ + +‘He may be more unreserved with you,’ said Mr. Kendal; and as he +was anxious for her to make the attempt, she moved away, though in +perplexity, and in the revulsion of feeling, with a sort of disgust +towards the boy who had deceived her so long. + +She found him seated on a wheelbarrow by the pond, chucking pebbles into +the still black water, and disturbing the duckweed on the surface. His +colour was gone, and his face was dark and moody, and strove not to +relax, as she said, ‘O Gilbert, how could you?’ + +He turned sharply away, muttering, ‘She is coming to bother, now!’ + +It cut her to the heart. ‘Gilbert!’ was all she could exclaim, but the +tone of pain made him look at her, as if in spite of himself, and as he +saw the tears he exclaimed in an impatient voice of rude consolation, +‘There’s nothing to take so much to heart. No one thinks anything of +it!’ + +‘What would Edmund have thought?’ said Albinia; but the appeal came +too soon, he made an angry gesture and said, ‘He was nearly three years +younger than I am now! He would not have been kept in these abominable +leading-strings.’ + +She was too much shocked to find an answer, and Gilbert went on, +‘Watched and examined wherever I go--not a minute to myself--nothing +but lessons at Tremblam, and bother at home; driven about hither and +thither, and not allowed a friend of my own, nor to do one single thing! +There’s no standing it, and I won’t!’ + +‘I am very sorry,’ said Albinia, struggling with choking tears. ‘It has +been my great wish to make things pleasant to you. I hope I have not +teased or driven you to--’ + +‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Gilbert, disrespectfully indeed, but from the +bottom of his heart, and breaking at once into a flood of tears. ‘You +are the only creature that has been kind to me since I lost my mother +and Ned, and now they have been and turned you against me too;’ and he +sobbed violently. + +‘I don’t know what you mean, Gilbert. If I stand in your mother’s place, +I can’t be turned against you, any more than she could,’ and she stroked +his brow, which she found so throbbing as to account for his paleness. +‘You can grieve and hurt me, but you can’t prevent me from feeling for +you, nor for your dear father’s grief.’ + +He declared that people at home knew nothing about boys, and made an +uproar about nothing. + +‘Do you call falsehood nothing?’ + +‘Falsehood! A mere trifle now and then, when I am driven to it by being +kept so strictly.’ + +‘I don’t know how to talk to you, Gilbert,’ said Albinia, rising; ‘your +conscience knows better than your tongue.’ + +‘Don’t go;’ and he went off into another paroxysm of crying, as he +caught hold of her dress; and when he spoke again his mood was changed; +he was very miserable, nobody cared for him, he did not know what to do; +he wanted to do right, and to please her, but Archie Tritton would not +let him alone; he wished he had never seen Archie Tritton. At last, +walking up and down with him, she drew from him a full confidence, and +began to understand how, when health and strength had come back to him +in greater measure than he had ever before enjoyed, the craving for +boyish sports had awakened, just after he had been deprived of his +brother, and was debarred from almost every wholesome manner of +gratifying it. To fall in with young Tritton was as great a misfortune +as could well have befallen a boy, with a dreary home, melancholy, +reserved father, and wearisome aunt. Tritton was a youth of seventeen, +who had newly finished his education at an inferior commercial school, +and lived on his father’s farm, giving himself the airs of a sporting +character, and fast hurrying into dissipation. + +He was really good-natured, and Gilbert dwelt on his kindness with +warmth and gratitude, and on his prowess in all sporting accomplishments +with a perfect effervescence of admiration. He evidently patronized +Gilbert, partly from good-natured pity, and partly as flattered by the +adherence of a boy of a grade above him; and Gilbert was proud of the +notice of one who seemed to him a man, and an adept in all athletic +games. It was a dangerous intimacy, and her heart sank as she found that +the pleasures to which he had been introducing Gilbert, were not merely +the free exercise, the rabbit-shooting and rat-hunting of the farm, nor +even the village cricket-match, all of which, in other company, would +have had her full sympathy. But there had been such low and cruel sports +that she turned her head away sickened at the notion of any one dear to +her having been engaged in such amusements, and when Gilbert in excuse +said that every one did it, she answered indignantly, ‘My brothers +never!’ + +‘It is no use talking about what swells do that hunt and shoot and go to +school,’ answered Gilbert. + +‘Do you wish you went to school?’ asked Albinia. + +‘I wish I was out of it all!’ + +He was in a very different frame. He owned that he knew how wrong it +had been to deceive, but he seemed to look upon it as a sort of fate; +he wished he could help it, but could not, he was so much afraid of his +father that he did not know what he said; Archie Tritton said no one +could get on without.--There was an utter bewilderment in his notions, +here and there showing a better tone, but obscured by the fancies +imbibed from his companion, that the knowledge and practice of evil +were manly. At one moment he cried bitterly, and declared that he was +wretched; at another he defended each particular case with all his +might, changing and slipping away so that she did not know where to take +him. However, the conclusion was far more in pity than anger, and after +receiving many promises that if she would shield him from his father and +bear with him, he would abstain from all she disapproved, she caressed +and soothed the aching head, and returned to his father hopeful and +encouraged, certain that the evil had been chiefly caused by weakness +and neglect and believing that here was a beginning of repentance. Since +there was sorrow and confession, there surely must be reformation. + +For a week Gilbert went on steadily, but at the end of that time his +arrivals at home became irregular, and one day there was another great +aberration. On a doubtful day, when it had been decided that he might +go safely between the showers, he never came to Tremblam at all, and Mr. +Salsted sent a note to Mr. Kendal to let him know that his son had been +at the races--village races, managed by the sporting farmers of the +neighbourhood. There was a sense of despair, and again a talk, bringing +at once those ever-ready tears and protestations, sorrow genuine, but +fruitless. ‘It was all Archie’s fault, he had overtaken him, persuaded +him that Mr. Salsted would not expect him, promised him that he should +see the celebrated ‘Blunderbuss,’ Sam Shepherd’s horse, that won the +race last year. Gilbert had gone ‘because he could not help it.’ + +‘Not help it!’ cried Albinia, looking at him with her clear indignant +eyes. ‘How can you be such a poor creature, Gilbert?’ + +‘It is very hard!’ exclaimed Gilbert; ‘I must go past Robble’s Leigh +twice every day of my life, and Archie will come out and be at me.’ + +‘That is the very temptation you have to resist,’ said Albinia. ‘Fight +against it, pray against it, resolve against it; ride fast, and don’t +linger and look after him.’ + +He looked desponding and miserable. If she could only have put a spirit +into him! + +‘Shall I walk and meet you sometimes before you get to Robbie’s Leigh!’ + +His face cleared up, but the cloud returned in a moment. + +‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Only tell me. You know I wish for nothing so +much as to help you.’ + +He did confess that there was nothing he should like better, if Archie +would not be all the worse another time, whenever he should catch him +alone. + +‘But surely, Gilbert, he is not always lying in ambush for you, like a +cat for a mouse. You can’t be his sole game.’ + +‘No, but he is coming or going, or out with his gun, and he will often +come part of the way with me, and he is such a droll fellow!’ + +Albinia thought that there was but one cure. To leave Gilbert daily +exposed to the temptation must be wrong, and she laid the case before +Mr. Kendal with so much earnestness, that he allowed that it would be +better to send the boy from home; and in the meantime, Albinia obtained +that Mr. Kendal should ride some way on the Tremblam road with his son +in the morning, so as to convoy him out of reach of the tempter; whilst +she tried to meet him in the afternoon, and managed so that he should be +seldom without the hope of meeting her. + +Albinia’s likings had taken a current absolutely contrary to all her +preconceived notions; Sophia, with her sullen truth, was respected, but +it was not easy to like her even as well as Lucy, who, though pert and +empty, had much good-nature and good-temper, and was not indocile; while +Gilbert, in spite of a weak, shallow character, habits of deception, and +low ungentlemanly tastes, had won her affection, and occupied the chief +of her time and thoughts; and she dreaded the moment of parting +with him, as removing the most available and agreeable of her young +companions. + +That moment of parting, though acknowledged to be expedient, did not +approach. Gilbert, could not be sent to a public school without risk and +anxiety which his father did not like, and which would have been horror +to his grandmother; and Albinia herself did not feel certain that he +was fit for it, nor that it was her part to enforce it. She wrote to +her brother, and found that he likewise thought a tutor would be a safe +alternative; but then he must be a perfect man in a perfect climate, and +Mr. Kendal was not the man to make researches. Mr. Dusautoy mentioned +one clergyman who took pupils, Maurice Ferrars another, but there +was something against each. Mr. Kendal wrote four letters, and was +undecided--a third was heard of, but the locality was doubtful, and +the plan went off, because Mr. Kendal could not make up his mind to go +thirty miles to see the place, and talk to a stranger. + +Albinia found that her power did not extend beyond driving him from +‘I’ll see about it,’ to ‘Yes, by all means.’ Action was a length to +which he could not be brought. Mr. Nugent was very anxious that he +should qualify as a magistrate since a sensible, highly-principled man +was much wanted counterbalance Admiral Osborn’s misdirected, restless +activity and the lower parts of the town were in a dreadful state. Mrs. +Nugent talked to Albinia, and she urged it in vain. To come out of his +study, examine felons, contend with the Admiral, and to meet all the +world at the quarter sessions, was abhorrent to him, and he silenced her +almost with sternness. + +She was really hurt and vexed, and scarcely less so by a discovery that +she made shortly after. The hot weather had made the houses beneath the +hill more close and unwholesome than ever, Simkins’s wife had fallen +into a lingering illness, and Albinia, visiting her constantly, was +painfully sensible of the dreadful atmosphere in which she lived, under +the roof, with a window that would not open. She offered to have the +house improved at her own expense, but was told that Mr. Pettilove would +raise the rent if anything were laid out on it. She went about talking +indignantly of Mr. Pettilove’s cruelty and rapacity, and when Mr. +Dusautoy hinted that Pettilove was only agent, she exclaimed that the +owner was worse, since ignorance alone could be excused. Who was the +wretch? Some one, no doubt, who never came near the place, and only +thought of it as money. + +‘Fanny,’ said Mr. Dusautoy, ‘I really think we ought to tell her.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, ‘I think it would be better. The houses +belonged to old Mr. Meadows.’ + +‘Oh, if they are Mrs. Meadows’s, I don’t wonder at anything.’ + +‘I believe they are Gilbert Kendal’s.’ + +They were very kind; Mr. Dusautoy strode out at the window, and his wife +would not look at Albinia during the minute’s struggle to regain her +composure, under the mortification that her husband should have let her +rave so much and so long about what must be in his own power. Her only +comfort was the hope that he had never heard what she said, and she knew +that he so extremely disliked a conference with Pettilove, that he would +consent to anything rather than have a discussion. + +She was, for the first time in her life, out of spirits. Gilbert was +always upon her mind; and the daily walk to meet him was a burthen, +consuming a great deal of time, and becoming trying on hot summer +afternoons, the more so as she seldom ventured to rest after it, lest +dulness should drive Gilbert into mischief, or, if nothing worse, into +quarrelling with Sophia. If she could not send him safely out fishing, +she must be at hand to invent pleasures and occupations for him; and the +worst of it was, that the girls grudged her attention to their brother, +and were becoming jealous. They hated the walk to Robble’s Leigh, +and she knew that it was hard on them that their pleasure should be +sacrificed, but it was all-important to preserve him from evil. She had +wished to keep the tutor-negotiations a secret, but they had oozed out, +and she found that Mrs. and Miss Meadows had been declaring that they +had known how it would be--whatever people said beforehand, it always +came to the same thing in the end, and as to its being necessary, poor +dear Gibbie was very different before the change at home. + +Albinia could not help shedding a few bitter tears. Why was she to +be always misjudged, even when she meant the best? And, oh! how hard, +well-nigh impossible, to forgive and candidly to believe that, in the +old lady, at least, it was partiality, and not spite. + +In September, Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars returned from their journey. Albinia +was anxious to see them, for if there was a sense that she had fallen +short of her confident hopes of doing prosperously, there was also a +great desire for their sympathy and advice. But Maurice had been too +long away from his parish to be able to spare another day, and begged +that the Kendals would come to Fairmead. Seeing that Albinia’s heart was +set on it, Mr. Kendal allowed himself to be stirred up to appoint a time +for driving her over to spend a long day at Fairmead. + +For her own pleasure and ease of mind, Albinia made a point of taking +Gilbert, and the girls were to spend the day with their grandmother. + +‘Pretty old Fairmead!’ she cried, as the beech-trees rose before her; +and she was turning round every minute to point out to Gilbert some of +the spots of which she had told him, and nodding to the few scattered +children who were not at school, and who looked up with mouths from +ear to ear, and flushed cheeks, as they curtsied to ‘Miss Ferrars.’ The +‘Miss Ferrars’ life seemed long ago. + +They came to the little green gate that led to what had been ‘home’ for +the happiest years of Albinia’s life, and from the ivy porch there was +a rush of little Willie and Mary, and close at hand their mamma, and +Maurice emerging from the school. It was very joyous and natural. But +there were two more figures, not youthful, but of decided style and +air, and quiet but fashionable dress, and Albinia had only time to say +quickly to her husband, ‘my aunts,’ before she was fondly embraced. + +It was not at all what she had intended. Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars +were very kind aunts, and she had much affection for them; but there was +an end of the hope of the unreserve and confidence that she wanted. +She could get plenty of compassion and plenty of advice, but her +whole object would be to avoid these; and, besides, Mr. Kendal had not +bargained for strangers. What would become of his opportunity of getting +better acquainted with Maurice and Winifred, and of all the pleasures +that she had promised Gilbert? + +At least, however, she was proud that her aunts should see what a +fine-looking man her husband was, and they were evidently struck with +his appearance and manner. Gilbert, too was in very good looks, and was +altogether a bright, gentlemanly boy, well made, though with the air +of growing too fast, and with something of uncertainty about his +expression. + +It was quickly explained that the aunts had only decided, two days +before, on coming to Fairmead at once, some other engagement having +failed them, and they were delighted to find that they should meet their +dear Albinia, and be introduced to Mr. Kendal. Setting off before the +post came in, Albinia had missed Winifred’s note to tell her of their +arrival. + +‘And,’ said Winifred, as she took Albinia upstairs, ‘if I did suspect +that would be the case, I wont say I regretted it. I did not wish to +afford Mr. Kendal the pleasures of anticipation.’ + +‘Perhaps it was better,’ said Albinia, smiling, ‘especially as I suppose +they will stay for the next six weeks, so that the days will be short +before you will be free.’ + +‘And now let me see you, my pretty one,’ said Winifred, fondly. ‘Are you +well, are you strong? No, don’t wriggle your head away, I shall believe +nothing but what I read for myself.’ + +‘Don’t believe anything you read without the notes,’ said Albinia. ‘I +have a great deal to say to you, but I don’t expect much opportunity +thereof.’ + +Certainly not, for Miss Ferrars was knocking at the door. She had never +been able to suppose that the sisters-in-law could be more to each other +than she was to her own niece. + +So it became a regular specimen of a ‘long day’ spent together by +relations, who, intending to be very happy, make themselves very +weary of each other, by discarding ordinary occupations, and reducing +themselves to needlework and small talk. Albinia was bent on liveliness, +and excelled herself in her droll observations; but to Winifred, who +knew her so well, this brilliancy did not seem like perfect ease; it was +more like effort than natural spirits. This was no wonder, for not only +had the sight of new people thrown Mr. Kendal into a severe access +of shyness and silence, but he was revolving in fear and dread the +expediency of asking them to Willow Lawn, and considering whether +Albinia and propriety could make the effort bearable. Silent he sat, +while the aunts talked of their wishes that one nephew would marry, and +that the other would not, and no one presumed to address him, except +little Mary, who would keep trotting up to him, to make him drink out of +her doll’s tea-cups. + +Mr. Ferrars took pity on him, and took him and Gilbert out to call upon +Colonel Bury; but this did not lessen his wife’s difficulties, for there +was a general expectation that she would proceed to confidences; +whereas she would do nothing but praise the Dusautoys, ask after all +the parishioners of Fairmead one by one, and consult about French +reading-books and Italian grammars. Mrs. Annesley began a gentle warning +against overtaxing her strength, and Miss Ferrars enforced it with such +vehemence, that Winifred, who had been rather on that side, began to +take Albinia’s part, but perceived, with some anxiety, that her sister’s +attempts to laugh off the admonition almost amounted to an admission +that she was working very hard. As to the step-daughters, no +intelligence was attainable, except that Lucy would be pleased with +a new crochet pattern, and that Sophy was like her father, but not so +handsome. + +The next division of time passed better. Albinia walked out at the +window to meet the gentlemen when they came home, and materially +relieved Mr. Kendal’s mind by saying to him, ‘The aunts are settled in +here till they go to Knutsford. I hope you don’t think--there is not the +least occasion for asking them to stay with us.’ + +‘Are you sure you do not wish it?’ said Mr. Kendal, with great kindness, +but an evident weight removed. + +‘Most certain!’ she exclaimed, with full sincerity; ‘I am not at all +ready for them. What should I do with them to entertain?’ + +‘Very well,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘you must be the judge. If there be no +necessity, I shall be glad to avoid unsettling our habits, and probably +Bayford would hardly afford much enjoyment to your aunts.’ + +Albinia glanced in his face, and in that of her brother, with her own +arch fun. It was the first time that day that Maurice had seen that +peculiarly merry look, and he rejoiced, but he was not without fear that +she was fostering Mr. Kendal’s retiring habits more than was good for +him. But it was not only on his account that she avoided the invitation, +she by no means wished to show Bayford to her fastidious aunts, and felt +as if to keep them satisfied and comfortable would be beyond her power. + +Set free from this dread, and his familiarity with his brother-in-law +renewed, Mr. Kendal came out to great advantage at the early dinner. +Miss Ferrars was well read and used to literary society, and she started +subjects on which he was at home, and they discussed new books and +criticised critics, so that his deep reading showed itself, and even a +grave, quiet tone of satire, such as was seldom developed, except under +the most favourable circumstances. He and Aunt Gertrude were evidently +so well pleased with each other, that Albinia almost thought she had +been precipitate in letting him off the visit. + +Gilbert had, fortunately, a turn for small children, and submitted to be +led about the garden by little Willie; and as far as moderate enjoyment +went, the visit was not unsuccessful; but as for what Albinia came for, +it was unattainable, except for one little space alone with her brother. + +‘I meant to have asked a great deal,’ she said, sighing. + +‘If you, want me, I would contrive to ride over,’ said Maurice. + +‘No, it is not worth that. But, Maurice, what is to be done when one +sees one’s duty, and yet fails for ever for want of tact and temper! Ah, +I know what you will say, and I often say it to myself, but whatever I +propose, I always do either the wrong thing or in the wrong way!’ + +‘You fall a hundred times a day, but are raised up again,’ said Maurice. + +‘Maurice, tell me one thing. Is it wrong to do, not the best, but only +the best one can?’ + +‘It is the wrong common to us all,’ said Maurice. + +‘I used to believe in “whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing +well.” Now, I do everything ill, rather than do nothing at all.’ + +‘There are only two ways of avoiding that.’ + +‘And they are--?’ + +‘Either doing nothing, or admiring all your own doings.’ + +‘Which do you recommend?’ said Albinia, smiling, but not far from tears. + +‘My dear,’ said Maurice, ‘all I can dare to recommend, is patience and +self-control. Don’t fret and agitate yourself about what you can’t do, +but do your best to do calmly what you can. It will be made up, depend +upon it.’ + +There was no time for more, but the sound counsel, the sympathy, and +playfulness had done Albinia wonderful good, and she was almost glad +there had been no more privacy, or her friends might have guessed that +she had not quite found a counsellor at home. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + + +The Christmas holidays did indeed put an end to the walks to meet +Gilbert, but only so as to make Albinia feel responsible for him all +day long, and uneasy whenever he was not accounted for. She played chess +with him, found books, and racked her brains to seek amusements for +him; but knowing all the time that it was hopeless to expect a boy of +fourteen to be satisfied with them. One or two boys of his age had come +home for the holidays, and she tried to be relieved by being told that +he was going out with Dick Wolfe or Harry Osborn, but it was not quite +satisfactory, and she began to look fagged and unwell, and had lost so +much of her playfulness, that even Mr. Kendal was alarmed. + +Sophia’s birthday fell in the last week before Christmas, and it had +always been the family custom to drink tea with Mrs. Meadows. Albinia +made the engagement with a sense of virtuous resignation, though not +feeling well enough for the infliction, but Mr. Kendal put a stop to all +notion of her going. She expected to enjoy her quiet solitary evening, +but the result was beyond her hopes, for as she was wishing Gilbert +good-bye, she heard the click of the study lock, and in came Mr. Kendal. + +‘I thought you were gone,’ she said. + +‘No. I did not like to leave you alone for a whole evening.’ + +If it were only an excuse to himself for avoiding the Meadows’ party, it +was too prettily done for the notion to occur to his wife, and never had +she spent a happier evening. He was so unusually tender and unreserved, +so desirous to make her comfortable, and, what was far more to her, +growing into so much confidence, that it was even better than what she +used last year to picture to herself as her future life with him. It +even came to what he had probably never done for any one. She spoke of a +beautiful old Latin hymn, which she had once read with her brother, and +had never seen adequately translated, and he fetched a manuscript book, +where, written out with unrivalled neatness, stood a translation of his +own, made many years ago, full of scholarly polish. She ventured to ask +leave to copy it. ‘I will copy it for you,’ he said, ‘but it must be for +yourself alone.’ + +She was grateful for the concession, and happy in the promise. +She begged to turn the page, and it was granted. There were other +translations, chiefly from curious oriental sources, and there were +about twenty original poems, elaborated in the same exquisite manner, +and with a deep melancholy strain of thought, and power of beautiful +description, that she thought finer and more touching than almost +anything she had read. + +‘And these are all locked up for ever. No one has seen them.’ + +‘So. When I was a young lad, my poor father put some lines of mine +into a newspaper. That sufficed me,’ and he shut the clasped book as if +repenting of having revealed the contents. + +‘No, I was not thinking of anything you would dislike with regard to +those verses. I don’t like to let in the world on things precious, +but (how could she venture so far!) I was thinking how many powers and +talents are shut up in that study! and whether they might not have been +meant for more. I beg your pardon if I ought not to say so.’ + +‘The time is past,’ he replied, without displeasure; ‘my youth is gone, +and with it the enterprise and hopefulness that can press forward, +insensible to annoyance. You should have married a man with freshness +and energy more responsive to your own.’ + +‘Oh, Edmund, that is a severe reproach for my impertinent speech.’ + +‘You must not expect too much from me,’ he continued. ‘I told you that +I was a broken, grief-stricken man, and you were content to be my +comforter.’ + +‘Would that I could be so!’ exclaimed Albinia, ‘but to try faithfully, I +must say what is on my mind. Dear Edmund, if you would only look out of +your books, and see how much good you could do, here in your own sphere, +how much the right wants strengthening, how much evil cries out to be +repressed, how sadly your own poor suffer--oh! if you once began, you +would be so much happier!’ + +She trembled with earnestness, and with fear of her own audacity, but a +resounding knock at the door prevented her from even discovering whether +he were offended. He started away to secure his book, and the two girls +came in. Albinia could hardly believe it late enough for their return, +but they accounted for having come rather earlier by saying that Gilbert +had been making himself so ridiculous when he had come at last, that +grandmamma had sent him home. + +‘At last!’ said Albinia. ‘He set off only ten minutes after you, as soon +as he found that papa was not coming.’ + +‘All I know,’ said Lucy, ‘is, that he did not come till half-past nine, +and said he had come from home.’ + +‘And where can he be now?’ + +‘Gone to bed,’ growled Sophy. + +‘I don’t know what he has been doing,’ said Lucy, who since the +suspicion of favouritism, had seemed to find especial pleasure in +bringing forward her brother’s faults; ‘but he came in laughing like a +plough-boy, and talking perfect nonsense. And when Aunt Maria spoke to +him, he answered quite rudely, that he wasn’t going to be questioned and +called to order, he had enough of petticoat government at home.’ + +‘No,’ said Sophy, breaking in with ungracious reluctance, as if against +her will conveying some comfort to her step-mother for the sake of +truth, ‘what he said was, that if he bore with petticoat government at +home, it was because Mrs. Kendal was pretty and kind, and didn’t torment +him out of his life for nothing, and what he stood from her, he would +not stand from any other woman.’ + +‘But, Sophy, I am sure he did say Mrs. Kendal knew what she was going +to say, and said it, and it was worth hearing, and he laughed in Aunt +Maria’s face, and told her not to make so many bites at a cherry.’ + +‘He must have been beside himself,’ said Albinia, in a bewilderment +of consternation, but Mr. Kendal’s return put a stop to all, for the +sisters never told tales before him, and she would not bring the subject +under his notice until she should be better informed. His suffering was +too great, his wrath too stern, to be excited without serious cause; but +she spent a wakeful, anxious night, revolving all imaginable evils into +which the boy could have fallen, and perplexing herself what measures +to take, feeling all the more grieved and bound to him by the preference +that, even in this dreadful mood, he had expressed for her. She fell +into a restless sleep in the morning, from which she wakened so late as +to have no time to question Gilbert before breakfast. On coming down, +she found that he had not made his appearance, and had sent word that he +had a bad headache, and wanted no breakfast. His father, who had made a +visit of inspection, said he thought it was passing off, smiling as he +observed upon Mrs. Meadows’s mince-pie suppers and home-made wine. + +Lucy said nothing, but glanced knowingly at her sister and at Albinia, +from neither of whom did she get any response. + +Albinia did not dare to take any measures till Mr. Kendal had ridden +out, and then she went up and knocked at Gilbert’s door. He was better, +he said, and was getting up, he would be down-stairs presently. She +watched for him as he came down, looking still very pale and unwell. She +took him into her room, made him sit by the fire, and get a little life +and warmth into his chilled hands before she spoke. ‘Yes, Gilbert, +I don’t wonder you cannot lift up your head while so much is on your +mind.’ + +Gilbert started and hid his face. + +‘Did you think I did not know, and was not grieved?’ + +‘Well,’ he cried, peevishly, ‘I’m sure I have the most ill-natured pair +of sisters in the world.’ + +‘Then you meant to deceive us again, Gilbert.’ + +He had relapsed into the old habit--as usual, a burst of tears and a +declaration that no one was ever so badly off, and he did not know what +to do. + +‘You _do_ know perfectly well what to do, Gilbert. There is nothing for +it but to tell me the whole meaning of this terrible affair, and I will +see whether I can help you.’ + +It was always the same round, a few words would always bring the +confession, and that pitiful kind of helpless repentance, which had only +too often given her hope. + +Gilbert assured her that he had fully purposed following his sisters, +but that on the way he had unluckily fallen in with Archie Tritton and a +friend, who had driven in to hear a man from London singing comic songs +at the King’s Head, and they had persuaded him to come in. He had been +uneasy and tried to get away, but the dread of being laughed at about +his grandmother’s tea had prevailed, and he had been supping on oysters +and porter, and trying to believe himself a fast man, till Archie, who +had assured him that he was himself going home in ‘no time,’ had found +it expedient to set off, and it had been agreed that he should put a +bold face on it, and profess that he had never intended to do more than +come and fetch his sisters home. + +That the porter had anything to do with his extraordinary manner to his +grandmother and aunt, was so shocking a notion, and the very hint made +him cry so bitterly, and protest so earnestly that he had only had one +pint, which he did not like, and only drank because he was afraid of +being teased, that Albinia was ready to believe that he had been so +elevated by excitement as to forget himself, and continue the style +of the company he had left. It was bad enough, and she felt almost +overpowered by the contemplation of the lamentable weakness of the poor +boy, of the consequences, and of what was incumbent on her. + +She leant back and considered a little while, then sighed heavily, and +said, ‘Gilbert, two things must be done. You must make an apology +to your grandmother and aunt, and you must confess the whole to your +father.’ + +He gave a sort of howl, as if she were misusing his confidence. + +‘It must be,’ she said. ‘If you are really sorry, you will not shrink. +I do not believe that it could fail to come to your father’s knowledge, +even if I did not know it was my duty to tell him, and how much better +to confess it yourself.’ + +For this, however, Gilbert seemed to have no force; he cried piteously, +bewailed himself, vowed incoherently that he would never do so again, +and if she had not pitied him so much, would have made her think him +contemptible. + +She was inexorable as to having the whole told, though dreading the +confession scarcely less than he did; and he finally made a virtue +of necessity, and promised to tell, if only she would not desert him, +declaring, with a fresh flood of tears, that he should never do wrong +when she was by. Then came the apology. It was most necessary, and he +owned that it would be much better to be able to tell his father that +his grandmother had forgiven him; but he really had not nerve to set +out alone, and Albinia, who had begun to dread having him out of sight, +consented to go and protect him. + +He shrank behind her, and she had to bear the flood of Maria’s surprises +and regrets, before she could succeed in saying that he was very sorry +for yesterday’s improper behaviour, and had come to ask pardon. + +Grandmamma was placable; Gilbert’s white face and red eyes were pleading +enough, and she was distressed at Mrs. Kendal having come out, looking +pale and tired. If she had been alone, the only danger would have been +that the offence would be lost in petting; but Maria had been personally +wounded, and the jealousy she already felt of the step-mother, had been +excited to the utmost by Gilbert’s foolish words. She was excessively +grieved, and a great deal more angry with Mrs. Kendal than with Gilbert; +and the want of justification for this feeling, together with her great +excitement, distress, and embarrassment, made her attempts to be dry and +dignified ludicrously abortive. She really seemed to have lost the power +of knowing what she said. She was glad Mrs. Kendal could walk up this +morning, since she could not come at night. + +‘It was not my fault,’ said Albinia, earnestly; ‘Mr. Kendal forbade me. +I am sure I wish we had come.’ + +The old lady would have said something kind about not reproaching +herself, but Miss Meadows interposed with, ‘It was very unlucky, to be +sure--Mr. Kendal never failed them before, not that she would wish--but +she had always understood that to let young people run about late in +the evening by themselves--not that she meant anything, but it was very +unfortunate--if she had only been aware--Betty should have come down to +walk up with them.’ + +Gilbert could not forbear an ashamed smile of intense affront at this +reproach to his manliness. + +‘It was exceedingly unfortunate,’ said Albinia, trying to repress her +vexation; ‘but Gilbert must learn to have resolution to guard himself. +And now that he is come to ask your forgiveness, will you not grant it +to him?’ + +‘Oh, yes, yes, certainly, I forgive him from my heart. Yes, Gilbert, +I do, only you must mind and beware--it is a very shocking thing--low +company and all that--you’ve made yourself look as ill--and if you knew +what a cake Betty had made--almond and citron both--“but it’s for Master +Gilbert,” she said, “and I don’t grudge”--and then to think--oh, dear!’ + +Albinia tried to express for him some becoming sorrow at having +disappointed so much kindness, but she brought Miss Meadows down on her +again. + +‘Oh, yes--she grudged nothing--but she never expected to meet with +gratitude--she was quite prepared--’ and she swallowed and almost +sobbed, ‘there had been changes. She was ready to make every excuse--she +was sure she had done her best--but she understood--she didn’t want to +be assured. It always happened so--she knew her homely ways were not +what Mrs. Kendal had been used to--and she didn’t wonder--she only hoped +the dear children--’ and she was absolutely crying. + +‘My dear Maria,’ said her mother, soothingly, ‘you have worked yourself +into such a state, that you don’t know what you are saying. You must not +let Mrs. Kendal think that we don’t know that she is leading the dear +children to all that is right and kind towards as.’ + +‘Oh, no, I don’t accuse any one. Only if they like to put me down under +their feet and trample on me, they are welcome. That’s all I have to +say.’ + +Albinia was too much annoyed to be amused, and said, as she rose to +take leave, ‘I think it would be better for Gilbert, as well as for +ourselves, if we were to say no more till some more cool and reasonable +moment.’ + +‘I am as cool as possible,’ said Miss Meadows, convulsively clutching +her hand; ‘I’m not excited. Don’t excite yourself, Mrs. Kendal--it is +very bad for you. Tell her not, Mamma--oh! no, don’t be excited--I mean +nothing--I forgive poor dear Gibbie whatever little matters--I know +there was excuse--boys with unsettled homes--but pray don’t go and +excite yourself--you see how cool I am--’ + +And she pursued Albinia to the garden-gate, recommending her at every +step not to be excited, for she was as cool as possible, trembling and +stammering all the time, with flushed cheeks, and tears in her eyes. + +‘I wonder who she thinks is excited?’ exclaimed Albinia, as they finally +turned their backs on her. + +It was hardly in human nature to help making the observation, but it +was not prudent. Gilbert took licence to laugh, and say, ‘Aunt Maria is +beside herself.’ + +‘I never heard anything so absurd or unjust!’ cried Albinia, too much +irritated to remember anything but the sympathy of her auditor. ‘If I am +to be treated in this manner, I have done striving to please them. Due +respect shall be shown, but as to intimacy and confidence--’ + +‘I’m glad you see it so at last!’ cried Gilbert. ‘Aunt Maria has been +the plague of my life, and I’m glad I told her a bit of my mind!’ + +What was Albinia’s consternation! Her moment’s petulance had undone her +morning’s work. + +‘Gilbert,’ she said, ‘we are both speaking very wrongly. I especially, +who ought to have helped you.’ + +Spite of all succeeding humility the outburst had been fatal, and argue +and plead as she might, she could not restore the boy to anything like +the half satisfactory state of penitence in which she had led him from +home. The giving way to her worse nature had awakened his, and though he +still allowed that she should prepare the way for his confession to his +father, all real sense of his outrageous conduct towards his aunt was +gone. + +Disheartened and worn out, Albinia did not feel equal even to going to +take off her walking things, but sat down in the drawing-room on the +sofa, and tried to silence the girls’ questions and chatter, by desiring +Lucy to read aloud. + +By-and-by Mr. Kendal was heard returning, and she rose to arrest him in +the hall. Her looks began the story, for he exclaimed, ‘My dear Albinia, +what is the matter?’ + +‘Oh, Edmund, I have such things to tell you! I have been doing so +wrong.’ + +She was almost sobbing, and he spoke fondly. ‘No, Albinia, I can hardly +believe that. Something has vexed you, and you must take time to compose +yourself.’ + +He led her up to her own room, tried to soothe her, and would not listen +to a word till she should be calm. After lying still for a little while, +she thought she had recovered, but the very word ‘Gilbert’ brought such +an expression of anxiety and sternness over his brow as overcame her +again, and she could not speak without so much emotion that he silenced +her; and finding that she could neither leave the subject, nor mention +it without violent agitation, he said he would leave her for a little +while, and perhaps she might sleep, and then be better able to speak to +him. Still she held him, and begged that he would say nothing to Gilbert +till he had heard her, and to pacify her he yielded, passed his promise, +and quitted her with a kiss. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + + +There was a messenger at Fairmead Parsonage by sunrise the next morning, +and by twelve o’clock Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars were at Willow Lawn. + +Mr. Kendal’s grave brow and depressed manner did not reassure Winifred +as he met her in the hall, although his words were, ‘I hope she is doing +well.’ + +He said no more, for the drawing-room door was moving to and fro, as if +uneasy on the hinges, and as he made a step towards it, it disclosed a +lady with black eyes and pinched features, whom he presented as ‘Miss +Meadows.’ + +‘Well, now--I think--since more efficient--since I leave Mrs. Kendal +to better--only pray tell her--my love and my mother’s--if I could +have been of any use--or shall I remain?--could I be of any service, +Edmund?--I would not intrude when--but in the house--if I could be of +any further use.’ + +‘Of none, thank you,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘unless you would be kind enough +to take home the girls.’ + +‘Oh, papa!’ cried Lucy, I’ve got the keys. You wont be able to get on at +all without me. Sophy may go, but I could not be spared.’ + +‘Let it be as you will,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I only desire quiet, and that +you should not inconvenience Mrs. Ferrars.’ + +‘You will help me, will you not!’ said Winifred, smiling, though she did +not augur well from this opening scene. ‘May I go soon to Albinia?’ + +‘Presently, I hope,’ said Mr. Kendal, with an uneasy glance towards Miss +Meadows, ‘she has seen no one as yet, and she is so determined that you +cannot come till after Christmas, that she does not expect you.’ + +Miss Meadows began one of her tangled skeins of words, the most tangible +of which was excitement; and Mr. Kendal, knowing by long experience that +the only chance of a conclusion was to let her run herself down, held +his tongue, and she finally departed. + +Then he breathed more freely, and said he would go and prepare Albinia +to see her sister, desiring Lucy to show Mrs. Ferrars to her room, and +to take care not to talk upon the stairs. + +This, Lucy, who was in high glory, obeyed by walking upon creaking +tip-toe, apparently borrowed from her aunt, and whispering at a +wonderful rate about her eagerness to see dear, dear mamma, and the +darling little brother. + +The spare room did not look expectant of guests, and felt still less +so. It struck Winifred as very like the mouth of a well, and the paper +showed patches of ancient damp. One maid was hastily laying the fire, +the other shaking out the curtains, in the endeavour to render it +habitable, and Lucy began saying, ‘I must apologize. If papa had only +given us notice that we were to have the pleasure of seeing you,’ and +then she dashed at the maid in all the pleasure of authority. ‘Eweretta, +go and bring up Mrs. Ferrars’s trunks directly, and some water, and some +towels.’ + +Winifred thought the greatest mercy to the hunted maid would be to +withdraw as soon as she had hastily thrown off bonnet and cloak, and +Lucy followed her into the passage, repeating that papa was so absent +and forgetful, that it was very inconvenient in making arrangements. +Whatever was ordinarily repressed in her, was repaying itself with +interest in the pleasure of acting as mistress of the house. + +Mrs. Ferrars beheld Gilbert sitting listlessly on the deep window-seat +at the end of the passage, resting his head on his hand. + +‘Well!’ exclaimed Lucy, ‘if he is not there still! He has hardly stirred +since breakfast! Come and speak to Mrs. Ferrars, Gilbert. Or,’ and she +simpered, ‘shall it be Aunt Winifred?’ + +‘As you please,’ said Mrs. Ferrars, advancing towards her old +acquaintance, whom she would hardly have recognised, so different was +the pale, downcast, slouching figure, from the bright, handsome lad she +remembered. + +‘How cold your hand is!’ she exclaimed; ‘you should not sit in this cold +passage.’ + +‘As I have been telling him all this morning,’ said Lucy. + +‘How is she?’ whispered the boy, rousing himself to look imploringly in +Winifred’s face. + +‘Your father seems satisfied about her.’ + +At that moment a door at some distance was opened, and Gilbert seemed to +thrill all over as for the moment ere it closed a baby’s cry was heard. +He turned his face away, and rested it on the window. ‘My brother! my +brother!’ he murmured, but at that moment his father turned the corner +of the passage, saying that Albinia had heard their arrival, and was +very eager to see her sister. + +Still Winifred could not leave the boy without saying, ‘You can make +Gilbert happy about her, can you not? He is waiting here, watching +anxiously for news of her.’ + +‘Gilbert himself best knows whether he has a right to be made happy,’ +said Mr. Kendal, gravely. ‘I promised to ask no questions till she is +able to explain, but I much fear that he has been causing her great +grief and distress.’ + +He fixed his eyes on his son, and Winifred, in the belief that she was +better out of their way, hurried to Albinia’s room, and was seen very +little all the rest of the day. + +She was spared, however, to walk to church the next morning with her +husband, Lucy showing them the way, and being quiet and agreeable when +repressed by Mr. Ferrars’s presence. After church, Mr. Dusautoy overtook +them to inquire after Mrs. Kendal, and to make a kind proposal of +exchanging Sunday duty. He undertook to drive the ponies home on the +morrow, begged for credentials for the clerk, and messages for Willie +and Mary, and seemed highly pleased with the prospect of the holiday, as +he called it, only entreating that Mrs. Ferrars would be so kind as to +look in on ‘Fanny,’ if Mrs. Kendal could spare her. + +‘I thought,’ said Winifred to her husband, ‘that you would rather have +exchanged a Sunday when Albinia is better able to enjoy you?’ + +‘That may yet be, but poor Kendal is so much depressed, that I do not +like to leave him.’ + +‘I have no patience with him!’ cried Winifred; ‘he does not seem to take +the slightest pleasure in his baby, and he will hardly let poor Albinia +do so either! Do you know, Maurice, it is as bad as I ever feared it +would be. No, don’t stop me, I must have it out. I always said he had no +business to victimize her, and I am sure of it now! I believe this gloom +of his has broken down her own dear sunny spirits! There she is--so +unlike herself--so anxious and fidgety about her baby--will hardly take +any one’s word for his being as healthy and stout a child as I ever saw! +And then, every other moment, she is restless about that boy--always +asking where he is, or what he is doing. I don’t see how she is ever to +get well, while it goes on in this way! Mr. Kendal told me that Gilbert +had been worrying and distressing her; and as to those girls, the eldest +of them is intolerable with her airs, and the youngest--I asked her if +she liked babies, and she growled, “No.” Lucy said Gilbert was waiting +in the passage for news of mamma, and she grunted, “All sham!” and +that’s the whole I have heard of her! He is bad enough in himself, but +with such a train! My poor Albinia! If they are not the death of her, it +will be lucky!’ + +‘Well done, Winifred!’ + +‘But, Maurice,’ said his impetuous wife, in a curiously altered tone, +‘are not you very unhappy about Albinia?’ + +‘I shall leave you to find that out for me.’ + +‘Then you are not?’ + +‘I think Kendal thoroughly values and appreciates her, and is very +uncomfortable without her.’ + +‘I suppose so. People do miss a maid-of-all-work. I should not so much +mind it, if she had been only _his_ slave, but to be so to all those +disagreeable children of his too! And with so little effect. Why can’t +he send them all to school?’ + +‘Propose that to Albinia.’ + +‘She did want the boy to go somewhere. I should not care where, so +it were out of her way. What creatures they must be for her to have +produced no more effect on them!’ + +‘Poor Albinia! I am afraid it is a hard task: but these are still early +days, and we see things at a disadvantage. We shall be able to judge +whether there be really too great a strain on her spirits, and if so, I +would talk to Kendal.’ + +‘And I wonder what is to come of that. It seems to me like what John +Smith calls singing psalms to a dead horse.’ + +‘John Smith! I am glad you mentioned him; I shall desire Dusautoy to +bring him here on Monday.’ + +‘What! as poor Albinia would say, you can’t exist a week without John +Smith.’ + +‘Even so. I want him to lay out a plan for draining the garden. That +pond is intolerable. I suspect that all, yourself included, will become +far more good-tempered in consequence.’ + +‘A capital measure, but do you mean that Edmund Kendal is going to let +you and John Smith drain his pond under his very nose, and never find it +out? I did not imagine him quite come to that.’ + +‘Not _quite_,’ said Maurice; ‘it is with his free consent, and I believe +he will be very glad to have it done without any trouble to himself. He +said that Albinia _thought it damp_, and when I put a few sanatory facts +before him, thanked me heartily, and seemed quite relieved. If they had +only been in Sanscrit, they would have made the greater impression.’ + +‘One comfort is, Maurice, that however provoking you are at first, you +generally prove yourself reasonable at last, I am glad you are not Mr. +Kendal.’ + +‘Ah! it will have a fine effect on you to spend your Christmas-day +tete-a-tete with him.’ + +Mrs. Ferrars’s views underwent various modifications, like all hasty +yet candid judgments. She took Mr. Kendal into favour when she found +him placidly submitting to Miss Meadows’s showers of words, in order to +prevent her gaining access to his wife. + +‘Maria Meadows is a very well-meaning person,’ he said afterwards; ‘but +I know of no worse infliction in a sick-room.’ + +‘I wonder,’ thought Winifred, ‘whether he married to get rid of her. I +should have thought it justifiable had it been any one but Albinia!’ + +The call on Mrs. Dusautoy was consoling. It was delightful to find how +Albinia was loved and valued at the vicarage. Mrs. Dusautoy began by +sending her as a message, John’s first exclamation on hearing of the +event. ‘Then she will never be of any more use.’ In fact, she said, it +was much to him like having a curate disabled, and she believed he could +only be consoled by the hopes of a pattern christening, and of a nursery +for his school-girls; but there Winifred shook her head, Fairmead had a +prior claim, and Albinia had long had her eye upon a scholar of her own. + +‘I told John that she would! and he must bear it as he can,’ laughed +Mrs. Dusautoy; and she went on more seriously to say that her gratitude +was beyond expression, not merely for the actual help, though that was +much, but for the sympathy, the first encouragement they had met among +their richer parishioners, and she spoke of the refreshment of the +mirthfulness and playful manner, so as to convince Winifred that they +had neither died away nor been everywhere wasted. + +Winifred had no amenable patient. Weak and depressed as Albinia was, her +restlessness and air of anxiety could not be appeased. There was a look +of being constantly on the watch, and once, when her door was ajar, +before Winifred was aware she exerted her voice to call Gilbert! + +Pushing the door just wide enough to enter, and treading almost +noiselessly, he came forward, looking from side to side as with a sense +of guilt. She stretched out her hand and smiled, and he obeyed the +movement that asked him to bend and kiss her, but still durst not speak. + +‘Let me have the baby,’ she said. + +Mrs. Ferrars laid it beside her, and held aloof. Gilbert’s eyes were +fixed intently on it. + +‘Yes, Gilbert,’ Albinia said, ‘I know what you will feel for him. He +can’t be what you once had--but oh, Gilbert, you will do all that an +elder brother can to make him like Edmund!’ + +Gilbert wrung her fingers, and ventured to stoop down to kiss the little +red forehead. The tears were running down his cheeks, and he could not +speak. + +‘If your father might only say the same of him! that he never grieved +him!’ said Albinia; ‘but oh, Gilbert--example,’ and then, pausing and +gazing searchingly in his face, ‘You have not told papa.’ + +‘No,’ whispered Gilbert. + +‘Winifred,’ said Albinia, ‘would you be so kind as to ask papa to come?’ + +Winifred was forced to obey, though feeling much to blame as Mr. Kendal +rose with a sigh of uneasiness. Gilbert still stood with his hand +clasped in Albinia’s, and she held it while her weak voice made the +full confession for him, and assured his father of his shame and sorrow. +There needed no such assurance, his whole demeanour had been sorrow all +these dreary days, and Mr. Kendal could not but forgive, though his eye +spoke deep grief. + +‘I could not refuse pardon thus asked,’ he said. ‘Oh, Gilbert, that I +could hope this were the beginning of a new course!’ + +Albinia looked from Gilbert to his little brother, and back again to +Gilbert. + +‘It _shall_ be,’ she said, and Gilbert’s resolution was perhaps the more +sincere that he spoke no word. + +‘Poor boy,’ said Albinia, half to herself and half aloud, ‘I think I +feel more strong to love and to help him!’ + +That interview was a dangerous experiment, and she suffered for it. As +her brother said, instead of having too little life, she had too much, +and could not let herself rest; she had never cultivated the art of +being still, and when she was weak, she could not be calm. + +Still the strength of her constitution staved off the nervous fever of +her spirits, and though she was not at all a comfortable patient, she +made a certain degree of progress, so that though it was not easy to +call her better, she was not quite so ill, and grew less irrational in +her solicitude, and more open to other ideas. ‘Do you know, Winifred,’ +she said one day, ‘I have been thinking myself at Fairmead till I almost +believed I heard John Smith’s voice under the window.’ + +Winifred was obliged to look out at the window to hide her smile. +Maurice, who was standing on the lawn with the very John Smith, beckoned +to her, and she went down to hear his plans. He was wanted at home the +next day, and asked whether she thought he had better take Gilbert with +him. ‘It is the wisest thing that has been said yet!’ exclaimed she. +‘Now I shall have a chance for Albinia!’ and accordingly, Mr. Kendal +having given a gracious and grateful consent, Albinia was informed; but +Winifred thought her almost perverse when a perturbed look came over +her, and she said, ‘It is very kind in Maurice, but I must speak to +him.’ + +He was struck by the worn, restless expression of her features, so +unlike the calm contented repose of a young mother, and when she spoke +to him, her first word was of Gilbert. ‘Maurice, it is so kind, I know +you will make him happy--but oh! take care--he is so delicate--indeed, +he is--don’t let him get wet through.’ + +Maurice promised, but Albinia resumed with minutiae of directions, +ending with, ‘Oh! if he should get hurt or into any mischief, what +should we do? Pray, take care, Maurice, you are not used to such +delicate boys.’ + +‘My dear, I think you may rely on me.’ + +‘Yes, but you will not be too strict with him--’ and more was following, +when her brother said, ‘I promise you to make him my special charge. +I like the boy very much. I think you may be reasonable, and trust +him with me, without so much agitation. You have not let me see my own +nephew yet.’ + +Albinia looked with her wistful piteous face at her brother as he took +in his arms her noble-looking fair infant. + +‘You are a great fellow indeed, sir,’ said his uncle. ‘Now if I were +your mamma, I would be proud of you, rather than--’ + +‘I am afraid!’ said Albinia, in a sudden low whisper. + +He looked at her anxiously. + +‘Let me have him,’ she said; then as Maurice bent over her, and she +hastily gathered the babe into her arms, she whispered in quick, low, +faint accents, ‘Do you know how many children have been born in this +house?’ + +Mr. Ferrars understood her, he too had seen the catalogue in the church, +and guessed that the phantoms of her boy’s dead brethren dwelt on her +imagination, forbidding her to rejoice in him hopefully. He tried to say +something encouraging of the child’s appearance, but she would not let +him go on. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘he is so now--but--’ then catching her +breath again and speaking very low, ‘his father does not dare look at +him--I see that he is sorry for me--Oh, Maurice, it will come, and I +shall be able to do nothing!’ + +Maurice felt his lip quivering as his sister’s voice became choked--the +sister to whom he had once been the whole world, and who still could +pour out her inmost heart more freely to him than to any other. But +it was a time for grave authority, and though he spoke gently, it was +almost sternly. + +‘Albinia, this is not right. It is not thankful or trustful. No, do not +cry, but listen to me. Your child is as likely to do well as any child +in the world, but nothing is so likely to do him harm as your want of +composure.’ + +‘I tell myself so,’ said Albinia, ‘but there is no helping it.’ + +‘Yes, there is. Make it your duty to keep yourself still, and not be +troubled about what may or may not happen, but be glad of the present +pleasure.’ + +‘Don’t you think I am?’ said Albinia, half smiling; ‘so glad, that I +grow frightened at myself, and--’ As if fain to leave the subject, she +added, ‘And it is what you don’t understand, Maurice, but he can’t be +the first to Edmund as he is to me--never--and when I get almost jealous +for him, I think of Gilbert and the girls--and oh! there is so much to +do for them--they want a mother so much--and Winifred wont let me see +them, or tell me about them!’ + +She had grown piteous and incoherent, and a glance from Winifred told +him, ‘this is always the way.’ + +‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you will never be fit to attend to them if you do +not use this present time rightly. You may hurt your health, and still +more certainly, you will go to work fretfully and impetuously. If you +have a busy life, the more reason to learn to be tranquil. Calm is +forced on you now, and if you give way to useless nervous brooding over +the work you are obliged to lay aside for a time, you have no right to +hope that you will either have judgment or temper for your tasks.’ + +‘But how am I to keep from thinking, Maurice? The weaker I am, the more +I think.’ + +‘Are you dutiful as to what Winifred there thinks wisest? Ah! Albinia, +you want to learn, as poor Queen Anne of Austria did, that docility in +illness may be self-resignation into higher Hands. Perhaps you despise +it, but it is no mean exercise of strength and resolution to be still.’ + +Albinia looked at him as if receiving a new idea. + +‘And,’ he added, bending nearer her face, and speaking lower, ‘when you +pray, let them be hearty faithful prayers that God’s hand may be over +your child--your children, not half-hearted faithless ones, that He may +work out your will in them.’ + +‘Oh, Maurice, how did you know? But you are not going? I have so much to +talk over with you.’ + +‘Yes, I must go; and you must be still. Indeed I will watch over Gilbert +as though he were mine. Yes, even more. Don’t speak again, Albinia, I +desire you will not. Good-bye.’ + +That lecture had been the most wholesome treatment she had yet received; +she ceased to give way without effort to restless thoughts and cares, +and was much less refractory. + +When at last Lucy and Sophia were admitted, Winifred found perils that +she had not anticipated. Lucy was indeed supremely and girlishly happy: +but it was Sophy whose eye Albinia sought with anxiety, and that eye was +averted. Her cheek was cold like that of a doll when Albinia touched +it eagerly with her lips; and when Lucy admonished her to kiss the dear +little brother, she fairly turned and ran out of the room. + +‘Poor Sophy!’ said Lucy. ‘Never mind her, mamma, but she is odder than +ever, since baby has been born. When Eweretta came up and told us, she +hid her face and cried; and when grandmamma wanted to make us promise +to love him with all our hearts, and not make any difference, she would +only say, “I wont!”’ + +‘We will leave him to take care of that, Lucy,’ said Albinia. But +though she spoke cheerfully, Winifred was not surprised, after a little +interval, to hear sounds like stifled weeping. + +Almost every home subject was so dangerous, that whenever Mrs. Ferrars +wanted to make cheerful, innocent conversation, she began to talk of +her visit to Ireland and the beautiful Galway coast, and the O’Mores +of Ballymakilty, till Albinia grew quite sick of the names of the whole +clan of thirty-six cousins, and thought, with her aunts, that Winifred +was too Irish. Yet, at any other time, the histories would have made her +sometimes laugh, and sometimes cry, but the world was sadly out of joint +with her. + +There was a sudden change when, for the first time her eye rested on the +lawn, and she beheld the work of drainage. The light glanced in her eye, +the colour rose on her cheek, and she exclaimed, ‘How kind of Edmund!’ + +Winifred must needs give her husband his share. ‘Ah! you would never +have had it done without Maurice.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia, ‘Edmund has been out of the way of such things, but +he consented, you know.’ Then as her eyes grew liquid, ‘A duck pond is +a funny subject for sentiment, but oh! if you knew what that place has +been to my imagination from the first, and how the wreaths of mist have +wound themselves into spectres in my dreams, and stretched out white +shrouds now for one, now for the other!’ and she shuddered. + +‘And you have gone through all this and never spoken. No wonder your +nerves and spirits were tried.’ + +‘I did speak at first,’ said Albinia; ‘but I thought Edmund did not +hear, or thought it nonsense, and so did I at times. But you see he +did attend; he always does, you see, at the right time. It was only my +impatience.’ + +‘I suspect Maurice and John Smith had more to do with it,’ said +Winifred. + +‘Well, we wont quarrel about that,’ said Albinia. ‘I only know that +whoever brought it about has taken the heaviest weight off my mind that +has been there yet.’ + +In truth, the terror, half real, half imaginary, had been a sorer +burthen than all the positive cares for those unruly children, or their +silent, melancholy father; and the relief told in all ways--above all, +in the peace with which she began to regard her child. Still she would +provoke Winifred by bestowing all her gratitude on Mr. Kendal, who began +to be persuaded that he had made an heroic exertion. + +Winifred had been somewhat scandalized by discovering Albinia’s +deficiencies in the furniture development. She was too active and +stirring, and too fond of out-of-door occupation, to regard interior +decoration as one of the domestic graces, ‘her nest was rather that of +the ostrich than the chaffinch,’ as Winifred told her on the discovery +that her morning-room had been used for no other purpose than as a +deposit for all the books, wedding presents, lumber, etc., which she had +never had leisure to arrange. + +‘You might be more civil,’ answered Albinia. ‘Remember that the ringdove +never made half such a fuss about her nest as the magpie.’ + +‘Well, I am glad you have found some likeness in yourself to a dove,’ +rejoined Winifred. + +Mrs. Ferrars set vigorously to work with Lucy, and rendered the room so +pretty and pleasant, that Lucy pronounced that it must be called nothing +but the boudoir, for it was a perfect little bijou. + +Albinia was laid on the sofa by the sparkling fire, by her side the +little cot, and in her hand a most happy affectionate letter from +Gilbert, detailing the Fairmead Christmas festivities. She felt the +invigoration of change of room, admired and was grateful for Winifred’s +work, and looked so fair and bright, so tranquil and so contented, that +her sister and husband could not help pausing to contemplate her as an +absolutely new creature in a state of quiescence. + +It did not last long, and Mrs. Ferrars felt herself the unwilling +culprit. Attracted by sounds in the hall, she found the two girls +receiving from the hands of Genevieve Durant a pretty basket choicely +adorned with sprays of myrtle, saying mamma would be much obliged, and +they would take it up at once; Genevieve should take home her basket, +and down plunged their hands regardless of the garniture. + +Genevieve’s disappointed look caught Winifred’s attention, and springing +forward she exclaimed, ‘You shall come to Mrs. Kendal yourself, my dear. +She must see your pretty basket,’ and yourself, she could have added, as +she met the grateful glitter of the dark eyes. + +Lucy remonstrated that mamma had seen no one yet, not even Aunt Maria, +but Mrs. Ferrars would not listen, and treading airily, yet with +reverence that would have befitted a royal palace, Genevieve was ushered +upstairs, and with heartfelt sweetness, and timid grace, presented her +etrennes. + +Under the fragrant sprays lay a small white-paper parcel, tied with +narrow blue satin bows, such as no English fingers could accomplish, +and within was a little frock-body, exquisitely embroidered, with a +breastplate of actual point lace in a pattern like frostwork on the +windows. It was such work as Madame Belmarche had learnt in a convent +in times of history, and poor little Genevieve had almost worn out her +black eyes on this piece of homage to her dear Mrs. Kendal, grieving +only that she had not been able to add the length of robe needed to +complete her gift. + +Albinia’s kiss was recompense beyond her dreams, and she fairly cried +for joy when she was told that she should come and help to dress the +babe in it for his christening. Mrs. Ferrars would walk out with her at +once to buy a sufficiency of cambric for the mighty skirts. + +That visit was indeed nothing but pleasure, but Mrs. Ferrars had not +calculated on contingencies and family punctilios. She forgot that it +would be a mortal offence to let in any one rather than Miss Meadows; +but the rest of the family were so well aware of it, that when she +returned she heard a perfect sparrow’s-nest of voices--Lucy’s pert and +eager, Miss Meadows’s injured and shrill, and Albinia’s, alas! thin and +loud, half sarcasm, half fret. + +There sat Aunt Maria fidgeting in the arm-chair; Lucy stood by the +fire; Albinia’s countenance sadly different from what it had been in the +morning--weary, impatient, and excited, all that it ought not to be! + +Winifred would have cleared the room at once, but this was not easy, +and poor Albinia was so far gone as to be determined on finishing +that endless thing, an altercation, so all three began explaining and +appealing at once. + +It seemed that Mrs. Osborn was requiting Mrs. Kendal’s neglect in not +having inquired after her when the Admiral’s sister’s husband died, by +the omission of inquiries at present; whereat Albinia laughed a feeble, +overdone giggle, and observed that she believed Mrs. Osborn knew all +that passed in Willow Lawn better than the inmates; and Lucy deposed +that Sophy and Loo were together every day, though Sophy knew mamma did +not like it. Miss Meadows said if reparation were not made, the Osborns +had expressed their intention of omitting Lucy and Sophy from their +Twelfth-day party. + +To this Albinia pettishly replied that the girls were to go to no +Christmas parties without her; Miss Meadows had taken it very much to +heart, and Lucy was declaiming against mamma making any condescension +to Mrs. Osborn, or herself being supposed to care for ‘the Osborn’s +parties,’ where the boys were so rude and vulgar, the girls so +boisterous, and the dancing a mere romp. Sophy might like it, but she +never did! + +Miss Meadows was hurt by her niece’s defection, and had come to ‘Oh, +very well,’ and ‘things were altered,’ and ‘people used to be grateful +to old friends, but there were changes.’ And thereby Lucy grew personal +as to the manners of the Osborns, while Albinia defended herself against +the being grand or exclusive, but it was her duty to do what she +thought right for the children! Yes, Miss Meadows was quite aware--only +grandmamma was so nervous about poor dear Gibbie missing his Christmas +dinner for the first time--being absent--Mrs. Ferrars would take great +care, but damp stockings and all-- + +Winifred endeavoured to stem the tide of words, but in vain, between +the meandering incoherency of the one, and the nervous rapidity of the +other, and they had both set off again on this fresh score, when in +despair she ran downstairs, rapped at the study door, and cried, ‘Mr. +Kendal, Mr. Kendal, will you not come! I can’t get Miss Meadows out of +Albinia’s room.’ + +Forth came Mr. Kendal, walked straight upstairs, and stood in full +majesty on the threshold. Holding out his hand to Maria with grave +courtesy, he thanked her for coming to see his wife, but at the same +time handed her down, saw her out safely at the hall door, and Lucy into +the drawing-room. + +It was a pity that he had not returned to Albinia’s room, for she was +too much excited to be composed without authority. First, she scolded +Winifred; ‘it was the thing she most wished to avoid, that he should +fancy her teased by anything the Meadowses could say,’ and she laughed, +and protested she never was vexed, such absurdity did not hurt her in +the least. + +‘It has tired you, though,’ said Winifred. ‘Lie quite down and sleep.’ + +Of course, however, Albinia would not believe that she was tired, and +began to talk of the Osborns and their party--she was annoyed at the +being thought too fine. ‘If it were not such a penance, and if you would +not be gone home, I really would ask you to take the girls, Winifred.’ + +‘I shall not be gone home.’ + +‘Yes, you will. I am well, and every one wants you.’ + +‘Did you not hear Willie’s complimentary message, that he is never +naughty now, because Gilbert makes him so happy?’ + +‘But, Winifred, the penny club! The people must have their things.’ + +‘They can wait, or--’ + +‘It is very well for us to talk of waiting,’ cried Albinia, ‘but how +should we like a frosty night without cloaks, or blankets, or fire? I +did not think it of you, Winifred. It is the first winter I have been +away from my poor old dames, and I did think you would have cared for +them.’ + +And thereupon her overwrought spirits gave way in a flood of tears, as +she angrily averted her face from her sister, who could have cried too, +not at the injustice, but with compassion and perplexity lest there +should be an equally violent reaction either of remorse or of mirth. + +It must be confessed that Albinia was very much the creature of health. +Never having been ill before, the depression had been so new that it +broke her completely down; convalescence made her fractious. + +Recovery, however, filled her with such an ecstasy of animal spirits +that her time seemed to be entirely passed in happiness or in sleep, and +cares appeared to have lost all power. It was so sudden a change that +Winifred was startled, though it was a very pleasant one, and she +did not reflect that this was as far from the calm, self-restrained, +meditative tranquillity enjoined by Maurice, as had been the previous +restless, querulous state. Both were body more than mind, but Mrs. +Ferrars was much more ready to be merry with Albinia than to moralize +about her. And it was droll that the penny club was one of the first +stages in her revival. + +‘Oh, mamma,’ cried Lucy, flying in, ‘Mr. Dusautoy is at the door. There +is such a to do. All the women have been getting gin with their penny +club tickets, and Mrs. Brock has been stealing the money, and Mr. +Dusautoy wants to know if you paid up three-and-fourpence for the +Hancock children.’ + +Albinia instantly invited Mr. Dusautoy to explain in person, and he +entered, hearty and pleasant as ever, but in great haste, for he had +left his Fanny keeping the peace between five angry women, while he came +out to collect evidence. + +The Bayford clothing-club payments were collected by Mrs. Brock, the +sexton’s wife, and distributed by tickets to be produced at the various +shops in the town. Mrs. Brock had detected some women exchanging their +tickets for gin, and the offending parties retaliated by accusing her +of embezzling the subscriptions, both parties launching into the usual +amount of personalities and exaggerations. + +Albinia’s testimony cleared Mrs. Brock as to the three-and-fourpence, +but she ‘snuffed the battle from afar,’ and rushed into a scheme of +taking the clothing-club into her own hands, collecting the pence, +having the goods from London, and selling them herself--she would +propose it on the very first opportunity to the Dusautoys. Winifred +asked if she had not a good deal on her hands already. + +‘My dear, I have the work in me of a young giant.’ + +‘And will Mr. Kendal like it?’ + +‘He would never find it out unless I told him, and very possibly not +then. Six months hence, perhaps, he may tell me he is glad that Lucy is +inclined to useful pursuits, and that _is_ approval, Winifred, much more +than if I went and worried him about every little petty woman’s matter.’ + +‘Every one to her taste,’ thought Winifred, who had begun to regard Mr. +and Mrs. Kendal in the same relation as the king and queen at chess. + +The day before the christening, Mr. Ferrars brought back Gilbert and his +own little Willie. + +Through all the interchange of greetings, Gilbert would hardly let go +Albinia’s hand, and the moment her attention was free, he earnestly +whispered, ‘May I see my brother?’ + +She took him upstairs at once. ‘Let me look a little while,’ he said, +hanging over the child with a sort of hungry fondness and curiosity. ‘My +brother! my brother!’ he repeated. ‘It has rung in my ears every morning +that I can say my brother once more, till I have feared it was a dream.’ + +It was the sympathy Albinia cared for, come back again! ‘I hope he will +be a good brother to you,’ she said. + +‘He must be good! he can’t help it! He has you!’ said Gilbert. ‘See, he +is opening his eyes--oh! how blue! May I touch him?’ + +‘To be sure you may. He is not sugar,’ said Albinia, laughing. +‘There--make an arm; you may have him if you like. Your left arm, you +awkward man. Yes, that is right. You will do quite as well as I, who +never touched a baby till Willie was born. There, sir, how do you like +your brother Gilbert?’ + +Gilbert held him reverently, and gave him back with a sigh when he +seemed to have satiated his gaze and touch, and convinced himself that +his new possession was substantial. ‘I say,’ he added wistfully, ‘did +you think _that_ name would bring ill-luck? + +She knew the name he meant, and answered, ‘No, but your father could +not have borne it. Besides, Gibbie, we would not think him _instead_ of +Edmund. No, he shall learn, to look up to his other brother as you do, +and look to meeting and knowing him some day.’ + +Gilbert shivered at this, and made no opposition to her carrying him +downstairs to his uncle, and then Gilbert hurried off for the basket of +snowdrops that he had gathered early, from a favourite spot at Fairmead. +That short absence seemed to have added double force to his affection; +he could hardly bear to be away from her, and every moment when he could +gain her ear, poured histories of the delights of Fairmead, where Mr. +Ferrars had devoted himself to his amusement, and had made him happier +than perhaps he had ever been in his life--he had had a taste of +shooting, of skating, of snowballing--he had been useful and important +in the village feasts, had dined twice at Colonel Bury’s, and felt +himself many degrees nearer manhood. + +To hear of her old haunts and friends from such enthusiastic lips, +delighted Albinia, and her felicity with her baby, with Mr. Kendal, with +her brother and his little son, was one of the brightest things in +all the world--the fresh young loving bloom of her matronhood was even +sweeter and more beautiful than her girlish days. + +Poor little frail, blighted Mrs. Dusautoy! Winifred could not help +wondering if the contrast pained her, when in all the glory of her +motherly thankfulness, Albinia carried her beautiful newly-christened +Maurice Ferrars Kendal to the vicarage to show him off, lying so +open-chested and dignified, in Genevieve’s pretty work, with a sort of +manly serenity already dawning on his baby brow. + +Winifred need not have pitied the little lady. She would not have +changed with Mrs. Kendal--no, not for that perfect health, usefulness, +value--nor even for such a baby as that. No, indeed! She loved--she +rejoiced in all her friend’s sweet and precious gifts--but Mrs. Dusautoy +had one gift that she prized above all. + +Even grandmamma and Aunt Maria did justice to Master Maurice’s +attractions, at least in public, though it came round that Miss Meadows +did not admire fat children, and when he had once been seen in Lucy’s +arms, an alarm arose that Mrs. Kendal would allow the girls to carry him +about, till his weight made them crooked, but Albinia was too joyous to +take their displeasure to heart, and it only served her for something to +laugh at. + +They had a very happy christening party, chiefly juvenile, in honour of +little Willie and of Francis and Emily Nugent. Albinia was so radiantly +lively and good-natured, and her assistants, Winifred, Maurice, and Mr. +Dusautoy, so kind, so droll, so inventive, that even Aunt Maria forgot +herself in enjoyment and novelty, and was like a different person. Mr. +Kendal looked at her with a pleased sad wonder, and told his wife it +reminded him of what she had been when she was nearly the prettiest girl +at Bayford. Gilbert devoted himself as usual to making Genevieve feel +welcome; and she had likewise Willie Ferrars and Francis Nugent at her +feet. Neither urchin would sit two inches away from her all the evening, +and in all games she was obliged to obviate jealousies by being partner +to both at once. Where there was no one to oppress her, she came out +with all her natural grace and vivacity, and people of a larger growth +than her little admirers were charmed with her. + +Lucy was obliging, ready, and useful, and looked very pretty, the only +blot was the heavy dulness of poor Sophy, who seemed resolved to take +pleasure in nothing. Winifred varied in opinion whether her moodiness +arose from ill-health, or from jealousy of her little brother. This +latter Albinia would not believe, especially as she saw that little +Maurice’s blue eyes were magnets that held the silent Sophy fast, but +surly denials silenced her interrogations as to illness, and made her +content to acquiesce in Lucy’s explanation that Sophy was only cross +because the Osborns and Drurys were not asked. + +Albinia did her duty handsomely by the two families a day or two after, +for whatever reports might come round, they were always ready to receive +her advances, and she only took notice of what she saw, instead of what +she heard. Her brother helped Mr. Kendal through the party, and Winifred +made a discovery that excited her more than Albinia thought warranted by +any fact relating to the horde of Irish cousins. + +‘Only think, Albinia, I have found out that poor Ellen O’More is Mr. +Goldsmith’s sister!’ + +‘Indeed! But I am afraid I don’t remember which Ellen O’More is. You +know I never undertake to recollect any but your real cousins out of the +thirty-six.’ + +‘For shame, Albinia, I have so often told you about Ellen. I’m sure you +can’t forget. Her husband is my sister’s brother-in-law’s cousin.’ + +‘Oh, Winifred, Winifred!’ + +‘But I tell you, her husband is the third son of old Mr. O’More of +Ballymakilty, and was in the army.’ + +‘Oh! the half-pay officer with the twelve children in the cottage on the +estate.’ + +‘There now, I did think you would care when I told you of a soldier, a +Waterloo man too, and you only call him a half-pay officer!’ + +‘I do remember,’ said Albinia, taking a little pity, ‘that you used to +be sorry for his good little English wife.’ + +‘Of course. I knew she had married him very imprudently, but she +has struggled gallantly with ill-health, and poverty, and Irish +recklessness. I quite venerate her, and it seems these Goldsmiths had so +far cast her off that they had no notion of the extent of her troubles.’ + +‘Just like them,’ said Albinia. ‘Is that the reason you wish me to +make the most of the connexion? Let me see, my sister-in-law’s sister’s +wife--no, husband’s brother’s uncle, eh?’ + +‘I don’t want you to do anything,’ said Winifred, a little hurt, ‘only +if you had seen Ellen’s patient face you would be interested in her.’ + +‘Well, I am interested, you know I am, Winifred. I hope you interested +our respected banker, which would be more to the purpose.’ + +‘I think I did,’ said Winifred; ‘at least he said “poor Ellen” once or +twice. I don’t want him to do anything for the captain, you might give +him a thousand pounds and he would never be the better for it: but that +fourth, boy, Ulick, is without exception the nicest fellow I ever saw +in my life--so devoted to his mother, so much more considerate and +self-denying than any of the others, and very clever. Maurice examined +him and was quite astonished. We did get him sent to St. Columba for the +present, but whether they will keep him there no one can guess, and it +is the greatest pity he should run to waste. I told Mr. Goldsmith all +this, and I really think he seemed to attend. I wonder if it will work.’ + +Albinia was by this time anxious that it should take effect, and they +agreed that an old bachelor banker and his sister, both past sixty, were +the very people to adopt a promising nephew. + +What had become of the multitude of things which Albinia had to discuss +with her brother? The floodtide of bliss had floated her over all the +stumbling-blocks and shoals that the ebb had disclosed, and she had +absolutely forgotten all the perplexities that had seemed so trying. +Even when she sought a private interview to talk to him about Gilbert, +it was in full security of hearing the praises of her darling. + +‘A nice boy, a very nice boy,’ returned Maurice; ‘most amiable and +intelligent, and particularly engaging, from his feeling being so much +on the surface.’ + +‘Nothing can be more sincere and genuine,’ she cried, as if this fell a +little flat. + +‘Certainly not, at the time.’ + +‘Always!’ exclaimed Albinia. ‘You must not distrust him because he is +not like you or Fred, and has never been hardened and taught reserve +by rude boys. Nothing was ever more real than his affection, poor dear +boy,’ and the tears thrilled to her eyes. + +‘No, and it is much to his credit. His love and gratitude to you are +quite touching, poor fellow; but the worst of it is that I am afraid he +is very timid, both physically and morally.’ + +Often as she had experienced this truth, the soldier’s daughter could +not bear to avow it, and she answered hastily, ‘He has never been braced +or trained; he was always ill till within the last few years--coddling +at first, neglect afterwards, he has it all to learn, and it is too late +for school.’ + +‘Yes, he is too old to be laughed at or bullied out of cowardice. +Indeed, I doubt whether there ever would have been substance enough for +much wear and tear.’ + +‘I know you have a turn for riotous, obstinate boys! You want Willie +to be another Fred,’ said Albinia, like an old hen, ruffling up her +feathers. ‘You think a boy can’t be good for anything unless he is a +universal plague!’ + +‘I wonder what you will do with your own son,’ said Maurice, amused, +‘since you take Gilbert’s part so fiercely.’ + +‘I trust my boy will never be as much to be pitied as his brother,’ said +Albinia, with tenderness that accused her petulance. ‘At least he can +never be a lonely twin with that sore spot in his heart. Oh, Maurice, +how can any one help dealing gently with my poor Gibbie?’ + +‘Gentle dealing is the very thing he wants,’ said Mr. Ferrars; ‘and I am +thinking how to find it for him. How did his going to Traversham fail?’ + +‘I don’t know; Edmund did not like to send him without having seen +Traversham, and I could not go. But I don’t think there is any need for +his going away. His father has been quite enough tormented about it, and +I can manage him very well now. He is always good and happy with me. I +mean to try to ride with him, and I have promised to teach him music, +and we shall garden. Never fear, I will employ him and keep him out of +mischief--it is all pleasure to me.’ + +‘And pray what are your daughters and baby to do, while you are +galloping after Gilbert?’ + +‘Oh! I’ll manage. We can all do things together. Come, Maurice, I wont +have Edmund teased, and I can’t bear parting with any of them, or think +that any strange man can treat Gibbie as I should.’ + +Maurice was edified by his sister’s warm-hearted weakness, but not at +all inclined to let ‘Edmund’ escape a ‘teasing.’ + +Mr. Kendal’s first impulse always was to find a sufficient plea for +doing nothing. If Gilbert was to go to India, it was not worth while to +give him a classical education. + +‘Is he to go to India? Albinia had not told me so.’ + +‘I thought she was aware of it; but possibly I may not have mentioned +it. It has been an understood thing ever since I came home. He will have +a good deal of the property in this place, but he had better have seen +something of the world. Bayford is no place for a man to settle down in +too young.’ + +‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Ferrars, repressing a smile. ‘Then are you +thinking of sending him to Haileybury?’ + +He was pronounced too young, besides, it was explained that his +destination in India was unfixed. On going home it had been a kind of +promise that one of the twin brothers should have an appointment in the +civil service, the other should enter the bank of Kendal and Kendal, +and the survivor was unconsciously suspended between these alternatives, +while the doubt served as a convenient protection to his father from +making up his mind to prepare him for either of these or for anything +else. + +The prompt Ferrars temper could bear it no longer, and Maurice spoke +out. ‘I’ll tell you what, Kendal, it is time to attend to your own +concerns. If you choose to let your son run to ruin, because you will +not exert yourself to remove him from temptation, I shall not stand +by to see my sister worn out with making efforts to save him. She +is willing and devoted, she fancies she could work day and night to +preserve him, and she does it with all her heart; but it is not woman’s +work, she cannot do it, and it is not fit to leave it to her. When +Gilbert has broken her heart as well as yours, and left an evil example +to his brother, then you will feel what it is to have kept a lad whom +you know to be well disposed, but weak as water, in the very midst +of contamination, and to have left your young, inexperienced wife to +struggle alone to save him. If you are unwarned by the experience of +last autumn and winter, I could not pity you, whatever might happen.’ + +Maurice, who had run on the longer because Mr. Kendal did not answer +immediately, was shocked at his own impetuosity; but a rattling peal of +thunder was not more than was requisite. + +‘I believe you are right,’ Mr. Kendal said. ‘I was to blame for leaving +him so entirely to Albinia; but she is very fond of him, and is one who +will never be induced to spare herself, and there were considerations. +However, she shall be relieved at once. What do you recommend?’ + +Mr. Ferrars actually made Mr. Kendal promise to set out for Traversham +with him next morning, thirty miles by the railway, to inspect Mr. +Downton and his pupils. + +Albinia had just sense enough not to object, though the discovery of the +Indian plans was such a blow to her that she could not be consoled by +all her husband’s representations of the advantages Gilbert would derive +there, and of his belief that the Kendal constitution always derived +strength from a hot climate, and that to himself going to India seemed +going home. She took refuge in the hope that between the two Indian +stools Gilbert might fall upon one of the professions which she thought +alone worthy of man’s attention, the clerical or the military. + +Under Maurice’s escort, Mr. Kendal greatly enjoyed his expedition; liked +Traversham, was satisfied with the looks of the pupils, and very much +pleased with the tutor, whom he even begged to come to Bayford for a +conference with Mrs. Kendal, and this was received by her as no small +kindness. She was delighted with Mr. Downton, and felt as if Gilbert +could be safely trusted in his charge; nor was Gilbert himself +reluctant. He was glad to escape from his tempter, and to begin a new +life, and though he hung about Mrs. Kendal, and implored her to write +often, and always tell him about his little brother--nay, though he +cried like a child at the last, yet still he was happy and satisfied to +go, and to break the painful fetters which had held him so long. + +And though Albinia likewise shed some parting tears, she could not but +own that she was glad to have him in trustworthy hands; and as to the +additional time thus gained, it was disposed of in a million of bright +plans for every one’s service--daughters, baby, parish, school, classes, +clubs, neighbours. It almost made Winifred giddy to hear how much she +had undertaken, and yet with what zest she talked and acted. + +‘There’s your victim, Winifred,’ said Maurice, as they drove away, and +looked back at Albinia, scandalizing Bayford by standing in the open +gateway, her face all smiles of cheerful parting, the sun and wind +making merry with her chestnut curls, her baby in one arm, the other +held up to wave her farewell. + +‘That child will catch cold,’ began Winifred, turning to sign her to +go in. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘after all, I believe some people like an +idol that sits quiet to be worshipped! To be sure she must want to beat +him sometimes, as the Africans do their gods. But, on the whole, her +sentiment of reverence is satisfied, and she likes the acting for +herself, and reigning absolute. Yes, she is quite happy--why do you look +doubtful? Don’t you admire her?’ + +‘From my heart.’ + +‘Then why do you doubt? Do you expect her to do anything?’ + +‘A little too much of everything.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + + +Yes! Albinia was excessively happy. Her naturally high spirits were +enhanced by the enjoyment of recovery, and reaction, from her former +depression. Since the great stroke of the drainage, every one looked +better, and her pride in her babe was without a drawback. He seemed to +have inherited her vigour and superabundance of life, and ‘that first +wondrous spring to all but babes unknown,’ was in him unusually rapid, +so that he was a marvel of fair stateliness, size, strength, and +intelligence, so unlike the little blighted buds which had been wont to +fade at Willow Lawn, that his father watched him with silent, wondering +affection, and his eldest sister was unmerciful in her descriptions of +his progress; while even Sophia had not been proof against his smiles, +and was proud to be allowed to carry him about and fondle him. + +Neither was Mr. Kendal’s reserve the trial that it had once been. After +having become habituated to it as a necessary idiosyncrasy, she had +become rather proud of his lofty inaccessibility. Besides, her brother’s +visit, her recovery, and the renewed hope and joy in this promising +child, had not been without effect in rousing him from his apathy. He +was less inclined to shun his fellow-creatures, had become friendly +with the Vicar, and had even let Albinia take him into Mrs. Dusautoy’s +drawing-room, where he had been fairly happy. Having once begun taking +his wife out in the carriage, he found this much more agreeable than +his solitary ride, and was in the condition to which Albinia had once +imagined it possible to bring him, in which gentle means and wholesome +influence might lead him imperceptibly out of his morbid habits of +self-absorption. + +Unfortunately, in the flush of blitheness and whirl of activity, Albinia +failed to perceive the relative importance of objects, and he had taught +her to believe herself so little necessary to him that she had +not learnt to make her pursuits and occupations subservient to his +convenience. As long as the drive took place regularly, all was well, +but he caught a severe cold, which lasted even to the setting in of the +east winds, the yearly misery of a man who hardly granted that India was +over-hot. Though Albinia had removed much listing, and opened various +doors and windows, he made no complaints, but did his best to keep the +obnoxious fresh air out of his study, and seldom crossed the threshold +thereof but with a shiver. + +His favourite atmosphere was quite enough to account for a return of the +old mood, but Albinia had no time to perceive that it might have been +prevented, or at least mitigated. + +Few even of the wisest women are fit for authority and liberty so little +restrained, and happily it seldom falls to the lot of such as have not +previously been chastened by a life-long affliction. But Mrs. Kendal, +at twenty-four, with the consequence conferred by marriage, and by her +superiority of manners and birth, was left as unchecked and almost +as irresponsible as if she had been single or a widow, and was +solely guided by the impulses of her own character, noble and highly +principled, but like most zealous dispositions, without balance and +without repose. + +Ballast had been given at first by bashfulness, disappointment, and +anxiety, but she had been freed from her troubles with Gilbert, had +gained confidence in herself, and had taken her position at Bayford. She +was beloved, esteemed, and trusted in her own set, and though elsewhere +she might not be liked, yet she was deferred to, could not easily be +quarrelled with, so that she met with little opposition, and did not +care for such as she did meet. In fact, very few persons had so much of +their own way as Mrs. Kendal. + +She was generally in her nursery at a much earlier hour than an +old-established nurse would have tolerated, but the little Susan, +promoted from Fairmead school and nursery, was trained in energetic +habits. In passing the doors of the young ladies’ rooms, Albinia gave +a call which she had taught them not to resist, for, like all strong +persons, she thought ‘early to rise’ the only way to health, wealth, or +wisdom. Much work had been despatched before breakfast, after which, +on two days in the week, Albinia and Lucy went to church. Sophy never +volunteered to accompany them, and Albinia was the less inclined to +press her, because her attitudes and attention on Sunday were far from +satisfactory. On Tuesday and Thursday Albinia had a class at school, +and so, likewise, had Lucy, who kept a jealous watch over every stray +necklace and curl, and had begun thoroughly to enjoy the importance +and bustle of charity. She was a useful assistant in the penny club and +lending library, which occupied Albinia on other mornings in the week, +until the hour when she came in for the girls’ studies. After luncheon, +she enjoyed the company of little Maurice, who indeed pervaded all her +home doings and thoughts, for she had a great gift of doing everything +at once. + +A sharp constitutional walk was taken in the afternoon. She thought no +one could look drooping or dejected but from the air of the valley, and +that no cure was equal to rushing straight up one hill and on to the +next, always walking rapidly, with a springy buoyant step, and surprised +at any one who lagged behind. Parochial cares, visits, singing classes, +lessons to Sunday-school teachers, &c., filled up the rest of the day. +She had an endless number of ‘excellent plans,’ on which she always +acted instantly, and which kept her in a state of perpetual haste. Poor +Mrs. Dusautoy had almost learnt to dread her flashing into the room, +full of some parish matter, and flashing out again before the invalid +felt as if the subject had been fairly entered on, or her sitting down +to impress some project with overpowering eagerness that generally +carried away the Vicar into grateful consent and admiring approval, +while his wife was feeling doubtful, suspecting her hesitation of being +ungracious, or blaming herself for not liking the little she could do to +be taken out of her hands. + +There was nothing more hateful to Albinia than dawdling. She left the +girls’ choice of employments, but insisted on their being veritably +occupied, and many a time did she encounter a killing glance from Sophia +for attacking her listless, moody position in her chair, or saying, in +clear, alert tones, ‘My dear, when you read, read, when you work, work. +When you fix your eye in that way, you are doing neither.’ + +Lucy’s brisk, active disposition, and great good-humour, had responded +to this treatment; she had been obliging, instead of officious; repeated +checks had improved her taste; her love of petty bustle was directed to +better objects, and though nothing could make her intellectual or deep, +she was a really pleasant assistant and companion, and no one, except +grandmamma, who thought her perfect before, could fail to perceive how +much more lady-like her tones, manners, and appearance had become. + +The results with Sophy had been directly the reverse. At first she had +followed her sister’s lead, except that she was always sincere, and +often sulky; but the more Lucy had yielded to Albinia’s moulding, +the more had Sophy diverged from her, as if out of the very spirit +of contradiction. Her intervals of childish nonsense had well nigh +disappeared; her indifference to lessons was greater than ever, though +she devoured every book that came in her way in a silent, but absorbed +manner, a good deal like her father. Tales and stories were not often +within her reach, but her appetite seemed to be universal, and Albinia +saw her reading old-fashioned standard poetry--such as she had never +herself assailed--and books of history, travels, or metaphysics. She +wondered whether the girl derived any pleasure from them, or whether +they were only a shield for doing nothing; but no inquiry produced an +answer, and if Sophy remembered anything of them, it was not with +the memory used in lesson-time. The attachment to Louisa Osborn was +pertinacious and unaccountable in a person who could have so little in +common with that young lady, and there was nothing comfortable about her +except her fondness for her little brother, and that really seemed to be +against her will. Her voice was less hoarse and gruff since the pond +had been no more, and she had acquired an expression, so suffering, +so concentrated, so thoughtful, that, together with her heavy black +eyebrows, large face, profuse black hair, and unlustrous eyes, it gave +her almost a dwarfish air, increased by her awkward deportment, which +concealed that she was in reality tall, and on a large scale. She looked +to so little advantage in bright delicate colours, that Albinia was +often incurring her displeasure, and risking that of Lucy, by the deep +blues and sober browns which alone looked fit to be seen with those +beetle brows and sallow features. Her face looked many years older than +that of her fair, fresh, rosy stepmother; nay, her father’s clear olive +complexion and handsome countenance had hardly so aged an aspect; and +Gilbert, when he came home at Midsummer, declared that Sophy had grown +as old as grandmamma. + +The compliment could not be returned; Gilbert was much more boy-like in +a good sense. He had brought home an excellent character, and showed +it in every look and gesture. His father was pleased to have him again, +took the trouble to talk to him, and received such sensible answers, +that the habit of conversing was actually established, and the dinners +were enlivened, instead of oppressed, by his presence. Towards his +sisters he had become courteous, he was fairly amiable to Aunt Maria, +very attentive to grandmamma, overflowing with affection to Mrs. +Kendal, and as to little Maurice, he almost adored him, and awakened a +reciprocity which was the delight of his heart. + +At Midsummer came the grand penny-club distribution, the triumph for +which Albinia had so long been preparing. One of Mrs. Dusautoy’s hints +as to Bayford tradesmen had been overruled, and goods had been ordered +from a house in London, after Albinia and Lucy had made an incredible +agitation over their patterns of calico and flannel. Mr. Kendal was just +aware that there was a prodigious commotion, but he knew that all ladies +were subject to linen-drapery epidemics, and Albinia’s took a more +endurable form than a pull on his purse for the sweetest silk in the +world, and above all, it neither came into his study nor even into his +house. + +It was a grand spectacle, when Mr. Dusautoy looked in on Mrs. Kendal and +her staff, armed with their yard-wands. + +A pile of calico was heaped in wild masses like avalanches in one +corner, rapidly diminishing under the measurements of Gilbert, who +looked as if he took thorough good-natured delight in the frolic. Brown, +inodorous materials for petticoats, blouses, and trowsers were dealt out +by the dextrous hands of Genevieve, a mountain of lilac print was folded +off by Clarissa Richardson, Lucy was presiding joyously over the various +blue, buff, brown, and pink Sunday frocks, the schoolmistress helping +with the other goods, the customers--some pleased with novelty, or +hoping to get more for their money, others suspicious of the gentry, +and secretly resentful for favourite dealers, but, except the desperate +grumblers, satisfied with the quality and quantity of the wares--and +extremely taken with the sellers, especially with Gilbert’s wit, and +with Miss Durant’s ready, lively persuasions, varied to each one’s +taste, and extracting a smile and ‘thank you, Miss,’ from the surliest. +And the presiding figure, with the light on her sunny hair, and +good-natured, unfailing interest in her countenance, was at her central +table, calculating, giving advice, considering of complaints, measuring, +folding--here, there, and everywhere--always bright, lively, forbearing, +however complaining or unreasonable her clients might be. + +Mr. Dusautoy went home to tell his Fanny that Mrs. Kendal was worth her +weight in gold; and the workers toiled till luncheon, when Albinia took +them home for food and wine, to restore them for the labours of the +afternoon. + +‘What have you been about all the morning, Sophy? Yes, I see your +translation--very well--I wish you would come up and help this +afternoon, Miss Richardson is looking so pale and tired that I want to +relieve her.’ + +‘I can’t,’ said Sophy, + +‘I don’t order you, but you are losing a great deal of fun. Suppose you +came to look on, at least.’ + +‘I hate poor people.’ + +‘I hope you will change your mind some day, but you must do something +this afternoon. You had better take a walk with Susan and baby; I told +her to go by the meadows to Horton.’ + +‘I don’t want to walk.’ + +‘Have you anything to do instead? No, I thought not, and it is not at +all hot to signify.--It will do you much more good. Yes, you must go.’ + +In the course of the summer an old Indian friend was staying at Fairmead +Park, and Colonel Bury wrote to beg for a week’s visit from the whole +Kendal family. Even Sophy vouchsafed to be pleased, and Lucy threw all +her ardour into the completion of a blue braided cape, which was to add +immensely to little Maurice’s charms; she declared that she should work +at it the whole of the last evening, while Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were at +the dinner that old Mr. and Mrs. Bowles annually inflicted on themselves +and their neighbours, a dinner which it would have been as cruel to +refuse as it was irksome to accept. + +There was a great similarity in those Bayford parties, inasmuch as the +same cook dressed them all, and the same waiters waited at them, and the +same guests met each other, and the principal variety on this occasion +was, that the Osborns did not come, because the Admiral was in London. + +The ladies had left the dining-room, when Albinia’s ear caught a sound +of hurried opening of doors, and sound of steps, and saw Mrs. and Miss +Bowles look as if they heard something unexpected. She paused, and +forgot the end of what she was saying. The room door was pushed a little +way open, but then seemed to hesitate. Miss Bowles hastened forward, and +opening it, admitted a voice that made Albinia hurry breathlessly from +the other side of the room, and push so that the door yielded, and she +saw it had been Mr. Dusautoy who had been holding it while there was +some kind of consultation round Gilbert. The instant he saw her, he +exclaimed, ‘Come to the baby, Sophy has fallen down with him.’ + +People pressed about her, trying to speak cheeringly, but she understood +nothing but that her husband and Mr. Bowles were gone on, and she had a +sense that there had been hardness and cruelty in hesitating to summon +her. Without knowing that a shawl was thrown round her, or seeing Mr. +Dusautoy’s offered arm, she clutched Gilbert’s wrist in her hand, and +flew down the street. + +The gates and front door were open, and there was a throng of people in +the hall. Lucy caught hold of her with a sobbing, ‘Oh, Mamma!’ but she +only framed the words with her lips--‘where?’ + +They pointed to the study. The door was shut, but Albinia broke from +Lucy, and pushed through it, in too much haste to dwell on the sickening +doubt what it might conceal. + +Two figures stood under the window. Mr. Kendal, who was holding the +little inanimate form in his arms for the doctor to examine, looking up +as she entered, cast on her a look of mute, pleading, despairing agony, +that was as the bitterness of death. She sprang forward herself to clasp +her child, and her husband yielded him in broken-hearted pity, but +at that moment the little limbs moved, the features worked, the eyes +unclosed, and clinging tightly to her, as she strained him to her bosom, +the little fellow proclaimed himself alive by lusty roars, more welcome +than any music. Partly stunned, and far more terrified, he had been in +a sort of swoon, without breath to cry, till recalled to himself by +feeling his mother’s arms around him. Every attempt of Mr. Bowles to +ascertain whether he were uninjured produced such a fresh panic and +renewal of screams, that she begged that he might be left to her. Mr. +Kendal took the doctor away, and gradually the terror subsided, though +the long convulsive sobs still quivered up through the little frame, and +as the twilight darkened on her, she had time to realize the past alarm, +and rejoice in trembling over the treasure still her own. + +The opening of the door and the gleaming of a light had nearly brought +on a fresh access of crying, but it was his father who entered, and +Maurice knew the low deep sweetness of his voice, and was hushed. ‘I +believe there is no harm done,’ Albinia said; and the smile that she +fain would have made reassuring gave way as her eyes filled with tears, +on feeling the trembling of the strong arm that was put round her, when +Mr. Kendal bent to look into the child’s eyes. + +‘I thought my blight had fallen on you,’ was all he said. + +‘Oh! the thankfulness--’ she said; but she could not go on, she must +stifle all that swelled within her, for the babe felt each throb of her +beating heart; and she could barely keep from bursting into tears as his +father kissed him; then, as he marked the still sobbing breath, said, +‘Bowles must see him again.’ + +‘I don’t know how to make him cry again! I suppose he must be looked at, +but indeed I think him safe.--See, this little bruise on his forehead is +the only mark I can find. What was it? How did it happen?’ + +‘Sophia thought proper to take him herself from the nursery to show him +to Mrs. Osborn. In crossing the street, she was frightened by a party of +men coming out of a public-house in Tibbs’s Alley, and in avoiding them, +slipped down and struck the child’s head against a gate-post. He was +perfectly insensible when I took him--I thought him gone. Albinia, you +must let Bowles see him again!’ + +‘Is any one there?’ she said. + +‘Every one, I think,’ he replied, looking oppressed--‘Maria, and Mrs. +Osborn, and Dusautoy--but I will call Bowles.’ + +Apparently the little boy had escaped entirely unhurt, but the surgeon +still spoke of the morrow, and he was so startled and restless, that +Albinia feared to move, and felt the dark study a refuge from the voices +and sounds that she feared to encounter, lest they should again occasion +the dreadful screaming. ‘Oh, if they would only go home!’ she said. + +‘I will send them,’ said Mr. Kendal; and presently she heard sounds of +leave-taking, and he came back, as if he had been dispersing a riot, +announcing that the house was clear. + +Gilbert and Lucy were watching at the foot of the stairs, the one pale, +and casting anxious, imploring looks at her; the other with eyes red and +swollen with crying, neither venturing near till she spoke to them, when +they advanced noiselessly to look at their little brother, and it was +not till they had caught his eye and made him smile, that Lucy bethought +herself of saying she had known nothing of his adventure, and Albinia, +thus recalled to the thought of the culprit, asked where Sophy was. + +‘In her own room,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I could not bear the sight of her +obduracy. Even her aunt was shocked at her want of feeling.’ + +Low as he spoke, the sternness of his voice frightened the baby, and +she was obliged to run away to the nursery, where she listened to the +contrition of the little nursemaid, who had never suspected Miss Sophy’s +intention of taking him out of the house. + +‘And indeed, ma’am,’ she said, ‘there is not one of us servants who +dares cross Miss Sophy.’ + +It was long before Albinia ventured to lay him in his cot, and longer +still before she could feel any security that if she ceased her low, +monotonous lullaby, the little fellow would not wake again in terror, +but the thankfulness and prayer, that, as she grew more calm, gained +fuller possession of her heart, made her recur the more to pity and +forgiveness for the poor girl who had caused the alarm. Yet there was +strong indignation likewise, and she could not easily resolve on meeting +the hard defiance and sullen indifference which would wound her more +than ever. She was much inclined to leave Sophy to herself till morning, +but suspecting that this would be vindictive, she unclasped the arm that +Lucy had wound round her waist, whispered to her to go on singing, and +moved to Sophy’s door. It was fastened, but before she could call, +it was thrown violently back, and Sophy stood straight up before her, +striving for her usual rigidity, but shaking from head to foot; and +though there were no signs of tears, she looked with wistful terror at +her step-mother’s face, and her lips moved as if she wished to speak. + +‘Baby is gone quietly to sleep,’ began Albinia in a low voice, beginning +in displeasure; but as she spoke, the harshness of Sophy’s face gave +way, she sank down on the floor, and fell into the most overpowering +fit of weeping that Albinia had ever witnessed. Kneeling beside her, she +would have drawn the girl close to her, but a sharp cry of pain startled +her, and she found the right arm, from elbow to wrist, all one purple +bruise, the skin grazed, and the blood starting. + +‘My poor child! how you have hurt yourself!’ + +Sophy turned away pettishly. + +‘Let me look! I am sure it must be very bad. Have you done anything to +it?’ + +‘No, never mind. Go back to baby.’ + +‘Baby does not want me. You shall come and see how comfortably he is +asleep, if you will leave off crying, and let me see that poor arm. Did +you hurt it in the fall?’ + +‘The corner of the wall,’ said Sophy. ‘Oh! did it not hurt him?’ but +then, just as it seemed that she was sinking on that kind breast in +exhaustion, she collected herself, and pushing Albinia off, exclaimed, +‘I did it, I took him out, I fell down with him, I hurt his head, I’ve +killed him, or made him an idiot for life. I did.’ + +‘Who said so?’ cried Albinia, transfixed. + +‘Aunt Maria said so. She said I did not feel. Oh, if I could only die +before he grows up to let one see it. Why wont you begin to hate me?’ + +‘My dear,’ said Albinia, consoled on hearing the authority, ‘people +often say angry things when they are shocked. Your aunt had not seen +Mr. Bowles, and we all think he was not in the least hurt, only terribly +frightened. Dear, dear child, I am more distressed for you than for +him!’ + +Sophy could hold out no longer, she let her head drop on the kind +shoulder, and seemed to collapse, with burning brow, throbbing pulses, +and sobs as deep and convulsive as had been those of her little brother. +Hastily calling Lucy, who was frightened, subdued, and helpful, Albinia +undressed the poor child, put her to bed, and applied lily leaves and +spirits to her arm. The smart seemed to refresh her, but there had been +a violent strain, as well as bruise, and each touch visibly gave severe +pain, though she never complained. Lucy insisted on hearing exactly how +the accident had happened, and pressed her with questions, which Albinia +would have shunned in her present condition, and it was thus elicited +that she had taken Maurice across the street to how him to Mrs. Osborn. +He had resented the strange place, and strange people, and had cried +so much that she was obliged to run home with him at once. A knot of +bawling men came reeling out of one of the many beer shops in Tibbs’s +Alley, and in her haste to avoid them, she tripped, close to the +gate-post of Willow Lawn, and fell, with only time to interpose her arm +between Maurice’s head and the sharp corner. She was lifted up at once, +in the horror of seeing him neither cry nor move, for, in fact, he had +been almost stifled under her weight, and all had since been to her +a frightful phantom dream. Albinia was infinitely relieved by this +history, showing that Maurice could hardly have received any real +injury, and in her declarations that Sophy’s presence of mind had saved +him, was forgetting to whom the accident was owing. Lucy wanted to know +why her sister could have taken him out of the house at all, but Albinia +could not bear to have this pressed at such a moment, and sent the +inquirer down to order some tea, which she shared with Sophy, and +then was forced to bid her good-night, without drawing out any further +confessions. But when the girl raised herself to receive her kiss, it +was the first real embrace that had passed between them. + +In the very early morning, Albinia was in the nursery, and found +her little boy bright and healthy. As she left him in glad hope and +gratitude, Sophy’s door was pushed ajar, and her wan face peeped out. +‘My dear child, you have not been asleep all night!’ exclaimed Albinia, +after having satisfied her about the baby. + +‘No.’ + +‘Does your arm hurt you?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Does your head ache?’ + +‘Rather.’ + +But they were not the old sulky answers, and she seemed glad to have +her arm freely bathed, her brow cooled, her tossed bed composed, and +her window opened, so that she might make a fresh attempt at closing her +weary eyes. + +She was evidently far too much shaken to be fit for the intended +expedition, even if her father had not decreed that she should be +deprived of it. Albinia had never seen him so much incensed, for nothing +makes a man so angry as to have been alarmed; and he was doubly annoyed +when he found that she thought Sophy too unwell to be left, as he +intended, to solitary confinement. + +He would gladly have given up the visit, for his repugnance to society +was in full force on the eve of a party; but Albinia, by representing +that it would be wrong to disappoint Colonel Bury, and very hard on the +unoffending Gilbert and Lucy, succeeded in prevailing on him to accept +his melancholy destiny, and to allow her to remain at home with Sophy +and the baby--one of the greatest sacrifices he or she had yet made. He +was exceedingly vexed, and therefore the less disposed to be lenient. +The more Albinia told him of Sophy’s unhappiness, the more he hoped it +would do her good, and he could not be induced to see her, nor to send +her any message of forgiveness, for in truth it was less the baby’s +accident that he resented, than the eighteen months of surly resistance +to the baby’s mother, and at present he was more unrelenting than the +generous, forgiving spirit of his wife could understand, though she +tried to believe it manly severity and firmness. + +‘It would be time to pardon,’ he said, ‘when pardon was asked.’ + +And Albinia could not say that it had been asked, except by misery. + +‘She has the best advocate in you,’ said Mr. Kendal, affectionately, +‘and if there be any feeling in her, such forbearance cannot fail to +bring it out. I am more grieved than I can tell you at your present +disappointment, but it shall not happen again. If you can bring her to a +better mind, I shall be the more satisfied in sending her from home.’ + +‘Edmund! you do not think of it!’ + +‘My mind is made up. Do you think I have not watched your patient +care, and the manner in which it has been repaid? You have sufficient +occupation without being the slave of those children’s misconduct.’ + +‘Sophy would be miserable. Oh! you must not! She is the last girl in the +world fit to be sent to school.’ + +‘I will not have you made miserable at home. This has been a long trial, +and nothing has softened her.’ + +‘Suppose this was the very thing.’ + +‘If it were, what is past should not go unrequited, and the change will +teach her what she has rejected. Hush, dearest, it is not that I do not +think that you have done all for her that tenderness or good sense +could devise, but your time is too much occupied, and I cannot see +you overtasked by this poor child’s headstrong temper. It is decided, +Albinia; say no more.’ + +‘I have failed,’ thought Albinia, as he left the room. ‘He decides that +I have failed in bringing up his children. What have I done? Have I been +mistaken? have I been careless? have I not prayed enough? Oh! my poor, +poor Sophy! What will she do among strange girls? Oh! how wretched, how +harsh, how misunderstood she will be! She will grow worse and worse, and +just when I do think I might have begun to get at her! And it is for my +sake! For me that her father is set against her, and is driving her out +from her home! Oh! what shall I do? Winifred will promote it, because +they all think I am doing too much! I wonder what put that in Edmund’s +head? But when he speaks in that way, I have no hope!’ + +Mr. Kendal’s anger took a direction with which she better sympathized +when he walked down Tibbs’s Alley, and counted the nine beer shops, +which had never dawned on his imagination, and which so greatly shocked +it, that he went straight to the astonished Pettilove, and gave him a +severe reprimand for allowing the houses to be made dens of iniquity and +disorder. + +He was at home in time to meet the doctor, and hear that Maurice had +suffered not the smallest damage; and then to make another ineffectual +attempt to persuade Albinia to consign Sophy to imprisonment with Aunt +Maria; after which he drove off very much against his will with Lucy and +Gilbert, both declaring that they did not care a rush to go to Fairmead +under the present circumstances. + +Albinia had a sad, sore sense of failure, and almost of guilt, as she +lingered on the door-step after seeing them set off. The education of +‘Edmund’s children’ had been a cherished vision, and it had resulted +so differently from her expectations, that her heart sank. With Gilbert +there was indeed no lack of love and confidence, but there was a sad +lurking sense of his want of force of character, and she had avowedly +been insufficient to preserve him from temptation; Lucy, whom externally +she had the most altered, was not of a nature accordant enough with her +own for her to believe the effects deep or permanent; and Sophia--poor +Sophia! Had what was kindly called forbearance been really neglect +and want of moral courage? Would a gentler, less eager person have won +instead of repelling confidence? Had her multiplicity of occupations +made her give but divided attention to the more important home duty. +Alas! alas! she only knew that her husband thought his daughter beyond +her management, and for that very reason she would have given worlds to +retain the uncouth, perverse girl under her charge. + +She stood loitering, for the sound of the river and the shade of the +willows were pleasant on the glowing July day, and having made all her +arrangements for going from home, she had no pressing employment, and +thus she waited, musing as she seldom allowed herself time to do, and +thinking over each phase of her conduct towards Sophy, in the endeavour +to detect the mistake; and throughout came, not exactly answering her +query, but throwing a light upon it, her brother’s warning, that if she +did not resign herself to rest quietly when rest was forced upon her, +she would work amiss when she did work. + +Just then came a swinging of the gate, a step on the walk, and Miss +Meadows made her appearance. A message had been sent up in the morning, +but grandmamma was so nervous, that Maria had trotted down in the heat +so satisfy her. + +Albinia was surprised to find that womanhood had thrown all their +instincts on the baby’s side, and was gratified by the first truly kind +fellow-feeling they had shown her. She took Maria into the morning room, +where she had left Sophy lying on the sofa, and ran up to fetch Maurice +from the nursery. + +When she came down, having left the nurse adorning him, she found that +she had acted cruelly. Sophy was standing up with her hardest face on, +listening to her aunt’s well-meant rebukes on her want of feeling, +and hopes that she did regret the having endangered her brother, and +deprived ‘her dear mamma of the party of pleasure at Fairmead; but Aunt +Maria knew it was of no use to talk to Sophy, none--!’ + +‘Pray don’t, Aunt Maria,’ said Albinia, gently drawing Sophy down on the +sofa again; ‘this poor child is in no state to be scolded.’ + +‘You are a great deal too good to her, Mrs. Kendal--after such +wilfulness as last night--carrying the dear baby out in the street--I +never heard of such a thing--But what made you do it, Sophy, wont you +tell me that? No, I know you won’t; no one ever can get a word from her. +Ah! that sulky disposition--it is a very nasty temper--can’t you break +through it, Sophy, and confess it all to your dear mamma? You would be +so much better. But I know it is of no use, poor child, it is just like +her father.’ + +Albinia was growing very angry, and it was well that Maurice’s merry +crowings were heard approaching. Miss Meadows was delighted to see him, +but as he had a great aversion to her, the interview was not prolonged, +since he could not be persuaded to keep the peace by being held up to +watch a buzzing fly, as much out of sight of her as possible, wrinkling +up his nose, and preparing to cry whenever he caught sight of her white +bonnet and pink roses. + +Miss Meadows bethought her that grandmamma was anxious, so she only +waited to give an invitation to tea, but merely to Mrs. Kendal; she +would say nothing about Sophy since disgrace--well-merited--if they +could only see some feeling. + +‘Thank you,’ said Albinia, ‘some evening perhaps I may come, since you +are so kind, but I don’t think I can leave this poor twisted arm to +itself.’ + +Miss Meadows evaporated in hopes that Sophy would be sensible of--and +assurances that Mrs. Kendal was a great deal too--with finally, +‘Good-bye, Sophy, I wish I could have told grandmamma that you had shown +some feeling.’ + +‘I believe,’ said Albinia, ‘that you would only be too glad if you knew +how.’ + +Sophy gasped. + +Albinia could not help feeling indignant at the misjudged persecution; +and yet it seemed to render the poor child more entirely her own, since +all the world besides had turned against her. ‘Kiss her, Maurice,’ she +said, holding the little fellow towards her. That scratched arm of hers +has spared your small brains from more than you guess.’ + +Sophy’s first impulse was to hide her face, but he thought it was +bo-peep, caught hold of her fingers, and laughed; then came to a sudden +surprised stop, and looked up to his mother, when the countenance behind +the screen proved sad instead of laughing. + +‘Ah! baby, you had better have done with me,’ Sophy said, bitterly; ‘you +are the only one that does not hate me yet, and you don’t know what I +have done to you.’ + +‘I know some one else that cares for you, my poor Sophy,’ said Albinia, +‘and who would do anything to make you feel it without distressing you. +If you knew how I wish I knew what to do for you!’ + +‘It is no use,’ said Sophy, moodily; ‘I was born to be a misery to +myself and every one else.’ + +‘What has put such a fancy in your head, my dear?’ said Albinia, nearly +smiling. + +‘Grandmamma’s Betty said so, she used to call me Peter Grievous, and I +know it is so. It is of no good to bother yourself about me. It can’t be +helped, and there’s an end of it.’ + +‘There is not an end of it, indeed!’ cried Albinia. ‘Why, Sophy, do you +suppose I could bear to leave you so?’ + +‘I’m sure I don’t see why not.’ + +‘Why not?’ continued Albinia, in her bright, tender voice. ‘Why, because +I must love you with all my heart. You are your own dear papa’s child, +and this little man’s sister. Yes, and you are yourself, my poor, sad, +lonely child, who does not know how to bring out the thoughts that prey +on her, and who thinks it very hard to have a stranger instead of her +own mother. I know I should have felt so.’ + +‘But I have behaved so ill to you,’ cried Sophy, as if bent on repelling +the proffered affection. ‘I would not like you, and I did not like you. +Never! and I have gone against you every way I could.’ + +‘And now I love you because you are sorry for it.’ + +‘I’m not’--Sophy had begun, but the words turned into ‘Am I?’ + +‘I think you are,’ and with the sweetest of tearful smiles, she put an +arm round the no longer resisting Sophy, and laying her cheek against +the little brother’s, she kissed first one and then the other. + +‘I can’t think why you are so,’ said Sophy, still struggling against the +undeserved love, though far more feebly. ‘I shall never deserve it.’ + +‘See if you don’t, when we pull together instead of contrary ways.’ + +‘But,’ cried Sophy, with a sudden start from her, as if remembering a +mortal offence, ‘you drained the pond!’ + +‘I own I earnestly wished it to be drained; but had you any reason for +regretting it, my dear?’ + +‘Ah! you did not know,’ said Sophy. ‘He and I used to be always there.’ + +‘He--?’ + +‘Why, will you make me say it?’ cried Sophy. ‘Edmund! I mean Edmund! +We always called it his pond. He made the little quay for his boats--he +used to catch the minnows there. I could go and stand by it, and think +he was coming out to play; and now you have had it dried up, and his +dear little minnows are all dead,’ and she burst into a passion of +tears, that made Maurice cry till Albinia hastily carried him off and +returned. + +‘My dear, I am sorry it seemed so unkind. I do not think we could have +let the pond stay, for it was making the house unhealthy; but if we had +talked over it together, it need not have appeared so very cruel and +spiteful.’ + +‘I don’t believe you are spiteful,’ said Sophy, ‘though I sometimes +think so.’ + +The filial compliment was highly gratifying. + +‘And now, Sophy,’ she said, ‘that I have told you why we were obliged +to have the pond drained, will you tell me what you wanted with baby at +Mrs. Osborn’s?’ + +‘I will tell,’ said Sophy, ‘but you wont like it.’ + +‘I like anything better than concealment.’ + +‘Mrs. Osborn said she never saw him. She said you kept him close, and +that nobody was good enough to touch him; so I promised I would bring +him over, and I kept my word. I know it was wrong--and--I did not think +you would ever forgive me.’ + +‘But how could you do it?’ + +‘Mrs. Osborn and all used to be so kind to us when there was nobody +else. I wont cast them off because we are too fine and grand for them.’ + +‘I never thought of that. I only was afraid of your getting into silly +ways, and your papa did not wish us to be intimate there. And now +you see he was right, for good friends would not have led you to such +disobedience--and by stealth, too, what I should have thought you would +most have hated.’ + +Albinia had been far from intending these last words to have been taken +as they were. Sophy hid her face, and cried piteously with an utter +self-abandonment of grief, that Albinia could scarcely understand; but +at last she extracted some broken words. ‘False! shabby! yes--Oh! I have +been false! Oh! Edmund! Edmund! Edmund! the only thing I thought I still +was! I thought I was true! Oh, by stealth! Why couldn’t I die when I +tried, when Edmund did?’ + +‘And has life been a blank ever since?’ + +‘Off and on,’ said Sophy. ‘Well, why not? I am sure papa is melancholy +enough. I don’t like people that are always making fun, I can’t see any +sense in it.’ + +‘Some sorts of merriment are sad, and hollow, and wrong, indeed,’ said +Albinia, ‘but not all, I hope. You know there is so much love and mercy +all round us, that it is unthankful not to have a cheerful spirit. I +wish I could give you one, Sophy.’ + +Sophy shook her head. ‘I can’t understand about mercy and love, when +Edmund was all I cared for.’ + +‘But, Sophy, if life is so sad and hard to you, don’t you see the mercy +that took Edmund away to perfect joy? Remember, not cutting you off from +him, but keeping him safe for you.’ + +‘No, no,’ cried Sophy, ‘I have never been good since he went. I have got +worse and worse, but I did think I was true still, that that one thing +was left me--but now--’ The sense of having acted a deception seemed to +produce grief under which the stubborn pride was melting away, and +it was most affecting to see the child weeping over the lost jewel of +truth, which she seemed to feel the last link with the remarkable boy +whose impress had been left so strongly on all connected with him. + +‘My dear, the truth is in you still, or you could not grieve thus over +your failure,’ said Albinia. ‘I know you erred, because it did not occur +to you that it was not acting openly by me; but oh! Sophy, there is +something that would bring you nearer to Edmund than hard truth in your +own strength.’ + +‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Sophy. + +‘Did you ever think what Edmund is about now?’ + +‘I don’t know,’ said Sophy. + +‘I only know that the one thing which is carried with us to the other +world is love, Sophy, and love that becomes greater than we can yet +imagine. If you would think of Him who redeemed and saved your dear +Edmund, and who is his happiness, his exceeding great reward, your heart +would warm, and, oh! what hope and peace would come!’ + +‘Edmund was good,’ said Sophy, in a tone as if to mark the hopeless gulf +between. + +‘And you are sorry. All human goodness begins from sorrow. It had even +to be promised first for baby at his christening, you know. Oh, Sophy, +God’s blessing can make all these tears come to joy.’ + +Albinia’s own tears were flowing so fast, that she broke off to hide +them in her own room, her heart panting with hope, and yet with grief +and pity for the piteous disclosure of so dreary a girlhood. After all, +childhood, if not the happiest, is the saddest period of life--pains, +griefs, petty tyrannies, neglects, and terrors have not the alleviation +of the experience that ‘this also shall pass away;’ time moves with a +tardier pace, and in the narrower sphere of interests, there is less +to distract the attention from the load of grievances. Hereditary low +spirits, a precocious mind, a reserved temper, a motherless home, the +loss of her only congenial companion, and the long-enduring effect of +her illness upon her health, had all conspired to weigh down the poor +girl, and bring on an almost morbid state of gloomy discontent. Her +father’s second marriage, by enlivening the house, had rendered +her peculiarities even more painful to herself and others, and the +cultivation of mind that was forced upon her, made her more averse +to the trifling and playfulness, which, while she was younger, had +sometimes brightened and softened her. And this was the girl whom +her father had resolved upon sending to the selfish, inconsiderate, +frivolous world of school-girls, just when the first opening had +been made, the first real insight gained into her feelings, the +first appearance of having touched her heart! Albinia felt baffled, +disappointed, almost despairing. His stern decree, once made, was, +she knew, well-nigh unalterable; and though resolved to use her +utmost influence, she doubted its power after having seen that look +of decision. Nay, she tried to think he might be right. There might be +those who would manage Sophy better. Eighteen months had been a fair +trial, and she had failed. She prayed earnestly for whatever might be +best for the child, and for herself, that she might take it patiently +and submissively. + +Sophy felt the heat of the day a good deal, but towards the evening she +revived, and seemed so much cheered and refreshed by her tea, that, as +the sound of the church bell came sweetly down in the soft air, Albinia +said, ‘Sophy, I am going to take advantage of my holiday and go to the +evening service. I suppose you had rather not come?’ + +‘I think I will,’ returned Sophy, somewhat glumly, but Albinia hailed +the answer joyfully, as the first shamefaced effort of a reserved +character wishing to make a new beginning, and she took care that no +remark, not even a look, should rouse the sullen sensitiveness that +could so easily be driven back for ever. + +Slowly they crept up the steps on the shady side of the hill, watching +how, beyond the long shadow it cast over the town and the meadows, the +trees revelled in the sunset light, and windows glittered like great +diamonds, where in the ordinary daylight the distance was too great for +distinct vision. + +The church was cool and quiet, and there was something in Sophy’s +countenance and reverent attitude that seemed as if she were +consecrating a newly-formed resolution; her eye was often raised, as +though in spite of herself, to the name of the brother whose short life +seemed inseparably interwoven with all the higher aspirations of his +home. + +In the midst of the Thanksgiving, a sudden movement attracted Albinia, +and she saw Sophy resting her head, and looking excessively pale. +She put her arm round her, and would have led her out, but could not +persuade her to move, and by the time the Blessing was given, the power +was gone, and she had almost fainted away, when a tall strong form +stooped over her, and Mr. Dusautoy gathered her up in his arms, and +bore her off as if she had been a baby, to the open window of his own +drawing-room. + +‘Put me down! The floor, please!’ said Sophy, feebly, for all her +remaining faculties were absorbed in dislike to the mode of conveyance. + +‘Yes, flat on the floor,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, rising with full energy, +and laying a cushion under Sophy’s head, reaching a scent-bottle, and +sending her husband for cold water and sal volatile; with readiness that +astonished Albinia, unused to illness, and especially to faintings, and +remorseful at having taken Sophy out. ‘Was it the pain of her arm that +had overcome her?’ + +‘No,’ said Sophy, ‘it was only my back.’ + +‘Indeed! you never told me you had hurt your back;’ and Albinia began +describing the fall, and declaring there must be a sprain. + +‘Oh, no,’ said Sophy, ‘kneeling always does it.’ + +‘Does what, my dear?’ said Albinia, sitting on the floor by her, and +looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceedingly frightened. + +‘Makes me feel sick,’ said Sophy; ‘I thought it would go off, as it +always does, it didn’t; but it is better now.’ + +‘No, don’t get up yet,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, as she was trying to move; +‘I would offer you the sofa, it would be more hospitable, but I think +the floor is the most comfortable place.’ + +‘Thank you, _much_,’ said Sophy, with an emphasis. + +‘Do you ever lie down on it when you are tired?’ asked the lady, looking +anxiously at Sophy. + +‘I always wish I might.’ + +Albinia was surprised at the interrogations that followed; she did not +understand what Mrs. Dusautoy was aiming at, in the close questioning, +which to her amazement did not seem to offend, but rather to be +gratifying by the curious divination of all sensations. It made Albinia +feel as if she had been carrying on a deliberate system of torture, +when she heard of a pain in the back, hardly ever ceasing, aggravated +by sitting upright, growing severe with the least fatigue, and unless +favoured by day, becoming so bad at night as to take away many hours of +sleep. + +‘Oh! Sophy, Sophy,’ she cried, with tears in her eyes, ‘how could you go +on so? Why did you never tell me?’ + +‘I did not like,’ began Sophy, ‘I was used to it.’ + +Oh, that barrier! Albinia was in uncontrollable distress, that the girl +should have chosen to undergo so much suffering rather than bestow any +confidence. Sophy stole her hand into hers, and said in her odd, short +way, ‘Never mind, it did not signify.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, ‘those things are just what one does get so +much used to, that it seems much easier to bear them than to speak about +them.’ + +‘But to let oneself be so driven about,’ cried Albinia. ‘Oh! Sophy, you +will never do so again! If I had ever guessed--’ + +‘Please hush! Never mind!’ said Sophy, almost crossly, and getting up +from the floor quickly, as though resolved to be well. + +‘I have never minded long enough,’ sighed Albinia. ‘What shall I do, +Mrs. Dusautoy? What do you think it is?’ + +This was the last question Mrs. Dusautoy wished to be asked in Sophy’s +presence. She had little doubt that it was spine complaint like her own, +but she had not intended to let her perceive the impression, till +after having seen Mrs. Kendal alone. However, Albinia’s impetuosity +disconcerted all precautions, and Sophy’s two great black eyes were +rounded with suppressed terror, as if expecting her doom. ‘I think that +a doctor ought to answer that question,’ Mrs. Dusautoy began. + +‘Yes, yes,’ exclaimed Albinia, ‘but I never had any faith in old Mr. +Bowles, I had rather go to a thorough good man at once.’ + +‘Yes, certainly, by all means.’ + +‘And then to whom! I will write to my Aunt Mary. It seems exactly like +you. Do you think it is the spine?’ + +‘I am afraid so. But, my dear,’ holding out her hand caressingly to +Sophy, ‘you need not be frightened--you need not look at me as an +example of what you will come to--I am only an example of what comes of +never speaking of one’s ailments.’ + +‘And of having no mother to find them out!’ cried Albinia. + +‘Indeed,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, anxious to console and encourage, as well +as to talk the young step-mother out of her self-reproach, ‘I do not +think that if I had been my good aunt’s own child, she would have been +more likely to find out that anything was amiss. It was the fashion to +be strong and healthy in that house, and I was never really ill--but I +came as a little stunted, dwining cockney, and so I was considered ever +after--never quite comfortable, often forgetting myself in enjoyment, +paying for it afterwards, but quite used to it. We all thought it was +“only Fanny,” and part of my London breeding. Yes, we thought so in +good faith, even after the largest half of my life had been spent in +Yorkshire.’ + +‘And what brought it to a crisis? Did they go on neglecting you?’ +exclaimed Albinia. + +‘Why, my dear,’ said the little lady, a glow lighting on her cheek, and +a smile awakening, ‘my uncle took a new curate, whom it was the family +custom to call “the good-natured giant,” and whose approach put all of +us young ladies in a state of great excitement. It was all in character +with his good-nature, you know, to think of dragging the poor little +shrimp up the hill to church, and I believe he did not know how she +would get on without his strong arm; for do you know, when he had the +curacy of Lauriston given him, he chose to carry the starveling off with +him, instead of any of those fine, handsome prosperous girls. Dear Mary +and Bessie! how good they were, and how kind and proud for me! I never +could complain of not having sisters.’ + +‘Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have advice?’ + +‘Not he! Why, we all believed it cockneyism, you know, and besides, I +was so happy and so well, that when we went to Scotland, I fairly walked +myself off my legs, and ended the honeymoon laid up in a little inn on +Loch Katrine, where John used regularly to knock his head whenever he +came into the room. It was a fortnight before I could get to Edinburgh, +and the journey made me as bad as ever. So the doctors were called in, +and poor John learnt what a crooked stick he had chosen; but they all +said that if I had been taken in hand as a child, most likely I should +have been a sound woman. The worst of it was, that I was so thoroughly +knocked up that I could not bear the motion of a carriage; besides, I +suppose the doctors wanted a little amusement out of me, for they +would not hear of my going home. So poor John had to go to Lauriston by +himself, and those were the longest, dreariest six months I ever spent +in my life, though Bessie was so good as to come and take care of +me. But at last, when I had nearly made up my mind to defy the whole +doctorhood, they gave leave, and between water and steam, John brought +me to Lauriston, and ever since that, I don’t see that a backbone would +have made us a bit happier.’ + +Sophy had been intently reading Mrs. Dusautoy’s face all through the +narration, from under her thick black eyelashes, and at the end she drew +a sigh of relief, and seemed to catch the smile of glad gratitude and +affection. There was a precedent, which afforded incredible food to the +tumultuous cravings of a heart that had been sinking in sullen gloom +under the consciousness of an unpleasing exterior. The possibility of a +‘good-natured giant’ was far more present to her mind than the present +probability of future suffering and restraint. + +Ever rapid and eager, Albinia could think of nothing but immediate +measures for Sophy’s good, and the satisfaction of her own conscience. +She could not bear even to wait for Mr. Kendal’s return, but, as her +aunts were still in London, she resolved on carrying Sophy to their +house on the following day for the best advice. It was already late, and +she knelt at the table to dash off two notes to put into the post-office +as she went home. One to Mrs. Annesley, to announce her coming with +Sophy, baby, and Susan, the other as follows:-- + + +‘July 10th, 9 p.m. + +‘Dearest Edmund, + +‘I find I have been cruelly neglectful. I have hunted and driven that +poor child about till it has brought on spine complaint. The only thing +I can do, is to take her to have the best advice without loss of time, +so I am going to-morrow to my aunt’s. It would take too long to write +and ask your leave. You must forgive this, as indeed each word I have to +say is, forgive! She is so generous and kind! You know I meant to do my +best, but they were right, I was too young. + + ‘Forgive yours, + ‘A. K.’ + + +The Dusautoys were somewhat taken by surprise, but they knew too well +the need of promptitude to dissuade her; and Sophia herself sat aghast +at the commotion, excited by the habitual discomfort of which she had +thought so little. The vicar, when he found Mrs. Kendal in earnest, +offered to go with them and protect them; but Albinia was a veteran +in independent railway travelling, and was rather affronted by being +treated as a helpless female. Mrs. Dusautoy, better aware of what the +journey might be to one at least of the travellers, gave advice, and +lent air cushions, and Albinia bade her good night with an almost +sobbing ‘thank you,’ and an entreaty that if Mr. Kendal came home before +them, she would tell him all about it. + +At home, she instantly sent the stupefied Sophy to bed, astonished the +little nurse, ordered down boxes and bags, and spent half the night in +packing, glad to be stirring and to tire herself into sleeping, for her +remorse and her anticipations were so painful, that, but for fatigue, +her bed would have been no resting-place. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + + +Winifred Ferrars was surprised by Mr. Kendal’s walking into her garden, +with a perturbed countenance, begging her to help him to make out what +could be the meaning of a note which he had just received. He was afraid +that there was much amiss with the baby, and heartily wished that he +had not been persuaded to leave home; but poor Albinia wrote in so much +distress, that he could not understand her letter. + +More accustomed to Albinia’s epistolary habits, Winifred exclaimed +at the first glance, ‘What can you mean? There is not one word of the +little one! It is only Sophy!’ + +The immediate clearing of his face was not complimentary to poor Sophy, +as he said, ‘Can you be quite sure? I had begun to hope that Albinia +might at least have the comfort of seeing this little fellow healthy; +but let me see--she says nursed and--and danced--is it? this poor +child--’ + +‘No, no; it is hunted and driven; that’s the way she always _will_ make +her _h_‘s; besides, what nonsense the other would be.’ + +‘This poor child--’ repeated Mr. Kendal, ‘Going up to London for advice. +She would hardly do that with Sophia.’ + +‘Who ever heard of a baby of six months old having a spine complaint?’ +cried Mrs. Ferrars almost angrily. + +‘I have lost one in that way,’ he replied. + +A dead silence ensued, till Winifred, to her great relief, spied the +feminine pronoun, but could not fully satisfy Mr. Kendal that the ups +and downs were insufficient for the word _him_; and each scrawl was +discussed as though it had been a cuneiform inscription, until he +had been nearly argued into believing in the lesser evil. He then was +persuaded that the Meadowses had been harassing and frightening Albinia +into this startling measure. It was so contrary to his own nature, that +he hardly believed that it had actually taken place, and that she must +be in London by this time, but at any rate, he must join her there, and +know the worst. He would take the whole party to an hotel, if it were +too great a liberty to quarter themselves upon Mrs. Annesley. + +Winifred was as much surprised as if the chess-king had taken a knight’s +move, but she encouraged his resolution, assured him of a welcome at +what the cousinhood were wont to call the Family Office, and undertook +the charge of Gilbert and Lucy. The sorrowful, almost supplicating tone +of his wife’s letter, would have sufficed to bring him to her, even +without his disquietude for his child, whichever of them it might be; +and though Albinia’s merry blue-eyed boy had brought a renewed spring of +hope and life, his crashed spirits trembled at the least alarm. + +Thus, though the cheerful Winifred had convinced his reason, his gloomy +anticipations revived before he reached London; and with the stern +composure of one accustomed to bend to the heaviest blows, he knocked +at Mrs. Annesley’s door. He was told that Mrs. Kendal was out; but on +further inquiry, learnt that Sophy was in the drawing-room, where he +found her curled up in the corner of the sofa, reading intently. + +She sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise, but did not approach, +though he held out his arms, saying in a voice husky with anxiety, ‘Is +the baby well, Sophia?’ + +‘Yes,’ she cried, ‘quite well; he is out in the carriage with them.’ +Then shrinking as he was stooping to kiss her, she reddened, reddening +deeply, ‘Papa, I did very wrong; I was sly and disobedient, and I might +have killed him.’ + +‘Do not let us speak of that now, my dear, I want to hear of--’ and +again he would have drawn her into his embrace, but she held out her +hand, with her repelling gesture, and burst forth in her rude honesty, +‘I can’t be forgiven only because I am ill. Hear all about it, papa, and +then say you forgive me if you can. I always was cross to mamma, because +I was determined I would be; and I did not think she had any business +with us. The more she was kind, the more I did not like it; and I +thought it was mean in Gilbert and Lucy to be fond of her. No! I have +not done yet! I grew naughtier and naughtier, till at last I have been +false and sly, and--have done this to baby--and I would not have cared +then--if--if she would not have been--oh! so good!’ + +Sophy made no farther resistance to the arm that was thrown round her, +as her father said, ‘So good, that she has overcome evil with good. My +child, how should I not forgive when you are sensible of your mistake, +and when she has so freely forgiven?’ + +Sophy did not speak, but she pressed his arm closer round her, and laid +her cheek gratefully on his shoulder. She only wished it could last for +ever; but he soon lifted her, that he might look anxiously at her face, +while he said, ‘And what is all this, my dear! I am afraid you are not +well.’ + +Her energies were recalled; and, squeezing his hand, she said, ‘Mind, +you will not let them say it was mamma’s fault.’ + +‘Who is accusing her, my dear?’ What is the matter?’ + +‘It is only my back,’ said Sophy; ‘there always was a stupid pain there; +but grandmamma’s Betty said I made a fuss, and that it was all laziness, +and I would not let any one say so again, and I never told of it, and it +went on till the other night I grew faint at church, and Mrs. Dusautoy +put mamma in such a fright, that we all came here yesterday; and there +came a doctor this morning, who says my spine is not straight, and that +I must lie on my back for a long time; but never mind, papa, it will be +very comfortable to lie still and read, and I shall not be cross now,’ +she added reassuringly, as his grasp pressed her close, with a start of +dismay. + +‘My dear, I am afraid you hardly know what you may have to go through, +but I am glad you meet it bravely.’ + +‘But you wont let them say mamma did it?’ + +‘Who should say so?’ + +‘Aunt Maria will, and mamma _will_ go and say so herself,’ cried Sophy; +‘she _will_ say it was taking walks and carrying baby, and it’s not +true. I told the doctor how my back ached long before baby came or she +either, and he said that most likely the weakness had been left by the +fever. So if it is any one’s mismanagement, it is Aunt Maria’s, and if +you wont tell her so, I will.’ + +‘Gently, Sophy, that would hardly be grateful, after the pains that she +has taken with you, and the care she meant to give.’ + +‘Her care was all worry,’ said Sophy, ‘and it will be very lucky if I +don’t tell her so, if she says her provoking things to mamma. But you +wont believe them, papa.’ + +‘Most certainly not.’ + +‘Yes, you must tell her to be happy again,’ continued Sophy; ‘I cannot +bear to see her looking sorrowful! Last night, when she fancied me +asleep, she cried--oh! till it made me miserable! And to-day I heard +Miss Ferrars say to Mrs. Annesley, that her fine spirits were quite +gone. You know it is very silly, for I am the last person in all the +world she ought to cry for.’ + +‘She has an infinite treasure of love,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and we have +done very little that we should be blessed with it.’ + +‘There, they are come home!’ exclaimed Sophy, starting up as sounds were +heard on the stairs, and almost at the same moment Albinia was in the +room, overflowing with contrition, gladness, and anxiety; but something +of sweetness in the first hasty greeting made the trust overcome all +the rest; and, understanding his uppermost wish, she stepped back to the +staircase, and in another second had put Maurice into his arms, blooming +and contented, and with a wide-mouthed smile for his papa. Mr. Kendal +held him fondly through all the hospitable welcomes of the aunts, and +his own explanations; but to Albinia it was all confusion, and almost +annoyance, till she could take him upstairs, and tell her own story. + +‘I am afraid you have been very much alarmed,’ were his first words. + +‘I have done everything wrong from beginning to end,’ said Albinia. ‘Oh, +Edmund, I am so glad you are come! Now you will see the doctor, and know +whether it was as bad as all the rest to bring her to London.’ + +‘My dearest, you must calm yourself, and try to explain. You know +I understand nothing yet, except from your resolute little advocate +downstairs, and your own note, which I could scarcely make out, except +that you were in great trouble.’ + +‘Ah, that note; I wrote it in one of my impetuous fits. Maurice used to +say I ran frantic, and grew irrational, and so I did not know what I was +saying to you; and I brought that poor patient girl up here in all the +heat, and the journey hurt her so much, that I don’t know how we shall +ever get her home again. Oh, Edmund, I am the worst wife and mother in +the world; and I undertook it all with such foolish confidence.’ + +Mr. Kendal liked her impetuous fits as little as her brother did, +and was not so much used to them; but he dealt with her in his quiet, +straightforward way. ‘You are exaggerating now, Albinia, and I do not +wonder at it, for you have had a great deal to startle and to try you. +Walking up and down is only heating and agitating you more; sit down +here, and let me hear what gave you this alarm.’ + +The grave affection of his manner restrained her, and his presence +soothed the flutter of spirits; though she still devoted herself with +a sort of wilfulness to bear all the blame, until he said, ‘This is +foolish, Albinia; it is of no use to look at anything but the simple +truth. This affection of the spine must be constitutional, and if +neglect have aggravated the evil, it must date from a much earlier +period than since she has been under your charge. If any one be to +blame, it is myself, for the apathy that prevented me from placing the +poor things under proper care, but I was hardly then aware that Maria’s +solicitude is always in the wrong place.’ + +‘But everybody declares that it was always visible, and that no one +could look at her without seeing that she was crooked.’ + +‘Apres le coup,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I grant you that a person of more +experience might perhaps have detected what was amiss sooner than you +did, but you have only to regret the ignorance you shared with us all; +and you did your utmost according to your judgment.’ + +‘And a cruel utmost it was,’ said Albinia; ‘it is frightful to think +what I inflicted, and she endured in silence, because I had not treated +her so that she could bear to speak to me.’ + +‘That is over now,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘you have conquered her at last. +Pride could not hold out against such sweetness.’ + +‘It is her generosity,’ said Albinia; ‘I always knew she was the best of +them all, if one could but get at her.’ + +‘What have you done to her? I never heard her say half so much as she +voluntarily said to me just now.’ + +‘Poor dear! I believe the key of her heart was lost when Edmund died, +and so all within was starved,’ said Albinia. ‘Yes,’ as his eyes were +suddenly raised and fixed on her, ‘I got to that at last. No one has +ever understood her, since she lost her brother.’ + +‘She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she was his favourite sister; +but such a child as she was--’ + +‘Children have deeper souls than you give them credit for,’ said +Albinia. ‘Yes, Edmund, you and Sophy are very much alike! You had your +study, and poor Sophy enclosed herself in a perpetual cocoon of study +atmosphere, and so you never found each other out till to-day.’ + +Perhaps it was the influence of the frantic fit that caused her to make +so direct a thrust; but Mr. Kendal was not offended. There was a good +deal in the mere absence from habitual scenes and associations; he +always left a great deal of reserve behind him at Bayford. + +‘You may be right, Albinia,’ he said; ‘I sometimes think that amongst us +you are like the old poet’s “star confined into a tomb.”’ + +Such a compliment was a pretty reward for her temerity. + +Returning to business, she found that her journey was treated as +more judicious than she deserved. The consequences had justified her +decision. Mr. Kendal knew it was the right thing to be done, and was +glad to have been spared the dreadful task of making up his mind to it. +He sat down of his own accord to write a note to Winifred, beginning, +‘Albinia was right, as she always is,’ and though his wife interlined, +‘Albinia had no right to be right, for she was inconsiderate, as she +always is,’ she looked so brilliantly pretty and bright, and was so full +of sunny liveliness, that she occasioned one of the very few disputes +between her good aunts. Miss Ferrars declared that poor Albinia was +quite revived by the return to her old home, and absence of care, while +Mrs. Annesley insisted on giving the credit to Mr. Kendal. They were +perfectly agreed in unwillingness to part with their guests; and as the +doctor wished to see more of his patient, the visit was prolonged, to +the enjoyment of all parties. + +Sophy had received her sentence so easily, that it was suspected that +she did not realize the tedium of confinement, and was relieved by being +allowed to be inactive. Until she should go home, she might do whatever +did not fatigue her; but most sights, and even the motion of the +carriage, were so fatiguing, that she was much more inclined to +remain at home and revel in the delightful world of books. The kind, +unobtrusive petting; the absence of customary irritations; the quiet +high-bred tone of the family, so acted upon her, as to render her +something as agreeably new to herself as to other people. The glum mask +was cast aside, she responded amiably to kindness and attention, +allowed herself to be drawn into conversation, and developed much more +intelligence and depth than even Albinia had given her credit for. + +One day, when Miss Ferrars was showing Mr. Kendal some illustrations of +Indian scenery, a question arose upon the date of the native sovereign +to whom the buildings were ascribed. Mr. Kendal could not recollect; but +Sophia, looking up, quietly pronounced the date, and gave her reasons +for it. Miss Ferrars asked how she could have learnt so much on an +out-of-the-way topic. + +‘I read a book of the History of India, up in the loft,’ said Sophy. + +‘That book!’ exclaimed her father; ‘I wish you joy! I never could get +through it! It is the driest chronicle I ever read--a mere book of +reference. What could induce you to read that?’ + +‘I would read anything about India;’ and her tone, though low and +subdued, betrayed such enthusiasm as could find nothing dry, and this +in a girl who had read aloud the reign of Edward III. with stolid +indifference! + +‘Well, I think I can promise you more interesting reading about India +when we go home,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +The colour rose on Sophy’s cheek. Books out of papa’s study! Could the +world offer a greater privilege?’ She could scarcely pronounce, ‘Thank +you.’ + +‘Very faithful to her birth-place,’ said Miss Ferrars; ‘but she must +have been very young when she came home.’ + +‘About five years old, I believe,’ said her father. ‘You surely can +remember nothing of Talloon.’ + +‘I don’t know,’ said Sophy, mournfully; ‘I used--’ + +‘I thought Indian children usually lost their eastern recollections very +early,’ said Miss Ferrars; ‘I never heard of one who could remember the +sound of Hindostanee a year after coming home.’ + +Mr. Kendal, entertained and gratified, turned to his daughter; and, by +way of experiment, began a short sentence in Hindostanee; but the first +sound brought a glow to her cheeks, and, with a hurried gesture, she +murmured, ‘Please don’t, papa.’ + +Albinia saw that feelings were here concerned which must not be played +on in public; and she hastily plunged into the discussion, and drew it +away from Sophy. Following her up-stairs at bed-time, she contrived to +win from her an explanation. + +Edmund had been seven years old at the time of the return to England. +Fondly attached to some of the Hindoo servants, and with unusual +intelligence and observation, the gorgeous scenery and oriental habits +of his first home had dwelt vividly in his imagination, and he had +always considered himself as only taken to England for a time, to return +again to India. Thus, he had been fond of romancing of the past and of +the future, and had never let his little sister’s recollections fade +entirely away. His father had likewise thought that it would save future +trouble to keep up the boys’ knowledge of the language, which would +by-and-by be so important to them. Gilbert’s health had caused his +studies to be often intermitted, but Edmund had constantly received +instructions in the Indian languages, and whatever he learnt had been +imparted to Sophia. It was piteous to discover how much time the poor +forlorn little girl had spent sitting on the floor in the loft, poring +over old grammars, and phrase-books, and translations of missionary +or government school-books there accumulated--anything that related to +India, or that seemed to carry on what she had done with Edmund: and she +had acquired just enough to give her a keen appetite for all the higher +class of lore, which she knew to reside in the unapproachable study. +Those few familiar words from her father had overcome her, because, a +trivial greeting in themselves, they had been a kind of password between +her and her brother. + +Mr. Kendal was greatly touched, and very remorseful for having left such +a heart to pine in solitude, while he was absorbed in his own lonely +grief; and Albinia ventured to say, ‘I believe the greatest pleasure you +could give her would be to help her to keep up the language.’ + +He smiled, but said, ‘Of what possible use could it be to her?’ + +‘I was not thinking of future use. It would be of immense present use +to her to do anything with you, and I can see that nothing would gratify +her so much. Besides, I have been trying to think of all the new things +I could set her to do. She must have lessons to fill up the day, and I +want to make fresh beginnings, and not go back to the blots and scars of +our old misunderstandings.’ + +‘You want me to teach her Sanscrit because you cannot teach her +Italian.’ + +‘Exactly so,’ said Albinia; ‘and the Italian will spring all the better +from the venerable root, when we have forgotten how cross we used to be +to each other over our relative pronouns.’ + +‘But there is hardly anything which I could let her read in those +languages.’ + +‘Very likely not; but you can pick out what there is. Do you remember +the fable of the treasure that was to be gained by digging under the +apple-tree, and which turned out not to be gold, but the fruit, the +consequence of digging? Now, I want you to dig Sophy; a Sanscrit, or a +Hindostanee, or a Persian treasure will do equally well as a pretext. If +she had announced a taste for the differential calculus, I should have +said the same. Only dig her, as Maurice dug me apropos to Homer. I +wouldn’t bother you, only you see no one else could either do it, or be +the same to Sophy.’ + +‘We will see how it is,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +With which Albinia was obliged to be content; but in the meantime she +saw the two making daily progress in intimacy, and Mr. Kendal beginning +to take a pride in his daughter’s understanding and information, which +he ascribed to Albinia, in spite of all her disclaimers. It was as if +she had evoked the spirit of his lost son, which had lain hidden under +the sullen demeanour of the girl, devoid indeed of many of Edmund’s +charms, but yet with the same sterling qualities, and with resemblance +enough to afford infinite and unexpected joy and compensation. + +Mr. Kendal enjoyed his stay in town. He visited libraries, saw pictures, +and heard music, with the new zest of having a wife able to enter into +his tastes. He met old friends, and did not shrink immoderately from +those of his wife; nay, he found them extremely agreeable, and was +pleased to see Albinia welcomed. Indeed, his sojourn in her former +sphere served to make him wonder that she could be contented with +Bayford, and to find her, of the whole party, by far the most ready +to return home. Both he himself and Sophy had an unavowed dread of +the influence of Willow Lawn; but Albinia had a spring of spirits, +independent of place, and though happy, was craving for her duties, +anxious to have the journey over, and afraid that London was making her +little Maurice pale. + +Miss Meadows was the first person whom they saw at Willow Lawn. Two +letters had passed, both so conventionally civil, that her state of +mind could not be gathered from them, but her first tones proved that +coherence was more than ever wanting, and no one attempted to understand +anything she said, while she enfolded Sophy in an agitated embrace, and +marshalled them to the drawing-room, where the chief of the apologies +were spent upon Sophy’s new couch, which had been sent down the day +before by the luggage-train, and which she and Eweretta had attempted to +put together in an impossible way, failing which, they had called in the +carpenter, who had made it worse. + +It was an untold advantage that she had to take the initiative in +excuses. Sophy was so meek with weariness, that she took pretty well +all the kind fidgeting that could not be averted from her, and Miss +Meadows’s discourse chiefly tended to assurances that Mrs. Kendal was +right, and grandmamma was nervous--and poor Mr. Bowles--it could not +be expected--with hints of the wonderful commotion the sudden flight to +London had excited at Bayford. As soon as Mr. Kendal quitted the +room, these hints were converted into something between expostulation, +condolence, and congratulation. + +It was so very fortunate--so very lucky that dear Mr. Kendal had come +home with her, for--she had said she would let Mrs. Kendal hear, if only +that she might be on her guard--people were so ill-natured--there never +was such a place for gossip--not that she heard it from any one but Mrs. +Drury, who really now had driven in--not that she believed it, but to +ascertain.--For Mrs. Drury had been told--mentioning no names--oh, no! +for fear of making mischief--she had been told that Mrs. Kendal had +actually been into Mr. Kendal’s study, which was always kept locked up, +and there she had found something which had distressed her so much that +she had gone to Mr. Dusautoy, and by his advice had fled from home to +the protection of her brother in Canada. + +‘Without waiting for Bluebeard’s asking for the key! Oh, Maria!’ cried +Albinia, in a fit of laughter, while Sophia sat up on the sofa in +speechless indignation. + +‘You may laugh, Mrs. Kendal, if you please,’ said Maria, with tart +dignity; ‘I have told you nothing but the truth. I should have thought +for my part, but that’s of no consequence, it was as well to be on one’s +guard in a nest of vipers, for Edmund’s sake, if not for your own.’ And +as this last speech convulsed Albinia, and rendered her incapable of +reply, Miss Meadows became pathetic. ‘I am sure the pains I have taken +to trace out and contradict--and so nervous as grandmamma has been--“I’m +sure, Mrs. Drury,” said I, “that though Edmund Kendal does lock his +study door, nobody ever thought anything--the housemaids go in to +clean it--and I’ve been in myself when the whitewashers were about +the house--I’m sure Mrs. Kendal is a most amiable young woman, and you +wouldn’t raise reports.” “No,” she said, “but Mrs. Osborn was positive +that Mrs. Kendal was nearly an hour shut up alone in the study the night +of Sophy’s accident--and so sudden,” she said, “the carriage being sent +for--not a servant knew of it--and then,” she said, “it was always +the talk among the girls, that Mr. Kendal kept his study a forbidden +place.”’ + +‘Then,’ said Sophia, slowly, as she looked full at her aunt, ‘it was the +Osborns who dared to say such wicked things.’ + +‘There now, I never meant you to be there. You ought to be gone to bed, +child. It is not a thing for you to know anything about.’ + +‘I only want to know whether it was the Osborns who invented these +stories,’ said Sophy. + +‘My dear,’ exclaimed Albinia, ‘what can it signify? They are only a +very good joke. I did not think there had been so much imagination in +Bayford.’ And off she went laughing again. + +‘They are very wicked,’ said Sophy, ‘Aunt Maria, I will know if it was +Mrs. Osborn who told the story.’ + +Sophy’s _will_ was too potent for Miss Meadows, and the admission was +extracted in a burst of other odds and ends, in the midst of which +Albinia beheld Sophy cross the room with a deliberate, determined step. +Flying after her, she found her in the hall, wrapping herself up. + +‘Sophy, what is this? What are you about?’ + +‘Let me alone,’ said Sophy, straining against her detaining hand, ‘I do +not know when I shall recover again, and I will go at once to tell the +Osborns that I have done with them. I stuck to them because I thought +they were my mother’s friends; I did not guess that they would make an +unworthy use of my friendship, and invent wicked stories of my father +and you.’ + +‘Please don’t make me laugh, Sophy, for I don’t want to affront you. +Yes, it is generous feeling; I don’t wonder you are angry; but indeed +silly nonsense like this is not worth it. It will die away of itself, it +must be dead already, now they have seen we have not run away to Canada. +Your heroics only make it more ridiculous.’ + +‘I must tell Loo never to come here with her hypocrisy,’ repeated Sophy, +standing still, but not yielding an inch. + +Miss Meadows pursued them at the same moment with broken protestations +that they must forget it, she never meant to make mischief, &c., and the +confusion was becoming worse confounded when Mr. Kendal emerged from +the study, demanding what was the matter, to the great discomfiture +of Maria, who began hushing Sophy, and making signs to Albinia that it +would be dangerous for him to know anything about it. + +But Albinia was already exclaiming, ‘Here’s a champion wanting to do +battle with Louisa Osborn in our cause. Oh, Edmund! our neighbours could +find no way of accounting for my taking French leave, but by supposing +that I took advantage of being shut in there, while poor little Maurice +was squalling so furiously, to rifle your secrets, and detect something +so shocking, that away I was fleeing to William in Canada.’ + +‘Obliging,’ quietly said Mr. Kendal. + +‘Now, dear Edmund--I know--for my sake--for everything’s sake, remember +you are a family man, don’t take any notice.’ + +‘I certainly shall take no notice of such folly,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and +I wish that no one else should. What are you about, Sophia?’ + +‘Tell mamma to let me go, papa,’ she exclaimed, ‘I must and will tell +Louisa that I hate her baseness and hypocrisy, and then I’ll never speak +to her again. Why will mamma laugh? It is very wicked of them.’ + +‘Wrong in them, but laughing is the only way to treat it,’ said Mr. +Kendal. ‘Go back to your sofa and forget it. Your aunt and I have heard +Bayford reports before.’ + +Sophy obeyed unwillingly, she was far too much incensed to forget. On +her aunt’s taking leave, and Mr. Kendal offering his escort up the hill, +she rose up again, and would have perpetrated a denunciation by letter, +had not Albinia seriously argued with her, and finding ridicule, +expediency, and Christian forgiveness all fail of hitting the mark, +said, ‘I don’t know with what face you could attack Louisa, when you +helped her to persecute poor Genevieve because you thought she had an +instrument of torture in her drawer.’ + +‘It was not I who said that,’ said Sophy, blushing. + +‘You took part with those who did. And poor Genevieve was a much more +defenceless victim than papa or myself.’ + +‘I would not do so now.’ + +‘It does not take much individual blackness of heart to work up a fine +promising slander. A surmise made in jest is repeated in earnest, and +all the other tale-bearers think they are telling simple facts. Depend +upon it, the story did not get off from the Osborns by any means as it +came back to Aunt Maria.’ + +‘I should like to know.’ + +‘Don’t let us make it any worse; and above all, do not let us tell +Lucy.’ + +‘Oh, no!’ said Sophy, emphatically. + +To Albinia’s surprise no innuendo from Mrs. or Miss Meadows ever +referred to her management having caused Sophy’s misfortune, and she +secretly attributed this silence to Mr. Kendal’s having escorted his +sister-in-law to her own house. + +Sophy’s chief abode became the morning-room, and she seemed very happy +and tranquil there--shrinking from visitors, but grateful for the +kindness of parents, brother and sister. + +Mr. Kendal, finding her really eager to learn of him, began teaching her +Persian, and was astonished at her promptness and intelligence. He took +increasing pleasure in her company, gave her books to read, and would +sometimes tell the others not to stay at home for her sake, as he should +be ‘about the house.’ + +He really gave up much time to her, and used to carry her, when the +weather served, to a couch in the garden, for she could not bear the +motion of wheels, and was forbidden to attempt walking, though she was +to be in the air as much as possible, so that Albinia spent more time at +home. The charge of Sophy was evidently her business, and after talking +the matter over with Mrs. Dusautoy, she resigned, though not without +a pang, the offices she had undertaken in the time of her superfluous +activity, and limited herself to occasional superintendence, instead of +undertaking constant employment in the parish. Though she felt grieved +and humiliated, Willow Lawn throve the better for it, and so did her +own mind, yes, and even her temper, which was far less often driven by +over-haste into quick censure, or unconsidered reply. + +Her mistakes about Sophia had been a lesson against one-sided +government. At first, running into the other extreme, she was ready to +imagine that all the past ill-humour had been the effect of her neglect +and cruelty; and Sophy’s amiability almost warranted the notion. The +poor girl herself had promised ‘never to be cross again,’ and fancied +all temptation was over, since she had ‘found out mamma,’ and papa was +so kind to her. But all on a sudden, down came the cloud again. Nobody +could detect any reason. Affronts abounded--not received with an +explosion that would have been combated, laughed at, and disposed of, +but treated with silence, and each sinking down to be added to the +weight of cruel injuries. There was no complaint; Sophy obeyed all +orders with her old form of dismal submission, but everything proposed +to her was distasteful, and her answers were in the ancient surly +style. If attempts were made to probe the malady, her reserve was +impenetrable--nothing was the matter, she wanted nothing, was vexed +at nothing. She pursued her usual occupations, but as if they were +hardships; she was sullen towards her mamma, snappishly brief with her +aunt and sister, and so ungracious and indifferent even with her father, +that Albinia trembled lest he might withdraw the attention so improperly +received. When this dreary state of things had lasted more than a week, +he did tell her that if she were tired of the lessons, it was not worth +while to proceed; but that he had hoped for more perseverance. + +The fear of losing these, her great pride and pleasure, overcame her. +She maintained her grim composure till he had left her, but then fell +into a violent fit of crying, in which Albinia found her, and which +dissolved the reserve into complaints that every one was very cruel and +unkind, and she was the most miserable girl in all the world; papa was +going to take away from her the only one thing that made it tolerable! + +Reasoning was of no use; to try to show her that it was her own +behaviour that had annoyed him, only made her mamma appear equally +hard-hearted, and she continued wretched all the rest of the day, +refusing consolation, and only so far improved that avowed discontent +was better than sullenness. The next morning, she found out that it was +not the world that was in league against her, but that she had fallen +into the condition which she had thought past for ever. This was worst +of all, and her disappointment and dejection lasted not only all that +long day, but all the next, making her receive all kindnesses with a +broken-down, woebegone manner, and reply to all cheerful encouragements +with despair about anything ever making her good. Albinia tried to put +her in mind of the Source of all goodness; but any visible acceptance +of personal applications of religious teaching had not yet been +accomplished. + +Gradually all cleared up again, and things went well till for some fresh +trivial cause or no cause, the whole process was repeated--sulking, +injured innocence, and bitter repentance. This time, Mr. Kendal +pronounced, ‘This is low spirits, far more than temper,’ and he +thenceforth dealt with these moods with a tender consideration that +Albinia admired, though she thought at times that to treat them more +like temper than spirits might be better for Sophy; but it was evident +that the poor child herself had at present little if any power either +of averting such an access, or of shaking it off. The danger of her +father’s treatment seemed to be, that the humours would be acquiesced +in, like changes in the weather, and that she might be encouraged +neither to repent, nor to struggle; while her captivity made her much +more liable to the tedium and sinking of heart that predisposed her to +them. + +There seemed to be nothing to be done but to bear patiently with them +while they lasted, to console the victim afterwards, lead her to prayer +and resolute efforts, and above all to pray for her, as well as to avoid +occasions of bringing them on; but this was not possible, since no one +could live without occasional contradiction, and Sophy could sometimes +bear a strong remonstrance or great disappointment, when at others a +hint, or an almost imperceptible vexation, destroyed her peace for days. + +Mr. Kendal bore patiently with her variations, and did his best to amuse +away her gloom. It was wonderful how much of his own was gone, and +how much more alive he was. He had set himself to attack the five +public-houses and seven beer-shops in Tibbs’s Alley, and since his eyes +had been once opened, it seemed as if the disorders became more flagrant +every day. At last, he pounced on a misdemeanour which he took care +should come before the magistrates, and he was much annoyed to find the +case dismissed for want of evidence. One Sunday he beheld the end of a +fray begun during service-time; he caused an information to be laid, and +went himself to the petty sessions to represent the case, but the result +was a nominal penalty. The Admiral was a seeker of popularity, and +though owning that the town was in a shocking state, and making great +promises when talked to on general points, yet he could never make +up his mind to punish any ‘poor fellow,’ unless he himself were in a +passion, when he would go any length. The other magistrates would not +interfere; and all the satisfaction Mr. Kendal obtained was being told +how much he was wanted on the bench. + +One of the few respectable Tibbs’s Alleyites told him that it was of no +use to complain, for the publicans boasted of their impunity, snapped +their fingers at him, and drank Admiral Osborn’s health as their friend. +The consequence was, that Mr. Kendal took a magnanimous resolution, +ordered a copy of Burn’s Justice, and at the September Quarter Sessions +actually rode over to Hadminster, and took the oaths. + +On the whole, the expectation was more formidable than the reality. +However much he disliked applying himself to business, no one understood +it better. The value of his good sense, judgment, and acuteness was +speedily felt. Mr. Nugent, the chairman, depended on him as his ally, +and often as his adviser; and as he was thus made to feel himself of +weight and importance, his aversion subsided, and he almost learnt to +look forward to a chat with Mr. Nugent; or whether he looked forward to +it or not, there could be no doubt that he enjoyed it. Though still shy, +grave, silent, and inert, there was a great alteration in him since the +time when he had had no friends, no interests, no pursuits beyond his +study; and there was every reason to think that, in spite of the many +severe shocks to his mauvaise honte, he was a much happier man. + +His wife could not regret that his magisterial proceedings led to a +coolness with the Osborns, augmented by a vestry-meeting, at which +Mr. Dusautoy had begged him to be present. The Admiral and his party +surpassed themselves in their virulence against whatever the vicar +proposed, until they fairly roused Mr. Kendal’s ire, and ‘he came out +upon them all like a lion;’ and with force appearing the greater from +being so seldom exerted, he represented Mr. Dusautoy’s conduct in +appropriate terms, showing full appreciation of his merits, and holding +up their own course before them in its true light, till they had nothing +to say for themselves. It was the vicar’s first visible victory. The +increased congregation showed how much way he had made with the +poor, and Mr. Kendal taking his part openly, drew over many of the +tradespeople, who had begun to feel the influence of his hearty nature +and consistent uprightness, and had become used to what had at first +appeared innovations. Mr. Dusautoy, in thanking Mr. Kendal, begged +him to allow himself to be nominated his churchwarden next Easter, +and having consented while his blood was up, there was no danger that, +however he might dislike the prospect, he would falter when the time +should come. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + + +It was ‘a green Yule,’ a Christmas like an April day, and even the +lengthening days and strengthening cold of January attaining to nothing +more than three slight hoar-frosts, each quickly melting into mud, and +the last concluding in rain and fog. + +‘What would Willow Lawn have been without the drainage?’ Albinia often +thought when she paddled down the wet streets, and saw the fields +flooded. The damp had such an effect upon Sophy’s throat, temper, and +whole nervous system, that her moods had few intervals, and Albinia +wrote to the surgeon a detail of her symptoms, asking if she had not +better be removed into a more favourable air. But he pronounced that +the injury of the transport would outbalance the casual evils of the bad +weather, and as the rain and fog mitigated, she improved; but there were +others on whom the heavy moist air had a more fatal effect. + +One morning, Mr. Kendal saw his wife descending the picturesque rugged +stone staircase that led outside the house to the upper stories of the +old block of buildings under the hill, nearly opposite to Willow Lawn. +She came towards him with tears still in her eyes as she said, ‘Poor +Mrs. Simkins has just lost her little girl, and I am afraid the two boys +are sickening.’ + +‘What do you mean? Is the fever there again?’ exclaimed Mr. Kendal in +the utmost consternation. + +‘Did you not know it? Lucy has been very anxious about the child, who +was in her class.’ + +‘You have not taken Lucy to a house with a fever!’ + +‘No, I thought it safer not, though she wanted very much to go.’ + +‘But you have been going yourself!’ + +‘It was a low, lingering fever. I had not thought it infectious, +and even now I believe it is only one of those that run through an +over-crowded family. The only wonder is, that they are ever well in +such a place. Dear Edmund, don’t be angry; it is what I used to do +continually at Fairmead. I never caught anything; and there is plenty of +chloride of lime, and all that. I never imagined you would disapprove.’ + +‘It is the very place where the fever began before!’ said Mr. Kendal, +almost under his breath. + +Instead of going into the house, he made her turn into the garden, where +little Maurice was being promenaded in the sun. He stretched out from +his nurse’s arms to go to them, and Albinia was going towards him, but +her husband held her fast, and said, ‘I beg you will not take the child +till you have changed your dress.’ + +Albinia was quite subdued, alarmed at the effect on him. + +‘You must go away at once,’ he said presently. ‘How soon can you be +ready? You had better take Lucy and Maurice at once to your brother’s. +They will excuse the liberty when they know the cause.’ + +‘And pray what is to become of poor Sophy?’ + +‘Never going out, there may be the less risk for her. I will take care +of her myself.’ + +‘As if I was going to endure that!’ cried Albinia. ‘No, no, Edmund, I am +not likely to run away from you and Sophy! You may send Lucy off, if +you like, but certainly not me, or if you do I shall come back the same +evening.’ + +‘I should be much happier if you were gone.’ + +‘Thank you, but what should I be? No, if it were to be caught here, +which I don’t believe, now the pond is gone, it would be of no use to +send me away, after I have been into the house with it.’ + +Her resolution and Sophy’s need prevailed, and most unwillingly Mr. +Kendal gave up the point. She was persuaded that he was acting on a +panic, the less to be wondered at after all he had suffered. She thought +the chief danger was from the effect of his fears, and would fain have +persuaded him to remain at Fairmead with Lucy, but she was not prepared +to hear him insist on likewise removing Maurice. She had promised not to +enter the sick room again, and pleaded that the little boy need never be +taken into the street--that the fever was not likely to come across the +running stream--that the Fairmead nursery was full enough already. + +Mr. Kendal was inexorable. ‘I hope you may never see what I have seen,’ +he said gravely, and Albinia was silenced. + +A man who had lost so many children might be allowed to be morbidly +jealous of the health of the rest. But it was a cruel stroke to her +to be obliged to part with her noble little boy, just when his daily +advances in walking and talking made him more charming than ever. Her +eyes were full of tears, and she struggled to choke back some pettish +rebellious words. + +‘You do not like to trust him with Susan,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘you had +better come with him.’ + +‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘I ought to stay here, and if you judge it right, +Maurice must go. I’ll go and speak to Susan.’ + +And away she ran, for she had no power just then to speak in a wifely +manner. It was not easy to respect a man in a panic so extremely +inconvenient. + +He was resolved on an immediate start, and the next few hours were +spent in busy preparation, and in watching lest the excited Lucy should +frighten her sister. Albinia tried to persuade Mr. Kendal at least to +sleep at Fairmead that night, and after watching him drive off, she +hurried, dashing away the tears that would gather again and again in her +eyes, to hold council with the Dusautoys on the best means of stopping +the course of the malady, by depriving it of its victims. + +She had a quiet snug evening with Sophy, whom she had so much interested +in the destitution of the sick children as to set her to work at some +night-gear for them, and she afterwards sat long over the fire trying to +read to silence the longing after the little soft cheek that had never +yet been laid to rest without her caress, and foreboding that Mr. Kendal +would return from his dark solitary drive with his spirits at the lowest +ebb. + +So late that she had begun to hope that Winifred had obeyed her behest +and detained him, she heard his step, and before she could run to meet +him, he had already shut himself into the study. + +She was at the door in a moment; she feared he had thought her +self-willed in the morning, and she was the more bent on rousing +him. She knocked--she opened the door. He had thrown himself into his +arm-chair, and was bending over the dreary, smouldering, sulky log and +white ashes, and his face, as he raised his head, was as if the whole +load of care and sorrow had suddenly descended again. + +‘I am sorry you sat up,’ was of course his beginning, conveying anything +but welcome; but she knew that this only meant that he was in a state of +depression. She took hold of his hand, chilled with holding the reins, +told him of the good fire in the morning-room, and fairly drew him +up-stairs. + +There the lamp burnt brightly, and the red fire cast a merry glow over +the shining chintz curtains, and the two chairs drawn so cosily towards +the fire, the kettle puffing on the hearth, and Albinia’s choice little +bed-room set of tea-china ready on the small table. The cheerfulness +seemed visibly to diffuse itself over his face, but he still struggled +to cherish his gloom, ‘Thank you, but I would not have had you take all +this trouble, my dear.’ + +‘It would be a great deal more trouble if you caught a bad cold. I meant +you to sleep at Fairmead.’ + +‘Yes, they pressed me very kindly, but I could not bear not to come +home.’ + +‘And how did Maurice comport himself?’ + +‘He talked to the horse and then went to sleep, and he was not at all +shy with his aunt after the first. He watched the children, but had not +begun to play with them. Still I think he will be quite happy with Lucy +there, and I hope it will not be for long.’ + +It was a favourable sign that Mr. Kendal communicated all these +particulars without being plied with questions, and Albinia went on with +the more spirit. + +‘No, I hope it may not be for long. We have been holding a great council +against the enemy, and I do hope that we have really done something. No, +you need not be afraid, I have not been there again, but we have been +routing out the nucleus, and hope we may starve out the fever for want +of victims. You never saw such a swarm as we had to turn out. There were +twenty-three people to be considered for.’ + +‘Twenty-three! Have you turned out the whole block?’ + +‘No, I wish we had; but that would have been seventy-five. This is only +from those two tenements with one door!’ + +‘Impossible!’ + +‘I should have thought so; but the lawful inhabitants make up sixteen, +and there were seven lodgers.’ + +Mr. Kendal gave a kind of groan, and asked what she had done; she +detailed the measures. + +‘Twenty-three people in those two houses, and seventy-five in the whole +block of building?’ + +‘Too true. And if you could only see the rooms! The windows that wont +open; the roofs that open too much; the dirt on the staircases, and, oh! +the horrible smells!’ + +‘It shall not go on,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I will look over the place.’ + +‘Not till the fever is out of it,’ hastily interposed Albinia. + +He made a sign of assent, and went on: ‘I will certainly talk to +Pettilove, and have the place repaired, if it be at my own expense.’ + +Albinia lifted up her eyes, not understanding at whose expense it should +be. + +‘The fact is,’ continued Mr. Kendal, ‘that there has been little to +induce me to take interest in the property. Old Mr. Meadows was, as you +know, a successful solicitor, and purchased these various town tenements +bit by bit, and then settled them very strictly on his grandson. He +charged the property with life incomes to his widow and daughters, and +to me; but the land is in the hands of trustees until my son’s majority, +and Pettilove is the only surviving trustee.’ + +The burning colour mantled in Albinia’s face, and almost inaudibly +she said, ‘I beg your pardon, Edmund; I have done you moat grievous +injustice. I thought you _would_ not see--’ + +‘You did not think unjustly, my dear. I ought to have paid more +attention to the state of affairs, and have kept Pettilove in order. +But I knew nothing of English affairs, and was glad to be spared +the unpleasant charge. The consequence of leaving a man like that +irresponsible never occurred to me. His whole conscience in the matter +is to have a large sum to put into Gilbert’s hands when he comes of age. +Why, he upholds those dens of iniquity in Tibbs’s Alley on that very +ground!’ + +‘Poor Gilbert! I am afraid a large sum so collected is not likely to +do him much good! and at one-and-twenty--! But that is one notion of +faithfulness!’ + +Albinia was much happier after that conversation. She could better +endure to regret her own injustice than to believe her husband the +cruel landlord; and it was no small advance that he had afforded her an +explanation which once he would have deemed beyond the reach of female +capacity. + +In spite of the lack of little Maurice’s bright presence, which, to +Albinia’s great delight, his father missed as much as she did, the +period of quarantine sped by cheerfully. Sophy had not a single sullen +fit the whole time, and Albinia having persuaded Mr. Kendal that it +would be a sanatory measure to whitewash the study ceiling, he was +absolutely forced to turn out of it and live in the morning-room, with +all his books piled up in the dining-room. And on that great occasion +Albinia abstracted two fusty, faded, green canvas blinds from the +windows, carried them off with a pair of tongs, and pushed them into a +bonfire in the garden, persuaded they were the last relics of the +old fever. She had the laurels cut, the curtains changed, the windows +cleaned, and altogether made the room so much lighter, that when Mr. +Kendal again took possession, he did not look at all sure whether he +liked it; and though he was courteously grateful, he did not avail +himself of the den half so much as when it had more congenial gloom. But +then he had the morning-room as a resort, and it was one of Albinia’s +bargains with herself, that as far as her own influence could prevent +it, neither he nor Sophy should ever render it a literal boudoir. + +The sense of snugness that the small numbers produced was one great +charm, and made Mr. Kendal come unusually far out of his shell. His +chief sanatory precaution was to take Albinia out for a drive or walk +every day, and these expeditions were greatly enjoyed. + +One day, after a visit from her old nurse, Sophy received Albinia with +the words,-- + +‘Oh, mamma,’ she said, ‘old nurse has been telling me such things. I +shall never be cross with Aunt Maria again. It is such a sad story, just +like one in a book, if she was but that kind of person.’ + +‘Aunt Maria! I remember Mrs. Dusautoy once saying she gave her the idea +of happiness shattered, but--’ + +‘Did she?’ exclaimed Sophy. ‘I never thought Aunt Maria could have done +anything but fidget everybody that came near her; but old nurse says a +gentleman was once in love with her, and a very handsome young gentleman +too. Old Mr. Pringle’s nephew it was, a very fine young officer in the +army. I want you to ask papa if it is true. Nurse says that he wrote +to make an offer for her, very handsomely, but grandpapa did not choose +that both his daughters should go quite away; so he locked the letter +up, and said no, and never told her, and she thought the captain had +been trifling and playing her false, and pined and fretted, till she got +into this nervous way, and fairly wore herself out, nurse says, and came +to be what she is now, instead of the prettiest young lady in the +town! And then, mamma, when grandpapa died, she found the letter in his +papers, and one inside for her, that had never been given to her; and by +that time there was no hope, for Captain Pringle had gone out with his +regiment, and married a rich young lady in the Indies! Oh, mamma! you +see she really is deserted, and it is all man’s treachery that has +broken her heart. I thought people always died or went into convents--I +don’t mean that Aunt Maria could have done that, but I did not think +that way of hers was a broken heart!’ + +‘If she has had such troubles, it should indeed make us try to be very +forbearing with her,’ said Albinia. + +‘Will you ask papa about it?’ entreated Sophy. + +‘Yes, certainly; but you must not make sure whether he will think it +right to tell us. Poor Aunt Maria; I do think some part of it must be +true!’ + +‘But, mamma, is that really like deserted love?’ + +‘My dear, I don’t think I ever saw deserted love,’ said Albinia, rather +amused. ‘I suppose troubles of any kind, if not--I mean, I suppose, +vexations--make people show their want of spirits in the way most +accordant with their natural dispositions, and so your poor aunt has +grown querulous and anxious.’ + +‘If she has such a real grand reason for being unhappy, I shall not be +cross about it now, except--’ + +Sophy gave a sigh, and Albinia bade her good night. + +Mr. Kendal had never heard the story before, but he remembered many +circumstances in corroboration. He knew that Mr. Pringle had a nephew in +the army, he recollected that he had made a figure in Maria’s letters to +India; and that he had subsequently married a lady in the Mauritius, and +settled down on her father’s estate. He testified also to the bright gay +youth of poor Maria, and his surprise at the premature loss of beauty +and spirits; and from his knowledge of old Mr. Meadows, he believed him +capable of such an act of domestic tyranny. Maria had always been looked +upon as a mere child, and if her father did not choose to part with her, +he would think it for her good, and his own peace, for her not to be +aware of the proposal. He was much struck, for he had not suspected his +sister-in-law to be capable of such permanent feeling. + +‘There was little to help her in driving it away,’ said Albinia. ‘Few +occupations or interests, and very little change, to prevent it from +preying on her spirits.’ + +‘True,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘a narrow education and limited sphere are sad +evils in such cases.’ + +‘Do you think anything can be a cure for disappointment?’ asked Sophy, +in such a solemn, earnest tone, that Albinia was disposed to laugh; but +she knew that this would be a dire offence, and was much surprised +that Sophy had so far broken through her reserve, as to mingle in their +conversation on such a subject. + +‘Occupation,’ said Mr. Kendal, but speaking rather as if from duty than +from conviction. ‘There are many sources of happiness, even if shipwreck +have been made on one venture. Your aunt had few resources to which to +turn her mind. Every pursuit or study is a help stored up against the +vacuity which renders every care more corroding.’ + +‘Well!’ said Sophy, in her blunt, downright way, ‘I think it would take +all the spirit out of everything.’ + +‘I hope you will never be tried,’ said Mr. Kendal, with a mournful +smile, as if he did not choose to confess that she had divined too +rightly the probable effect of trouble upon her own temperament. + +‘I suppose,’ said Albinia, ‘that the real cure can be but one thing +for that, as for any other trouble. I mean, “Thy will be done.” I don’t +suppose anything else would give energy to turn to other duties. But it +would be more to the purpose to resolve to be more considerate to poor +Maria.’ + +‘I shall never be impatient with her again,’ said Sophy. + +And though at first the discovery of so romantic a cause for poor Miss +Meadows’s fretfulness dignified it in Sophy’s eyes, yet it did not prove +sufficient to make it tolerable when she tormented the window-blinds, +teased the fire, was shocked at Sophy’s favourite studies, or insisting +on her wishing to see Maria Drury. Nay, the bathos often rendered her +petty unconscious provocations the more harassing, and Sophy often felt, +in an agony of self-reproach, that she ought to have known herself too +well to expect to show forbearance with any one when she was under the +influence of ill-temper. + +In Easter week Mr. Ferrars brought Lucy and Maurice home, and Gilbert +came for a short holiday. + +Gilbert was pleased when he was called to go over the empty houses with +his father, Mr. Ferrars, and a mason. + +Back they came, horrified at the dreadful disrepair, at the narrow area +into which such numbers were crowded, and still more at the ill odours +which Mr. Ferrars and the mason had gallantly investigated, till they +detected the absence of drains, as well as convinced themselves that +mending roofs, floors, or windows, would be a mere mockery unless the +whole were pulled down. + +Mr. Ferrars was more than ever thankful to be a country parson, and +mused on the retribution that the miasma, fostered by the avarice of the +grandfather and the neglect of the father, had brought on the family. +Dives cannot always scorn Lazarus without suffering even in this life. + +Gilbert, in the glory of castle-building, was talking eagerly of the +thorough renovation that should take place, the sweep that should be +made of all the old tenements, and the wide healthy streets and model +cottages that should give a new aspect to the town. + +Mr. Kendal prepared for the encounter with Pettilove, and his son begged +to go with him, to which he consented, saying that it was time Gilbert +should have an opinion in a matter that affected him so nearly. + +Gilbert’s opinion of the interview was thus announced on his return: ‘If +there ever was a brute in the world, it is that Pettilove!’ + +‘Then he wont consent to do anything?’ + +‘No, indeed! Say what my father or I would to him, it was all of not +the slightest use. He smiled, and made little intolerable nods, and +regretted--but there were the settlements, and his late lamented +partner! A parcel of stuff. Not so much as a broken window will he mend! +He says he is not authorized!’ + +‘Quite true,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘The man is warranted in his proceedings, +and thinks them his duty, though I believe he has a satisfaction in the +power of thwarting me.’ + +‘I’m sure he has!’ cried Gilbert. ‘I am sure there was spite in his +grin when he pulled out that horrid old parchment, with the lines a yard +long, and read us out the abominable old crabbed writing, all about +the houses, messuages, and tenements thereupon, and a lot of lawyer’s +jargon. I’m sure I thought it was left to Peter Pettilove himself. And +when I came to understand it, one would have thought it took my father +to be the worst enemy we had in the world, bent on cheating us!’ + +‘That is the assumption on which settlements are drawn up, Gilbert,’ +said his father. + +‘Can nothing be done, then?’ said Albinia. + +‘Thus much,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Pettilove will not object to our putting +the houses somewhat in repair, as, in fact, that will be making a +present to Gilbert; but he will not spend a farthing on them of the +trust, except to hinder their absolute falling, nor will he make any +regulation on the number of lodgers. As to taking them down, that is, +as I always supposed, out of the question, though I think the trustees +might have stretched a point, being certain of both my wishes and +Gilbert’s.’ + +‘Don’t you think,’ said Mr. Ferrars, looking up from his book, ‘that a +sanatory commission might be got to over-ride Gilbert’s guardian?’ + +‘My guardian! do not call him so!’ muttered Gilbert. + +‘I am afraid,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘that unless your commission emulated of +Albinia and Dusautoy they would have little perception of the evils. Our +local authorities are obtuse in such matters.’ + +‘Agitate! agitate!’ murmured Mr. Ferrars, going on with his book. + +‘Well,’ said Albinia, ‘at least there is one beer-shop less in Tibbs’s +Alley. And if there are tolerable seasons, I daresay paint, whitewash, +and windows to open, may keep the place moderately wholesome till--Are +you sixteen yet, Gilbert? Five years.’ + +‘Yes, and then--’ + +Gilbert came and sat down beside her, and they built a scheme for the +almshouses so much wanted. Gilbert was sure the accumulation would +easily cover the expense, and Albinia had many an old woman, who it was +hoped might live to enjoy the intended paradise there. + +‘Yes, yes, I promise,’ cried Gilbert, warming with the subject, ‘the +first thing I shall do--’ + +‘No, don’t promise,’ said Albinia. ‘Do it from your heart, or not at +all.’ + +‘No, don’t promise, Gilbert,’ said Sophy. + +‘Why not, Sophy?’ he said good-humouredly. + +‘Because you are just what you feel at the moment,’ said Sophy. + +‘You don’t think I should keep it?’ + +‘No.’ + +The grave answer fell like lead, and Albinia told her she was not +kind or just to her brother. But she still looked steadily at him, and +answered, ‘I cannot help it. What is truth, is truth, and Gilbert cares +only for what he sees at the moment.’ + +‘What is truth need not always be fully uttered,’ said Albinia. ‘I hope +you may find it untrue.’ + +But Sophy’s words would recur, and weigh on her painfully. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + + +The summer had just begun, when notice was given that a Confirmation +would take place in the autumn; and Lucy’s name was one of the first +sent in to Mr. Dusautoy. His plan was to collect his candidates in +weekly classes of a few at a time, and likewise to see as much as he +could of them in private. + +‘Oh! mamma!’ exclaimed Lucy, returning from her first class, ‘Mr. +Dusautoy has given us each a paper, where we are to set down our +christening days, and our godfathers and godmothers. And only think, I +had not the least notion when I was christened. I could tell nothing but +that Mr. Wenlock was my godfather! It made me feel quite foolish not to +know my godmothers.’ + +‘We were in no situation to have things done in order,’ said Mr. Kendal, +gravely. ‘If I recollect rightly, one of your godmothers was Captain +Lee’s pretty young wife, who died a few weeks after.’ + +‘And the other?’ said Lucy. + +‘Your mother, I believe,’ he said. + +Lucy employed herself in filling up her paper, and exclaimed, ‘Now I do +not know the date! Can you tell me that, papa?’ + +‘It was the Christmas-day next after your birth,’ he said. ‘I remember +that, for we took you to spend Christmas at the nearest station of +troops, and the chaplain christened you.’ + +Lucy wrote down the particulars, and exclaimed, ‘What an old baby I must +have been! Six months old! And I wonder when Sophy was christened. +I never knew who any of her godfathers and godmothers were. Did you, +Sophy?’ + +‘No--’ she was looking up at her father. + +A sudden flush of colour came over his face, and he left the room in +haste. + +‘Why, Sophy!’ exclaimed Lucy, ‘one would think you had not been +christened at all!’ + +Even the light Lucy was alarmed at the sound of her own words. The same +idea had thrilled across Albinia; but on turning her eyes on Sophy, she +saw a countenance flushed, anxious, but full rather of trembling hope +than of dismay. + +In a few seconds Mr. Kendal came back with a thick red pocket-book in +his hand, and produced the certificate of the private baptism of Sophia, +daughter of Edmund and Lucy Kendal, at Talloon, March 17th, 1838. + +Sophy’s face had more disappointment in it than satisfaction. + +‘I can explain the circumstances to you now,’ said her father. ‘At +Talloon we were almost out of reach of any chaplains, and, as you know, +were almost the only English. We always intended to take you to the +nearest station, as had been done with Lucy, but your dear mother was +never well enough to bear the journey; and when our next little one was +born, it was so plain that he could not live, that I sent in haste to +beg that the chaplain would come to us. It was then that you were both +baptized, and before the week was over, he buried little Henry. It was +the first of our troubles. We never again had health or spirits for any +festive occasion while we continued in India, and thus the ceremony was +never completed. In fact, I take shame to myself for having entirely +forgotten that you had never been received into the congregation.’ + +‘Then I have told a falsehood whenever I said the Catechism!’ burst +out Sophy. Lucy would have laughed, and Albinia could almost have been +amused at the turn her displeasure had taken. + +‘It was not your fault,’ said Mr. Kendal, quietly. + +He evidently wished the subject to be at an end, excepting that in +silence he laid before Albinia’s eyes the certificate of the baptism of +the twin-brothers, not long after the first arrival in India. He then +put the book in his pocket, and began, as usual, to read aloud. + +‘Oh, don’t go, mamma,’ said Sophy, when she had been carried to her own +room at bed-time, and made ready for the night. + +Albinia was only too glad to linger, in the hope to be admitted into +some of the recesses of that untransparent nature, and by way of +assistance, said, ‘I was not at all prepared for this discovery.’ + +Sophy drew a long sigh, and said, ‘If I had never been christened, I +should have thought there was some hope for me.’ + +‘That would have been too dreadful. How could you imagine your papa +capable--?’ + +‘I thought I had found out why I am so horrid! exclaimed Sophy. ‘Oh, +if I could only make a fresh beginning! Mamma, do pray give me a Prayer +Book.’ + +Albinia gave it to her, and she hastily turned the pages to the Order +for Private Baptism. + +‘At least I have not made the promises and vows!’ she said, as if her +stern conscientiousness obtained some relief. + +‘Not formally made them,’ said Albinia; ‘but you cannot have a right to +the baptismal blessings, except on those conditions.’ + +‘Mamma, then I never had the sign of the cross on my forehead! It does +not feel blest!’ And then, hastily and low, she muttered,’ Oh! is that +why I never could bear the cross in all my life!’ + +‘Nay, my poor Sophy, you must not think of it like a spell. Many bear +the cross no better, who have had it marked on their brows.’ + +‘Can it be done now?’ cried Sophy, eagerly. + +‘Certainly; I think it ought to be done. We will see what your father +says.’ + +‘Oh, mamma, beg him, pray him!’ exclaimed Sophy. ‘I know it will make me +begin to be good! I can’t bear not to be one of those marked and sealed. +Oh! and, mamma, you will be my godmother? Can’t you? If the gleams of +goodness and brightness do find me out, they are always from you.’ + +‘I think I might be, dear child,’ said Albinia, ‘but Mr. Dusautoy must +tell us whether I may. But, indeed, I am afraid to see you reckon too +much on this. The essential, the regenerating grace, is yours already, +and can save you from yourself, and Confirmation adds the rest--but you +must not think of any of these like a charm, which will save you all +further trouble with yourself. They do not kill the faults, but they +enable you to deal with them. Even baptism itself, you know, has +destroyed the guilt of past sin, but does not hinder subsequent +temptation.’ + +Albinia hardly knew how far Sophy attended to this caution, for all she +said was to reiterate the entreaty that the omitted ceremony might be +supplied. + +Mr. Kendal gave a ready consent, as soon as he was told that Sophy so +ardently wished for it--so willing, indeed, that Albinia was surprised, +until he went on to say, ‘No one need be aware of the matter beyond +ourselves. Your brother and sister would, I have no doubt, act as +sponsors. Nay, if Ferrars would officiate, we need hardly mention it +even to Dusautoy. It could take place in your sitting-room.’ + +‘But, Edmund!’ began Albinia, aghast, ‘would that be the right thing? I +hardly think Maurice would consent.’ + +‘You are not imagining anything so preposterous or inexpedient as to +wish to bring Sophia forward in church,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘even if she +were physically capable of it, I should not choose to expose her to +anything so painful or undesirable.’ + +‘I am afraid, then,’ said Albinia, ‘that it will not be done at all. +It is not receiving her into the congregation to have this service read +before half-a-dozen people in my sitting-room.’ + +‘Better not have it done at all, then,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It is not +essential. I will not have her made a spectacle.’ + +‘Will you only consult Mr. Dusautoy?’ + +‘I do not wish Mr. Dusautoy to interfere in my family regulations. I +mean, that I have a great respect for him, but as a clergyman, and one +wedded to form, he would not take into account the great evil of +making a public display, and attracting attention to a girl of her age, +station, and disposition. And, in fact,’ added Mr. Kendal, with the same +scrupulous candour as his daughter always showed, ‘for the sake of +my own position, and the effect of example, I should not wish this +unfortunate omission to be known.’ + +‘I suspect,’ said Albinia, ‘that the example of repairing it would speak +volumes of good.’ + +‘It is mere absurdity to speak of it!’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘The poor child +is not to leave her couch yet for weeks.’ + +Sophy was told in the morning that the question was under consideration, +and Lucy was strictly forbidden to mention the subject. + +When next Mr. Kendal came to read with Sophy, she said imploringly, +‘Papa, have you thought?’ + +‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have done so; but your mamma thinks, and, on +examination of the subject, I perceive she is right, that the service +has no meaning unless it take place in the church.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Sophy; ‘but you know I am to be allowed to go about in +July.’ + +‘You will hardly be equal to any fatigue even then, I fear, my dear; and +you would find this publicity extremely trying and unpleasant.’ + +‘It would not last ten minutes,’ said Sophy, ‘and I am sure I should +not care! I should have something else to think about. Oh! papa, when my +forehead aches with surliness, it does feel so unblest, so uncrossed!’ +and she put her hand over it, ‘and all the books and hymns seem not to +belong to me. I think I shall be able to keep off the tempers when I +have a right in the cross.’ + +‘Ah! my child, I am afraid the tempers are a part of your physical +constitution,’ he returned, mournfully. + +‘You mean that I am like you, papa,’ said Sophy. ‘I think I might at +least learn to be really like you, and if I must feel miserable, not to +be unkind and sulky! And then I should leave off even the being unhappy +about nothing.’ + +Her eyes brightened, but her father shook his head sadly, and said, ‘You +would not be like me, my dear, if depression never made you selfish. +But,’ he added, with an effort, ‘you will not suffer so much from low +spirits when you are in better health, and able to move about.’ + +‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Sophy; ‘I often feel so sick of lying here, that +I feel as if I never could be sulky if only I might walk about, and go +from one room to another when I please! But papa, you will let me be +admitted into the Church when I am able, will you not?’ + +‘It shall be well weighed, Sophy.’ + +Sophy knew her father too well, and had too much reticence to say any +more. He was certainly meditating deeply, and reading too, indeed he +would almost have appeared to have a fit of the study, but for little +Maurice, a tyrannical little gentleman, who domineered over the entire +household, and would have been grievously spoilt, if his mother had +not taken all the crossing the stout little will upon herself. He had a +gallant pair of legs, and the disposition of a young Centaur, he seemed +to divide the world into things that could be ridden on, and that could +not; and when he bounced at the study door, with ‘Papa! gee! gee!’ and +lifted up his round, rosy face, and despotic blue eyes, Mr. Kendal’s +foot was at his service, and the study was brown no longer. + +The result of Mr. Kendal’s meditations was an invitation to his wife to +drive with him to Fairmead. + +That was a most enjoyable drive, the weather too hot and sunny, perhaps, +for Albinia’s preferences, but thoroughly penetrating, and giving energy +to, her East-Indian husband, and making the whole country radiant with +sunny beauty--the waving hay-fields falling before the mower’s scythe, +the ranks of hay-makers tossing the fragrant grass, the growing corn +softly waving in the summer breeze, the river blue with reflected sky, +the hedges glowing with stately fox-gloves, or with blushing wreaths +of eglantine. And how cool, fresh, and fair was the beech-avenue at +Fairmead. + +Yet though Albinia came to it with the fond tenderness of old +association, it was not with the regretful clinging of the first +visit, when it seemed to her the natural home to which she still really +belonged. Nor had she the least thought about producing an impression of +her own happiness, and scarcely any whether ‘Edmund’ would be amused and +at ease, though knowing he had a stranger to encounter in the person of +Winifred’s sister, Mary Reid. + +That was not a long day. It was only too short, though Mr. and Mrs. +Kendal stayed three hours longer than on the last occasion. Mr. Kendal +faced Mary Reid without flinching, and she, having been previously +informed that Albinia’s husband was the most silent and shy man in +existence, began to doubt her sister’s veracity. And Albinia, instead +of dealing out a shower of fireworks, to hide what, if not gloom, was at +least twilight, was now ‘temperately bright,’ talking naturally of +what most concerned her with the sprightliness of her happy temper, but +without effort; and gratifying Winifred by a great deal more notice of +the new niece and namesake than she had ever bestowed on either of her +predecessors in their infant days. Moreover, Lucy’s two long visits had +made Mrs. Ferrars feel a strong interest in her, and, with a sort of +maternal affection, she inquired after the cuttings of the myrtle which +she had given her. + +‘Ah!’ said Albinia, ‘I never honoured gardening so much.’ + +‘I know you would never respect it in me.’ + +‘As you know, I love a walk with an object, and never could abide +breaking my back, pottering over a pink with a stem that wont support +it, and a calyx that wont hold it.’ + +‘And Lucy converted you when I could not!’ + +‘If you had known my longing for some wholesome occupation for her, +such as could hurt neither herself nor any one else, and the pleasure of +seeing her engrossed by anything innocent, making it so easy to gratify +her. Why, a new geranium is a constant fund of ecstasy, and I do not +believe she was ever so grateful to her father in her life as when +he gave her a forcing-frame. Anything is a blessing that makes people +contented at home, and takes them out of themselves.’ + +‘Lucy is a very nice, pleasant inmate; her ready obligingness and +facility of adapting herself make her very agreeable.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia, ‘she is the “very woman,” taking her complexion +from things around, and so she will go smoothly through the world, and +be always preferred to my poor turbid, deep-souled Sophy.’ + +‘Are you going to be very angry with me?’ + +‘Ah! you do not know Sophy! Poor, dear child! I do so long that she +could have--if it were but one day, one hour, of real, free, glowing +happiness! I think it would sweeten and open her heart wonderfully just +to have known it! If I could but see any chance of it, but I am afraid +her health will always be against her, and oh! that dreadful sense of +depression! Do you know, Winifred, I do think love would be the best +chance. Now, don’t laugh; I do assure you there is no reason Sophy +should not be very handsome.’ + +‘Quite as handsome as the owl’s children, my dear.’ + +‘Well, the owls are the only young birds fit to be seen. But I tell you, +Sophy’s profile is as regular as her father’s, and animation makes her +eyes beautiful, and she has grown immensely since she has been lying +down, so that she will come out without that disproportioned look. If +her eyebrows were rather less marked, and her complexion--but that will +clear.’ + +‘Yes, we will make her a beauty when we are about it.’ + +‘And, after all, affection is the great charm, and if she were attached, +it would, be so intensely--and happiness would develop so much that is +glorious, only hidden down so deep.’ + +‘I hope you may find her a male Albinia,’ said Winifred, a little +wickedly, ‘but take care. It might be kill or cure, and I fancy when +sunshine is attracted by shadow, it is more often as it was in your case +than vice versa.’ + +‘Take care!’ repeated Albinia, affronted. ‘You don’t fancy I am going +beyond a vague wish, do you?’ + +‘And rather a premature one. How old is Sophy?’ + +‘Towards fourteen, but years older in thought and in suffering.’ + +Albinia did not hear the result of the conference with her brother till +she had resumed her seat in the carriage, after having been surprised by +Mr. Kendal handing in three tall theological tomes. They both had much +to think over as they drove home in the lengthening shadows. Albinia was +greatly concerned that Winifred’s health had become affected, and that +her ordinary home duties were beyond her strength. Albinia had formerly +thought Fairmead parsonage did not give her enough to do, but now she +saw the gap that she had left; and she had fallen into a maze of musings +over schemes for helping Winifred, before Mr. Kendal spoke, telling her +that he had resolved that Sophia’s admission into the Church should take +place as soon as she was equal to the exertion. + +Albinia asked if she should speak to Mr. Dusautoy, but the manliness of +Mr. Kendal’s character revolted from putting off a confession upon +his wife; so he went to church the next morning, and saw the vicar +afterwards. + +Mr. Dusautoy’s first thought was gratitude for the effort that the +resolution must have cost both Mr. Kendal and his daughter; his next, +how to make the occasion as little trying to their feelings as was +consistent with his duty and theirs. He saw Sophy, and tried to draw her +out, but, though far from sullen, she did not reply freely. However, he +was satisfied, and he wished her, likewise, to consider herself under +preparation for Confirmation in the autumn. She did all that he wished +quietly and earnestly, but without much remark, her confidence only came +forth when her feelings were strongly stirred, and it was remarkable +that throughout this time of preparation there was not the remotest +shadow of ill-temper. + +Mr. Kendal insisted that her London doctor should come to see her at the +year’s end. The improvement had not been all that had been hoped, but it +was decided that though several hours of each day must still be spent +on her back, she might move about, join the meals, and do whatever she +could without over-fatigue. It seemed a great release, but it was a +shock to find how very little she could do at first, now that she had +lost the habit of exertion, and of disregard of her discomforts. She +had quite shot up to more than the ordinary woman’s height, and was much +taller than her sister--but this hardly gave the advantage Albinia had +hoped, for she had a weak, overgrown look, and could not help stooping. +A number of people in a room, or even the sitting upright during a +morning call, seemed quite to overcome and exhaust her: but still the +return to ordinary life was such great enjoyment, that she endured all +with good temper. + +But now the church-going was possible, a fit of exceeding dread came +upon her. Albinia found her with the tears silently rolling down her +cheeks, almost as if she were unconscious of them. + +‘Oh, mamma, I can never do it! I know what I am. I can’t let them say I +will keep all the commandments always! It will not be true!’ + +‘It will be true that you have the steadfast purpose, my dear.’ + +‘How can it be steadfast when I know I can’t?’ + +It was the old story, and all had to be argued through again how the +obligation was already incurred at her baptism, and how it was needful +that she should be sworn to her own side of the great covenant--how +the power would be given, and the grace supplied, but that the will and +purpose to obey was required--and then Sophy recurred to that blessing +of the cross for which she longed so earnestly, and which again Albinia +feared she was regarding in the light of a talisman. + +Mr. Ferrars was to be her godfather. Mr. Kendal had wished Aunt +Winifred, as Lucy called her, to be the godmother, but Sophy had begged +earnestly for Mrs. Dusautoy, whose kindness had made a great impression. + +There was not much liking between Mrs. Ferrars and Sophy. Perhaps Sophy +had been fretted and angered by her quick, decided ways, and rather +disgusted by the enthusiasm of her brother and sister about Fairmead; +and she was not gratified by hearing that Winifred was to accompany her +husband in order to try the experiment of a short absence from cares and +children. + +Albinia, on the contrary, was highly pleased to have Winifred to nurse, +and desirous of showing off Sophy’s reformation. Winifred arrived late +in the day, with an invalid look, and a great inclination to pine for +her baby. She was so much tired, that Albinia took her upstairs very +soon, and put her to bed, sitting with her almost all the evening, +hoping that downstairs all was going on well. + +The next morning, too, went off very well. Mr. Ferrars sought a private +talk with his old godchild, and though Sophy scarcely answered, she +liked his kind, frank, affectionate manner, and showed such feeling as +he wished, so that he fully credited all that his sister thought of her. + +Otherwise, Sophy was kept quiet, to gave her strength and collect her +thoughts. + +At seven o’clock in the evening, there was not a formidable +congregation. Miss Meadows, who had been informed as late as could +save offence, had treated it as a freak of Mrs. Kendal, resented the +injunction of secrecy, and would neither be present herself, nor let her +mother come out. Genevieve, three old men, and a child or two, were the +whole number present. The daily service at Bayford was an offering made +in faith by the vicar, for as yet there was very little attendance. +‘But,’ said Mr. Dusautoy, ‘it is the worship of God, not an +entertainment to please man--it is all nonsense to talk of its answering +or not answering.’ + +Mr. Kendal was in a state of far greater suffering from shame than +his daughter, as indeed he deserved, but he endured it with a gallant, +almost touching resignation. He was the only witness of her baptism, and +it seemed like a confession, when he had to reply to the questions, by +whom, and with what words this child had been baptized, when she +stood beside him overtopping her little godmother. She stood with +tightly-locked hands, and ebbing colour, which came back in a flood when +Mr. Dusautoy took her by the hand, and said, ‘We receive this child into +the congregation,’ and when he traced the cross on her brow, she stood +tremblingly, her lips squeezed close together, and after she returned to +her place no one saw her face. + +Albinia, with her brother and Lucy, were at home by the short cut before +the carriage could return. She met Sophy at the hall-door, kissed her, +and said, ‘Now, my dear, you had better lie down, and be quite quiet;’ +then followed Winifred into the drawing-room, and took her shawl and +bonnet from her, lingering for a happy twilight conversation. Lucy came +down, and went to water her flowers, and by-and-by tea was brought, the +gentlemen came in from their walk, and Mr. Kendal asked whether Sophy +was tired. Albinia went up to see. She found her on her couch in the +morning room, and told her that tea was ready. There was something not +promising in the voice that replied; and she said, + +‘No, don’t move, my dear, I will bring it to you; you are tired.’ + +‘No--I’ll go down, thank you.’ It was the gruff voice! + +‘Indeed you had much better not, my dear. It is only an hour to +bed-time, and you would only tire yourself for nothing.’ + +‘I’ll go.’ + +‘You are tired, Sophy,’ said her father. ‘You had better lie down while +you have your tea.’ + +‘No, thank you,’ growled Sophy, as though hurt by being told to lie down +before company. + +Her father put a sofa-cushion behind her, but though she mumbled +some acknowledgment, it was so surly, that Mrs. Ferrars looked up +in surprise, and she would not lean back till fatigue gained the +ascendancy. Mr. Kendal asking her, got little in reply but such a +grunt, that Mrs. Ferrars longed to shake her, but her father fetched a +footstool, and put it under her feet, and grew a little abstracted +in his talk, as if watching her, and his eye had something of the old +habitual melancholy. + +So it went on. The night’s rest did not carry off the temper. Sophy was +monosyllabic, displeased if not attended to, but receiving attention +like an affront, wanting nothing, but offended if it were not offered. +Albinia was exceedingly grieved. She had some suspicion that Sophy might +have been hurt by her going to Mrs. Ferrars instead of to her on their +return from church, and made an attempt at an apology, but this was +snubbed like an additional affront, and she could only bide the time, +and be greatly disappointed at such an exhibition before the guests. + +Winifred looked on, forbearing to hurt Albinia’s feelings by remarks, +but in private compensating by little outbreaks with her husband, +teasing him about his hopeful goddaughter, laughing at Albinia’s +infatuation, and railing at Mr. Kendal’s endurance of the ill-humour, +which she declared he promoted. + +Maurice, as usual, was provoking. He had no notion of giving up his +godchild, he said, and he had no doubt that Edmund Kendal could manage +his own child his own way. + +‘Because of his great success in that line.’ + +‘He is not what he was. He uses his sense and principle now, and +when they are fairly brought to bear, I know no one whom I would more +entirely trust.’ + +‘Well! it will be great good luck if I do not fall foul of Miss Sophy +one of these days, if no one else will!’ + +Winifred was slightly irritable herself from weakness, and on the last +morning of her stay she could bear the sight no longer. Sophy had +twice been surly to Lucy’s good offices, had given Albinia a look like +thunder, and answered her father with a sulky displeasure that made Mrs. +Ferrars exclaim, as soon as he had left the room, ‘I should never allow +a child of mine to peak to her father in that manner!’ + +Sophy swelled. She did not think Mrs. Ferrars had any right to interfere +between her and her father. Her silence provoked Winifred to continue, +‘I wonder if you have any compunction for having spoilt all your--all +Mrs. Kendal’s enjoyment of our visit.’ + +‘I am not of consequence enough to spoil any one’s pleasure.’ + +That was the last effort. Albinia came into the room, with little +Maurice holding her hand, and flourishing a whip. He trotted up to the +sofa, and began instantly to ‘whip sister Sophy;’ serve her right, if I +had but the whip, thought Mrs. Ferrars, as his mother hurried to snatch +him off. Leaning over Sophy’s averted face, she saw a tear under her +eyelashes, but took no notice. + +Three seconds after, Sophy reared herself up, and with a rigid face and +slow step walked out of the room. + +‘Have you said anything to her?’ asked Albinia. + +‘I could not help it,’ said Winifred, narrating what had past. ‘Have I +done wrong?’ + +‘Edmund cannot bear to have anything harsh said to her in these moods, +especially about her behaviour to himself. He thinks she cannot help +it--but it may be well that she should know how it appears to other +people, for I cannot bear to see his patient kindness spurned. Only, you +know, she values it in her heart. I am afraid we shall have a terrible +agony now.’ + +Albinia was right. It was the worst agony poor Sophy had ever undergone. +She had been all this time ignorant that it was a cross fit, only +imagining herself cruelly neglected and cast aside for the sake of Mrs. +Ferrars; but the wakening time had either arrived, or had been brought +by that reproach, and she beheld her conduct in the most abhorrent +light. After having desired to be pledged to her share of the covenant, +and earnestly longed to bear the cross, to be sworn in as soldier and +servant, to have put her neck under the yoke of her old master ere the +cross had dried upon her brow, to have been meanly jealous, ungrateful, +disrespectful, vindictive!! oh! misery, misery! hopeless misery! She +would take no word of comfort when Albinia tried to persuade her that +it had been partly the reaction of a mind wrought up to an occasion very +simple in its externals, and of a body fatigued by exertion; and then in +warm-hearted candour professed that she herself had been thoughtless in +neglecting Sophy for Winifred. Still less comfort would she take in her +father’s free forgiveness, and his sad entreaties that she would not +treat these fits of low spirits as a crime, for they were not her fault, +but that of her constitution. + +‘Then one can’t help being hateful and wicked! Nothing is of any use! I +had rather you had told me I was mad!’ said poor Sophy. + +She was so spent and exhausted with weeping, that she could not come +down--indeed, between grief and nervousness she would not eat; and +Albinia found Mr. Kendal mournfully persuading her, when a stern command +would have done more good. Albinia spoke it: ‘Sophy, you have put your +father to a great deal of pain already; if you are really grieving over +it, you will not hurt him more by making yourself ill.’ + +The strong will came into action on the right side, and Sophy sat up, +took what was offered, but what was she that they should care for her, +when she had spoilt mamma’s pleasure? Better go and be happy with Mrs. +Ferrars. + +Sophy’s next visitor came up with a manly tread, and she almost feared +that she had made herself ill enough for the doctor; but it was Mr. +Ferrars, with a kind face of pitying sympathy. + +‘May I come to wish my godchild good-bye?’ he said. + +Sophy did not speak, and he looked compassionately at the prone +dejection of the whole figure, and the pale, sallow face, so piteously +mournful. He took her hand, and began to tell her of the godfather’s +present, that he had brought her--a little book of devotions intended +for the time when she should be confirmed. Sophy uttered a feeble ‘thank +you,’ but a hopeless one. + +‘Ah! you are feeling as if nothing would do you any good,’ said Mr. +Ferrars. + +‘Papa says so!’ she answered. + +‘Not quite,’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘He knows that your low spirits are the +effect of temperament and health, and that you are not able to prevent +yourself from feeling unhappy and aggrieved. And perhaps you reckoned +on too much sensible effect from Church ordinances. Now joy, help, +all these blessings are seldom revealed to our consciousness, but are +matters of faith; and you must be content to work on in faith in the +dark, before you feel comfort. I cannot but hope that if you will +struggle, even when you are hurt and annoyed, to avoid the expression of +vexation, the morbid temper will wear out, and you will both be +tempted and suffer less, as you grow older. And, Sophy--forgive me for +asking--do you pray in this unhappy state?’ + +‘I cannot. It is not true.’ + +‘Make it true. Take some verse of a Psalm. Shall I mark you some? Repeat +them, even if you seem to yourself not to feel them. There is a holy +power that will work on you at last; and when you can truly pray, the +dark hour will pass.’ + +‘Mark them,’ said Sophy. + +There was some space, while she gave him the book, and he showed her the +verses. Then he rose to go. + +‘I wish I had not spoilt the visit,’ she said, wistfully, at last. + +‘We shall see you again, and we shall know each other better,’ he +said, kindly. ‘You are my godchild now, Sophy, and you know that I must +remember you constantly in prayer.’ + +‘Yes,’ she faintly said. + +‘And will you promise me to try my remedy? I think it will soften your +heart to the graces of the Blessed Comforter. And even if all seems +gloom within, look out, see others happy, try to rejoice with them, and +peace will come in! Now, goodbye, my dear godchild, and the God of Peace +bless you, and give you rest. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + + +Mr. Dusautoy had given notice of the day of the Confirmation, when Mr. +Kendal called his wife. + +‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘my dear, whether Sophia can spare you to take a +walk with me before church.’ + +Sophy, who was well aware that a walk with him was the greatest and +rarest treat to his wife, gave gracious permission, and in a few minutes +they were walking by the bright canal-side, under the calm evening +sunshine and deep blue sky of early autumn. + +Mr. Kendal said not a word, and Albinia, leaning on his arm, listened, +as it were, to the stillness, or rather to the sounds that marked +it--the gurgling of the little streams let off into the water-courses in +the meadows; the occasional plunge of the rat from the banks, the sounds +from the town, softened by distance, and the far-off cawings of the +rooks, which she could just see wheeling about as little black specks +over the plantations of Woodside, or watching the swallows assembling +for departure sitting in long ranks, like an ornament along the roof of +a neighbouring barn. + +Long, long it was before Mr. Kendal broke silence, but when at length he +did speak, his words amazed her extremely. + +‘Albinia, poor Sophia’s admission into the Church has not been the only +neglect. I have never been confirmed. I intend to speak to Dusautoy this +evening, but I thought you would wish to know it first.’ + +‘Thank you. I suppose you went out to India too young.’ + +‘Poor Maria says truly that no one thought of these things in our day, +at least so far as we were concerned. I must explain to you, Albinia, +how it is that I see things very differently now from the light in which +I once viewed them. I was sent home from India, at six years old, to +correspondents and relations to whom I was a burthen. I was placed at a +private school, where the treatment was of the harsh style so common in +those days. The boys always had more tasks than they could accomplish, +and were kept employed by being always in arrears with their lessons. +This pressed less heavily upon me than on most; but though I seldom +incurred punishment, there was a sort of hard distrust of me, I believe +because the master could not easily overwhelm me with work, so as to +have me in his power. I know I was often unjustly treated, and I never +was popular.’ + +‘Yes, I can imagine you extremely miserable.’ + +‘You can understand my resolution that my boys should not be sent +to England to be homeless, and how I judged all schools by my own +experience. I stayed there too late, till I was beyond both tormentors +and masters, and was left to an unlimited appetite for books, chiefly +poetry. Our religious instruction was a nullity, and I am only surprised +that the results were not worse. India was not likely to supply what +education had omitted. Looking back on old journals and the like, I am +astonished to see how unsettled my notions were--my sublimity, which was +really ignorant childishness, and yet my perfect unconsciousness of my +want of Christianity.’ + +‘I dare say you cannot believe it was yourself, any more than I can. +What brought other thoughts!’ + +‘Practical obligations made me somewhat less dreamy, and my dear boy, +Edmund, did much for me, but all so insensibly, that I can remember no +marked change. I do not know whether you will understand me, when I say +that I had attained to somewhat of what I should call personal religion, +such as we often find apart from the Church.’ + +‘But, Edmund, you always were a Churchman.’ + +‘I was; but I viewed the Church merely as an establishment--human, not +divine. I had learnt faith from Holy Scripture, from my boy, from the +infants who passed away so quickly, and I better understood how to +direct the devotional tendencies that I had never been without, but the +sacramental system had never dawned on my comprehension, nor the real +meaning of Christian fellowship. Thence my isolation.’ + +‘You had never fairly seen the Church.’ + +‘Never. It might have made a great difference to me if Dusautoy had +been here at the time of my trouble. When he did come, I had sunk into +a state whence I could not rouse myself to understand his principles. +I can hardly describe how intolerable my life had become. I was almost +resolved on returning to India. I believe I should have done so if you +had not come to my rescue.’ + +‘What would you have done with the children?’ + +‘To say the truth I had idolized their brother to such an exclusive +degree, that I could not turn to the others when he was taken from me. +I deserved to lose him; and since I have seen this unfortunate strain of +melancholy developed in poor Sophia, who so much resembles him, I have +been the more reconciled to his having been removed. I never understood +what the others might be until you drew them out.’ + +Albinia paused, afraid to press his reserve too far; and the next thing +she said was, ‘I think I understand your distinction between personal +religion and sacramental truth. It explains what has often puzzled me +about good devout people who did not belong to the Church. The Visible +Church cannot save without this individual personal religion but without +having recourse to the Church, there is--’ she could not find the word. + +‘There is a loss of external aid,’ he said; ‘nay, of much more. There +is no certainty of receiving the benefits linked by Divine Power to +her ordinances. Faith, in fact, while acknowledging the great Object of +Faith, refuses or neglects to exercise herself upon the very subjects +which He has set before her; and, in effect, would accept Him on her +terms, not on His own.’ + +‘It was not refusal on your part,’ said Albinia. + +‘No, it was rather indifference and imaginary superiority. But I have +read and thought much of late, and see more clearly. If I thought of +this rite of Confirmation at all, it was only as a means of impressing +young minds. I now see every evidence that it is the completion of +Baptismal grace, and without, like poor Sophia, expecting that effects +would ever have been perceptible, I think that had I known how to seek +after the Spirit of Counsel and Ghostly Strength, I might have given +way less to the infirmities of my character, and have been less wilfully +insensible to obvious duties.’ + +‘Then you have made up your mind?’ + +‘Yes. I shall speak to Mr. Dusautoy at once.’ + +‘And,’ she said, feeling for his sensitive shyness, ‘no one else need +know it--at least--’ + +‘I should not wish to conceal it from the children,’ he answered, with +his scrupulous candour. He was supine when thought more ill of than he +deserved, but he always defended himself from undeserved credit. + +‘Whom do you think I have for a candidate?’ said Mr. Dusautoy that +evening. + +‘Another now! I thought you were talking to Mr. Kendal about the +onslaught on the Pringle pew.’ + +‘What do you think of my churchwarden himself?’ + +‘You don’t mean that he has never been confirmed!’ + +‘So he tells me. He went out to India young, and was never in the way of +such things. Well, it will be a great example.’ + +‘Take care what you do. He will never endure having it talked of.’ + +‘I think he has made up his mind, and is above all nonsense. I am sure +it is well that I need not examine him. I should soon get beyond my +depth.’ + +‘And what good did his depth ever do to him,’ indignantly cried Mrs. +Dusautoy, ‘till that dear good wife of his took him in hand? Don’t you +remember what a log he was when first we came--how I used to say he gave +you subscriptions to get rid of you.’ + +‘Well, well, Fanny, what’s the use of recollecting all our foolish first +impressions. I always told you he was the most able man in the parish.’ + +‘Fanny’ laughed merrily at this piece of sagacity, as she said ‘Ay, the +most able and the least practicable; and the best of it is, that his +wife has not the most distant idea that she has been the making of him. +She nearly quarrelled with me for hinting it. She would have it that +“Edmund” had it all in him, and had only recovered his health and +spirits.’ + +And, indeed, it was no wonder she was happy. This step taken of free +will by Mr. Kendal, was an evidence not only of a powerful reasoning +intellect bowed to an act of simple faith but of a victory over the +false shame that had always been a part of his nature. Nor did it +apparently cost him as much as his consent to Sophy’s admission into the +Church; the first effort had been the greatest, and he was now too much +taken up with deep thoughts of devotion to be sensitive as to the +eyes and remarks of the world. The very resolution to bend in faithful +obedience to a rite usually belonging to early youth and not obviously +enforced to human reason, nor made an express condition of salvation, +was as a pledge that he would strive to walk for the future in the +path of self-denying obedience. Who that saw the manly well-knit form +kneeling among the slight youthful ones around, and the thoughtful, +sorrow-marked brow bowed down beneath the Apostolic hand, could doubt +that such faith and such humble obedience would surely be endowed with +a full measure of the Spirit of Ghostly Might, to lead him on in his +battle with himself? Those young ones needed the ‘sevenfold veil between +them and the fires of youth,’ but surely the freshening and renewing +came most blessedly to the man weary already with sin and woe, and tired +out alike with himself and the world, because he had lived to himself +alone. + + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + + +Old Mr. Pringle never stirred beyond his parlour, and was invisible +to every one, except his housekeeper and doctor, but his tall, square, +curtained pew was jealously locked up, and was a grievance to the vicar, +who having been foiled in several attempts, was meditating a fresh +one, if, as he told his wife, he could bring his churchwarden up to the +scratch, when one Sunday morning the congregation was electrified by +the sound of a creak and a shake, and beheld a stout hale sunburnt +gentleman, fighting with the disused door, and finally gaining the +victory by strength of hand, admitting himself and a boy among the dust +and the cobwebs. + +Had Mr. Pringle, or rather his housekeeper, made a virtue of necessity? +and if so, who could it be? + +Albinia hailed the event as a fertile source of conjecture which might +stave off dangerous subjects in the Sunday call, but there was no +opportunity for any discussion, for Maria was popping about, settling +and unsettling everything and everybody, in a state of greater confusion +than ever, inextricably entangling her inquiries for Sophy with her +explanations about the rheumatism which had kept grandmamma from church, +and jumping up to pull down the Venetian blind, which descended awry, +and went up worse. The lines got into such a hopeless complication, that +Albinia came to help her, while Mr. Kendal stood dutifully by the fire, +in the sentry-like manner in which he always passed that hour, bending +now and then to listen and respond to some meek remark of old Mrs. +Meadows, and now and then originating one. As to assisting Maria in +any pother, he well knew that would be a vain act of chivalry, and he +generally contrived to be insensible to her turmoils. + +‘Who could that have been in old Pringle’s seat?’ he presently began, +appropriating Albinia’s cherished morsel of gossip; but he was not +allowed to enjoy it, for Miss Meadows broke out, + +‘Oh, Edmund! this blind, I beg your pardon, but if you would help--’ + +He was obliged to move to the window, and nervously clutching his arm, +she whispered, ‘You’ll excuse it, I know, but don’t mention it--not a +word to mamma.’ Mr. Kendal looked at Albinia to gather what could be +this dreadful subject, but the next words made it no longer doubtful. +‘Ah, you were away, there’s no use in explaining--but not a word of Sam +Pringle. It would only make her uneasy--’ she gasped in a floundering +whisper, stopping suddenly short, for at that moment the stranger and +his son were entering the garden, so near them, that they might have +seen the three pairs of eyes levelled on them, through the wide open end +of the unfortunate blind, which was now in the shape of a fan. + +Albinia’s cheeks glowed with sympathy, and she longed for the power of +helping her, marvelling how a being so nervously restless and devoid of +self-command could pass through a scene likely to be so trying. The bell +sounded, and the loud hearty tones of a manly voice were heard. Albinia +looked to see whether her help were needed, but Miss Meadows’s whole +face was brightened, and moving across the room with unusually even +steps, she leant on the arm of her mother’s chair, saying, ‘Mamma, it +is Captain Pringle. You remember Samuel Pringle? He settled in the +Mauritius, you know, and he was at church this morning with his little +boy.’ + +There was something piteous in the searching look of inquiry that Mrs. +Meadows cast at her daughter’s face, but Maria had put it aside with an +attempt at a smile, as ‘Captain Pringle’ was announced. + +He trod hard, and spoke loud, and his curly grizzled hair was thrown +back from a bronzed open face, full of broad heartiness, as he walked in +with outstretched hand, exclaiming, ‘Well, and how do you do?’ shaking +with all his might the hand that Maria held out. ‘And how are you, Mrs. +Meadows? You see I could not help coming back to see old friends.’ + +‘Old friends are always welcome, sir,’ said the old lady, warmly. +‘My son, Mr. Kendal, sir--Mrs. Kendal,’ she added, with a becoming +old-fashioned movement of introduction. + +‘Very glad to meet you,’ said the captain, extending to each such a +hearty shake of the hand, that Albinia suspected he was taking her on +trust for Maria’s sister. + +‘Your little boy?’ asked Mrs. Meadows. + +‘Ay--Arthur, come and make the most of yourself, my man,’ said he, +thumping the shy boy on the back to give him courage. ‘I’ve brought him +home for his schooling--quite time, you see, though what on earth I’m to +do without him--’ + +The boy looked miserable at the words. ‘Ay, ay,’ continued his father, +‘you’ll do well enough. I’m not afraid for you, master, but that you’ll +be happy as your father was before you, when once you have fellows to +play with you. Here is Mr. Kendal will tell you so.’ + +It was an unfortunate appeal, but Mr. Kendal made the best of it, saying +that his boy was very happy at his tutor’s. + +‘A private tutor, eh?’ said the rough captain, ‘I’d not thought of +that--neither home nor school. I had rather do it thoroughly, and trust +to numbers to choose friends from, and be licked into shape.’ + +Poor little Arthur looked as if the process would be severe; and by way +of consolation, Mrs. Meadows suggested, a piece of cake. Maria moved to +ring the bell. It was the first time she had stirred since the visitor +came in, and he getting up at the same time, that she might not trouble +herself, their eyes met. ‘I’m very glad to see you again,’ he exclaimed, +catching hold of her hand for another shake; ‘but, bless me! you are +sadly altered! I’m sorry to see you looking so ill.’ + +‘We all grow old, you know,’ said Maria, endeavouring to smile, but half +strangled by a tear, and looking at that moment as she might have done +long ago. ‘You find many changes.’ + +‘I hope you find Mr. Pringle pretty well,’ said Albinia, thinking this +might be a relief, and accordingly, the kind-hearted captain began, +ruefully to describe the sad alterations that time had wrought. Then he +explained that he had had little correspondence with home, and had only +landed three days since, so that he was ignorant of all Bayford tidings, +and began asking after a multitude of old friends and acquaintance. + +The Kendals thought all would go on the better in their absence, and +escaped from the record of deaths and marriages, each observing to the +other as they left the house, that there could be little doubt that +nurse’s story was true, but both amazed by the effect on Maria, who had +never been seen before to sit so long quiet in her chair. Was his wife +alive? Albinia thought not, but could not be certain. His presence was +evidently happiness to Miss Meadows, but would this last? Would this +renewal soothe her, or only make her more restless and unhappy? + +Albinia found that Sophy’s imagination bad been quicker than her own. +Lucy had brought home the great news of the stranger, and she had leapt +at once to the conclusion that it must be the hero of nurse’s story, but +she had had the resolution to keep the secret from her sister, who was +found reproaching her with making mysteries. When Lucy heard that it was +Captain Pringle, she was quite provoked. + +‘Only Mr. Pringle’s nephew?’ she said, disdainfully. ‘What was the use +of making a fuss? I thought it was some one interesting!’ + +Sophy was able to walk to church in the evening, but was made to go +in to rest at the vicarage before returning home. While this was being +discussed before the porch, Albinia felt a pressure on her arm, and +looking round, saw Maria Meadows. + +‘Can you spare me a few moments?’ she said; and Albinia turned aside +with her to the flagged terrace path between the churchyard and vicarage +garden, in the light of a half-moon. + +‘You were so kind this morning,’ began Maria, ‘that I thought--you see +it is very awkward--not that I have any idea--but if you would speak to +Edmund--I know he is not in the habit--morning visits and--’ + +‘Do you wish him to call? He had been thinking of it.’ + +Maria would have been unbounded in her gratitude, but catching herself +up, she disclaimed all personal interest--only she said Edmund knew +nothing of anything that had passed--if he did, he would see they would +feel-- + +‘I think,’ said Albinia, kindly, ‘that we do know that you had some +troubles on that score. Old nurse said something to Sophy, but no other +creature knows it.’ + +‘Ah!’ exclaimed Maria, ‘that is what comes of trusting any one. I was +so ill when I found out how it had been, that I could not keep it from +nurse, but from mamma I did--my poor father being just gone and +all--I could not have had her know how much I felt it--the discovery I +mean--and it is what I wish her never to do. But oh! Mrs. Kendal, think +what it was to find out that when I had been thinking he had been only +trifling with me all those years, to find that he had been so unkindly +treated. There was his own dear letter to me never unsealed; and there +was another to my father saying in a proud-spirited way that he did +not know what he had done to be so served, and he wished I might find +happiness, for I would never find one that loved me as well. I who had +turned against him in my heart!’ + +‘It was cruel indeed! And you kept it from your mother!’ said Albinia, +beginning to honour her. + +‘My poor father was just gone, you know, and I could not be grieving her +with what was passed and over, and letting her know that my father had +broken my heart, as indeed I think he did, though he meant it all for +the best. But oh! I thought it hard when Lucy had married the handsomest +man in the country, and gone out to India, without a word against it, +that I might not please myself, because I was papa’s favourite.’ + +‘It was very hard not to be made aware of his intentions.’ + +‘Yea,’ said Maria; ‘for it gave me such a bitter, restless feeling +against him--though I ought to have known him better than to think he +would give one minute’s pain he could help; and then when I knew the +truth, the bitterness all went to poor papa’s memory, and yet perhaps he +never meant to be unkind either.’ + +Albinia said some kind words, and Maria went on: + +‘But what I wanted to say was this--Please don’t let mamma suspect one +bit about it; and next, if Edmund would not mind showing him a little +attention. Do you think he would, my dear? I do so wish that he should +not think we were hurt by his marriage, and you see, two lone women can +do nothing to make it agreeable; besides that, it would not be proper.’ + +‘Is his wife living?’ + +‘My dear, I could not make up my tongue to ask--the poor dear boy there +and all--but it is all the same. I hope she is, for I would not see him +unhappy, and you don’t imagine I have any folly in my head--oh, no! for +I know what a fright the fret and the wear of this have made me; and +besides, I never could leave mamma. So I trust his wife is living to +make him happy, and I shall be more at peace now I have seen him again, +since he turned his horse at Bobble’s Leigh, and said I should soon hear +from him again.’ + +‘Indeed I think you will be happier. There is something very soothing in +taking up old feelings and laying them to rest. I hope even now there is +less pain than pleasure.’ + +‘I can’t help it,’ said Maria. ‘I do hope it is not wrong; but his very +voice has got the old tone in it, as if it were the old lullaby that my +poor heart has been beating for all these years.’ + +Who would have thought of Maria speaking poetically? But her words +did indeed seem to be the truth. In spite of the embarrassment of +her situation and the flutter of her feelings, she was in a state of +composure unexampled. Albinia had just gratified her greatly by a few +words on Captain Pringle’s evident good-nature, when a tread came behind +them. + +‘Ha! you here?’ exclaimed the loud honest voice. + +‘We were taking a turn in the moonlight,’ said Albinia. ‘A beautiful +night.’ + +‘Beautiful! Arthur and I have been a bit of the way home with old +Goldsmith. There’s an evergreen, to be sure; and now--are you bound +homewards, Maria?’ + +Maria clung to Albinia’s arm. Perhaps in the days of the last parting, +she had been less careful to be with a chaperon. + +‘Ah! I forgot,’ said the captain; ‘your way lies the other side of +the hill. I had very nearly walked into Willow Lawn this morning, only +luckily I bethought me of asking.’ + +‘I hope you will yet walk into Willow Lawn,’ said Albinia. + +‘Ah! thank you; I should like to see the old place. I dare say it may be +transmogrified now, but I think I could find my way blindfold about the +old garden. I say, Maria, do you remember that jolly tea-party on the +lawn, when the frog made one too many?’ + +‘That I do--’ Maria could not utter more, and Albinia said she was +afraid he would miss a great deal. + +‘I reckoned on that when I came home. Changes everywhere; but after the +one great change,’ he added, mournfully, ‘the others tell less. One has +the less heart to care for an old tree or an old path.’ + +Albinia felt sure he could mean only one great change, but they were now +at Mrs. Meadows’s door, and Maria wished them good night, giving a most +grateful squeeze of the hand to Mrs. Kendal. + +‘Where are you bound now?’ asked the captain. + +‘Back to the vicarage, to take up my husband and the girls,’ said +Albinia, ‘but good night. I am not afraid.’ + +The captain, however, chose to continue a squire of dames, and walked at +her side, presently giving utterance to a sound of commiseration. ‘Ah! +well, poor Maria, I never thought to see her so altered. Why, she had +the prettiest bloom--I dare say you remember--but, I beg your pardon, +somehow I thought you were her _elder_ sister.’ + +‘Mr. Kendal’s first wife was,’ said Albinia, pitying the poor man; but +Captain Pringle was not a man for awkwardness, and the short whistle +with which he received her answer set her off laughing. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, recovering himself; ‘but you see I am all +astray, like a man buried and dug up again, so no wonder I make strange +blunders; and my poor uncle is grown so childish, that he does not +know one person from another, and began by telling me Maria Meadows had +married and gone out to India. I had not had a letter these seven years, +so I thought it was high time to bring my boy home, and renew old times, +though how I am ever to go back without him--’ + +‘Is he your only one?’ + +‘Yes. I lost his mother when he was six years old, and we have been all +the world to each other since, till I began to think I was spoiling him +outright, and it was time he should see what Old England was made of.’ + +Albinia had something like a discovery to impart now; but she hated the +sense of speculating on the poor man’s intentions. He talked so much, +that he saved her trouble in replying, and presently resumed the subject +of Maria’s looks. + +‘She has had a harassed life, I fear,’ said Albinia. + +‘Eh! old Meadows was a terrible old tyrant, I believe; but she was his +pet. I thought he refused her nothing--but there’s no trusting such a +Turk! Oh! ah! I dare say,’ as if replying to something within. And then +having come to the vicarage wicket, Albinia took leave of him and +ran indoors, answering the astonished queries as to how she had been +employed, ‘Walking home with Aunt Maria and Captain Pringle!’ + +It was rather a relief at such a juncture that Lucy’s curious eyes +should be removed. Mr. Ferrars came to talk his wife’s state over with +his sister. Her children were too much for Winifred, and he wished to +borrow Lucy for a few weeks, till a governess could be found for them. + +It struck Albinia that this would be an excellent thing for Genevieve +Durant, and she at once contrived to ask her to tea, and privately +propound the plan. + +Genevieve faltered much of thanks, and said that Madame was very good; +but the next morning a note was brought in, which caused a sudden change +of countenance: + + +‘My dear Madame, + +‘I was so overwhelmed with your kindness last night, and so unwilling to +appear ungrateful, that perhaps I left you under a false impression. I +entreat you not to enter on the subject with my grandmamma or my aunt. +They would grieve to prevent what they would think for my advantage, and +would, I am but too sure, make any sacrifice on my account; but they are +no longer young, and though my aunt does not perceive it, I know that +the real work of the school depends on me, and that she could not +support the fatigue if left unassisted. They need their little +Genevieve, likewise, to amuse them in their evenings; and, forgive me, +madame, I could not, without ingratitude, forsake them now. Thus, though +with the utmost sense of your kindness, I must beg of you to pardon +me, and not to think me ungrateful if I decline the situation so kindly +offered to me by Mr. Ferrars, thanking you ten thousand times for your +too partial recommendation, and entreating you to pardon + +‘Your most grateful and humble servant, + +‘GENEVIEVE CELESTE DURANT.’ + + +‘There!’ said Albinia, tossing the note to her brother, who was the only +person present excepting Gilbert. + +‘Poor Albinia,’ he said, ‘it is hard to be disappointed in a bit of +patronage.’ + +‘I never meant it as patronage,’ said Albinia, slightly hurt. ‘I thought +it would help you, and rescue her from that school. There will she +spend the best years of her life in giving a second-rate education to +third-rate girls, not one of whose parents can appreciate her, till she +will grow as wizened and as wooden as Mademoiselle herself.’ + +‘Happily,’ said Mr. Ferrars, ‘there are worse things than being spent in +one’s duty. She may be doing an important work in her sphere.’ + +‘So does a horse in a mill,’ exclaimed Albinia; ‘but you would not put a +hunter there. Yes, yes, I know, education, and these girls wanting right +teaching; but she, poor child, has been but half educated herself, and +has not time to improve herself. If she does good, it is by force of +sheer goodness, for they all look down upon her, as much as vulgarity +can upon refinement.’ + +‘I told her so,’, exclaimed Gilbert; ‘I told her it was the only way to +teach them what she was worth.’ + +‘What did you know of the matter?’ asked Albinia; and the colour mounted +in the boy’s face as he muttered, ‘She was overcome when she came down, +she said you had been so kind, and we were obliged to walk up and down +before she could compose herself, for she did not want the old ladies to +know anything about it.’ + +‘And did she not wish to go?’ + +‘No, though I did the best I could. I told her what a jolly place it +was, and that the children would be a perfect holiday to her. And I +showed her it would not be like going away, for she might come over here +whenever she pleased; and when I have my horse, I would come and bring +her word of the old ladies once a week.’ + +‘Inducements, indeed!’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘And she could not be incited +by any of these?’ + +‘No,’ said Gilbert, ‘she would not hear of leaving the old women. She +was only afraid it would vex Mrs. Kendal, and she could not bear not to +take the advice of so kind a friend, she said. You are not going to be +angry with her,’ he added. + +‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘one cannot but honour her motives, though I think +she is mistaken; and I am sorry for her; but she knows better than to be +afraid of me.’ + +With which assurance Gilbert quitted the room, and the next moment, +hearing the front door, she exclaimed, ‘I do believe he is gone to tell +her how I took the announcement.’ + +Maurice gave a significant ‘Hem!’ to which his sister replied, +‘Nonsense!’ + +‘Very romantic consolations and confidences.’ + +‘Not at all. They have been used to each other all their lives, and he +used to be the only person who knew how to behave to her, so no wonder +they are great friends. As to anything else, she is nineteen, and he not +sixteen.’ + +‘One great use of going to school is to save lads from that silly +pastime. I advise you to look to these moonlight escortings!’ + +‘One would think you were an old dowager, Maurice. I suppose Colonel +Bury may not escort Miss Mary.’ + +‘Ah, Albinia, you are a very naughty child still.’ + +‘Of course, when you are here to keep me in order, I wish I never were +so at other times when it is not so safe.’ + +Mr. Kendal was kind and civil to Captain Pringle, and though the +boisterous manner seemed to affect him like a thunderstorm, Maria +imagined they were delighted with one another. + +Maria was strangely serene and happy; her querulous, nervous manner +smoothed away, as if rest had come to her at last; and even if the +renewed intercourse were only to result in a friendship, there was hope +that the troubled spirit had found repose now that misunderstandings +were over, and the sore sense of ill-usage appeased. + +Yet Albinia was startled when one day Mr. Kendal summoned her, saying, +‘It is all over, she has refused him!’ + +‘Impossible; she could only have left half her sentence unsaid.’ + +‘Too certain. She will not leave her mother.’ + +‘Is that all?’ + +‘Of course it is. He told me the whole affair, and certainly Mr. Meadows +was greatly to blame. He let Maria give this man every encouragement, +believing his property larger, and his expectations more secure than was +the case; and when the proposal was made, having discovered his mistake, +he sent a peremptory refusal, giving him reason to suppose her a party +to the rejection. Captain Pringle sailed in anger; but it appears that +his return has revived his former feelings, and that he has found out +that poor Maria was a greater sufferer than himself.’ + +‘Why does he come to you?’ + +‘To consult me. He wishes me to persuade poor old Mrs. Meadows to go +out to the Mauritius, which is clearly impossible, but Maria must not +be sacrificed again. Would the Drurys make her comfortable? Or could she +not live alone with her maid?’ + +‘She might live here.’ + +‘Albinia! Think a little.’ + +‘I can think of nothing else. Let her have the morning room, and Sophy’s +little room, and Lucy and I would do our best for her.’ + +‘No, that is out of the question. I would not impose such charge upon +you on any consideration!’ + +Albinia’s face became humble and remorseful. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘perhaps I +am too impatient and flighty.’ + +‘That was not what I meant,’ he said; ‘but I do not think it right that +a person with no claims of relationship should be made a burthen on +you.’ + +‘No claims, Edmund,’ said she, softly. ‘In whose place have you put me?’ + +He was silent: then said, ‘No, it must not be, my kind Albinia. She is +a very good old lady, but Sophy and she would clash, and I cannot expose +the child to such a trial.’ + +‘I dare say you are right,’ pensively said Albinia, perceiving that her +plan had been inconsiderate, and that it would require the wisdom, tact, +and gentleness of a model woman to deal with such discordant elements. +‘What are you going to do?’ as he took up his hat. ‘Are you going to see +Maria? May I come with you?’ + +‘If you please; but do not mention this notion. There is no necessity +for such a tax on you; and such arrangement should never be rashly +made.’ + +He asked whether Miss Meadows could see him, and awaited her alone in +the dining-room, somewhat to the surprise of his wife; but either he +felt that there was a long arrear of kindness owing, or feared to trust +Albinia’s impulsive generosity. + +Meantime Albinia found the poor old lady in much uneasiness and +distress. Her daughter fancied it right to keep her in ignorance of the +crisis; but Maria was not the woman to conceal her feelings, and her +nervous misery had revealed all that she most wished to hide. Too timid +to take her confidence by storm, her mother had only exchanged surmises +and observations with Betty, and was in a troubled condition of +affectionate curiosity and anxiety. Albinia was a welcome visitor since +it was a great relief to hear what had really taken place and to know +that Mr. Kendal was with Maria. + +‘Ah! that is kind,’ she said; ‘but he must tell her not to think of me. +I am an old woman, good for nothing but to be put out of the way, and +she has gone through quite enough! You will not let her give it up! Tell +her I have not many more years to live, and anything is good enough for +me.’ + +‘That would hardly comfort her,’ said Albinia, affectionately; ‘but +indeed, dear grandmamma, I hope we shall convince her that we can do +something to supply her place.’ + +‘Ah! my dear, you are very kind, but nobody can be like a daughter! But +don’t tell Maria so--poor dear love--she may never have another chance. +Such a beautiful place out there, and Mr. Pringle’s property must come +to him at last! Bless me, what will Sarah Drury say? And such a good +attentive man--besides, she never would hear of any one else--her poor +papa never knew--Oh! she must have him! it is all nonsense to think of +me! I only wish I was dead out of the way!’ + +There was a strong mixture of unselfish love, and fear of solitude; +of the triumph of marrying a daughter, and dread of separation; of +affection, and of implanted worldliness; touching Albinia at one moment, +and paining her at another; but she soothed and caressed the old lady, +and was a willing listener to what was meant for a history of the former +transaction; but as it started from old Mr. Pringle’s grandfather, it +had only proceeded as far as the wedding of the Captain’s father and +mother, when it was broken off by Mr. Kendal’s entrance. + +‘Oh! my dear Mr. Kendal, and what does poor Maria say? It is so kind in +you. I hope you have taken her in hand, and told her it is quite another +thing now, and her poor dear papa would think so. She must not let this +opportunity pass, for she may never have another. Did you tell her so?’ + +‘I told her that, under the circumstances, she has no alternative but to +accept Captain Pringle.’ + +‘Oh! thank you. And does she?’ + +‘She has given me leave to send him to her.’ + +‘I am so much obliged. I knew that nobody but you could settle it for +her, poor dear girl; she is so young and inexperienced, and one is so +much at a loss without a gentleman. But this is very kind; I did not +expect it in you, Mr. Kendal. And will you see Mr. Pettilove, and do all +that is proper about settlements, as her poor dear papa would have done. +Poor Pettilove, he was once very much in love with Maria!’ + +In this mood of triumph and felicity, the old lady was left to herself +and her daughter. Albinia, on the way home, begged to hear how Mr. +Kendal had managed Maria; and found that he had simply told her, in an +authoritative tone, that after all that had passed, she had no choice +but to accept Captain Pringle, and that he had added a promise, equally +vague and reassuring, of being a son to Mrs. Meadows. Such injunctions +from such a quarter had infused new life into Maria; and in the course +of the afternoon, Albinia met the Captain with the mother and daughter, +one on each arm, Maria in recovered bloom and brilliancy, and Mrs. +Meadows’s rheumatism forgotten in the glory of exhibiting her daughter +engaged. + +For form’s sake, secrecy had been mentioned; but the world of Bayford +had known of the engagement a fortnight before took place. Sophy had +been questioned upon it by Mary Wolfe two hours ere she was officially +informed, and was sore with the recollection of her own ungracious +professions of ignorance. + +‘So it is true,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind, since Arthur is not a girl.’ + +Mr. Kendal laughed so heartily, that Sophy looked to Albinia for +explanation; but even on the repetition of her words, she failed to +perceive anything ridiculous in them. + +‘Why, mamma,’ she said, impressively, ‘if you had been like Aunt Maria, +I should--’ she paused and panted for sufficient strength of phrase--‘I +should have run away and begged! Papa laughs, but I am sure he remembers +when grandmamma and Aunt Maria wanted to come and live here!’ + +He looked as if he remembered it only too well. + +‘Well, papa,’ pursued Sophy, ‘we heard the maids saying that they knew +it would not do, for all Mr. Kendal was so still and steady, for Miss +Meadows would worret the life out of a lead pincushion.’ + +‘Hem!’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Albinia, do you think after all we are doing +Captain Pringle any kindness?’ + +‘He is the best judge.’ + +‘Nay, he may think himself bound in honour and compassion--he may be +returning to an old ideal.’ + +‘People like Captain Pringle are not apt to have ideals,’ said Albinia; +‘nor do I think Maria will be so trying. Do you remember that creeper +of Lucy’s, all tendrils and catching leaves, which used to lie sprawling +about, entangling everything till she gave it a prop, when it instantly +found its proper development, and offered no further molestation?’ + +All was not, however, smooth water as yet. The Captain invaded Mr. +Kendal the next morning in despair at Maria having recurred to the +impossibility of leaving her mother, and wanting him to wait till he +could reside in England. This could not be till his son was grown up, +and ten years were a serious delay. Mr. Kendal suspected her of a latent +hope that the Captain would end by remaining at home; but he was a +man sense and determination, who would have thought it unjustifiable +weakness to sacrifice his son’s interests and his own usefulness. He +would promise, that if all were alive and well, he would bring Maria +back in ten or twelve years’ time; but he would not sooner relinquish +his duties, and he was very reluctant to become engaged on such terms. + +‘No one less silly than poor Maria would have thought of such a +proposal,’ was Mr. Kendal’s comment afterwards to his wife. ‘Twelve +years! No one would be able to live with her by that time!’ + +‘I cannot help respecting the unselfishness,’ said Albinia. + +‘One sided unselfishness,’ quoth Mr. Kendal. ‘I am sick of the whole +business, I wish I had never interfered. I cannot get an hour to +myself.’ + +He might be excused for the complaint on that day of negotiations and +counter-negotiations, which gave no one any rest, especially after +Mrs. Drury arrived with all the rights of a relation, set on making it +evident, that whoever was to be charged with Mrs. Meadows, it was not +herself; and enforcing that nothing could be more comfortable than that +Lucy Kendal should set up housekeeping with her dear grandmamma. Every +one gave advice, and nobody took it; Mrs. Meadows cried, Maria grew +hysterical, the Captain took up his hat and walked out of the house; +and Albinia thought it would be very good in him ever to venture into it +again. + +The next morning Mr. Kendal ordered his horse early, and hastened his +breakfast; told Albinia not to wait dinner for him, and rode off by one +gate, without looking behind him, as the other opened to admit Captain +Pringle. She marvelled whither he had fled, and thought herself +fortunate in having only two fruitless discussions in his absence. Not +till eight o’clock did he make his appearance, and then it was in an +unhearing, unseeing mood, so that nothing could be extracted, except +that he did not want any dinner; and it was not till late in the evening +that he abruptly announced, ‘Lucy is coming home on Wednesday. Colonel +Bury will bring her to Woodside.’ + +What? have you heard from Maurice?’ + +‘No; I have been at Fairmead.’ + +You! To-day! How was Winifred?’ + +‘Better--I believe.’ + +‘How does she like the governess?’ + +‘I did not hear.’ + +Gradually something oozed out about Lucy having been happy and valuable, +and after Sophy had gone to bed, he inquired how the courtship was going +on? + +‘Worse than ever,’ Albinia said. + +‘I suppose it must end in this?’ + +‘In what!’ + +‘If there is no more satisfactory arrangement, I suppose we must receive +Mrs. Meadows.’ + +If Albinia could but have heard what a scolding her brother was +undergoing from his vivacious wife! + +‘As if poor Albinia had not enough on her hands! Of all inmates in the +world! When Mr. Kendal himself did not like it! Well! Maurice would +certainly have advised Sinbad to request the honour of taking the Old +Man of the Sea for a promenade a cheval. There was an end of Albinia. +There would never be any room in her house, and she would never be able +to come from home. And after having seen her worked to death, he to +advise--’ + +‘I did not advise, I only listened. What he came for was to silence his +conscience and his wife by saying, “Your brother thinks it out of the +question.” Now to this my conscience would not consent.’ + +‘More shame for it, then!’ + +‘I could not say I thought these two people’s happiness should be +sacrificed, or the poor old woman left desolate. Albinia has spirits and +energy for a worse infliction, and Edmund Kendal himself is the better +for every shock to his secluded habits. If it is a step I would never +dare advise, still less would I dare dissuade.’ + +‘Well! I thought Mr. Kendal at least had more sense.’ + +‘Ay, nothing is so provoking as to see others more unselfish than +ourselves.’ + +‘All I have to say,’ concluded Mrs. Ferrars, walking off, ‘is, I wish +there was a law against people going and marrying two wives.’ + +Albinia was in no haste to profit by her husband’s consent to her +proposal. The more she revolved it, the more she foresaw the discomfort +for all parties. She made every effort to devise the ‘more satisfactory +arrangement,’ but nothing would occur. The Drurys would not help, and +the poor old lady could not be left alone. Her maid Betty, who had +become necessary to her comfort, was not a trustworthy person, and could +not be relied on, either for honesty, or for not leaving her mistress +too long alone; and when the notion was broached of boarding Mrs. +Meadows with some family in the place, the conviction arose, that when +she had grandchildren, there was no reason for leaving her to strangers. + +Finally, the proposal was made, and as instantly rejected by Maria. +It was very kind, but her mother could never be happy at Willow Lawn, +never; and the tone betrayed some injury at such a thing being thought +possible. But just as the Kendals had begun to rejoice at having cleared +their conscience at so slight a cost, Captain Pringle and Miss Meadows +made their appearance, and Maria presently requested that Mrs. Kendal +would allow her to say a few words. + +‘I am afraid you thought me very rude and ungrateful,’ she began, ‘but +the truth was, I did not think dear mamma would ever bear to live here, +my poor dear sister and all; but since that, I have been talking it +over with the dear Captain--thinks that since you are so kind, and dear +Edmund--more than I could ever have dared to expect--that I could not do +better than just to sound mamma.’ + +There was still another vicissitude. Mrs. Meadows would not hear of +being thrust on any one, and was certain that Maria had extorted an +invitation; she would never be a burden upon any one; young people liked +company and amusement, and she was an old woman in every one’s way; she +wished she were in her coffin with poor dear Mr. Meadows, who would have +settled it all. Maria fell back into the depths of despair, and all +was lugubrious, till Mr. Kendal, in the most tender and gentle manner, +expressed his hopes that Mrs. Meadows would consider the matter, telling +her that his wife and children would esteem it a great privilege to +attend on her, and that he should be very grateful if she would allow +them to try to supply Maria’s place. And Albinia, in her coaxing tone, +described the arrangement; how the old furniture should stand in the +sitting-room, and how Lucy would attend to her carpet-work, and what +nice walks the sunny garden would afford, and how pleasant it would be +not to have the long hill between them, till grandmamma forgot all her +scruples in the fascination of that sweet face and caressing manner, +she owned that poor old Willow Lawn always was like home, and finally +promised to come. Before the evening was over the wedding-day was fixed. + +What Sophy briefly termed ‘the fuss about Aunt Maria,’ had been so +tedious, that it almost dispelled all poetical ideas of courtship. If +Captain Pringle had been drowned at sea, and Aunt Maria pined herself +into her grave, it would have been much more proper and affecting. + +Sophy heard of the arrangement without remark, and quietly listened to +Albinia’s explanation that she was not to be sent up to the attics, but +was to inhabit the spare room, which was large enough to serve her for +a sitting-room. But in the evening Mr. Kendal happened in her absence +to take up the book which she had been reading, and did not perceive at +once on her entrance that she wanted it. When he did so, he yielded it +with a few kind words of apology, but this vexation had been sufficient +to bring down the thunder-cloud which had been lowering since the +morning. There were no signs of clearance the next day; but Albinia +had too much upon her hands to watch the symptoms, and was busy making +measurements for the furniture in the morning-room when Mr. Kendal came +in. + +‘I have been thinking,’ he said, ‘that it is a pity to disturb this +room. I dare say Mrs. Meadows would prefer that below-stairs. It used to +be her parlour, where she always sat when I first knew the house.’ + +‘The dining-room? How could we spare that?’ + +‘No, the study.’ + +Albinia remained transfixed. + +‘We could put the books here and in the dining-room,’ he continued, +‘until next spring, when, as your brother said, we can build a new wing +on the drawing-room side.’ + +‘And what is to become of you?’ she continued. + +‘Perhaps you will admit me here,’ he said, smiling, for he was pleased +with himself. ‘Turn me out when I am in the way.’ + +‘Oh! Edmund, how delightful! See, we shall put your high desk under the +window, and your chair in your own corner. This will be the pleasantest +place in the house, with you and your books! Dear Winifred! she did me +one of her greatest services when she made me keep this room habitable!’ + +‘And I think Sophy will not object to give up her present little room +for my dressing-room. Shall you, my dear?’ said he, anxious to judge of +her temper by her reply. + +‘I don’t care,’ she said; ‘I don’t want any difference made to please +me; I think that weak.’ + +‘Sophy!’ began Albinia, indignantly, but Mr. Kendal stopped her, and +made her come down, to consider of the proposal in the study. + +That study, once an oppressive rival to the bride, now not merely +vanquished, but absolutely abandoned by its former captive! + +‘Don’t say anything to her,’ said Mr. Kendal, as they went downstairs. +‘Of course her spirits are one consideration, but were it otherwise, I +could not see you give up your private room.’ + +‘It is very kind in you, but indeed I can spare mine better than you +can,’ said Albinia. ‘I am afraid you will never feel out of the whirl.’ + +‘Yours would be a loss to us all,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘The more inmates +there are in a house, the more needful to have them well assorted.’ + +‘Just so; and that makes me afraid--’ + +‘Of me? No, Albinia, I will try not to be a check on your spirits.’ + +‘You! Oh! I meant that we should disturb you.’ + +‘You never disturb me, Albinia; and it is not what it was when the +children’s voices were untrained and unsubdued.’ + +‘I can’t say much for Master Maurice’s voice.’ + +He smiled, he had never yet found those joyous notes de trop, and he +continued, ‘Your room is of value and use to us all; mine has been of +little benefit to me, and none to any one else. I wish I could as easily +leave behind me all the habits I have fostered there.’ + +‘Edmund, it is too good! When poor Sophy recovers her senses she will +feel it, for I believe that morning room would have been a great loss to +her.’ + +‘It was too much to ask in her present state. I should have come to the +same conclusion without her showing how much this plan cost her, for +nothing can be plainer than that while she continues subject to these +attacks, she must have some retreat.’ + +‘Yet,’ ventured Albinia, ‘if you think solitude did you no good, do you +think letting these fits have their swing is good for Sophy?’ + +‘I _cannot_ drive her about! They must not be harshly treated,’ he +answered quickly. ‘Resistance can only come from within; compulsion is +worse than useless. Poor child, it is piteous to watch that state of +dull misery! On other grounds, I am convinced this is the best plan. The +communication with the offices will prevent that maid from being always +on the stairs. Mrs. Meadows will have her own visitors more easily, and +will get out of doors sooner, and I think she will be better pleased.’ + +‘Yes, it will be a much better plan for every one but Mr. Kendal +himself,’ said Albinia; ‘and if he can be happy with us, we shall be all +the happier. So this was the old sitting-room!’ ‘Yes, I knew them first +here,’ he said. ‘It used to be cheerful then, and I dare say you can +make it the same again. We must dismantle it before Mrs. Meadows or +Maria come to see it, or it will remind them of nothing but the days +when I was recovering, and anything but grateful for their attention. +Yes,’ he added, ‘poor Mrs. Meadows bore most gently and tenderly with a +long course of moroseness. I am glad to have it in my power to make any +sort of amends, though it is chiefly through you.’ + +Albinia might well be very happy! It was her moment of triumph, and +whatever might be her fears for the future, and uneasiness at Sophy’s +discontent, nothing could take away the pleasure of finding herself +deliberately preferred to the study. + +Sophy did not fail to make another protest, and when told that ‘it +was not solely on her account,’ the shame of having fancied herself so +important, rendered her ill-humour still more painful and deplorable. It +was vain to consult her about the arrangements, she would not care +about anything, except that by some remarkable effect of her perverse +condition, she had been seized with a penchant for maize colour and blue +for the bridesmaids, and was deeply offended when Albinia represented +that they would look like a procession of macaws, and her aunt declared +that Sophy herself would be the most sacrificed by such colours. She +made herself so grim that Maria broke up the consultation by saying +good-humouredly, ‘Yes, we will settle it when Lucy comes home.’ + +‘Yes,’ muttered Sophy, ‘Lucy is ready for any sort of nonsense.’ + +Mr. and Mrs. Kendal went to Woodside to meet Lucy, hoping that solitude +would be beneficial. Albinia grieved at the manifestations of these, her +sullen fits, if only because they made Lucy feel herself superior. In +truth, Lucy was superior in temper, amiability, and all the qualities +that smooth the course of life, and it was very pleasant to greet her +pretty bright face, so full of animation. + +‘Dear grandmamma going to live with us? Oh, how nice! I can always take +care of her when you are busy, mamma.’ + +That accommodating spirit was absolute refreshment, and long before +Albinia reached home the task of keeping the household contented seemed +many degrees easier. + +A grand wedding was ‘expected,’ so all the Bayford flys were bespoken +three deep, a cake was ordered from Gunter, and so many invitations +sent out, that Albinia speculated how all were to come alive out of the +little dining-room. + +And Mr. Kendal the presiding gentleman! + +He had hardly seemed aware of his impending fate till the last evening, +when, as the family were separating at night, he sighed disconsolately, +and said, ‘I am as bad as you are, Sophy.’ + +It awoke her first comfortable smile. + +Experience had, however, shown him that such occasions might be +survived, and he was less to be pitied than his daughter, who felt as +if she and her great brown face would be the mark of all beholders. Poor +Sophy! all scenes were to her like daguerreotypes in a bad light, she +saw nothing but herself distorted! + +And yet she was glad that the period of anticipation had consumed itself +and its own horrors, and found herself not insensible to the excitement +of the occasion. Lucy was joyous beyond description, looking very +pretty, and solicitously decorating her sister, while both bestowed the +utmost rapture on their step-mother’s appearance. + +Having learnt at last what Bayford esteemed a compliment, she +had commissioned her London aunts to send her what she called ‘an +unexceptionable garment,’ and so well did they fulfil their orders, that +not only did her little son scream, ‘Mamma, pretty, pretty!’ and Gilbert +stand transfixed with admiration, but it called forth Mr. Kendal’s first +personal remark, ‘Albinia, you look remarkably well;’ and Mrs. Meadows +reckoned among the honours done to her Maria, that Mrs. Kendal wore +a beautiful silk dress, and a lace bonnet, sent down on purpose from +London! + +Maria Meadows made a very nice bride, leaning on her brother-in-law, and +not more agitated than became her well. The haggard restless look had +long been gone, repose had taken away the lean sharpness of countenance, +the really pretty features had fair play, and she was astonishingly +like her niece Lucy, and did not look much older. Her bridegroom was so +beaming and benignant, that it might fairly be hoped that even if force +of habit should bring back fretfulness, he had a stock of happiness +sufficient for both. The chairs were jammed so tight round the table, +that it was by a desperate struggle that people took their seats, and +Mr. Dusautoy’s conversation was a series of apologies for being unable +to keep his elbows out of his neighbours’ way while carving, and poor +Sophy, whose back was not two feet from the fire, was soon obliged to +retreat. She had gained the door before any one perceived her, and then +her brother and sister both followed; Albinia was obliged to leave +her to their care, being in the innermost recesses, where moving was +impossible. + +There was not much the matter, she only wanted rest, and Gilbert +undertook to see her safely home. + +‘I shall be heartily glad to get away,’ he said. ‘There is no breathing +in there, and they’ll begin talking the most intolerable nonsense +presently. Besides, I want to be at home to take baby down to the gate +to halloo at the four white horses from the King’s Head. Come along, +Sophy.’ + +‘Mind you don’t make her walk too fast,’ said the careful Lucy, ‘and +take care how you take off your muslin, Sophy, you had better go to the +nursery for help.’ + +Gilbert did not seem inclined to hurry his sister as they came near +Madame Belmarche’s. He lingered, and presently said, ‘Should you be too +tired to come in here for a moment? it was an intolerable shame that +none of them were asked.’ + +‘Mamma did beg for Genevieve, but there was so little room, and the +Drurys did not like it. Mrs. Drury said it would only be giving her a +taste for things above her station.’ + +‘Then Mrs. Drury should never come out of the scullery. I am sure she +looks as if her station was to black the kettles!’ cried Gilbert, with +some domestic confusion in his indignation. ‘Didn’t she look like a +housekeeper with her mistress’s things on by mistake?’ + +‘She did not look like mamma, certainly,’ said Sophy. ‘Mamma looked no +more aware that she had on those pretty things than if she had been in +her old grey--’ + +‘Mamma--yes--Mrs. Drury might try seventy years to look like mamma, or +Genevieve either! Put Genevieve into satin or into brown holland, you +couldn’t help her looking ten times more the lady than Mrs. Drury ever +will! But come in, I have got a bit of the cake for them here, and they +will like to see you all figged out, as they have missed all the rest of +the show. Aunt Maria might have cared for her old mistress!’ + +Sophy wished to be amiable, and refrained from objecting. + +It was a holiday in honour of cette chere eleve of five-and-twenty years +since, and the present pupils were from their several homes watching for +the first apparition of the four greys from the King’s Head, with the +eight white satin rosettes at their eight ears. + +Madame Belmarche and her daughter were discovered in the parlour, +cooking with a stew pan over the fire a concoction which Sophy guessed +to be a conserve of the rose-leaves yearly begged of the pupils, which +were chiefly useful as serving to be boiled up at any leisure moment, to +make a cosmetic for Mademoiselle’s complexion. She had diligently used +it these forty-five years, but the effect was not encouraging, as brown, +wrinkled, with her frizzled front awry, with not stainless white apron, +and a long pewter spoon, she turned round to confront the visitors in +their wedding finery. + +But what Frenchwoman ever was disconcerted? Away went the spoon, forward +she sprang, both hands outstretched, and her little black eyes twinkling +with pleasure. ‘Ah! but this is goodness itself,’ said she, in the +English wherein she flattered herself no French idiom appeared. ‘You +are come to let us participate in your rejoicing. Let me but +summon Genevieve, the poor child is at every free moment trying to +perfectionnate her music in the school-room.’ + +Madame Belmarche had arisen to receive the guests with her dignified +courtesy and heartfelt felicitations, which were not over when Genevieve +tripped in, all freshness and grace, with her neat little collar, and +the dainty black apron that so prettily marked her slender waist. One +moment, and she had arranged a resting-place for Sophy, and as she +understood Gilbert’s errand, quickly produced from a corner-cupboard a +plate, on which he handed it to the two other ladies, who meanwhile paid +their compliments in the most perfect style. + +The history of the morning was discussed, and Madame Belmarche described +her sister’s wedding, and the curiosity which she had shared with the +bride for the first sight of ‘le futur,’ when the two sisters had been +brought from their convent for the marriage. + +‘But how could she get to like him?’ cried Sophy. + +‘My sister was too well brought up a young girl to acknowledge a +preference,’ replied Madame Belmarche. ‘Ah! my dear, you are English; +you do not understand these things.’ + +‘No,’ said Sophy, ‘I can’t understand how people can marry without +loving. How miserable they must be!’ + +‘On the contrary, my dear, especially if one continued to live with +one’s mother. It is far better to earn the friendship and esteem of a +husband than to see his love grow cold.’ + +‘And was your sister happy?’ asked Sophy, abruptly. + +‘Ah, my dear, never were husband and wife more attached. My +brother-in-law joined the army of the Prince de Conde, and never was +seen after the day of Valmy; and my sister pined away and died of grief. +My daughter and granddaughter go to the Catholic burying-ground at +Hadminster on her fete day, to dress her grave with immortelles.’ + +Now Sophy knew why the strip of garden grew so many of the grey-leaved, +woolly-stemmed, little yellow-and-white everlasting flowers. Good madame +began to regret having saddened her on this day of joy. + +‘Oh! no,’ said Sophy, ‘I like sad things best.’ + +‘Mais, non, my child, that is not the way to go through life,’ said the +old lady, affectionately. ‘Look at me; how could I have lived had I not +always turned to the bright side? Do not think of sorrow, it, is always +near enough.’ + +This conversation had made an impression on Sophy, who took the first +opportunity of expressing her indignation at the system of mariages de +convenance. + +‘And, mamma, she said if people began with love, it always grew cold. +Now, has not papa loved you better and better every day?’ + +Albinia could not be displeased, though it made her blush, and she could +not answer such a home push. ‘We don’t quite mean the same things,’ she +said evasively. ‘Madame is thinking of passion independent of esteem or +confidence. But, Sophy, this is enough even for a wedding-day. Let us +leave it off with our finery, and resume daily life.’ + +‘Only tell me one thing, mamma.’ + +‘Well?’ + +She paused and brought it out with an effort. It had evidently occupied +her for a long time. ‘Mamma, must not every one with feeling be in love +once in their life?’ + +‘Well done, reserve!’ thought Albinia--‘but she is only a child, after +all; not a blush, only those great eyes seeming ready to devour my +answer. What ought it to be? Whatever it is, she will brood on it till +her time comes. I must begin, or I shall grow nervous: “Dear Sophy, +these are not things good to think upon. There is quite enough to +occupy a Christian woman’s heart and soul without that--no need for her +feelings to shrivel up for want of exercise. No, I don’t believe in the +passion once in the life being a fate, and pray don’t you, my Sophy, or +you may make yourself very silly, or very unhappy, or both.”’ + +Sophy drew up her head, and her brown skin glowed. Albinia feared that +she had said the wrong thing, and affronted her, but it was all working +in the dark. + +At any rate the sullenness was dissipated, and there were no tokens of +a recurrence. Sophy set herself to find ways of making amends for the +past, and as soon as she had begun to do little services for grandmamma, +she seemed to have forgotten her gloomy anticipations, even while some +of them were partly realized. For as it would be more than justice to +human nature to say that Mrs. Meadows’s residence at Willow Lawn was a +perfect success, so it would be less than justice to call it a failure. + +To put the darker side first. Grandmamma’s interest in life was to know +the proceedings of the whole household, and comment on each. Now Albinia +could endure housewifely advice, some espionage on her servants, and +even counsel about her child; but she could not away with the anxiety +that would never leave Sophy alone, tried to force her sociability, and +regretted all extra studies, unable to perceive the delicate treatment +her disposition needed. And Sophy, in the intolerance of early girlhood, +was wretched at hearing poor grandmamma’s petty views, and narrow, +ignorant prejudices. She might resolve to be filial and agreeable, but +too often found herself just achieving a moody, disgusted silence, or +else bursting out with some true but unbecoming reproof. + +On the whole, all did well. Mrs. Meadows was happy; she enjoyed the +animation of the larger party, liked their cheerful faces, grew fond of +Maurice, and daily more dependent on Lucy and Mrs. Kendal. Probably +she had never before had so much of her own way, and her gentle placid +nature was left to rest, instead of being constantly worried. Her +son-in-law was kind and gracious, though few words passed between +them, and he gave her a sense of protection. Indeed, his patience and +good-humour were exemplary; he never complained even when he was driven +from the dining-room by the table-cloth, to find Maurice rioting in the +morning-room, and a music lesson in the drawing-room, or still worse, +when he heard the Drurys everywhere; and he probably would have +submitted quietly for the rest of his life, had not Albinia insisted on +bringing forward the plan of building. + +When Captain and Mrs. Pringle returned to Bayford to take leave, they +found grandmamma so thoroughly at home, that Maria could find no +words to express her gratitude. Maria herself could hardly have been +recognised, she had grown so like her husband in look and manner! If her +sentences did not always come to their legitimate development, they no +longer seemed blown away by a frosty wind, but pushed aside by fresh +kindly impulses, and her pride in the Captain, and the rest in his +support, had set her at peace with all the world and with herself. A +comfortable, comely, happy matron was she, and even her few weeks beyond +the precincts of Bayford had done something to enlarge her mind. + +It was as if her education had newly begun. The fixed aim, and the +union with a practical man, had opened her faculties, not deficient in +themselves, but contracted and nipped by the circumstances which she had +not known how to turn to good account. Such a fresh stage in middle life +comes to some few, like the midsummer shoot to repair the foliage that +has suffered a spring blight; but it cannot be reckoned on, and Mrs. +Pringle would have been a more effective and self-possessed woman, a +better companion to her husband, and with more root in herself, had +Maria Meadows learnt to tune her nerves and her temper in the overthrow +of her early hopes. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + + +Maurice Ferrars was a born architect, with such a love of brick and +mortar, that it was meritorious in him not to have overbuilt Fairmead +parsonage. With the sense of giving him an agreeable holiday, his sister +wrote to him in February that Gilbert’s little attic was at his service +if he would come and give his counsel as to the building project. + +Mr. Kendal disliked the trouble and disturbance as much as Maurice loved +it; but he quite approved and submitted, provided they asked him no +questions; he gave them free leave to ruin him, and set out to take +Sophy for a drive, leaving the brother and sister to their calculations. +Of ruin, there was not much danger, Mr. Kendal had a handsome income, +and had always lived within it; and Albinia’s fortune had not appeared +to her a reason for increased expense, so there was a sufficient sum in +hand to enable Mr. Ferrars to plan with freedom. + +A new drawing-room, looking southwards, with bedrooms over it, was the +matter of necessity; and Albinia wished for a bay-window, and would like +to indulge Lucy by a conservatory, filling up the angle to the east with +glass doors opening into the drawing-room and hall. Maurice drew, and +she admired, and thought all so delightful, that she began to be taken +with scruples as to luxury. + +‘No,’ said Maurice, ‘these are not mere luxuries. You have full means, +and it is a duty to keep your household fairly comfortable and at ease. +Crowded as you are with rather incongruous elements, you are bound to +give them space enough not to clash.’ + +‘They don’t clash, except poor Sophy. Gilbert and Lucy are elements of +union, with more plaster of Paris than stone in their nature.’ + +‘Pray, has Kendal made up his mind what to do with Gilbert?’ + +‘I have heard nothing lately; I hope he is grown too old for India.’ + +‘Gilbert is rather too well off for his good,’ said Mr. Ferrars; ‘the +benefit of a profession is not evident enough.’ + +‘I know what I wish! If he could but be Mr. Dusautoy’s curate, in five +or six years’ time, what glorious things we might do with the parish!’ + +‘Eh! is that his wish?’ + +‘I have sometimes hoped that his mind is taking that turn. He is ready +to help in anything for the poor people. Once he told me he never wished +to look beyond Bayford for happiness or occupation; but I did not like +to draw him out, because of his father’s plans. Why, what have you +drawn? The alms-houses?’ + +‘I could do no other when I was improving Gilbert’s house for him.’ + +‘That would be the real improvement! How pretty! I will keep them for +him.’ + +The second post came in, bringing a letter from Gilbert to his father, +and Albinia was so much surprised, that her brother asked whether +Gilbert were one of the boys who only write to their father with a +reason. + +‘He can write more freely to me,’ said Albinia; ‘and it comes to the +same thing. I am not in the least afraid of anything wrong, but perhaps +he may be making some proposal for the future. I want to know how he +is. Fancy his being so foolish as to go out bathing. I am afraid of his +colds.’ + +Many times during the consultation did Mr. Ferrars detect Albinia’s eye +stealing wistfully towards that ‘E. Kendal, Esq.;’ and when the proper +owner came in, he was evidently as much struck, for he paused, as if +in dread of opening the letter. Her eyes were on his countenance as +he read, and did not gather much consolation. ‘I am afraid this is +serious,’ at last he said. + +‘His cold?’ exclaimed Albinia. + +‘Yes,’ said Mr. Kendal, reading aloud sentence by sentence, with gravity +and consideration. + + +‘I do not wish to alarm Mrs. Kendal, and therefore address myself at +once to you, for I do not think it right to keep you in ignorance that I +have had some of the old symptoms. I do not wish to make any one uneasy +about me, and I may have made light of the cold I caught a month since; +but I cannot conceal from myself that I have much painful cough, an +inclination to shortness of breath, and pain in the back and shoulders, +especially after long reading or writing. I thought it right to speak to +Mr. Downton, but people in high health can understand nothing short of +a raging fever; however, at last he called in the parish surgeon, a +stupid, ignorant fellow, who understands my case no more than his horse, +and treats me with hyoscyamus, as if it were a mere throat-cough. I +thought it my duty to speak openly, since, though I am quite aware that +circumstances make little difference in constitutional cases, I know you +and dear Mrs. Kendal will wish that all possible means should be used, +and I think it--’ + + +Mr. Kendal broke down, and handed the letter to his wife, who proceeded, + + +‘I think it best you should be prepared for the worst, as I wish and +endeavour to be; and truly I see so much trial and disappointment in +the course of life before me, that it would hardly be the worst to me, +except--’ + + +That sentence finished Albinia’s voice, and stealing her hand into her +husband’s, she read on in silence, + + +‘for the additional sorrow to you, and my grief at bringing pain to my +more than mother, but she has long known of the presentiment that +has always hung over me, and will be the better prepared for its +realization. If it would be any satisfaction to you, I could easily take +a ticket, and go up to London to see any physician you would prefer. I +could go with Price, who is going for his sister’s birthday, and I could +sleep at his father’s house; but, in that case, I should want three +pounds journey money, and I should be very glad if you would be so kind +as to let me have a sovereign in advance of my allowance, as Price knows +of a capital secondhand bow and arrows. With my best love to all, + +‘Your affectionate son, + +‘GILBERT KENDAL.’ + + +Albinia held the letter to her brother, to whom she looked for something +cheering, but, behold! a smile was gaining uncontrollably on the muscles +of his cheeks, though his lips strove hard to keep closely shut. She +would not look at him, and turning to her husband, exclaimed, ‘We will +take him to London ourselves!’ + +‘I am afraid that would be inconvenient,’ observed Maurice. + +‘That would not signify,’ continued Albinia; ‘I must hear myself what is +thought of him, and how I am to nurse him. Oh! taking it in time, dear +Edmund, we need not be so much afraid! Maurice will not mind making his +visit another time.’ + +‘I only meant inconvenient to the birthday party,’ drily said her +brother. + +‘Maurice!’ cried she, ‘you don’t know the boy!’ + +‘I have no doubt that he has a cold.’ + +‘And I know there is a great deal more the matter!’ cried Albinia. ‘We +have let him go away to be neglected and badly treated! My poor, dear +boy! Edmund, I will fetch him home to-morrow.’ + +‘You had better send me,’ said Maurice, mischievously, for he saw he +was diminishing Mr. Kendal’s alarm, and had a brotherly love of teasing +Albinia, and seeing how pretty she looked with her eyes flashing through +wrathful tears, and her foot patting impetuously on the carpet. + +‘You!’ she cried; ‘you don’t believe in him! You fancy all boys are made +of iron and steel--you would only laugh at him--you made us send him +there--I wish--’ + +‘Gently, gently, my dear Albinia,’ said her husband, dismayed at her +vehemence, just when it most amused her brother. ‘You cannot expect +Maurice to feel exactly as we do, and I confess that I have much hope +that this alarm may be more than adequate.’ + +‘He thinks it all a scheme!’ said Albinia, in a tone of great injury. + +‘No, indeed, Albinia,’ answered her brother, seriously, ‘I fully believe +that Gilbert imagines all that he tells you, but you cannot suppose that +either the tutor or doctor could fail to see if he were so very ill.’ + +‘Certainly not,’ assented Mr. Kendal. + +‘And low spirits are more apt to accompany a slight ailment, than such +an illness as you apprehend.’ + +‘I believe you are right,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Where is the letter?’ + +Albinia did not like it to come under discussion, but could not withhold +it, and as she read it again, she felt that neither Maurice nor her +cousin Fred could have written the like, but she was only the more +impelled to do battle, and when she came to the unlucky conclusion, she +exclaimed, ‘I am sure that was an afterthought. I dare say Price asked +him while he was writing.’ + +‘What’s this?’ asked Mr. Kendal, coming to the ‘presentiment.’ + +She hesitated, afraid both of him and of Maurice, but there was no +alternative. ‘Poor Gilbert!’ she said. ‘It was a cry or call from his +brother just at last. It has left a very deep impression.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said his father, much moved. ‘Yes. Edmund gave a cry such as +was not to be forgotten,’ and the sigh told how it had haunted his own +pillow; ‘but I had not thought that Gilbert was in a condition to notice +it. Did he mention it to you?’ + +‘Yes, not long after I came, he thinks it was a call, and I have never +known exactly how to deal with it.’ + +‘It is a case for very tender handling,’ said Maurice. + +‘I should have desired him never to think of it again,’ said Mr. Kendal, +decidedly. ‘Mere nonsense to dwell on it. Their names were always in +Edmund’s mouth, and it was nothing but accident. You should have told +him so, Albinia.’ + +And he walked out of the room. + +‘Ah! it will prey upon him now,’ said Albinia. + +‘Yes, I thought he only spoke of driving it away because it was what he +would like to be able to do. But things do not prey on people of his age +as they do on younger ones.’ + +‘I wonder if I did right,’ said Albinia. ‘I never liked to ask you, +though I wished it. I could not bear to treat it as a fancy. How was I +to know, if it may not have been intended to do him good? And you see +his father says it was very remarkable.’ + +‘Do you imagine that it dwells much upon his mind?’ + +‘Not when he is well--not when it would do him good,’ said Albinia; ‘it +rather haunts him the instant he is unwell.’ + +‘He makes it a superstition, then, poor boy! You thought me hard on +him, Albinia; but really I could not help being angry with him for so +lamentably frightening his father and you.’ + +‘Let us see how he is before you find fault with him,’ said Albinia. + +‘You’re as bad as if you were his mother, or worse!’ exclaimed Maurice. + +‘Oh! Maurice, I can’t help it! He had no one to care for him till I +came, and he is such a very dear fellow--he wants me so much!’ + +Mr. Ferrars agreed to go with Mr. Kendal to Traversham. He thought his +father would be encouraged by his presence, and he was not devoid of +curiosity. Albinia would not hear of staying at home; in fact, Maurice +suspected her of being afraid to trust Gilbert to his mercy. + +With a trembling heart she left the train at the little Traversham +station, making resolutions neither to be too angry with the negligent +tutor, nor to show Gilbert how much importance she attached to his +illness. + +As they walked into the village, they heard a merry clamour of tongue, +and presently met five or six boys, and, a few paces behind them, Mr. +Downton. + +‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘I am glad you are come. I would have written +yesterday, but that I found your boy had done so. I shall be very glad +to have him cheered up about himself. I will turn back with you. You go +on, Price. They are setting out for one of Hullah’s classes, so we shall +have the house clear.’ + +‘I hope there is not much amiss?’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘A tedious cold,’ said the tutor; ‘but the doctor assures me that there +is nothing wrong with his chest, and I do believe he would not cough +half so much, if he were not always watching himself.’ + +‘Who has been attending him?’ + +‘Lee, the union doctor, a very good man, with a large family,’ +(Albinia could have beaten him). ‘Indeed,’ he continued perceiving some +dissatisfied looks, ‘I think you will find that a little change is all +that he wants.’ + +‘I hope you can give a good account of him in other respects?’ said Mr. +Kendal. + +‘Oh! yes, in every way; he is the most good-natured lad in the world, +and quite the small boys’ friend. Perhaps he has been a little more +sentimental of late, but that may be only from being rather out of +order. I’ll call him.’ + +The last words were spoken as they entered the parsonage, where opening +a door, he said, ‘Here, Kendal, here’s a new prescription for you.’ + +Albinia had a momentary view of a tabby-cat and kitten, a volume of +poetry, a wiry-haired terrier, and Gilbert, all lying promiscuously on +the hearth-rug, before the two last leaped up, the one to bark, and the +other to come forward with outstretched hand, and glad countenance. + +He looked flushed and languid, but the roaring fire and close room might +account for that, and though, when the subject was mentioned, he gave a +short uncomfortable cough, Albinia’s mind was so far relieved, that +she was in doubt with whom to be angry, and prepared to stand on the +defensive, should her brother think him too well. + +The gentlemen went away together, and Gilbert, grasping her hand, gave +way to one of his effusions of affection--‘So kind to come to him--he +knew he had her to trust to, whatever happened’--and he leant his cheek +on his hand in a melancholy mood. + +‘Don’t be so piteous, Gibbie,’ she said. ‘You were quite right to tell +us you were not well, only you need not have been so very doleful, I +don’t like papa to be frightened.’ + +‘I thought it was no use to go on in this way,’ said Gilbert, with a +cough: ‘it was the old thing over again, and nobody would believe I had +anything the matter with me.’ + +And he commenced a formidable catalogue of symptoms which satisfied her +that Maurice would think him fully justified. Just at a point where it +was not easy to know what next to say, the kitten began to play tricks +with her mother’s tail, and a happy diversion was made; Gilbert began to +exhibit the various drolleries of the animals, to explain the friendship +between dog and cat, and to leave off coughing as he related anecdotes +of their sagacity; and finally, when the gentlemen returned, laughing +was the first sound they heard, and Mrs. Kendal was found sitting on the +floor at play with the livestock. + +They had come to fetch her to see the church and schools, and on going +out, she found that Mr. Ferrars had moved and carried that Gilbert +should be taken home at once, and, on the way, be shown to a +physician at the county town. From this she gathered that Maurice was +compassionate, and though, of course, he would make no such admission, +she had reason afterwards to believe that he had shown Mr. Downton that +the pupil’s health ought to have met with a shade more attention. + +With Gilbert wrapped up to the tip of his nose, they set off, and +found the doctor at home. Nothing could have been more satisfactory to +Albinia, for it gave her a triumph over her brother, without too much +anxiety for the future. The physician detected the injury to the lungs +left by an attack that the boy had suffered from in his first English +winter, and had scarcely outgrown when Albinia first knew him. The +recent cold had so far renewed the evil, that though no disease actually +existed, the cough must be watched, and exposure avoided; in fact, a +licence for petting to any extent was bestowed, and therewith every hope +of recovery. + +Albinia and her son sat in their corners of the carriage in secret +satisfaction, while Mr. Kendal related the doctor’s opinion to Mr. +Ferrars, but one of them, at least, was unprepared for the summing-up. +‘Under the circumstances, Gilbert is most fortunate. A few years in his +native climate will quite set him up.’ + +‘Oh! but he is too old for Haileybury,’ burst out Albinia, in her +consternation. + +‘Nearly old enough for John Kendal’s bank, eh, Gilbert?’ + +‘Oh!’ cried Albinia, ‘pray don’t let us talk of that while poor Gilbert +is so ill.’ + +‘Hm!’ said Mr. Kendal with interrogative surprise, almost displeasure, +and no more was said. + +Albinia felt guilty, as she remembered that she had no more intended to +betray her dislike to the scheme, than to gratify Gilbert by calling +him ‘so ill.’ Aristocratic and military, she had no love for the monied +interest, and had so sedulously impressed on her friends that Mr. Kendal +had been in the Civil Service, and quite unconnected with the bank, that +Mr. Ferrars had told her she thought his respectability depended on it, +and she was ashamed that her brother should hear her give way again so +foolishly to the weakness. + +Gilbert became the most talkative as they drew near home, and was the +first to spring out and open the hall door, displaying his two sisters +harnessed tandem-fashion with packthread, and driven at full speed by +little Maurice, armed with the veritable carriage whip! The next moment +it was thrown down, with a rapturous shout, and Maurice was lost to +everything but his brother! + +‘Oh! girls, how could you let him serve you so?’ began the horrified +Albinia. ‘Sophy will be laid up for a week!’ + +‘Never mind,’ said Sophy, dropping on a chair. ‘Poor little fellow, he +wished it so much!’ + +‘I tried to stop her, mamma,’ said Lucy, ‘but she will do as Maurice +pleases.’ + +‘See, this is the way they will spoil my boy, the instant my back is +turned!’ said Albinia. ‘What’s the use of all I can do with him, if +every one else will go and be his bond-slave! I do believe Sophy would +let him kill her, if he asked her!’ + +‘It is no real kindness,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Their good-nature ought not +to go beyond reason.’ + +The elder Maurice could hardly help shrugging his shoulders. Well did +he know that Mr. Kendal would have joined the team if such had been the +will of that sovereign in scarlet merino, who stood with one hand in +Gilbert’s, and the whip in the other. + +‘Come here, Maurice,’ quoth Albinia; ‘put down the whip,’ and she +extracted it from his grasp, with grave resolution, against which he +made no struggle, gave it to Lucy to be put away, and seated him on +her knee. ‘Now listen, Maurice; poor sister Sophy is tired, and you are +never to make a horse of her. Do you hear?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Maurice, fidgeting. + +‘Mind, if ever you make a horse of Sophy, mamma will put you into the +black cupboard. You understand?’ + +‘Sophy shan’t be horse,’ said Maurice. ‘Sophy naughty, lazy horse. Boy +has Gibbie--’ + +‘There’s gratitude,’ said Mr. Ferrars, as ‘Boy’ slid off his mamma’s +knee, stood on tiptoe to pull the door open, and ran after Gilbert to +grandmamma’s room. + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia, ‘no one is grateful for services beyond all reason. +So, Sophy, mind, into the cupboard he goes, the very next time you are +so silly as to be a horse.’ + +‘To punish which of them?’ asked her brother. + +‘Sophy knows,’ said Albinia. + +Sophy was too miserable to smile. Sarah Anne Drury had been calling, and +on hearing of Gilbert’s indisposition, had favoured them with ‘mamma’s +remarks,’ and when Mrs. Kendal was blamed, Sophy had indignantly told +Sarah Anne that she knew nothing about it, and had no business to +interfere. Then followed the accusation, that Mrs. Kendal had set the +whole family against their old friends, and Sophy had found all her own +besetting sins charged upon her step-mother. + +‘My dear!’ said Albinia, ‘don’t you know that if a royal tiger were +to eat up your cousin John in India, the Drurys would say Mrs. Kendal +always let the tigers run about loose! Nor am I sure that your faults +are not my fault. I helped you to be more exclusive and intolerant, and +I am sure I tried your temper, when I did not know what was the matter +with you--’ + +‘No--no,’ said the choked voice. It would have been an immense comfort +to cry, or even to be able to return the kiss; but she was a great deal +too wretched to be capable of any demonstration; physically exhausted by +being driven about by Maurice; mentally worn out by the attempts to +be amiable, which had degenerated into wrangling, full of remorse +for having made light of her brother’s illness, and, for that reason, +persuaded that she was to be punished by seeing it become fatal. Not a +word of all this did she say, but, dejected and silent, she spent the +evening in a lonely corner of the drawing-room, while her brother, in +the full pleasure of returning home, and greatly enjoying his invalid +privileges, was discussing the projected improvements. + +Talking at last brought back his cough with real violence, and he was +sent to bed; Albinia went up with him to see that his fire burnt. He set +Mr. Ferrars’s drawing of the alms-houses over his mantelshelf. ‘I shall +nail it up to-morrow,’ he said. ‘I always wanted a picture here, and +that’s a jolly one to look to.’ + +‘It would be a beautiful beginning,’ she said. ‘I think your life would +go the better for it, Gibbie.’ + +‘I suppose old nurse would be too grand for one,’ he said, ‘but I should +like to have her so near! And you must mind and keep old Mrs. Baker out +of the Union for it. And that famous old blind sailor! I shall put him +up a bench to sit in the sun, and spin his yarns on, and tell him to +think himself at Greenwich.’ + +Albinia went down, only afraid that his being so very good was a +dangerous symptom. + +Sophy was far from well in the morning, and Albinia kept her upstairs, +and sent her godfather to make her a visit. He always did her good; he +knew how to probe deeply, and help her to speak, and he gave her advice +with more experience than his sister, and more encouragement than her +father. + +Sophy said little, but her eyes had a softened look. + +‘One good thing about Sophy,’ said he afterwards to his sister, ‘is, +that she will never talk her feelings to death.’ + +‘That reserve is my great pain. I don’t get at the real being once in +six months.’ + +‘So much the better for people living together.’ + +‘Well, I was thinking that you and I are a great deal more intimate and +confidential when we meet now, than we used to be when we were always +together.’ + +‘People can’t be often confidential from the innermost when they live +together,’ said Maurice. + +‘Since I have been a Kendal, such has been my experience.’ + +‘It was the same before, only we concealed it by an upper surface of +chatter,’ said Maurice. ‘“As iron sharpeneth iron, so doth a man the +countenance of his friend;” but if the mutual sharpening went on without +intermission, both irons would wear away, and no work would be done. +Aren’t you coming with me? Edmund is going to drive me to Woodside to +meet the pony-carriage from home.’ + +‘I wish I could; but you see what happens when I go out pleasuring!’ + +‘Well, you can take one element of mischief with you--that imp, +Maurice.’ + +‘Ye--es. Papa would like it, if you do.’ + +‘I should like you to come on worse terms.’ + +‘Very well, then; and Sophy is safe; I had already asked Genevieve to +come and read to her this afternoon. If Gilbert can spare me, I will +go.’ + +Gilbert did not want her, and begged Lucy not to think of staying +indoors on his account. He was presently left in solitary possession +of the drawing-room, whereupon he rose, settled his brown locks at the +glass, arranged his tie, brushed his cuffs, leisurely walked upstairs, +and tapped at the door of the morning-room, meekly asking, ‘May I come +in?’ with a cough at each end of the sentence. + +‘Oh! Gilbert!’ cried his anxious sister, starting up. ‘Are you come to +see me?’ and she would have wheeled round her father’s arm-chair for +him, but Genevieve was beforehand with her, and he sank into it, saying +pathetically, ‘Ah! thank you, Miss Durant; you are come to a perfect +hospital. Oh! this is too much,’ as she further gave him a footstool. +‘Oh! no, thank you, Sophy,’ for she would have handed Genevieve her +own pillow for his further support; ‘this is delightful!’ reclining +pathetically in his chair. ‘This is not like Traversham.’ + +‘Where they would not believe he was ill!’ said Sophy. + +‘I hope he does not look so very ill,’ said Genevieve, cheerfully, but +this rather hurt the feelings of both; the one said, ‘Oh! but he is +terribly pale,’ the other coughed, and said, ‘Looks are deceitful.’ + +‘That is the very reason,’ said Genevieve. ‘You don’t look deceitful +enough to be so ill--so ill as Miss Sophie fears; now you are at home, +and well cared for, you will soon be well.’ + +‘Care would have prevented it all,’ said Sophy. + +‘And not brought me home!’ said Gilbert. ‘Home is home on any terms. +No one there had the least idea a fellow could ever be unwell or out of +spirits!’ + +‘Ah! you must have been ill,’ cried his sister, ‘you who never used to +be miserable!’ + +Gilbert gave a sigh. ‘They were such mere boys,’ he said. + +‘Monsieur votre Precepteur?’ asked Genevieve. + +‘Ah! he was otherwise occupied!’ + +‘There is some mystery beneath,’ said Genevieve, turning to Sophy, who +exclaimed abruptly, ‘Oh! is he in love?’ + +‘Sophy goes to the point,’ said Gilbert, smiling, the picture of languid +comfort; ‘but I own there are suspicious circumstances. He always has a +photograph in his pocket, and Price has seen him looking at it.’ + +‘Ah! depend upon it, Miss Sophy, it is all a romance of these young +gentlemen,’ said Genevieve, turning to her with a droll provoking air of +confidence; ‘ce pauvre Monsieur had the portrait of his sister!’ + +‘Catch me carrying Sophy’s face in my waistcoat pocket, cried Gilbert, +forgetting his languor. + +‘Speak for yourself, Mr. Gilbert,’ laughed Genevieve. + +‘And he writes letters every day, and wont let any of us put them into +the post for him; but we know the direction begins with Miss--’ + +‘Oh! the curious boys!’ cried Genevieve. ‘If I could only hint to this +poor tutor to let them read Miss Downton on one!’ + +‘I assure you,’ cried Gilbert, ‘Price has laid a bet that she’s an +heiress with forty thousand pounds and red hair.’ + +‘Mr. Price is an impertinent! I hope you will inform me how he looks +when he is the loser.’ + +‘But he has seen her! He met Mr. Downton last Christmas in Regent +Street, in a swell carriage, with a lady with such carrots, he thought +her bonnet was on fire; and Mr. Downton never saw Price, though he bowed +to him, and you know nobody would marry a woman with red hair unless she +was an heiress.’ + +‘Miss Sophy,’ whispered Genevieve, ‘prepare for a red-haired +sister-in-law. I predict that every one of the pupils of the respectable +Mr. Downton will marry ladies with lively chestnut locks.’ + +‘What, you think me so mercenary, Genevieve?’ said Gilbert. + +‘I only hope to see this school-boy logic well revenged!’ said +Genevieve. ‘Mrs. Price shall have locks of orange red, and for Mrs. +Gilbert Kendal--ah! we will content ourselves with her having a paler +shade--sandy gold.’ + +‘No,’ said Gilbert, speaking slowly, turning round his eyes. ‘I could +tell you what Mrs. G. Kendal’s hair will be--’ + +Genevieve let this drop, and said, ‘You do not want me: good-bye, Miss +Sophie.’ + +‘Going! why, you came to read to me, Genevieve,’ exclaimed Sophy. + +‘Ah! I beg your pardon, I have been interrupting you all this time,’ +cried Gilbert; ‘I never meant to disturb you. Pray let me listen.’ + +And Genevieve read while Gilbert resumed his reclining attitude, with +half-closed eyes, listening to the sweet intonations and pretty refined +accent of the ancien regime. + +Sophy enjoyed this exceedingly, she made it her especial occupation +to take care of Gilbert, and enter into his fireside amusements. This +indisposition had drawn the two nearer together, and essentially unlike +as they were, their two characters seemed to be fitting well one into +the other. His sentiment accorded with her strain of romance, and they +read poetry and had discussions as they sat over the fire, growing +constantly into greater intimacy and confidence. Sophy waited on him, +and watched him perpetually, and her assiduity was imparting a softness +and warmth quite new to her, while the constant occupation kept affronts +and vexations out of her sight, and made her amiable. + +Gilbert’s health improved, though with vicissitudes that enforced the +necessity of prudence. Rash when well, and desponding at each renewal +of illness, he was not easy to manage, but he was always so gentle, +grateful, and obliging, that he endeared himself to the whole household. +It was no novelty for him to be devoted to his step-mother and his +little brother, but he was likewise very kind to Lucy, and spent much +time in helping in her pursuits; he was becoming companionable to +his father, and could play at chess sufficiently well to be a worthy +antagonist in Mr. Kendal’s scientific and interminable games. He would +likewise play at backgammon with grandmamma, and could entertain her +for hours together by listening to her long stories of the old Bayford +world. He was a favourite in her little society, and would often take +a hand at cards to make up a rubber, nay, even when not absolutely +required, he was very apt to bestow his countenance upon the little +parties, where he had the pleasure of being treated as a great man, +and which, at least, had the advantage of making a variation in his +imprisonment during the east winds. + +Madame Belmarche and her daughter and grandchild were sometimes of +the party, and on these occasions, Sophy always claimed Genevieve, and +usually succeeded in carrying her off when Gilbert would often join +them. Their books and prints were a great treat to her; Gilbert had a +beautiful illustrated copy of Longfellow’s poems, and the engravings and +‘Evangeline’ were their enjoyment; Gilbert regularly proffering the loan +of the book, and she as regularly refusing it, and turning a deaf ear to +gentle insinuations of the pleasure of knowing that an book of his was +in her hands. Gilbert had never had much of the schoolboy manner, and he +was adopting a gentle, pathetic tone, at which Albinia was apt to laugh, +but in her absence was often verged upon tendresse, especially with +Genevieve. She, however, by her perfect simplicity and lively banter, +always nipped the bud of his sentiment, she had known him from a child, +and never lost the sense of being his elder, treating him somewhat as +a boy to be played with. Perfectly aware of her own position, her +demeanour, frank and gracious as it was, had something in it which kept +in check other Bayford youths less gentlemanlike than Gilbert Kendal. If +she never forgot that she was dancing-master’s daughter, she never let +any one else forget that she was a lady. + +When the building began, Gilbert had a wholesome occupation, saving his +father some trouble and--not quite so much expense by overlooking the +workmen. Mr. Kendal was glad to be spared giving orders and speaking to +people, and would always rather be overcharged than be at the pains of +bargaining or inquiring. ‘It was Gilbert’s own house,’ he said, ‘and it +was good for the boy to take an interest in it, and not to be too much +interfered with.’ So the bay window and the conservatory were some +degrees grander than Mr. Ferrars had proposed but all was excused by the +pleasure and experience they afforded Gilbert, and it was very droll to +see Maurice following him about after the workmen, watching them most +knowingly, and deep in mischief at every opportunity. Once he had been +up to his knees in a tempting blancmanger-like lake of lime, many times +had he hammered or cut his fingers, and once his legs had gone through +the new drawing-room ceiling, where he hung by the petticoats screaming +till rescued by his brother. The room was under these auspices finished, +and was a very successful affair--the conservatory, in which the hall +terminated, and into which a side door of the drawing-room opened, gave +a bright fragrant, flowery air to the whole house; and the low fireplace +and comfortable fan-shaped fender made the room very cheerful. Fresh +delicately-tinted furniture, chosen con amore by the London aunts, had +made the apartment very unlike old Willow-Lawn, and Albinia had so much +enjoyed setting it off to the best advantage, that she sent word to +Winifred that she was really becoming a furniture fancier. + +It was a very pretty paper, and some choice prints hung on it, but +Albinia and Sophy had laid violent hands on all the best-looking books, +and kept them for the equipment of one of the walls. The rest were +disposed, for Mr. Kendal’s delectation, in the old drawing-room, +henceforth to be named the library. Lucy thought it sounded better, and +he was quite as willing as Albinia was that the name of study should +be extinct. Meantime Mr. Downton had verified the boys’ prediction by +writing to announce that he was about to marry and give up pupils. + +Gilbert was past seventeen, and it was time to decide on his profession. +Albinia had virtuously abstained from any hint adverse to the house of +Kendal and Kendal, for she knew it hurt her husband’s feelings to hear +any disparagement of the country where he had spent some of his happiest +years. He was fond of his cousins, and knew that they would give his son +a safe and happy home, and he believed that the climate was exactly what +his health needed. + +Sophy fired at the idea. Her constant study of the subject and her vivid +imagination had taken the place of memory, which could supply nothing +but the glow of colouring and the dazzling haze which enveloped all +the forms that she would fain believe that she remembered. She and her +father would discuss Indian scenery as if they had been only absent from +it a year, she envied Gilbert his return thither, but owned that it was +the next thing to going herself, and was already beginning to amass a +hoard of English gifts for the old ayahs and bearers who still lived +in her recollection, in preparation for the visit which on his first +holiday her brother must pay to her birthplace and first home. + +Gilbert, however, took no part in this enthusiasm, he made no +opposition, but showed no alacrity; and at last his father asked Albinia +whether she knew of any objection on his part, or any design which he +might be unwilling to put forward. With a beating heart she avowed her +cherished scheme. + +‘Is this his own proposal?’ asked Mr. Kendal. + +‘No; he has never spoken of it, but your plan has always seemed so +decided that perhaps he thinks he has no choice.’ + +‘That is not what I wish,’ said his father. ‘If his inclinations be +otherwise, he has only to speak, and I will consider.’ + +‘Shall I sound him?’ suggested Albinia, dreading the timidity that +always stood between the boy and his father. + +‘Do not inspire him with the wish and then imagine it his own,’ said Mr. +Kendal; and then thinking he had spoken sternly, added ‘I know you would +be the last to wish him to take holy orders inconsiderately, but you +have such power over him, that I question whether he would know his +wishes from yours.’ + +Albinia began to disavow the desire of actuating him. + +‘You would not intend it, but he would catch the desire from you, and +I own I would rather he were not inspired with it. If he now should +express it, I should fear it was the unconscious effort to escape +from India. If it had been his brother Edmund, I would have made +any sacrifice, but I do not think Gilbert has the energy or force of +character I should wish to see in a clergyman, nor do I feel willing to +risk him at the university.’ + +‘Oh! Edmund, why will you distrust Oxford? Why will you not believe what +I know through Maurice and his friends?’ + +‘If my poor boy had either the disposition or the discipline of your +brother, I should not feel the same doubt.’ + +‘Maurice had no discipline except at school and when William licked +him,’ cried Albinia. ‘You know he was but eleven years old when my +father died, and my aunts spoilt us without mitigation.’ + +‘I said the disposition,’ repeated Mr. Kendal; ‘I can see nothing in +Gilbert marking him for a clergyman, and I think him susceptible to the +temptations that you cannot deny to exist at any college. Nor would I +desire to see him fixed here, until he has seen something of life and of +business, for which this bank affords the greatest facilities with the +least amount of temptation. He would also be doing something for his +own support; and with the life-interests upon his property, he must be +dependent on his own exertions, unless I were to do more for him than +would be right by the other children.’ + +‘Then I am to say nothing to him?’ + +‘I will speak to him myself. He is quite old enough to understand his +prospects and decide for himself.’ + +‘But, Edmund,’ cried Albinia, with sudden vehemence, ‘you are not +sacrificing Gilbert for Maurice’s sake?’ + +She had more nearly displeased him than she had ever done before, though +he looked up quietly, saying, ‘Certainly not. I am not sacrificing +Gilbert, and I should do the same if Maurice were not in existence.’ + +She was too much ashamed of her foolish fancy to say more, and +she cooled into candour sufficient to perceive that he was wise in +distrusting her tact where her preference was so strong. But she foresaw +that Gilbert would shrink and falter before his father, and that the +conference would lead to no discovery of his views, and she was not +surprised when her husband told her that he could not understand the +boy, and believed that the truth was, that he would like to do nothing +at all. It had ended by Mr. Kendal, in a sort of despair, undertaking +to write to his cousin John for a statement of what would be required, +after which the decision was to be made. + +Meantime Mr. Kendal advised Gilbert to attend to arithmetic and +book-keeping, and offered to instruct him in his long-forgotten +Hindostanee. Sophy learnt all these with all her heart, but Gilbert +always had a pain in his chest if he sat still at any kind of study! + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + + +Colonel Bury was the most open-hearted old bachelor in the country. His +imagination never could conceive the possibility of everybody not +being glad to meet everybody, his house could never be too full, his +dinner-parties of ‘a few friends’ overflowed the dining-room, and his +‘nobody’ meant always at least six bodies. Every season was fertile +in occasions of gathering old and young together to be made happy, and +little Mary Ferrars, at five years old, had told her mamma that ‘the +Colonel’s parties made her quite dissipated.’ + +One bright summer day, his beaming face appeared at Willow-Lawn with a +peremptory invitation. His nephew and heir had newly married a friend of +Albinia’s girlhood, and was about to pay his wedding visit. Too happy to +keep his guests to himself, the Colonel had fixed the next Thursday for +a fete, and wanted all the world to come to it--the Kendals, every one +of them--if they could only sleep there--but Albinia brought him to +confession that he had promised to lodge five people more than the house +would hold; and the aunts were at the parsonage, where nobody ventured +to crowd their servants. + +But there was a moon--and though Mr. Kendal would not allow that she was +the harvest moon, the hospitable Colonel dilated on her as if she had +been bed, board, and lodging, and he did not find much difficulty in his +persuasions. + +Few invitations ever gave more delight; Albinia appreciated a holiday +to the utmost, and the whole family was happy at Sophy’s chance of at +length seeing Fairmead, and taking part in a little gaiety. And if Mr. +Kendal’s expectations of pleasure were less high, he submitted very +well, smiled benignantly at the felicity around him, and was not once +seen to shudder. + +Sarah Anne Drury had been invited to enliven grandmamma, and every +one augured a beautiful day and perfect enjoyment. The morning was +beautiful, but alas! Sophy was hors de combat, far too unwell to think +of making one of the party. She bore the disappointment magnanimously, +and even the pity. Every one was sorry, and Gilbert wanted her to go +and wait at Fairmead Parsonage for the chance of improving, promising +to come and fetch her for any part of the entertainment; and her father +told her that he had looked to her as his chief companion while the gay +people were taking their pleasure. No one was uncomfortably generous +enough to offer to stay at home with her; but Lucy suggested asking +Genevieve to come and take care of her. + +‘Nay,’ said Sophy, ‘it would be much better if she were to go in my +stead.’ + +Gilbert and Lucy both uttered an exclamation; and Sophy added, ‘She +would have so much more enjoyment than I could! Oh, it would quite make +up for my missing it!’ + +‘My dear,’ said grandmamma, ‘you don’t know what you are talking of. It +would be taking such a liberty.’ + +‘There need be no scruples on that score,’ said Albinia; ‘the Colonel +would only thank me if I brought him half Bayford.’ + +‘Then,’ cried Sophy, ‘you think we may ask her? Oh, I should like to run +up myself;’--and a look of congratulation and gratitude passed between +her and her brother. + +‘No, indeed, you must not, let me go,’ said Lucy, ‘I’ll just finish this +cup of tea--’ + +‘My dear, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Meadows, ‘pray consider. She is a +very good little girl in her way, but it is only giving her a taste for +things out of her station.’ + +‘Oh! don’t say that, dear grandmamma,’ interposed Albinia, ‘one good +festival does carry one so much better through days of toil!’ + +‘Ah, well! my dear, you will do as you think proper; but considering who +the poor child is, I should call it no kindness to bring her forward in +company.’ + +Something passed between the indignant Gilbert and Sophy about +French counts and marquises, but Lucy managed much better. ‘Dear me, +grandmamma, nobody wishes to bring her forward. She will only play with +the children, and see the fireworks, and no one will speak to her.’ + +Albinia averted further discussion till grandmamma had left the +breakfast-table, when all four appealed with one voice to Mr. Kendal, +who saw no objection, whereupon Lucy ran off, while Albinia finished her +arrangements for the well-being of grandmamma, Sophy, and Maurice, who +were as difficult to manage as the fox, goose, and cabbage. At every +turn she encountered Gilbert, touching up his toilette at each glass, +and seriously consulting her and Sophy upon the choice between lilac and +lemon-coloured gloves, and upon the bows of his fringed neck-tie. + +‘My dear Gilbert,’ said Albinia, on the fifth anxious alternative, ‘it +is of no use. No living creature will be the wiser, and do what you +will, you will never look half so well as your father.’ + +Gilbert flung aside, muttering something about ‘fit to be seen,’ but +just then Lucy hurried in. ‘Oh! mamma, she wont go--she is very much +obliged, but she can’t go.’ + +‘Can’t! she must,’ cried Albinia and Gilbert together. + +‘She says you are very kind, but that she cannot. I said everything I +could; I told her she should wear Sophy’s muslin mantle, or my second +best polka.’ + +‘No doubt you went and made a great favour of it,’ said Gilbert. + +‘No, I assure you I did not; I persuaded her with all my might; I said +mamma wished it, and we all wished it; and I am sure she would really +have been very glad if she could have gone.’ + +‘It can’t be the school, it is holiday time,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’ll go and +see what is the matter.’ + +‘No, I will go,’ said Albinia, ‘I will ask the old ladies to luncheon +here, and that will make her happy, and make it easier for Sophy to get +on with Sarah Anne Drury.’ + +Lucy had seen Genevieve alone; Albinia took her by storm before Madame +Belmarche, whose little black eyes sparkled as she assured Mrs. Kendal +that the child merited that and every other pleasure; and when Genevieve +attempted to whisper objections, silenced her with an embrace, saying, +‘Ah! my love, where is your gratitude to Madame? Have no fears for us. +Your pleasure will be ours for months to come.’ + +The liquid sweetness of Genevieve’s eyes spoke of no want of gratitude, +and with glee which she no longer strove to repress, she tripped away to +equip herself, and Albinia heard her clear young voice upstairs, singing +away the burthen of some queer old French ditty. + +Albinia found Gilbert and Sophy in disgrace with Lucy for having +gathered the choicest flowers, which they were eagerly making up into +bouquets. Genevieve’s was ready before she arrived in the prettiest +tremor of gratitude and anticipation, and presented to her by Gilbert, +whilst Sophy looked on, and blushed crimson, face, neck, and all, as +Genevieve smelt and admired the white roses that had so cruelly been +reft from Lucy’s beloved tree. + +With every advantage of pretty features, good complexion, and nice +figure, the English Lucy, in her blue-and-white checked silk, worked +muslin mantle, and white chip bonnet with blue ribbons, was eclipsed by +the small swarthy French girl, in that very old black silk dress, and +white trimmed coarse straw bonnet, just enlivened by little pink bows +at the neck and wrists. It had long been acknowledged that Genevieve was +unrivalled in the art of tying bows, and those pink ones were paragons, +redolent of all her own fresh sprightly archness and refinement. Albinia +herself was the best representative of English good looks, and never had +she been more brilliant, her rich chestnut hair waving so prettily on +the rounded contour of her happy face, her fair cheek tinted with such +a healthy fresh bloom, her grey eyes laughing with merry softness, her +whole person so alert and elastic with exuberant life and enjoyment, +that grandmamma was as happy in watching her as if she had been her own +daughter, and stroked down the broad flounces of her changeable silk, +and admired her black lace, as if she felt the whole family exalted by +Mrs. Kendal’s appearance. + +It was a merry journey, through the meadows and corn-fields, laughing +in the summer sunshine, and in due time they saw the flag upon Fairmead +steeple, and Albinia nodded to curtseying old friends at the cottage +doors. The lodge gate swung open wide, and the well-known striped +marquee was seen among the trees in the distance, as they went up the +carriage road; but at the little iron gate leading to the shrubbery +there was a halt; Mr. Ferrars called to the carriage to stop, and +opened the door. At the same moment Albinia gave a cry of wonder, and +exclaimed, ‘Why, Fred? is William here?’ + +‘No; at Montreal, but very well,’ was the answer, with a hearty shake of +the hand. + +‘Edmund, it is Fred Ferrars,’ said Albinia. ‘Why, Maurice, you never +told us.’ + +‘He took us by surprise yesterday.’ + +‘Yes; I landed yesterday morning, went to the Family Office, found +Belraven was nowhere, and the aunts at Fairmead, and so came on here,’ +explained Fred, as he finished shaking hands with all the party, and +walked on beside Albinia. He was tall, fresh-coloured, a good deal like +her, with a long fair moustache, and light, handsome figure; and +Lucy, though rather disconcerted at Genevieve being taken for one of +themselves, began eagerly to whisper her conviction that he was Lord +Belraven’s brother, mamma’s first cousin, captain in the 25th Lancers, +and aide-de-camp to General Ferrars. + +It was the first meeting since an awkward parting. The only son of a +foolish second marriage, and early left an orphan, Frederick Ferrars +bad grown up under the good aunts’ charge, somewhat neglected by +his half-brother, by many years his senior. He was little older than +Albinia, and a merry, bantering affection had always subsisted between +them, till he had begun to give it the air of something more than +friendship. Albinia was, however, of a nature to seek for something of +depth and repose, on which to rely for support and anchorage. Fred’s +vivacious disposition had never for a moment won her serious attachment; +she was ‘very fond of him,’ but no more; her heart was set on sharing +her brother’s life as a country pastor. She went to Fairmead, Fred was +carried off by the General to Canada, and she presently heard of +his hopeless attachment to a lovely Yankee, whom he met on board the +steamer. All this was now cast behind the seven most eventful years of +Albinia’s life; and in the dignity of her matronhood, she looked more +than ever on ‘poor Fred’ as a boy, and was delighted to see him again, +and to hear of her brother William. + +A few steps brought them to the shade of the large cedar-tree, where +was seated Winifred, and Mrs. Annesley was with her. The greetings +had hardly been exchanged before the Colonel came upon them in all his +glory, with his pretty shy bride niece on his arm, looking very like the +Alice Percy of the old times, when Fred used to tease the two girls. + +Genevieve was made heartily welcome, and Sophia’s absence deplored, and +then the Colonel carried off the younger ones to the archery, giving his +arm to the much-flattered Lucy, and followed by Gilbert and Genevieve, +with Willie and Mary adhering to them closely, and their governess in +sight. + +Mr. Ferrars and Mr. Kendal fell into one of their discussions, and +paced up and down the shady walk, while Albinia sat, in the complete +contentment, between Alice and Winifred, with Fred Ferrars on the turf +at their feet, living over again the bygone days, laughing over ancient +jokes, resuscitating past scrapes, tracing the lot of old companions, +or telling mischievous anecdotes of each other, for the very purpose of +being contradicted. They were much too light-hearted to note the lapse +of time, till Maurice came to take his wife home, thinking she had had +fatigue enough. Mrs. Annesley went with her, and Albinia, on looking +for her husband, was told that he had fallen in with some old Indian +acquaintances; and Charles Bury presently came to find his wife, and +conduct the party to luncheon. There was no formal meal, but a perpetual +refection laid out in the dining-room, for relays of guests. Fred took +care of Albinia and here they met Miss Ferrars, who had been with one +of her old friends, to whom she was delighted to exhibit her nephew and +niece in their prime of good looks. + +‘But I must go,’ said Albinia; ‘having found the provisions, I must +secure that Mr. Kendal and the children are not famished.’ + +Fred came with her, and she turned down the long alley leading to the +archery-ground. He felt old times so far renewed as to resume their +habits of confidence, and began, ‘I suppose the General has not told you +what has brought me home?’ + +‘He has not so much as told me you were coming.’ + +‘Ay, ay, of course you know how he treats those things.’ + +‘Oh--h!’ said Albinia, perfectly understanding. + +‘But,’ continued Frederick, eagerly, ‘even he confesses that she is the +very sweetest--I mean,’ as Albinia smiled at this evident embellishment, +‘even he has not a word of objection to make except the old story about +married officers.’ + +‘And who is _she_, Fred?’ + +‘Oh, mamma, there you are!’ and Lucy joined them as they emerged on the +bowling-green, where stood the two bright targets, and the groups of +archers, whose shafts, for the most part, flew far and wide. + +‘Where are the rest, my dear? are they shooting?’ + +‘Yes; Gilbert has been teaching Genevieve--there, she is shooting now.’ + +The little light figure stood in advance. Gilbert held her arrows, and +another gentleman appeared to be counselling her. There seemed to be +general exultation when one of her arrows touched the white ring outside +the target. + +‘That has been her best shot,’ said Lucy. ‘I am sure I would not shoot +in public unless I knew how!’ + +‘Do you not like shooting?’ asked Captain Ferrars; and Lucy smiled, and +lost her discontented air. + +‘It hurts my fingers, she said; ‘and I have always so much to do in the +garden.’ + +Albinia asked if she had had anything to eat. + +‘Oh, yes; the Colonel asked Gilbert to carve in the tent there, for the +children and governesses,’ said Lucy, ‘he and Genevieve were very busy +there, but I found I was not of much use so, I came away with the Miss +Bartons to look at the flowers, but now they are shooting, and I could +not think what had become of you.’ + +And Lucy bestowed her company on Albinia and the Captain, reducing him +to dashing, disconnected talk, till they met Mr. Kendal, searching for +them in the same fear that they were starving, and anxious to introduce +his wife to his Indian friends. When at the end of the path, Albinia +looked round, the Lancer had disappeared, and Lucy was walking by her +father, trying to look serenely amused by a discussion on the annexation +of the Punjaub. + +The afternoon was spent in pleasant loitering, chiefly with Miss +Ferrars, who asked much after Sophy, lamented greatly over Winifred’s +delicate health, and was very anxious to know what could have brought +Fred home, being much afraid it was some fresh foolish attachment. + +Ominous notes were heard from the band, and the Colonel came to tell +them that there was to be dancing till it was dark enough for the +fireworks, his little Alice had promised him her first country-dance. +Fred Ferrars emerged again with a half-laughing, half-imploring, ‘For +the sake of old times, Albinia! We’ve been partners before!’ + +‘You’ll take care of Lucy,’ said Albinia, turning to her aunt; but Mr. +Winthrop had already taken pity on her, and Albinia was led off by her +cousin to her place in the fast lengthening rank. How she enjoyed it! +She had cared little for London balls after the first novelty, but these +Fairmead dances on the turf had always had an Arcadian charm to her +fancy, and were the more delightful after so long an interval, in the +renewal of the old scene, and the recognition of so many familiar faces. + +With bounding step and laughing lips, she flew down the middle, more +exhilarated every moment, exchanging merry scraps of talk with her +partner or bright fragments as she poussetted with pair after pair; and +when the dance was over, with glowing complexion and eyes still dancing, +she took Fred’s arm, and heard the renewal of his broken story--the +praise of his Emily, the fairest of Canadians, whom even the General +could not dislike, though, thorough soldier as he was, he would fain +have had all military men as devoid of encumbrances as himself, and +thought an officer’s wife one of the most misplaced articles in the +world. Poor Fred had been in love so often, that he laboured under +the great vexation of not being able to persuade any of his friends to +regard his passion seriously, but Albinia was quite sisterly enough to +believe him this time, and give full sympathy to his hopes and fears. +Far less wealth had fallen to his lot than to that of his cousins, and +his marriage must depend on what his brother would ‘do for him,’ a point +on which he tried to be sanguine, and Albinia encouraged him against +probability, for Lord Belraven was never liberal towards his relations, +and had lately married an expensive wife, with whom he lived chiefly +abroad. + +This topic was not exhausted when Fred fell a prey to the Colonel, who +insisted on his dancing again, and Albinia telling him to do his +duty, he turned towards a group that had coalesced round Miss Ferrars, +consisting of Lucy, Gilbert, Genevieve, and the children from the +parsonage, and at once bore off the little Frenchwoman, leaving more +than one countenance blank. Lucy and Willie did their best for mutual +consolation, while Albinia undertook to preside over her niece and a +still smaller partner in red velvet, in a quadrille. It was amusing to +watch the puzzled downright motions of the sturdy little bluff King +Hal, and the earnest precision of the prim little damsel, and Albinia +hovering round, now handing one, now pointing to the other, keeping +lightly out of every one’s way, and far more playful than either of the +small performers in this solemn undertaking. As it concluded she found +that Mr. Kendal had been watching her, with much entertainment, and +she was glad to take his arm, and assure herself that he had not been +miserable, but had been down to the parsonage, where he had read the +newspaper in peace, and had enjoyed a cup of tea in quiet with Winifred +and Mrs. Annesley. + +The dancing had been transferred to the tent, which presented a very +pretty scene from without, looking through the drooping festoons of +evergreens at the lamps and the figures flitting to and fro in their +measured movements, while the shrubs and dark foliage of the trees fell +into gloom around; and above, the sky assumed the deep tranquil blue of +night, the pale bright stars shining out one by one. The Kendals were +alone in the terrace, far enough from the gay tumult to be sensible of +the contrast. + +‘How beautiful!’ said Albinia: ‘it is like a poem.’ + +‘I was just thinking so,’ he answered. + +‘This is the best part of all,’ she said, feeling, though hardly +expressing to herself the repose of his lofty, silent serenity, standing +aloof from gaiety and noise. She could have compared him and her lively +cousin to the evening stillness contrasted with the mirthful scene in +the tent; and though her nature seemed to belong to the busy world, her +best enjoyment lay with what calmed and raised her above herself; and +she was perfectly happy, standing still with her arm upon that of her +silent husband. + +‘These things are well imagined,’ said he. ‘The freedom and absence of +formality give space for being alone and quiet.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia, saucily, ‘when that is what you go into society +for.’ + +‘You have me there,’ he said, smiling; ‘but I must own how much I +enjoyed coming back from the parsonage by myself. I am glad we brought +that little Genevieve; she seems to be so perfectly in her element. I +saw her amusing a set of little children in the prettiest, most animated +way; and afterwards, when the young people were playing at some game, +her gestures were so sprightly and graceful, that no one could look +at the English girls beside her. Indeed I think she was making quite a +sensation; your cousin seemed to admire her very much. If she were but +in another station, she would shine anywhere.’ + +‘How much you have seen, Edmund!’ + +‘I have been a spectator, you an actor,’ he said, smiling. + +Her quiescence did not long continue, for the poor people had begun to +assemble on the gravel road before the front door to see the fireworks, +and she hurried away to renew her acquaintance with her village friends, +guessing at them in the dark, asking after old mothers and daughters +at service, inquiring the names of new babies, and whether the old +ones were at school, and excusing herself for having become ‘quite a +stranger.’ + +In the midst--whish--hiss, with steady swiftness, up shot in the dark +purple air the first rocket, bursting and scattering a rain of stars. +There was an audible gasp in the surrounding homely world, a few little +cries, and a big boy clutched tight hold of her arm, saying, ‘I +be afeard.’ She was explaining away his alarms, when she heard her +brother’s voice, and found her arm drawn into his. + +‘Here you are, then,’ he said; ‘I thought I heard your voice.’ + +‘Oh! Maurice, I have hardly seen you. Let us have a nice quiet turn in +the park together.’ + +He resisted, saying, ‘I don’t approve of parents and guardians losing +themselves. What have you done with all your children?’ + +‘What have you done with yours?’ retorted she. + +‘I left Willie and Mary at the window with their governess, I came to +see that these other children of mine were orderly.’ + +‘Most proper, prudential, and exemplary Maurice!’ his sister laughed. +‘Now I have an equally hearty belief in my children being somewhere, +sure to turn up when wanted. Come, I want to get out from the trees +to look for Colonel Bury’s harvest moon, for I believe she is an +imposition.’ + +‘No, I’m not coming. You, don’t understand your duties. Your young +ladies ought always to know where to find you, and you where to find +them.’ + +‘Oh! Maurice, what must you have suffered before you imported Winifred +to chaperon me!’ + +‘You are in so mad a mood that I shall attempt only one moral maxim, and +that is, that no one should set up for a chaperon, till she has retired +from business on her own account.’ + +‘That’s a stroke at my dancing with poor Fred, but it was his only +chance of speaking to me.’ + +‘Not particularly at the dancing.’ + +‘Well, then--’ + +‘You’ll see, by-and-bye. It was not your fault if those girls were not +in all sorts of predicaments.’ + +‘I believe you think life is made up of predicaments. And I want to hear +whether William has written to you anything about poor Fred.’ + +‘Only that he is more mad than ever, and that he let him go, thinking +that there is no chance of Belraven helping him, but that it may wear +itself out on the journey.’ + +A revolving circle shedding festoons of purple and crimson jets of fire +made all their talk interjectional, and they had by this time reached +the terrace, where all the company were assembled, the open windows at +regular intervals casting bewildering lights on the heads and shoulders +in front of them. Then out burst a grand wheat-sheaf of yellow flame +with crimson ears and beards, by whose light Albinia recognised Gilbert +standing close to her in the shadow, and asked him where the rest +where.’ + +‘I can’t tell; Lucy and my father were here just now.’ + +‘Are you feeling the chill, Gilbert?’ asked Albinia, struck by something +in his tone. ‘You had better look from the window.’ + +He neither moved nor made answer, but a great illumination of Colonel +Bury’s coat-of-arms, with Roman candles and Chinese trees at the four +corners, engrossed every eye, and flashing on every face, enabled +Albinia to join Mr. Kendal, who was with Lucy and Miss Ferrars. No one +knew where Genevieve was, but Albinia was confident that she could +take good care of herself, and was not too uneasy to enjoy the grand +representation of Windsor Castle, and the finale of interlaced ciphers +amidst a multitude of little fretful sputtering tongues of flame. +Then it was, amid good nights, donning of shawls, and announcing of +carriages, that Captain Ferrars and Miss Durant made their appearance +together, having been ‘looking everywhere for Mrs. Kendal,’ and it was +not in the nature of a brother not to look a little arch, though Albinia +returned him as resolute and satisfied a glance as could express ‘Well, +what of that?’ + +In consideration of the night air, Mr. Kendal put Gilbert inside the +carriage, and mounted the box, to revel in the pleasures of silence. The +four within talked incessantly and compared adventures. Lucy had been +gratified by being patronized by Miss Ferrars, and likewise had much to +say of the smaller fry, and went into raptures about many a ‘dear little +thing,’ none of whom would, however, stand a comparison with Maurice; +Gilbert was critical upon every one’s beauty; and Genevieve was more +animated than all, telling anecdotes with great piquancy, and rehearsing +the comical Yankee stories she had heard from Captain Ferrars. She +had enjoyed with the zest and intensity of a peculiarly congenial +temperament, and she seemed not to be able to cease from working off her +excitement in repetitions of her thanks, and in discussing the endless +delights the day had afforded. + +But the day had begun early, and the way was long, so remarks became +scanty, and answers were brief and went astray, and Albinia thought she +was travelling for ever to Montreal, when she was startled by a pettish +exclamation from Lucy, ‘Is that all! It was not worth while to wake me +only to see the moon.’ + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said Genevieve, ‘but I thought Mrs. Kendal wished +to see it rise.’ + +‘Thank you, Genevieve,’ said Albinia, opening her sleepy eyes; ‘she is +as little worth seeing as a moon can well be, a waning moon does well to +keep untimely hours.’ + +‘Why do you think she is so much more beautiful in the crescent, Mrs. +Kendal?’ said Genevieve, in the most wakeful manner. + +‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ said Albinia, subsiding into her corner. + +‘Is it from the situation of the mountains in the moon?’ continued the +pertinacious damsel. + +‘In Africa!’ said Albinia, well-nigh asleep, but Genevieve’s laugh +roused her again, partly because she thought it less mannerly than +accorded with the girl’s usual politeness. No mere sleep was allowed +her; an astronomical passion seemed to have possessed the young lady, +and she dashed into the tides, and the causes of the harvest-moon, and +volcanoes, and thunderbolts, and Lord Rosse’s telescope, forcing her +tired friend to reply by direct appeals, till Albinia almost wished her +in the moon herself; and was rejoiced when in the dim greyness of the +early summer dawn, the carriage drew up at Madame Belmarche’s house. As +the light from the weary maid’s candle flashed on Genevieve’s face, it +revealed such a glow of deep crimson on each brown cheek, that Albinia +perceived that the excitement must have been almost fever, and went +to bed speculating on the strange effects of a touch of gaiety on +the hereditary French nature, startling her at once from her graceful +propriety and humility of demeanour, into such extraordinary obtrusive +talkativeness. + +She heard more the next morning that vexed her. Lucy was seriously of +opinion that Genevieve had not been sufficiently retiring. She herself +had heedfully kept under the wing of Mary’s governess, mamma, or Miss +Ferrars, and nobody had paid her any particular attention; but Genevieve +had been with Gilbert half the day, had had all the gentlemen round her +at the archery and in the games, had no end of partners in the dances, +and had walked about in the dark with Captain Ferrars. Lucy was sure she +was taken for her sister, and whenever she had told people the truth, +they had said how pretty she was. + +‘You are jealous, Lucy,’ Sophy said. + +Lucy protested that it was quite the reverse. She was glad poor little +Jenny should meet with any notice, there was no cause for jealousy of +_her_, and she threw back her head in conscious beauty; ‘only she was +sorry for Jenny, for they were quite turning her head, and laughing at +her all the time.’ + +Albinia’s candour burst out as usual, ‘Say no more about it, my dear; it +was a mistake from beginning to end. I was too much taken up with my own +diversion to attend to you, and now you are punishing me for it. I left +you to take care of yourselves, and exposed poor little Genevieve to +unkind remarks.’ + +‘I don’t know what I said,’ began Lucy. ‘I don’t mean to blame her; it +was just as she always is with Gilbert, so very French.’ + +That word settled it--Lucy pronounced it with ineffable pity and +contempt--she was far less able to forgive another for being attractive, +than for trying to attract. + +Sophy looked excessively hurt and grieved, and in private asked her +step-mother what she thought of Genevieve’s behaviour. + +‘My dear, I cannot tell; I think she was off her guard with excitement; +but all was very new to her, and there was every excuse. I was too happy +to be wise, so no wonder she was.’ + +‘And do you think Captain Ferrars was laughing at her? I wish you would +tell her, mamma. Gilbert says he is a fine, flourishing officer in +moustaches, who, he is sure, flirts with and breaks the heart of every +girl he meets. If he is right, mamma, it would cure Genevieve to tell +her so, and you would not mind it, though he is your cousin.’ + +‘Poor Fred!’ said Albinia. ‘I am sorry Gilbert conceived such a notion. +But Genevieve’s heart is too sensible to break in that way, even if +Fred wished it, and I can acquit him of such savage intentions. I never +should have seen any harm in all that Genevieve did last night if she +had not talked us to death coming home! Still I think she was off her +balance, and I own I am disappointed. But we don’t know what it is to be +born French!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + + +‘Mrs. Kendal, dear Madame, a great favour, could you spare me a few +moments?’ + +A blushing face was raised with such an expression of contrite timidity, +that Albinia felt sure that the poor little Frenchwoman had recovered +from her brief intoxication, and wanted to apologize and be comforted, +so she said kindly, + +‘I was wishing to see you, my dear; I was afraid the day had been too +much for you; I was certain you were feverish.’ + +‘Ah! you were so good to make excuses for me. I am so ashamed when +I think how tedious, how disagreeable I must have been. It was why I +wished to speak to you.’ + +‘Never mind apologies, my dear; I have felt and done the like many a +time--it is the worst of enjoying oneself.’ + +‘Oh! that was not all--I could not help it--enjoyment--no!’ stammered +Genevieve. ‘If you would be kind enough to come this way.’ + +She opened her grandmother’s back gate, the entrance to a slip of +garden smothered in laurels, and led the way to a small green arbour, +containing a round table, transformed by calico hangings into what the +embroidered inscription called ‘Autel a l’Amour filial et maternel,’ +bearing a plaster vase full of fresh flowers, but ere Albinia had time +to admire this achievement of French sentiment, Genevieve exclaimed, +clasping her hands, ‘Oh, madame, pardon me, you who are so good! You +will tell no one, you will bring on him no trouble, but you will tell +him it is too foolish--you will give him back his billet, and forbid him +ever to send another.’ + +Spite of the confidence about Emily, spite of all unreason, such was +the family opinion of Fred’s propensity to fall in love, that Albinia’s +first suspicion lighted upon him, but as her eye fell on the pink +envelope the handwriting concerned her even more nearly. + +‘Gilbert!’ she cried. ‘My dear, what is this? Do you wish me to read +it?’ + +‘Yes, for I cannot.’ Genevieve turned away, as in his best hand, and bad +it was, Albinia read the commencement-- + + +“My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!” + + +In mute astonishment Albinia looked up, and met Genevieve’s eyes. +‘Oh, madame, you are displeased with me!’ she cried in despair, +misinterpreting the look, ‘but indeed I could not help it.’ + +‘My dear child,’ said Albinia, affectionately putting her arm round her +waist, and drawing her down on the seat beside her, ‘indeed I am not +displeased with you; you are doing the very best thing possible by us +all. Think I am your sister, and tell me what is the meaning of all +this, and then I will try to help you.’ + +‘Oh, madame, you are too good,’ said Genevieve, weeping; and kindly +holding the trembling hand, Albinia finished the letter, herself. ‘Silly +boy! Genevieve, dear girl, you must set my mind at rest; this is +too childish--this is not the kind of thing that would touch your +affections, I am sure.’ + +‘Oh! pour cela non,’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! no; I am grateful to Mr. +Gilbert Kendal, for, even as a little boy, he was always kind to me, but +for the rest--he is so young, madame, even if I could forget--’ + +‘I see,’ said Albinia. ‘I am sure that you are much too good and +sensible at your age to waste a moment’s thought or pain on such a +foolish boy, as he certainly is, Genevieve, though not so foolish in +liking you, whatever he may be in the way of expressing it. Though of +course--’ Albinia had floundered into a dreadful bewilderment between +her sense of Genevieve’s merits and of the incompatibility of their +station, and she plunged out by asking, ‘And how long has this been +going on?’ + +Genevieve hesitated. ‘To speak the truth, madame, I have long seen that, +like many other youths, he would be--very attentive if one were not +guarded; but I had known him so long, that perhaps I did not soon enough +begin, to treat him en jeune homme. + +‘And this is his first letter?’ + +‘Oh! yes, madame.’ + +‘He complains that you will not hear him? Do you dislike to tell me if +anything had passed previously?’ + +‘Thursday,’ was slightly whispered. + +‘Thursday! ah! now I begin to understand the cause of your being +suddenly moon-struck.’ + +‘Ah! madame, pardon me!’ + +‘I see--it was the only way to avoid a tete-a-tete!’ said Albinia. ‘Well +done, Genevieve. What had he been saying to you, my dear?’ + +Poor Genevieve cast about for a word, and finally faltered out, ‘Des +sottises, Madame.’ + +‘That I can well believe,’ said Albinia. ‘Well, my dear--’ + +‘I think,’ pursued Genevieve, ‘that he was vexed because I would not +let him absorb me exclusively at Fairmead; and began to reproach me, and +protest--’ + +‘And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping dragon,’ said Albinia. +‘Was this all?’ + +‘No, madame; so little had passed, that I hoped it was only the +excitement, and that he would forget; but on Saturday he met me in the +flagged path, and oh! he said a great deal, though I did my best to +convince him that he could only make himself be laughed at. I hoped even +then that he was silenced, and that I need not mention it, but I see +he has been watching me, and I dare not go out alone lest I should meet +him. He called this morning, and not seeing me left this note.’ + +‘Do your grandmother and aunt know?’ + +‘Oh, no! I would far rather not tell them. Need I? Oh! madame, surely +you can speak to him, and no one need ever hear of it?’ implored +Genevieve. ‘You have promised me that no one shall be told!’ + +‘No one shall, my dear. I hope soon to tell you that he is heartily +ashamed of having teased you. No one need be ashamed of thinking you +very dear and good--you can’t help being loveable, but Master Gibbie has +no right to tell you so, and we’ll put an end to it. He will soon be in +India out of your way. Good-bye!’ + +Albinia kissed the confused and blushing maiden, and walked away, +provoked, yet diverted. + +She found Gilbert alone, and was not slow in coming to the point, +endeavouring to model her treatment on that of her brother, the General, +towards his aide-de-camp in the like predicaments. + +‘Gilbert, I want to speak to you. I am afraid you have been making +yourself troublesome to Miss Durant. You are old enough to know better +than to write such a note as this.’ + +He was all one blush, made an inarticulate exclamation, and burst out, +‘That abominable treacherous old wooden doll of a mademoiselle.’ + +‘No, Miss Belmarche knows nothing of it. No one ever shall if you will +promise to drive this nonsense out of your head.’ + +‘Nonsense! Mrs. Kendal!’ with a gesture of misery. + +‘Gilbert, you are making yourself absurd.’ + +He turned about, and would have marched out of the room, but she pursued +him. ‘You must listen to me. It is not fit that you should carry on this +silly importunity. It is exceedingly distressing to her, and might lead +to very unpleasant and hurtful remarks.’ Seeing him look sullen, she +took breath, and considered. ‘She came to me in great trouble, and +begged me to restore your letter, and tell you never to repeat the +liberty.’ + +He struck his hand on his brow, crying vehemently, ‘Cruel girl! She +little knows me--you little know me, if you think I am to be silenced +thus. I tell you I will never cease! I am not bound by your pride, which +has sneered down and crushed the loveliest--’ + +‘Not mine,’ said Albinia, disconcerted at his unexpected violence. + +‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know you could patronize! but a step beyond, +and it is all the same with you as with the rest--you despise the jewel +without the setting.’ + +‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘so far from depreciating her, I want to convince +you that it is an insult to pursue her in this ridiculous underhand +way.’ + +‘You do me no justice,’ said Gilbert loftily; ‘you little understand +what you are pleased to make game of,’ and with one of his sudden +alternations, he dropped into a chair, calling himself the most +miserable fellow in the world, unpitied where he would gladly offer his +life, and his tenderest feelings derided, and he was so nearly ready +to cry, that Albinia pitied him, and said, ‘I’ll laugh no more if I can +help it, Gibbie, but indeed you are too young for all this misery to be +real. I don’t mean that you are pretending, but only that this is your +own fancy.’ + +‘Fancy!’ said the boy solemnly. ‘The happiness of my life is at stake. +She shall be the sharer of all that is mine, the moment my property is +in my own hands.’ + +‘And do you think so high-minded a girl would listen to you, and take +advantage of a fancy in a boy so much younger, and of a different +class?’ + +‘It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all at her feet!’ + +‘So it might, if it were worthy of her to accept it. Gilbert, if +you knew what love is, you would never wish her to lower herself by +encouraging you now. She would be called artful--designing--’ + +‘If she loved me--’ he said disconsolately. + +‘I wish I could bring you to see how unlikely it is that a sensible, +superior woman could really attach herself to a mere lad. An +unprincipled person might pretend it for the sake of your property--a +silly one might like you because you are good-looking and well-mannered; +but neither would be Genevieve.’ + +‘There is no use in saying any more,’ he said, rising in offended +dignity. + +‘I cannot let you go till you have given me your word never to obtrude +your folly on Miss Durant again.’ + +‘Have you anything else to ask me?’ cried Gilbert in a melodramatic +tone. + +‘Yes, how would you like your father to know of this? It is her secret, +and I shall keep it, unless you are so selfish as to continue the +pursuit, and if so, I must have recourse to his authority.’ + +‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal,’ he said, actually weeping, ‘you have always pitied me +hitherto.’ + +‘A man should not ask for pity,’ said Albinia; ‘but I am sorry for you, +for she is an admirable person, and I see you are very unhappy; but +I will do all I can to help you, and you will get over it, if you are +reasonable. Now understand me, I will and must protect Genevieve, and +I shall appeal to your father unless you promise me to desist from this +persecution.’ + +The debate might have been endless, if Mr. Kendal had not been heard +coming in. ‘You promise?’ she said. ‘Yes,’ was the faint reply, in +nervous terror of immediate reference to his father; and they hurried +different ways, trying to look unconcerned. + +‘Never mind,’ said Albinia to herself. ‘Was not Fred quite as bad about +me, and look at him now! Yes, Gilbert must go to India, it will cure +him, or if it should not, his affection will be respectable, and worth +consideration. If he were but older, and this were the genuine article, +I would fight for him, but--’ + +And she sat down to write a loving note to Genevieve. Her sanguine +disposition made her trust that all would blow over, but her experience +of the cheerful buoyant Ferrars temperament was no guide to the morbid +Kendal disposition, Gilbert lay on the grass limp and doleful till the +fall of the dew, when he betook himself to a sofa; and in the morning +turned up his eyes reproachfully at her instead of eating his breakfast. + +About eleven o’clock the Fairmead pony-carriage stopped at the door, +containing Mr. Ferrars, the Captain, Aunt Gertrude, and little Willie. +Albinia, her husband, and Lucy, were soon in the drawing-room welcoming +them; and Lucy fetched her little brother, who had been vociferous for +three days about Cousin Fred, the real soldier, but now, struck with +awe at the mighty personage, stood by his mamma, profoundly silent, and +staring. He was ungracious to his aunt, and still more so to Willie, the +latter of whom was despatched under Lucy’s charge to find Gilbert, but +they came back unsuccessful. Nor did Sophy make her appearance; she was +reported to be reading to grandmamma--Mrs. Meadows preferred to Miss +Ferrars! there was more in this than Albinia could make out, and she sat +uneasily till she could exchange a few words with Lucy. ‘My dear, what +is become of the other two?’ + +‘I am sure I don’t know what is the matter with them,’ said Lucy. +‘Gilbert is gone out--nobody knows where--and when I told Sophy who was +here, she said Captain Ferrars was an empty-headed coxcomb, and she did +not want to see him!’ + +‘Oh! the geese!’ murmured Albinia to herself, till the comical suspicion +crossed her mind that Gilbert was jealous, and that Sophy was afraid of +falling a victim to the redoubtable lady killer. + +Luncheon-time produced Sophy, grave and silent, but no Gilbert, and Mr. +Kendal, receiving no satisfactory account of his absence, said, ‘Very +strange,’ and looked annoyed. + +Captain Ferrars seemed to have expected to see his bright little +partner of Thursday, for he inquired for her, and Willie imparted +the information that Fred had taken her for Sophy all the time! Fred +laughed, and owned it, but asked if she were not really the governess? +‘A governess,’ said Albinia, ‘but not ours,’ and an explanation +followed, during which Sophy blushed violently, and held up her head as +if she had an iron bar in her neck. + +‘A pity,’ said the Lancer, when he had heard who she was, and under his +moustache he murmured to Albinia, ‘She is rather in Emily’s style.’ + +‘Oh, Fred,’ thought Albinia, ‘after all, it may be lucky that you aren’t +going to stay here!’ + +When Albinia was alone with her brother, she could not help saying, +‘Maurice, you were right to scold me; I reproached you with thinking +life made up of predicaments. I think mine is made of blunders!’ + +‘Ah! I saw you were harassed to-day,’ said her brother kindly. + +‘Whenever one is happy, one does something wrong!’ + +‘I guess--’ + +‘You are generous not to say you warned me months ago. Mind, it is no +fault of hers, she is behaving beautifully; but oh! the absurdity, and +the worst of it is, I have promised not to tell Edmund.’ + +‘Then don’t tell me. You have a judgment quite good enough for use.’ + +‘No, I have not. I have only sense, and that only serves me for what +other people ought to do.’ + +‘Then ask Albinia what Mrs. Kendal ought to do.’ + +Gilbert came in soon after their departure, with an odd, dishevelled, +abstracted look, and muttering something inaudible about not knowing the +time. His depression absolutely courted notice, but as a slight cough +would at any time reduce him to despair, he obtained no particular +observation, except from Sophy, who made much of him, flushed at +Genevieve’s name, and looked reproachful, that it was evident that she +was his confidante. Several times did Albinia try to lead her to +enter on the subject, but she set up her screen of silence. It was +disappointing, for Albinia had believed better things of her sense, and +hardly made allowance for the different aspect of the love-sorrows of +seventeen, viewed from fifteen or twenty-six--vexatious, too, to be +treated with dry reserve, and probably viewed as a rock in the course of +true love; and provoking to see perpetual tete-a-tetes that could hardly +fail to fill Sophy’s romantic head with folly. + +At the end of another week, Albinia received the following note:-- + + +‘Dear and most kind Madame, + +‘I would not trouble you again, but this is the third within four days. +I returned the two former ones to himself, but he continues to write. +May I ask your permission to speak to my relatives, for I feel that +I ought to hide this no longer from them, and that we must take some +measures for ending it. He does me the honour to wait near the +house, and I never dare go out, since--for I will confess all to you, +madame--he met me by the river on Monday. I am beginning to fear that +his assiduities have been observed, and I should be much obliged if +you would tell me how to act. Your kind perseverance in your goodness +towards me is my greatest comfort, and I hope that you will still +continue it, for indeed it is most unwillingly that I am a cause of +perplexity and vexation to you. Entreating your pardon, + + ‘Your most faithful and obliged servant, + Genevieve Celeste Durant.’ + + +What was to be done? That broken pledge overpowered Albinia with a +personal sense of shame, and though it set her free to tell all to her +husband, she shrank from provoking his stern displeasure towards his +son, and feared he might involve Genevieve in his anger. She dashed off +a note to her poor little friend, telling her to do as she thought fit +by her aunt and grandmother, and then sought another interview with +the reluctant Gilbert, to whom she returned the letter, saying, ‘Oh, +Gilbert, at least I thought you would keep your word.’ + +‘I think,’ he said, angrily, trying for dignity, though bewrayed by +his restless eyes and hands--‘I think it is too much to accuse me +of--of--when I never said--What word did I ever give?’ + +‘You promised never to persecute her again.’ + +‘There may be two opinions as to what persecution means,’ said Gilbert. + +‘I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted you.’ + +‘Mrs. Kendal! hear me,’ he passionately cried. ‘You knew not the misery +you imposed. To live so near, and not a word, not a look! I bore it as +long as I could; but when Sophy would not so much as take one message, +human nature could not endure.’ + +‘Well, if you cannot restrain yourself like a rational creature, some +means must be taken to free Miss Durant from a pursuit so injurious and +disagreeable to her.’ + +‘Ay,’ he cried, ‘you have filled her with your own prejudices, and +inspired her with such a dread of the hateful fences of society, that +she does not dare to confess--’ + +‘For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of acting a part.’ + +‘No!’ he exclaimed, ‘all I say is, that she has been so thrust down +and forced back, that she cannot venture to avow her feelings even to +herself!’ + +‘Oh!’ said Albinia, ‘you conceited person!’ + +‘Well!’ cried the boy, so much nettled by her sarcasm that he did not +know what he said, ‘I think--considering--considering our situations, I +might be worth her consideration!’ + +‘Who put that in your head?’ asked Albinia. ‘You are too much a +gentleman for it to have come there of its own accord.’ + +He blushed excessively, and retracted. ‘No, no! I did not mean that! No, +I only mean I have no fair play--she will not even think. Oh! if I had +but been born in the same station of life!’ + +Gilbert making entrechats with a little fiddle! It had nearly overthrown +her gravity, and she made no direct answer, only saying, ‘Well, Gilbert, +these talks are useless. I only thought it right to give you notice that +you have released me from my engagement not to make your father aware of +your folly.’ + +He went into an agony of entreaties, and proffers of promises, but no +more treaties of secrecy could he obtain, she would only say that she +should not speak immediately, she should wait and see how things turned +out. By which she meant, how soon it might be hoped that he would be +safe in the Calcutta bank, where she heartily wished him. + +She sought a conference with Genevieve, and took her out walking in the +meadows, for the poor child really needed change and exercise, the fear +of Gilbert had made her imprison herself within the little garden, till +she looked sallow and worn. She said that her grandmother and aunt +had decided that she should go in a couple of days to the Convent at +Hadminster, to remain there till Mr. Gilbert went to India--the superior +was an old friend of her aunt, and Genevieve had often been there, and +knew all the nuns. + +Albinia was startled by this project. ‘My dear, I had much rather send +you to stay at my brother’s, or--anywhere. Are you sure you are not +running into temptation?’ + +‘Not of that kind,’ said Genevieve. ‘The priest, Mr. O’Hara, is a +good-natured old gentleman, not in the least disposed to trouble himself +about my conversion.’ + +‘And the sisters?’ + +‘Good old ladies, they have always been very kind to me, and petted me +exceedingly when I was a little child, but for the rest--’ still seeing +Albinia’s anxious look--‘Oh! they would not think of it; I don’t believe +they could argue; they are not like the new-fashioned Roman Catholics of +whom you are thinking, madame.’ + +‘And are there no enthusiastic young novices?’ + +‘I should think no one would ever be a novice there,’ said Genevieve. + +‘You seem to be bent on destroying all the romance of convents, +Genevieve!’ + +‘I never thought of anything romantic connected with the reverend +mothers,’ rejoined Genevieve, ‘and yet when I recollect how they came +to Hadminster, I think you will be interested. You know the family at +Hadminster Hall in the last century were Roman Catholics, and a daughter +had professed at a convent in France. At the time of the revolution, her +brother, the esquire, wrote to offer her an asylum at his house. The +day of her arrival was fixed--behold! a stage-coach draws up to the +door--black veils inside--black veils clustered on the roof--a black +veil beside the coachman, on the box--eighteen nuns alight, and the poor +old infirm abbess is lifted out. They had not even figured to themselves +that the invitation could be to one without the whole sisterhood!’ + +‘And what did the esquire do with the good ladies?’ + +‘He took them as a gift from Providence, he raised a subscription among +his friends, and they were lodged in the house at Hadminster, where +something like a sisterhood had striven to exist ever since the days of +James II.’ + +‘Are any of these sisters living still?’ + +‘Only poor old Mother Therese, who was a little pensionnaire when they +came, and now is blind, and never quits her bed. There are only seven +sisters at present, and none of them are less than five-and-forty.’ + +‘And what shall you do there, Genevieve?’ + +‘If they have any pupils from the town, perhaps I may help to teach them +French. And I shall have plenty of time for my music. Oh! madame, would +you lend me a little of your music to copy?’ + +‘With all my heart. Any books?’ + +‘Oh! that would be the greatest kindness of all! And if it were not +presuming too much, if madame would let me take the pattern of that +beautiful point lace that she sometimes wears in the evening, then I +should make myself welcome!’ + +‘And put out your eyes, my dear! But you may turn out my whole +lace-drawer if you think anything there will be a pleasure to the old +ladies.’ + +‘Ah! you do not guess the pleasure, madame. Needlework and embroidery is +their excitement and delight. They will ask me closely about all I have +seen and done for months past, and the history of the day at Fairmead +will be a fete in itself.’ + +‘Well! my dear, it is very right of you; and I do feel very thankful to +you for treating the matter thus. Pray tell your grandmamma and aunt to +pardon the sad revolution we have made in their comfort, and that I hope +it will soon be over!’ + +Genevieve took no leave. Albinia sent her a goodly parcel of books +and work-patterns, and she returned an affectionate note; but did not +attempt to see Lucy and Sophy. + +The next Indian mail brought the expected letter, giving an exact +account of the acquirements and habits that would be required of +Gilbert, with a promise of a home where he would be treated as a son, +and of admission to the firm after due probation. The letter was so +sensible and affectionate, that Mr. Kendal congratulated his son upon +such an advantageous outset in life. + +Gilbert made slight reply, but the next morning Sophy sought Albinia +out, and with some hesitation began to tell her that Gilbert was very +anxious that she would intercede with papa not to send him to Calcutta. + +‘You now, Sophy!’ cried Albinia. ‘You who used to think nothing equal to +India!’ + +‘I wish it were I,’ said Sophy, ‘but you know--’ + +‘Well,’ said Albinia, coldly. + +Sophy was too shy to begin on that tack, and dashed off on another. + +‘Oh, mamma, he is so wretched. He can’t bear to thwart papa, but he says +it would break his heart to go so far away, and that he knows it would +kill him to be confined to a desk in that climate.’ + +‘You know papa thinks that nothing would confirm his health so much as a +few years without an English winter.’ + +‘One’s own instinct--’ began Sophy; then breaking off, she added, +‘Mamma, you never were for the bank.’ + +‘I used not to see the expediency, and I did not like the parting; but +now I understand your father’s wishes, and the sort of allegiance +he feels towards India, so that Gilbert’s reluctance will be a great +mortification to him.’ + +‘So it will,’ said Sophy, mournfully, ‘I am sure it is to me. I always +looked forward to Gilbert’s going to Talloon, and seeing the dear old +bearer, and taking all my presents there, but you see, of course, mamma, +he cannot bear to go--’ + +‘Sophy, dear,’ said Albinia, ‘you have been thinking me a very +hard-hearted woman this last month. I have been longing to have it out.’ + +‘Not hard-hearted,’ said Sophy, looking down, ‘only I had always thought +you different from other people.’ + +‘And you considered that I was worldly, and not romantic enough. Is that +it, Sophy?’ + +‘I thought you knew how to value her for herself, so good and so +admirable--a lady in everything--with such perfect manners. I thought +you would have been pleased and proud that Gilbert’s choice was so much +nobler than beauty, or rank, or fashion could make it,’ said Sophy, +growing enthusiastic as she went on. + +‘Well, my dear, perhaps I am.’ + +‘But, mamma, you have done all you could to separate them: you have shut +Genevieve up in a convent, and you want to banish him.’ + +‘It sounds very grand, and worthy of a cruel step-dame,’ said Albinia; +‘but, my dear, though I do think Genevieve in herself an admirable +creature, worthy of any one’s love, what am I to think of the way +Gilbert has taken to show his admiration?’ + +‘And is it not very hard,’ cried Sophy, ‘that even you, who own all her +excellences, should turn against him, and give in to all this miserable +conventionality, that wants riches and station, and trumpery worldly +things, and crushes down true love in two young hearts?’ + +‘Sophy dear, I am afraid the love is not proved to be true in the one +heart, and I am sure there is none in the other!’ + +‘Mamma! ‘Tis her self-command--’ + +‘Nonsense! His attentions are nothing but distress to her! Sensible +grown-up young women are not apt to be flattered by importunity from +silly boys. Has he told you otherwise?’ + +‘He thinks--he hopes, at least--and I am sure--it is all stifled by her +sense of duty, and fear of offending you, or appearing mercenary.’ + +‘All delusion!’ said Albinia; ‘there’s not a spark of consciousness +about her! I see you don’t like to believe it, but it is my great +comfort. Think how she would suffer if she did love him! Nay, think, +before you are angry with me for not promoting it, how it would bring +them into trouble and disgrace with all the world, even if your father +consented. Have you once thought how it would appear to him?’ + +‘You can persuade papa to anything!’ + +‘Sophy! you ought to know your father better than to say that!’ cried +Albinia, as if it had been disrespect to him. + +‘Then you think he would never allow it! You really think that such a +creature as Genevieve, as perfect a lady as ever existed, must always be +a victim to these hateful rules about station.’ + +‘No,’ said Albinia, ‘certainly not; but if she were in the very same +rank, if all else were suitable, Gilbert’s age would make the pursuit +ridiculous.’ + +‘Only three years younger,’ sighed Sophy. ‘But if they were the same +age? Do you mean that no one ever ought to marry, if they love ever so +much, where the station is different?’ + +‘No, but that they must not do so lightly, but try the love first to see +whether it be worth the sacrifice. If an attachment last through many +years of adverse circumstances, I think the happiness of the people +has been shown to depend on each other, but I don’t think it safe to +disregard disparities till there has been some test that the love is +the right stuff, or else they may produce ill-temper, regrets, and +unhappiness, all the rest of their lives.’ + +‘If Gilbert went on for years, mamma?’ + +‘I did not say that, Sophy.’ + +‘Suppose,’ continued the eager girl, ‘he went out to Calcutta, and +worked these five years, and was made a partner. Then he would be +two-and-twenty, nobody could call him too young, and he would come home, +and ask papa’s consent, and you--’ + +‘I _should_ call that constancy,’ said Albinia. + +‘And he would take her out to Calcutta, and have no Drurys and Osborns +to bother her! Oh! It would be beautiful! I would watch over her while +he was gone! I’ll go and tell him!’ + +‘Stop, Sophy, not from me--that would never do. I don’t think papa would +think twenty-two such a great age--’ + +‘But he would have loved her five years!’ said Sophy. ‘And you said +yourself that would be constancy!’ + +‘True, but, Sophy, I have known a youth who sailed broken-hearted, +and met a lady “just in the style” of the former one, on board the +steamer--’ + +Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and repeated, ‘Do you allow +me to tell Gilbert that this is the way?’ + +‘Not from me. I hold out no hope. I don’t believe Genevieve cares for +him, and I don’t know whether his father would consent--’ but seeing +Sophy’s look of disappointment, ‘I see no harm in your suggesting it, +for it is his only chance with either of them, and would be the proof +that his affection was good for something.’ + +‘And you think her worth it?’ + +‘I think her worth anything in the world--the more for her behaviour in +this matter. I only doubt if Gilbert have any conception how much she is +worth.’ + +Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost handsome, while Albinia, +as usual, wondered at her own imprudence. + +At luncheon Sophy avoided her eye, and looked crestfallen, and +when afterwards she gave a mute inquiring address, shook her head +impatiently. It was plain that she had failed, and was too much pained +and shamed by his poorness of spirit to be able as yet to speak of it. + +Next came Gilbert, who pursued Albinia to the morning-room to entreat +her interference in his behalf, appealing piteously to her kindness; +but she was obdurate. If any remonstrance were offered to his father, it +must be by himself. + +Gilbert fell into a state of misery, threw himself about upon the +chairs, and muttered in the fretfulness of childish despair something +about its being very hard, when he was owner of half the town, to +be sent into exile--it was like jealousy of his growing up and being +master. + +‘Take care, Gilbert!’ said Albinia, with a flash of her eye that he felt +to his backbone. + +‘I don’t mean it,’ cried Gilbert, springing towards her in supplication. +‘I’ve heard it said, that’s all, and was as angry as you, but when a +fellow is beside himself with misery at being driven away from all he +loves--not a friend to help him--how can he keep from thinking all sorts +of things?’ + +‘I wonder what people dare to say it!’ cried Albinia wrathfully; +but he did not heed, he was picturing his own future +misfortunes--toil--climate--fevers--choleras--Thugs--coups de +soleil--genuine dread and repugnance working him up to positive agony. + +‘Gilbert,’ said Albinia, ‘this is trumpery self-torture! You know this +is a mere farrago that you have conjured up. Your father would neither +thrust you into danger, nor compel you to do anything to which you had +a reasonable aversion. Go and be a man about it in one way or the other! +Either accept or refuse, but don’t make these childish lamentations. +They are cowardly! I should be ashamed of little Maurice if he behaved +so!’ + +‘And you will not speak a word for me!’ + +‘No! Speak for yourself!’ and she left the room. + +Days passed on, till she began to think that, after all, Gilbert +preferred Calcutta, cholera, Thugs, and all, to facing his father; but +at last, he must have taken heart from his extremity, for Mr. Kendal +said, with less vexation than she had anticipated, ‘So our plans are +overthrown. Gilbert tells me he has an invincible dislike to Calcutta. +Had you any such idea?’ + +‘Not till your cousin’s letter arrived. What did you say to him?’ + +‘He was so much afraid of vexing me that I was obliged to encourage him +to speak freely, and I found that he had always had a strong distaste +to and dread of India. I told him I wished he had made me aware of it +sooner, and desired to know what profession he really preferred. He +spoke of Oxford and the Bar, and so I suppose it must be. I do not +wonder that he wishes to follow his Traversham friends, and as they are +a good set, I hope there may not be much temptation. I see you are not +satisfied, Albinia, yet your wishes were one of my motives.’ + +‘Thank you--once I should,’ said Albinia; ‘but, Edmund, I see how wrong +it was to have concealed anything from you;’ and thereupon she informed +him of Gilbert’s passion for Genevieve Durant, which astonished him +greatly, though he took it far less seriously than she had expected, +and was not displeased at having been kept in ignorance and spared the +trouble of taking notice of it, and thus giving it importance. + +‘It will pass off,’ he said. ‘She has too much sense and principle to +encourage him, and if you can get her out of Bayford for a few years he +will be glad to have it forgotten.’ + +‘Poor Genevieve! She must break up her grandmother’s home after all!’ + +‘It will be a great advantage to her. You used to say that it would be +most desirable for her to see more of the world. Away from this place +she might marry well.’ + +‘Any one’s son but yours,’ said Albinia, smiling. + +‘The connexion would be worse here than anywhere else; but I was not +thinking of any one in our rank of life. There are many superior men in +trade with whom she might be very happy.’ + +‘Poor child!’ sighed Albinia. ‘I cannot feel that it is fair that she +should be banished for Gilbert’s faults; and I am sorry for the school; +you cannot think how much the tone was improving.’ + +‘If it could be done without hurting her feelings, I should gladly give +her a year at some superior finishing school, which might either qualify +her for a governess, or enable her to make this one more profitable.’ + +‘Oh! thank you!’ cried Albinia; ‘yet I doubt. However, her services +would be quite equivalent in any school to the lessons she wants. I’ll +write to Mrs. Elwood--’ and she was absorbed in the register-office in +her brain, when Mr. Kendal continued-- + +‘This is quite unexpected. I could not have supposed the boy so foolish! +However, if you please, I will speak to him, tell him that I was unaware +of his folly, and insist on his giving it up.’ + +‘I should be very glad if you would.’ + +Gilbert was called, and the result was more satisfactory than Albinia +thought that Genevieve deserved. His frenzy had tended to wear itself +out, and he had been so dreadfully alarmed about India and his father, +that in his relief, gratitude, and fear of being sent out, he was ready +to promise anything. Before his father he could go into no rhapsodies, +and could only be miserably confused. + +‘Personally,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘it is creditable that you should be +attracted by such estimable qualities, but these are not the sole +consideration. Equality of station is almost as great a requisite as +these for producing comfort or respectability, and nothing but your +youth and ignorance could excuse your besetting any young woman with +importunities which she had shown to be disagreeable to her.’ + +There was no outcry of despair, only a melancholy muttering. Then Mr. +Kendal pronounced his decree in terms more explicit than those in which +Albinia had exacted the promise. He said nothing about persecution, +nor was he unreasonable enough to command an instant immolation of the +passion; he only insisted that Gilbert should pay no marked attention, +and attempt no unsanctioned or underhand communication. Unless he +thought he had sufficient self-command to abstain, his father must take +‘further measures.’ + +As if fearing that this must mean ‘Kendal and Kendal,’ he raised his +head, and with a deep sigh undertook for his own self-command. Mr. +Kendal laid his hand on his shoulder with kind pity, told him he was +doing right, and that while he acted openly and obediently, he should +always meet with sympathy and consideration. + +Two difficult points remained--the disposing of the young people. +Gilbert was still over young for the university, as well as very +backward and ill-prepared, and the obstinate remains of the cough +made his father unwilling to send him from home. And his presence made +Genevieve’s absence necessary. + +The place had begun to loom in the distance. A former governess of +Albinia’s, who would have done almost anything to please her, had lately +been left a widow, and established herself in a suburb of London, with +a small party of pupils. She had just begun to feel the need of an +additional teacher, and should gladly receive Genevieve, provided she +fulfilled certain requisites, of which, luckily, French pronunciation +stood the foremost. The terms were left to Albinia, who could scarcely +believe her good fortune, and went in haste to discuss the matter with +the Belmarches. + +It almost consoled her for what she had been exceedingly ashamed to +announce, the change of purpose with regard to Gilbert, which was a +sentence of banishment to the object of his folly. Nothing pained her +more than the great courtesy and kindness of the two old ladies to whom +it was such a cruel stroke, they evidently felt for her, and appeared to +catch at Mrs. Elwood’s offer, and when Albinia proposed that her salary +should be a share in the instructions of the masters, agreed that this +was the very thing they had felt it their duty to provide for her, if +they had been able to bring themselves to part with her. + +‘So,’ said good Madame Belmarche, smiling sadly, ‘you see it has been +for the dear child’s real good that our weakness has been conquered.’ + +Genevieve was written to, and consented to everything, and when Mr. +Kendal took Gilbert away to visit an old friend, his wife called for +Genevieve at the convent to bring her home. Albinia could not +divest herself of some curiosity and excitement in driving up to the +old-fashioned red brick house, with two tall wings projecting towards +the street, and the front door in the centre between them, with steps +down to it. She had not been without hopes of a parlour with a grille, +or at least that a lay sister would open the door; but she saw nothing +but a very ordinary-looking old maid-servant, and close behind her +was Genevieve, with her little box, quite ready--no excuse for seeing +anything or anybody else. + +If Genevieve were sad at the proposal of leaving home and going among +strangers, she took care to hide all that could pain Mrs. Kendal, and +her cheerful French spirit really enjoyed the prospect of new scenes, +and bounded with enterprise at the hope of a new life and fresh field of +exertion. + +‘Perhaps, after all,’ she said, smiling, ‘they may make of me something +really useful and valuable, and it will all be owing to you, dear +madame. Drawing and Italian! When I can teach them, I shall be able to +make grandmamma easy for life!’ + +Genevieve skipped out of the carriage and into her aunt’s arms, as +if alive only to the present delight of being at home again. It was a +contrast to Sophy’s dolorous visage. Poor Sophy! she was living in a +perpetual strife with the outward tokens of sulkiness, forcing herself +against the grain to make civil answers, and pretend to be interested +when she felt wretched and morose. That Gilbert, after so many ravings, +should have relinquished, from mere cowardice, that one hope of earning +Genevieve by honourable exertion, had absolutely lowered her trust in +the exalting power of love, and her sense of justice revolted against +the decision that visited the follies of the guilty upon the innocent. +She was yearning over her friend with all her heart, pained at the +separation, and longing fervently to make some demonstration, but the +greater her wish, the worse was her reserve. She spent all her money +upon a beautiful book as a parting gift, and kept it beside her, missing +occasion after occasion of presenting it, and falling at each into +a perfect agony behind that impalpable, yet impassable, barrier of +embarrassment. + +It was not till the very last evening, when Genevieve had actually +wished her good-bye and left the house, that she grew desperate. She +hastily put on bonnet and cloak, and pursued Genevieve up the street, +overtaking her at last, and causing her to look round close to her own +door. + +‘My dear Miss Sophy,’ cried Genevieve, ‘what is the matter? You are +quite overcome.’ + +‘This book--’ said Sophy--it was all she could say. + +‘Love--yes,’ said Genevieve. ‘Admiration--no.’ + +‘You shall not say that,’ cried Sophy. ‘I have found what is really +dignified and disinterested, and you must let me admire you, Jenny, it +makes me comfortable.’ + +Genevieve smiled. ‘I would not commit an egoism,’ she said; but if the +sense of admiration do you good, I wish it had a worthier cause.’ + +‘There’s no one to admire but you,’ said Sophy. ‘I think it very unfair +to send you away, and though it is nobody’s fault, I hate good sense and +the way of the world!’ + +‘Oh! do not talk so. I am only overwhelmed with wonder at the goodness +I have experienced. If it had happened with any other family, oh! how +differently I should have been judged! Oh! when I think of Mrs. Kendal, +I am ready to weep with gratitude!’ + +‘Yes, mamma is mamma, and not like any one else, but even she is obliged +to be rational, and do the injustice, whatever she feels,’ said Sophy. + +‘Oh! not injustice--kindness! I shall be able to earn more for +grandmamma!’ + +‘It is injustice!’ said Sophy, ‘not hers, perhaps, but of the world! It +makes me so angry, to think that you--you should never do anything but +wear yourself out in drudging over tiresome little children--’ + +‘Little children are my brothers and sisters, as I never had any,’ said +Genevieve. ‘Oh! I always loved them, they make a home wherever they are. +I am thankful that my vocation is among them.’ + +In dread of a token from Gilbert, Genevieve would not notice it, but +pursued, ‘You must come in and rest--you must have my aunt’s salts.’ + +‘No--no--’ said Sophy, ‘not there--’ as Genevieve would have taken her +to the little parlour, but opening the door of the school-room, she sank +breathless into a sitting position on the carpetless boards. + +Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down, found Sophy’s arms thrown +round her, pressing her almost to strangulation. + +‘Oh! I wanted to do it--I never could wont you have the book, +Genevieve? It is my keepsake--only I could not give it because--’ + +‘Is it your keepsake, indeed, dear Miss Sophy?’ said Genevieve. ‘Oh! if +it is yours--how I shall value it--but it is too beautiful--’ + +‘Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,’ said Sophy fervently. + +‘And it is your gift! But I am frightened--it must have cost--!’ began +Genevieve, still a little on her guard. ‘Dear, dear Miss Sophy, forgive +me if I do seem ungrateful, but indeed I ought to ask--if--if it is all +your own gift?’ + +‘Mine? yes!’ said Sophy, on the borders of offence. ‘I know what you +mean, Genevieve, but you may trust me. I would not take you in.’ + +Genevieve was blushing intensely, but taking courage she bestowed a +shower of ardent embraces and expressions of gratitude, mingled with +excuses for her precaution. ‘Oh! it was so very kind in Miss Sophy,’ she +said; ‘it would be such a comfort to remember, she had feared she too +was angry with her.’ + +‘Angry? oh, no!’ cried Sophy, her heart quite unlocked; ‘but the more I +loved and admired, the more I could not speak. And if they drive you to +be a governess? If you had a situation like what we read of?’ + +‘Perhaps I shall not,’ said Genevieve, laughing. ‘Every one has been so +good to me hitherto! And then I am not reduced from anything grander. I +shall always have the children, you know.’ + +‘How I should hate them!’ quoth Sophy. + +‘They are my pleasure. Besides I have always thought it a blessing that +my business in life, though so humble, should be what may do direct +good. If only I do not set them a bad example, or teach them any harm.’ + +‘Not much danger of that,’ said Sophy, smiling. ‘Well, I can’t believe +it will be your lot all your life. You will find some one who will know +how to love you.’ + +‘No,’ said Genevieve, ‘I am not in a position for marriage--grandmamma +has often told me so!’ + +‘Things sometimes happen,’ pursued Sophy. ‘Mamma said if Gilbert had +been older, or even if--if he had been in earnest and steady enough to +work for you in India, then it might--And surely if Gilbert could care +for you--people higher and deeper than he would like you better still.’ + +‘Hush,’ said Genevieve; ‘they would only see the objections more +strongly. No, do not put these things in my head. I know that unless a +teacher hold her business as her mission, and put all other schemes +out of her mind, she will work with an absent, distracted, half-hearted +attention, and fail of the task that the good God has committed to her.’ + +‘Then you would never even wish--’ + +‘It would be seeking pomps and vanities to wish,’ said Genevieve; +‘a school-room is a good safe cloister, probably less dull than the +convent. If I wish at all, it will be that I may be well shut up there, +for I know that in spite of myself my manners are different from your +English ones. I cannot make them otherwise, and that amuses people; and +I cannot help liking to please, and so I become excited. I enjoy society +so much that it is not safe for me! So don’t be sorry, dear Sophy, it +is a fit penance for the vanity that elated me too much that evening at +Fairmead!’ + +Mademoiselle Belmarche was here attracted by the voices. Sophy +started up from the ground, made some unintelligible excuse, and while +Mademoiselle was confounded with admiration at the sight of the book, +inflicted another boa-constrictor embrace, and hurried away. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + + + +Planets hostile to the tender passion must have been in the ascendant, +for the result of Captain Ferrars’s pursuit of his brother to Italy was +the wholesome certainty that his own slender portion was all he had to +reckon upon. Before returning to Canada, he came to Bayford to pour out +his troubles to his cousin, and to induce her, if he could induce no +one else, to advise his immediate marriage. It was the first time he had +been really engaged, and his affection had not only stood three months’ +absence, but had so much elevated his shatter-brained though frank and +honest temperament, that Albinia conceived a high opinion of ‘Emily,’ +and did her best to persuade him to be patient, and wait for promotion. + +Sophy likewise approved of him this time, perhaps because he was so +opposite a specimen of the genus lover from that presented by her +brother. Gilbert had not been able to help enjoying himself while from +home, but his spirits sank on his return; he lay about on the grass +in doleful dejection, studied little but L. E. L., lost appetite, and +reproachfully fondled his cough; but Albinia was now more compassionate +than Sophy, whom she was obliged to rebuke for an unsisterly disregard +toward his woes. + +‘I can’t help it,’ said Sophy; ‘I can’t believe in him now!’ + +‘Yes, you ought to believe that he is really unhappy, and be more gentle +and considerate with him.’ + +‘If it had been earnest, he would have sacrificed himself instead of +Genevieve.’ + +‘Ah! Sophy, some day you will learn to make excuses for other people, +and not be so intolerant.’ + +‘I never make excuses.’ + +‘Except for Maurice,’ said Albinia. ‘If you viewed other people as you +do him, your judgments would be gentler.’ + +Sophy’s conscientiousness, like her romance, was hard, high, and strict; +but while she had as little mercy on herself as on others, and while +there were some soft spots in her adamantine judgment, there was hope +that these would spread, and, without lowering her tone, make her more +merciful. + +She corresponded constantly with Genevieve, who seemed very happily +placed; Mrs. Elwood was delighted with her, and she with Mrs. Elwood; +and her lively letters showed no signs of pining for home. Sophy felt +as if it were a duty to her friend, to do what in her lay to prevent the +two old ladies from being dull, and spent an hour with them every week, +not herself contributing much to their amusement, but pleasing them by +the attention, and hearing much that was very curious of their old-world +recollections. + +Ever since that unlucky penny-club-day, when she had declared that she +hated poor people, she had been let alone on that subject; and though +principle had made her use her needle in their behalf, shyness and +reserve had kept her back from all intercourse with them; but in her +wish to compensate for Genevieve’s absence, she volunteered to take +charge of her vacant Sunday-school class, and obtained leave to have the +girls at home on the afternoons for an hour and a half. This was enough +for one who worked as she did, making a conscience of every word, and +toiling to prepare her lessons, writing out her questions beforehand, +and begging for advice upon them. + +‘My dear,’ said Albinia, ‘you must alter this--you see this question +does not grow out of the last answer.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Sophy, ‘that must have been what puzzled them last Sunday: +they want connexion.’ + +‘Nothing like logic to teach one to be simple,’ said Albinia. + +‘I can’t see the use of all this trouble,’ put in Lucy. ‘Why can’t you +ask them just what comes into your head, as I always do?’ + +‘Suppose mistakes came into my head.’ + +‘Oh! they would not find it out if they did! I declare!--what’s +this--Persian? Are you going to teach them Persian?’ + +‘No; it is Greek. You see it is a piece of a Psalm, a quotation rather +different in the New Testament. I wrote it down to ask papa what it is +in Hebrew.’ + +‘By-the-bye, Sophy,’ continued Lucy, ‘how could you let Susan Price come +to church with lace sleeves--absolute lace sleeves!’ + +‘Had she?’ + +‘There--you never see anything! Mamma, would not it be more sensible to +keep their dress in order, than to go poking into Hebrew, which can’t be +of use to any one?’ + +There was more reason than might appear in what Lucy said: the girls of +her class were more orderly, and fonder of her than Sophy’s of the grave +young lady whose earnestness oppressed them, and whose shyness looked +dislike and pride. As to finding fault with their dress, she privately +told Albinia that she could not commit such a discourtesy, and was +answered that no one but Mrs. Dusautoy need interfere. + +‘I will go and ask Mrs. Dusautoy what she wishes,’ said Albinia. ‘I +should be glad if she would modify Lucy’s sumptuary laws. To fall foul +of every trifle only makes the girls think of their dress.’ + +Albinia found Mrs. Dusautoy busied in writing notes on mourning paper. + +‘Here is a note I had written to you,’ she said. ‘I am sending over +to Hadminster to see if any of the curates can take the services +to-morrow.’ + +Albinia looked at the note while Mrs. Dusautoy wrote on hurriedly. She +read that there could be no daily services at present, the Vicar having +been summoned to Paris by the sudden death of Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy. +As the image of a well-endowed widow, always trying to force her way +into higher society, arose before Albinia, she could hardly wait till +the letter was despatched, to break out in amazement, + +‘Was she a relation of yours? Even the name never made me think of it!’ + +‘It is a pity she cannot have the gratification of hearing it, poor +woman,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, ‘but it is a fact that she did poor George +Dusautoy the honour to marry him.’ + +‘Mr. Dusautoy’s brother?’ + +‘Ay--he was a young surgeon, just set up in practice, exactly like +John--nay, some people thought him still finer-looking. She was a Miss +Greenaway Cavendish, a stock-broker’s heiress of a certain age.’ + +‘Oh!’ expressively cried Albinia. + +‘You may say so,’ returned Mrs. Dusautoy. ‘She made him put away his +profession, and set up for taste and elegant idleness.’ + +‘And he submitted?’ + +‘There was a great deal of the meek giant in him, and he believed +implicitly in the honour she had done him. It would have been very +touching, if it had not been so provoking, to see how patiently and +humbly that fine young man gave up all that would have made him happy, +to bend to her caprices and pretensions.’ + +‘Did you ever see them together?’ + +‘No, I never saw her at all, and him only once. I never knew John +really savage but once, and that was at her not letting him come to our +wedding; but she did give him leave of absence for one fortnight, when +we were at Lauriston. How happy the brothers were! It did one good to +hear their great voices about the house; and they were like boys on +a stolen frolic, when John took him to prescribe for some of our poor +people. He used to talk of bringing us his little son--the one pleasure +of his life--but he never was allowed. Oh, how I used to long to stir up +a mutiny!’ cried Mrs. Dusautoy, quite unknowing that she ruled her own +lion with a leash of silk. ‘If she had appreciated him, it would have +been bearable; but to her he was no more than the handsome young doctor, +whom she had made a gentleman, and not a very good piece of work of +it either! Little she recked of the great loving heart that had thrown +itself away on her, and the patience that bore with her; and she tried +to hinder all the liberal bountiful actions that were all he cared to do +with his means! I wish the boy may remember him!’ + +‘How long has he been dead?’ + +‘These ten years. He was drowned in a lake storm in Switzerland--people +clung to him, and he could not swim. It was John’s one great grief--he +cannot mention him even now. And really,’ she added, smiling, ‘I do +believe he has brought himself to fancy it was a very happy marriage. +She has always been very civil; but she has been chiefly abroad, and +never would take his advice about sending her boy to school.’ + +‘What becomes of him now?’ + +‘He is our charge. She was on the way home from Italy, when she was +taken ill at Paris, and died at the end of the week.’ + +‘How old is he?’ + +‘About nineteen, I fancy. He must have had an odd sort of education; +but if he is a nice lad, it will be a great pleasure to John to have +something young about the house.’ + +‘I was thinking that Mr. Dusautoy hardly wanted more cares.’ + +‘So have I,’ said her friend, smiling, ‘and I have been laying a plot +against him. You see, he is as strong as a lion, and never yet was too +tired to sleep; but it is rather a tempting of Providence to keep 3589 +people and fourteen services in a week resting upon one man!’ + +‘Exactly what his churchwarden has preached to him.’ + +‘Moreover, he cannot be in two places at once, let alone half-a-dozen. +Now, my Lancashire people have written in quest of a title for holy +orders for a young man who has just gone through Cambridge with great +credit, and it strikes me that he might at once help John, and cram +Master Algernon.’ + +‘And Gilbert!’ cried Albinia. ‘Oh, if you will import a tutor for +Gilbert, we shall be for ever beholden to you!’ + +‘I had thought of him. I have no doubt that he is much better taught +than Algernon; but I am not afraid of this poor fellow bringing home +bad habits, and they will be good companions. I reckon upon you and +Mr. Kendal as great auxiliaries, and I don’t think John will be able to +withstand our united forces.’ + +On the way home, on emerging from the alley, Albinia encountered +Gilbert, just parting with another youth, who walked off quickly on the +Tremblam road, while she inquired who it was. + +‘That?’ said Gilbert; ‘oh! that was young Tritton. He has been +away learning farming in Scotland. We speak when we meet, for old +acquaintance sake and that.’ + +The Bayford mind was diverted from the romance of Genevieve, by the +enormous fortune of the Vicar’s nephew, whose capital was in their +mouths and imaginations swelled into his yearly income. Swarms of cards +of inquiry were left at the vicarage; and Mrs. Meadows and Lucy +enjoyed the reflected dignity of being able to say that Mrs. Kendal +was continually there. And so she was, for Mrs. Dusautoy was +drooping, though more in body than visibly in spirit, and needed both +companionship and assistance in supporting the charge left by her absent +Atlas. + +He was not gone a moment longer than necessary, and took her by surprise +at last, while Albinia and Sophy were sitting on the lawn with her, when +she welcomed the nephew and the Vicar, holding out a hand to each, and +thanked them for taking care of ‘Fanny.’ ‘Here, Algernon,’ he continued, +‘here are two of our best friends, Mrs. Kendal and Miss Sophy.’ + +There was a stiff bow from a stiff altitude. The youth was on the +gigantic Dusautoy scale, looking taller even than his uncle, from his +manner of holding himself with his chin somewhat elevated. He had a good +ruddy sun-burnt complexion, shining brown hair, and regular features; +and Albinia could respond heartily to the good Vicar’s exclamation, as +he followed her down to the gate for the sake of saying, + +‘Well-grown lad, isn’t that? And a very good-hearted fellow too, poor +boy--the very picture of his dear father. Well, and how has Fanny been?’ + +He stayed to be reassured that his return was all his Fanny wanted, and +then hurried back to her, while Albinia and Sophy pursued their way down +the hill. + +‘News for grandmamma. We must give her a particular description of the +hero.’ + +‘How ugly he thought me!’ said Sophy, quaintly. + +‘My dear, I believe that is the first thing you think of when you meet a +stranger!’ + +‘I saw it this time,’ returned Sophy. ‘His chin went up in the air at +once. He set me down for Mrs. Kendal, and you for Miss Sophy.’ + +‘Nonsense,’ said Albinia, for the inveterate youthfulness of her bright +complexion and sunny hair was almost a sore subject with her. ‘Your +always fancying that every one is disgusted with you, is as silly as +if you imagined yourself transcendently beautiful. It is mere +self-occupation, and helps to make you blunt and shy.’ + +‘Mamma,’ said Sophy, ‘tell me one thing. Did you ever think yourself +pretty?’ + +‘I have thought myself looking so, under favourable circumstances, but +that’s all. You are as far from ugliness as I am, and have as little +need to think of it. As far as features go, there’s the making of a much +handsomer woman in you than in me.’ + +Sophy laughed. A certain yearning for personal beauty was a curious part +of her character, and she would have been ashamed to own the pleasure +those few words had given her, or how much serenity and forbearance they +were worth; and her good-humour was put to the proof that evening, for +grandmamma had a tea-party, bent on extracting the full description of +the great Algernon Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy, Esquire. Lucy’s first +sight was less at her ease. Elizabeth Osborn, with whom she kept up a +fitful intimacy, summoned her mysteriously into her garden, to show +her a peep-hole through a little dusty window in the tool-house, whence +could be descried the vicarage garden, and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, as, +with a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, + + + ‘Stately stept he east the wa’, and stately stept he west.’ + + +Lucy was so much amused, that she could not help reporting it at home, +where Gilbert forgot his sorrows, in building up a mischievous romance +in honour of the hole in the ‘sweet and lovely wall.’ + +But the parents’ feud did not seem likely to hold out. A hundred +thousand pounds on one side of the wall, and three single daughters on +the other, Mrs. Osborn was not the woman to trust to the ‘wall’s hole;’ +and so Mr. Dusautoy’s enemy laid down her colours; and he was too +kind-hearted to trace her sudden politeness to the source. + +Mr. Dusautoy acceded to the scheme devised by his wife, and measures +were at once taken for engaging the curate. When Albinia went to talk +the matter over at the parsonage, Lucy accompanied her; but the object +of her curiosity was not in the room; and when she had heard that he was +fond of drawing, and that his horses were to be kept at the King’s +Head stables, the conversation drifted away, and she grew restless, and +begged Mrs. Dusautoy to allow her to replenish the faded bouquets on +the table. No sooner was she in the garden, than Mrs. Dusautoy put on an +arch look, and lowering her voice, said, + +‘Oh! it is such fun! He does despise us so immensely.’ + +‘Despise--you?’ + +‘He is a good, boy, faithful to his training. Now his poor mother’s +axioms were, that the English are vulgar, country English more vulgar, +Fanny Dusautoy the most vulgar! I wish we always as heartily accepted +what we are taught.’ + +‘He must be intolerable.’ + +‘No, he is very condescending and patronizing to the savages. He +really is fond of his uncle; and John is so much hurt it I notice his +peculiarities, that I have been dying to have my laugh out.’ + +‘Can Mr. Dusautoy bear with pretension?’ + +‘It is not pretension, only calm faith in the lessons of his youth. +Look,’ she added, becoming less personal at Lucy’s re-entrance, and +pointing to a small highly-varnished oil-painting of a red terra cotta +vase, holding a rose, a rhododendron before it, and half a water-melon +grinning behind, newly severed by a knife. + +‘Is that what people bring home from Italy now-a-days?’ said Albinia. + +‘That is an original production.’ + +‘Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that?’ cried Lucy. + +‘Genre is his style,’ was the reply. ‘His mother was resolved he should +be an amateur, and I give his master great credit.’ + +‘Especially for that not being a Madonna,’ said Albinia. ‘I congratulate +you on his having so safe an amusement.’ + +‘Yes; it disposes of him and of the spare room. He cannot exist without +an atelier.’ + +Just then the Vicar entered. + +‘Ah! Algernon’s picture,’ began he, who had never been known to look at +one, except the fat cattle in the Illustrated News. ‘What do you think +of it? Has he not made a good hand of the pitcher?’ + +Albinia gratified him by owning that the pitcher was round; and Lucy was +in perfect rapture at the ‘dear little spots’ in the rhododendron. + +‘A poor way of spending a lad’s time,’ said the uncle; ‘but it is better +than nothing; and I call the knife very good: I declare you might take +it up,’ and he squeezed up his eyes to enhance the illusion. + +A slow and wide opening of the door admitted the lofty presence of +Algernon Cavendish Dusautoy, with another small picture in his hand. +Becoming aware of the visitors, he saluted them with a dignified +movement of his head, and erecting his chin, gazed at them over it. + +‘So you have brought us another picture, Algernon,’ said his uncle. +‘Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring your red jar.’ + +‘Have you a taste for art?’ demanded Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, turning to +her with magnificent suavity. + +‘I used to be very fond of drawing.’ + +‘Genre is my style,’ he pursued, almost overthrowing her gravity by +the original of his aunt’s imitation. ‘I took lessons of old +Barbouille--excellent master. Truth and nature, those were his maxims; +and from the moment I heard them, I said, “This is my man.” We used +positively to live in the Borghese. There!’ as he walked backwards, +after adjusting his production in the best light. + +‘A snipe,’ said Albinia. + +‘A snipe that I killed in the Pontine marshes.’ + +‘There is very good shooting about Anxur,’ said Albinia. + +‘You have been at Rome?’ He permitted himself a little animation at +discovering any one within the pale of civilization. + +‘For one fortnight in the course of a galloping tour with my two +brothers,’ said Albinia. ‘All the Continent in one long vacation!’ + +‘That was much to be regretted. It is my maxim to go through every +museum thoroughly.’ + +‘I can’t regret,’ said Albinia. ‘I should be very sorry to give up my +bright indistinct haze of glorious memories, though I was too young to +appreciate all I saw.’ + +‘For my part, I have grown up among works of art. My whole existence has +been moulded on them, and I feel an inexpressible void without them. I +shall be most happy to introduce you into my atelier, and show you +my notes on the various Musees. I preserved them merely as a trifling +memorial; but many connoisseurs have told me that I ought to print them +as a Catalogue raisonnee, for private circulation, of course. I should +be sorry to interfere with Murray, but on the whole I decided otherwise: +I should be so much bored with applications.’ + +Mrs. Dusautoy’s wicked glance had so nearly demolished the restraint on +her friend’s dimples, that she turned her back on her, and commended the +finish of a solitary downy feather that lay detached beside the bird. + +‘My maxim is truth to nature, at any cost of pains,’ said the youth, +not exactly gratified, for homage was his native element, but graciously +proceeding to point out the merits of the composition. + +Albinia’s composure could endure no more, and she took her leave, Mr. +Dusautoy coming down the hill with her to repeat, and this time somewhat +wistfully, + +‘A fine lad, is he not, poor fellow?’ + +With perfect sincerity, she could praise his good looks. + +‘He has had a quantity of sad stuff thrust on him by the people who have +been about his poor mother,’ said Mr. Dusautoy. ‘She could never bear to +part with him, and no wonder, poor thing; and she must have let a very +odd sort of people get about her abroad--they’ve flattered that poor lad +to the top of his bent, you see, but he’s a very good boy for all that, +very warm-hearted.’ + +‘He must be very amiable for his mother to have been able to manage him +all this while.’ + +‘Just what I say!’ cried the Vicar, his honest face clearing. ‘Many +youths would have run into all that is bad, brought up in that way; but +only consider what disadvantages he has had! When we get him to see his +real standing a little better--I say, could not you let us have your +young people to come up this evening, have a little music, and make it +lively? I suppose Fanny and I are growing old, though I never thought so +before. Will you come, Lucy, there’s a good girl, and bring your brother +and sister? The lads must be capital friends.’ + +Lucy promised with sparkling eyes, and the Vicar strode off, saying he +should depend on the three. + +Gilbert ‘supposed he was in for it,’ but ‘did not see the use of it,’ he +was sick of the name of ‘that polysyllable,’ and ‘should see enough of +him when Mr. Hope came, worse luck.’ + +The result of the evening was, that Lacy was enraptured at the discovery +that this most accomplished hero sang Italian songs to the loveliest +guitar in the world, and was very much offended with Sophy for wishing +to know whether mamma really thought him so very clever. + +Immediately after the Ordination arrived Mr. Hope, a very youthful, +small, and delicate-looking man, whom Mr. Dusautoy could have lifted +as easily as his own Fanny, with short sight, timid nature, scholarly +habits, weak nerves, and an inaudible voice. + +Of great intellect, having read deeply, and reading still more deeply, +he had the utmost dread of ladies, and not even his countrywoman, Mrs. +Dusautoy, could draw him out. He threw his whole soul into the +work, winning the hearts of the infant-school and the old women, but +discomfiting the congregation by the weakness of his voice, and the +length and depth of his sermons. There was one in especial which very +few heard, and no one entered into except Sophy, who held an hour’s +argument over it with her father, till they arrived at such lengthy +names of heresies, that poor grandmamma asked if it were right to talk +Persian on a Sunday evening. + +He conscientiously tutored his two pupils, but there was no common +ground between him and them. Excepting his extra intellect, there was +no boyhood in him. A town-bred scholar, a straight constitutional upon +a clean road was his wildest dream of exercise; he had never mounted a +horse, did not know a chicken from a partridge, except on the table, was +too short-sighted for pictures, and esteemed no music except Gregorians. + +The two youths were far more alive to his deficiencies than to his +endowments: Algernon contemned him for being a book-seller’s son, with +nothing to live on but his fellowship and curacy, and Gilbert looked +down on his ignorance of every matter of common life, and excessive +bashfulness. Mr. Dusautoy would have had less satisfaction in the +growing intimacy between the lads, had he known that it had been +cemented by inveigling poor Mr. Hope into a marsh in search of +cotton-grass, which, at Gilbert’s instigation, Algernon avouched to be a +new sort of Indian corn, grown in Italy for feeding silkworms. + +An intimacy there was, rather from constant intercourse than from +positive liking. Gilbert saw through and disdained young Dusautoy’s +dulness and self-consequence; but good-natured, kindly, and unoccupied, +he had no objection to associate with him, showing him English ways, +trying to hinder him from needlessly exposing himself, and secretly +amused with his pretension. Algernon, with his fine horses, expensive +appointments, and lofty air, was neither a discreditable nor unpleasing +companion. Mr. Kendal had given his son a horse, which, without costing +the guineas that Algernon had ‘refused’ for each of his steeds, was a +very respectable-looking animal, and the two young gentlemen, starting +on their daily ride, were a grand spectacle for more than little +Maurice. + +Gilbert had suffered some eclipse. Once he had been the grand parti, the +only indisputable gentleman, but now Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy had entirely +surpassed him both in self-assertion and in the grounds for it. His +incipient dandyisms faded into insignificance beside the splendours +of the heir of thousands; and he, who among all his faults had never +numbered conceit or forwardness, had little chance beside such an +implicit believer in his own greatness. + +Nor was Bayford likely to diminish that faith. The non-adorers might +be easily enumerated--his uncle and aunt, his tutor, his groom, Mr. +and Mrs. Kendal, Gilbert and Sophy; the rest all believed in him +as thoroughly as he did in himself. His wealth was undoubted, his +accomplishments were rated at his own advertisement, and his magnanimous +condescension was esteemed at full value. Really handsome, good-natured +and sociable, he delighted to instruct his worshippers by his maxims, +and to bend graciously to their homage. The young ladies had but one +cynosure! Few eyes were there that did not pursue his every movement, +few hearts that did not bound at his approach, few tongues that did not +chronicle his daily comings and goings. + +‘It would save much trouble,’ said Albinia, ‘if a court circular could +be put into the Bayford paper.’ + +The Kendals were the only persons whom Algernon regarded as in any way +on a footing with him. Finding that the lady was a Ferrars, and had +been in Italy, he regarded her as fit company, and whenever they met, +favoured her with the chief and choicest of his maxims, little knowing +how she and his aunt presumed to discuss him in private. + +Without being ill-disposed, he had been exceedingly ill taught; his +mother, the child of a grasping vulgar father, had little religious +impression, and that little had not been fostered by the lax habits of +a self-expatriated Englishwoman, and very soon after his arrival at +Bayford his disregard of ordinary English proprieties had made itself +apparent. On the first Sunday he went to church in the morning, +but spent the evening in pacing the garden with a cigar; and on the +afternoon of that day week his aunt was startled by the sound of horse’s +hoofs on the road. Mr. Dusautoy was at school, and she started up, met +the young gentleman, and asked him what strange mistake could have +been made. He made her a slight bow, and loftily said he was always +accustomed to ride at that hour! ‘But not on Sunday!’ she exclaimed. +He was not aware of any objection. She told him his uncle would be much +displeased, he replied politely that he would account to his uncle for +his conduct, begged her pardon, but he could not keep his horse waiting. + +Mrs. Dusautoy went back, fairly cried at the thought of her husband’s +vexation, and the scandal to the whole town. + +The Vicar was, of course, intensely annoyed, though he still could make +excuses for the poor boy, and laid all to the score of ignorance and +foreign education. He made Algernon clearly understand that the Sunday +ride must not be repeated. Algernon mumbled something about compromising +his uncle and offending English prejudices, by which he reserved to +himself the belief that he yielded out of magnanimity, not because he +could not help it; but he could not forgive his aunt for her peremptory +opposition; he became unpleasantly sullen and morose as regularly as the +Sunday came round, and revenged himself by pacing the verandah with his +cigar, or practising anything but sacred music on his key-bugle in his +painting-room. + +The youth was really fond of his uncle, but he had imbibed all his +mother’s contempt for her sister-in-law. Used to be wheedled by an +idolizing mother, and to reign over her court of parasites, he had no +notion of obeying, and a direct command or opposition roused his sullen +temper of passive resistance. When he found ‘that little nobody of a +Mrs. John Dusautoy’ so far from being a flatterer, or an adorer of his +perfections, inclined to laugh at him, and bent on keeping him in order, +all the enmity of which he was capable arose in his mind, and though in +general good-natured and not aggressive, he had a decided pleasure +in doing what she disapproved, and thus asserting the dignity of a +Greenaway Cavendish Dusautoy. + +The atelier was a happy invention. Certainly wearisome noises, and an +aroma of Havannahs would now and then proceed therefrom, but he was +employed there the chief part of the day, and fortunately his pictures +were of small size, and took an infinite quantity of labour, so that +they could not speedily outrun all the Vicarage walls. + +He favoured the University of Oxford by going up with Gilbert for +matriculation, when, to the surprise of Mr. Hope, he was not plucked. +They were to begin their residence at the Easter term. Mrs. Dusautoy did +not confess even to Albinia how much she looked forward to Easter. + +In early spring, a sudden and short illness took away Madame Belmarche’s +brave spirit to its rest, after sixty years of exile and poverty, +cheerfully borne. + +There had been no time to summon Genevieve, and her aunt would not send +for her, but decided on breaking up the school, which could no longer +be carried on, and going to live in the Hadminster convent. And thus, as +Mr. Kendal hoped, all danger of renewed intercourse between his son and +Genevieve ended. Gilbert looked pale and wretched, and Sophy hoped it +was with compunction at having banished Genevieve at such a moment, but +not a word was said--and that page of early romance was turned! + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + + + +It was a beautiful July afternoon, the air musical with midsummer hum, +the flowers basking in the sunshine, the turf cool and green in the +shade, and the breeze redolent of indescribable freshness and sweetness +compounded of all fragrant odours, the present legacy of a past day’s +shower. Like the flowers themselves, Albinia was feeling the delicious +repose of refreshed nature, as in her pretty pink muslin, her white +drapery folded round her, and her bright hair unbonnetted, she sat +reclining in a low garden chair, at the door of the conservatory, a +little pale, a little weak, but with a sweet happy languor, a soft +tender bloom. + +There was a step in the conservatory, and before she could turn round, +her brother Maurice bent over her, and kissed her. + +‘Maurice! you have come after all!’ + +‘Yes, the school inspection is put off. How are you?’ as he sat down on +the grass by her side. + +‘Oh, quite well! What a delicious afternoon we shall have! Edmund will +be at home directly. Mrs. Meadows has absolutely let Gilbert take her to +drink tea at the Drurys! Only I am sorry Sophy should miss you, for +she was so good about going, because Lucy wanted to do something to her +fernery. Of course you are come for Sunday, and the christening?’ + +‘Yes,--that is, to throw myself on Dusautoy’s mercy.’ + +‘We will send Mr. Hope to Fairmead,’ said Albinia, ‘and see whether +Winifred can make him speak. We can’t spare the Vicar, for he is our +godfather, and you must christen the little maiden.’ + +‘I thought the three elder ones were to be sponsors.’ + +‘Gilbert is shy,’ said Albinia, ‘afraid of the responsibility, and +perhaps he is almost too near, the very next to ourselves. His father +would have preferred Mr. Dusautoy from the first, and only yielded to +my wish. I wish you had come two minutes sooner, she was being paraded +under that wall, but now she is gone in asleep.’ + +‘Her father writes grand things of her.’ + +‘Does he?’ said Albinia, colouring and smiling at what could not be +heard too often; ‘he is tolerably satisfied with the young woman! And +he thinks her like Edmund, and so she must be, for she is just like him. +She will have such beautiful eyes. It is very good of her to take after +him, since Maurice won’t!’ + +‘And she is to be another Albinia.’ + +‘I represented the confusion, and how I always meant my daughter to be +Winifred, but there’s no doing anything with him! It is only to be a +second name. A. W. K.! Think if she should marry a Mr. Ward!’ + +‘No, she would not be awkward, if she were so a-warded.’ + +‘It wont spell, Maurice,’ cried Albinia, laughing as their nonsense, as +usual, rose to the surface, ‘but how is Winifred?’ + +‘As well as could be hoped under the affliction of not being able to +come and keep you in order.’ + +‘She fancied me according to the former pattern,’ said Albinia, smiling, +‘I could have shown her a better specimen, not that it was any merit, +for there were no worries, and Edmund was so happy, that it was pleasure +enough to watch him.’ + +‘I was coming every day to judge for myself, but I thought things could +not be very bad, while he wrote such flourishing accounts.’ + +‘No, there were no more ponds!’ said Albinia, ‘and grandmamma happily +was quite well, cured, I believe, by the excitement. Lucy took care of +her, and Sophy read to me--how we have enjoyed those readings! Oh! +and Aunt Gertrude has found a delightful situation for Genevieve, a +barrister’s family, with lots of little children--eighty pounds a year, +and quite ready to value her, so she is off my mind.’ + +‘Maurice, boy! come here,’ she called, as she caught sight of a creature +prancing astride on one stick, and waving another. On perceiving a +visitor, the urchin came careering up, bouncing full tilt upon her, and +clasping her round with both his stalwart arms. ‘Gently, gently, boy,’ +she said, bending down, and looking with proud delight at her brother, +as she held between her hands a face much like her own, as fair and +freshly tinted, but with a peculiar squareness of contour, large blue +eyes, with dark fringes, brimming over with mischief and fun, a bold, +broad brow, and thick, light curls. There was a spring and vigour as of +perpetual irrepressible life about the whole being, and the moment he +had accepted his uncle’s kiss, he poised his lance, and exclaimed, ‘You +are Bonaparte, I’m the Duke!’ + +‘Indeed,’ said Mr. Ferrars, at once seizing a wand, and bestriding the +nearest bench. Two or three charges rendered the boy so uproarious, +that presently he was ordered off, and to use the old apple tree as +Bonaparte. + +‘What a stout fellow!’ said Mr. Ferrars, as he went off at a plunging +gallop, ‘I should have taken him for at least five years old!’ + +‘So he might be,’ said Albinia, ‘for strength and spirit--he is utterly +fearless, and never cries, much as he knocks himself about! He will +do anything but learn. The rogue! he once knew all his letters, but no +sooner did he find they were the work of life, than he forgot every one, +and was never so obstreperous as when called upon to say them. I gave up +the point, but I foresee some fine scenes.’ + +‘His minding no one but you is an old story. I hope at least the +exception continues.’ + +‘I have avoided testing it. I want all my forces for a decisive battle. +I never heard of such a masterful imp,’ she continued, with much more +exultation than anxiety, ‘his sisters have no chance with him, he rules +them like a young Turk. There’s the pony! Sophy will let him have it as +a right, and it is the work of my life to see that she is not defrauded +of her rides.’ + +‘You don’t mean that that child rides anything but a stick.’ + +‘One would think he had been born in boots and spurs. Legitimately he +only rides with some one leading the pony, but I have my suspicions that +by some preternatural means he has been on the pony’s back, and round +the yard alone, and that papa prudentially concealed it from me!’ + +‘I confess I should not like it,’ said her brother gravely. + +‘Oh! I don’t mind that kind of thing. A real boy can’t be hurt, and I +don’t care how wild he runs, so long as he is obedient and truthful. And +true I think he is to the backbone, and I know he is reverend. We had +such a disturbance because he would not say his prayers.’ + +‘Proof positive!’ + +‘Yes, it was,’ said Albinia. ‘It did not seem to him orthodox without +me, and when he was let into my room again, it was the prettiest sight! +When he had been told of his little sister, all he said was that he did +not want little girls--girls were stupid--’ + +‘Ah! that came of your premature introduction to my Albinia,’ + +‘Not at all. It was partly as William’s own nephew, and partly because +pleasure was expected from him. But when he actually saw the little +thing, that sturdy face grew so very soft and sweet, and when we told +him he was her protector, he put both his hands tight together, and +said, “I’ll be so good!” When he is with her, another child seems to +shine out under the bluff pickle he generally is--he walks so quietly, +and thinks it such an honour to touch her.’ + +‘She will be his best tutor,’ said Maurice, smiling, but breaking off-- + +A sudden shriek of deadly terror rang out over the garden from the +river! A second or two sufficed to show them Lucy at the other end of +the foot-bridge, that led across the canal to the towing-path. She did +not look round, till Albinia, clutching her, demanded, ‘Where is he?’ + +Unable to speak, Lucy pointed down the towing-path, along which a +horse was seen rushing wildly--a figure pursuing it. ‘It was hitched up +here--he must have scrambled up by the gate! Oh! mamma! mamma! He has +run after him, but oh!’ + +Mr. Ferrars gave Lucy’s arm a squeeze, a hint not to augment the horror. +Something he said of ‘Let me--and you had better--’ but Albinia heard +nothing, and was only bent on pressing forward. + +The canal and path took a wide sweep round the meadow, and the horse was +still in sight, galloping at full speed, with a small heap on its back, +as they trusted, but the rapid motion, and their eyes strained and misty +with alarm, caused an agony of uncertainty. + +Albinia pointed across the meadows in anguish at not being able to make +herself understood, and hoarsely said, ‘The gate!’ + +Mr. Ferrars caught her meaning, and the next moment had leaped over the +gutter, and splashed into the water meadow, but in utter hopelessness +of being beforehand with the runaway steed! How could that gate be +other than fatal? The horse was nearing it--the pursuer far behind--Mr. +Ferrars not half way over the fields. + +There was a loud cry from Lucy.--‘He is caught! caught!’ + +A loud shout came back, was caught up, and sent on by both the pursuers, +‘All right!’ + +Albinia had stood in an almost annihilation of conscious feeling. Even +when her brother strode back to her repeating ‘All safe, thanks be to +God,’ she neither spoke nor relaxed that intensity of watching. A few +seconds more, and she sprang forward again as the horse was led up by +a young man at his side; and on his back, laughing and chattering, sat +Master Maurice. Algernon Dusautoy strode a few steps behind, somewhat +aggrieved, but that no one saw. + +The elder Maurice lifted down the younger one, who, as he was clasped by +his mother, exclaimed, ‘Oh! mamma, Bamfylde went so fast! I am to ride +home again! He said so--he’s my cousin!’ + +Albinia scarcely heard; her brother however had turned to thank the +stranger for her, and exclaimed, ‘I should say you were an O’More.’ + +‘I’m Ulick, from the Loughside Lodge,’ was the answer. ‘Is cousin +Winifred here?’ + +‘No, this is my sister, Mrs. Kendal, but--’ + +Albinia held out her hand, and grasped his; ‘I can’t--Maurice, speak,’ +she said. + +The little Maurice persisted in his demand to be remounted for the +twelve yards to their own gate, but nobody heard him; his uncle was +saying a few words of explanation to the stranger, and Algernon Dusautoy +was enunciating something intended as a gracious reception of the +apologies which no one was making. All Albinia thought of was that the +little unruly hand was warm and struggling, prisoned in her own; all her +brother cared for was to have her safely at home. He led her across the +bridge, and into the garden, where they met Mr. Kendal, who had taken +alarm from her absence; Lucy ran up with her story, and almost at the +same moment, Albinia, springing to him, murmured, ‘Oh! Edmund, the great +mercy--Maurice;’ but there she found herself making a hoarse shriek; +with a mingled sense of fright and shame, she smothered it, but there +was an agony of suffocation, she felt her husband’s arms round her, +heard his voice, and her boy’s scream of terror--felt them all unable to +help her, and sank into unconsciousness. + +Mr. Ferrars helped Mr. Kendal to carry his wife’s inanimate form to +her room. They used all means of restoration, but it was a long, heavy +swoon, and a slow, painful revival. Mr. Kendal would have been in utter +despair at hearing that the doctor was out, but for his brother, with +his ready resources and cheerful encouragement; and finally, she lifted +her eyelids, and as she felt the presence of her two dearest guardians, +whispered, ‘Where is he?’ + +Lucy reported that he was with Susan, and Albinia, after hearing +her husband again assure her that he was quite safe, lay still from +exhaustion, but so calm, that her brother thought them best alone, and +drew Lucy away. + +In about a quarter of an hour Mr. Kendal came down, saying that she was +quietly asleep, and he had left the nurse with her. He had yet to +hear the story, and when he understood that the child had been madly +careering along the towing-path, on the back of young Dusautoy’s most +spirited hunter, and had been only stopped when the horse was just about +to leap the tall gate, he was completely overcome. When he spoke again, +it was with the abrupt exclamation, ‘That child! Lucy, bring him down!’ + +In marched the boy, full of life and mischief, though with a large red +spot beneath each eye. + +‘Maurice!’ Gilbert had often heard that tone, but Maurice never, and he +tossed back his head with an innocent look of fearless wonder. ‘Maurice, +I find you have been a very naughty, disobedient boy. When you rode the +pony round the yard, did not I order you never to do so again?’ + +‘I did not do it again,’ boldly rejoined Maurice. + +‘Speak the truth, sir. What do you mean by denying what you have done?’ +exclaimed his father, angrily. + +‘I didn’t ride the pony,’ indignantly cried the child, ‘I rode a horse, +saddled and bridled!’ + +‘Don’t answer me in that way!’ thundered Mr. Kendal, and much incensed +by the nice distinction, and not appreciating the sincerity of it, he +gave the child a shake, rough enough to bring the red into his face, +but not a tear. ‘You knew it was very wrong, and you were as near as +possible breaking your neck. You have frightened your mamma, so as +to make her very ill, and I am sorry to find you most mischievous and +unruly, not to be trusted out of sight. Now, listen to me, I shall +punish you very severely if you act in this disobedient way again.’ + +Papa angry, was a novel spectacle, at which Maurice looked as innocently +and steadily as ever, so completely without fear or contrition, that +he provoked a stern, ‘Do you hear me, sir?’ and another shake. Maurice +flushed, and his chest heaved, though he did not sob, and his father, +uncomfortable at such sharp dealing with so young a child, set him +aside, with the words, ‘There now, recollect what I have told you!’ and +walked to the window, where he stood silent for some seconds, while +the boy stood with rounded shoulders, perplexed eye, and finger on his +pouting lip, and Mr. Ferrars, newspaper in hand, watched him under his +eyelids, and speculated what would be the best sort of mediation, or +whether the young gentleman yet deserved it. He knew that his own Willie +would have been a mere quaking, sobbing mass of terror, under such a +shake, and he would like to have been sure whether that sturdy silence +were obstinacy or fortitude. + +The sound of the door-bell made Mr. Kendal turn round, and laying his +hand on the little fellow’s fair head, he said, ‘There, Maurice, we’ll +say no more about it if you will be a good boy. Run away now, but don’t +go into your mamma’s room.’ + +Maurice looked up, tossed his curls out of his eyes, shook himself, felt +the place on his arm where the grip of the hand had been, and galloped +off like the young colt that he was. + +Albinia awoke, refreshed, though still shaken and feeble, and surprised +to find that dinner was going on downstairs. Her own meal presently +put such new force into her, that she felt able to speak Maurice’s name +without bursting into tears, and longing to see both her little ones +beside her, she told the nurse to fetch the boy, but received for +answer, ‘No, Master Maurice said he would not come,’ and the manner +conveyed that it had been defiantly said. Master Maurice was no +favourite in the nursery, and he was still less so, when his mamma, +disregarding all mandates, set out to seek him. Already she heard from +the stairs the wrangling with Susan that accompanied all his toilettes, +and she found him the picture of firm, solid fairness, in his little +robe de nuit, growling through the combing of his tangled locks. Though +ordinarily scornful of caresses, he sprang to her and hugged her, as she +sat down on a low chair, and he knelt in her lap, whispering with his +head on her shoulder, and his arms round her neck, ‘Mamma, were you +dead?’ + +‘No, Maurice,’ she answered with something of a sob, ‘or I should not +have my dear, dear little boy throttling me now! But why would you not +come down to me?’ + +‘Papa said I must not.’ + +Oh, that was quite right, my boy;’ and though she unclasped the tight +arms, she drew him nestling into her bosom. ‘Oh, Maurice, it has been a +terrible day! Does my little boy know how good the great God has been +to him, and how near he was never seeing mamma nor his little sister +again.’ + +Her great object was to make him thankful for his preservation, but with +a child, knowing nothing of death and heedless of fear, this was very +difficult. The rapid motion had been delightful excitement, or if there +had been any alarm, it was forgotten in the triumph. She had to change +her note, and represent how the poor horse might have run into the +river, or against a post! Maurice looked serious, and then she came to +the high moral tone--mounting strangers’ horses without leave--would +papa, would Gilbert, think of such a thing? The full lip was put out, as +though under conviction, and he hung his head. ‘You wont do it again?’ +said she. + +‘No.’ + +She told him to say his prayers, guiding the confession and thanksgiving +that she feared he did not fully follow. As he rose up, and saw the +tears on her cheeks, he whispered, ‘Mamma, did it make you _so_?’ + +Cause and effect were a great puzzle to him, but that swoon was the +only thing that brought home to him that he had been guilty of something +enormous, and when she owned that his danger had been the occasion, he +stood and looked; then, standing bolt upright, with clasped hands, and +rosy feet pressed close together, he said, with a long breath, ‘I’ll +never get on Bamfylde again till I’m a big boy.’ + +As he spoke, Mr. Kendal pushed open the half-closed door, and Albinia, +looking up, said, ‘Here’s a boy who knows he has done wrong, papa.’ + +Never was more welcome excuse for lifting the gallant child to his +breast, and lavishing caresses that would have been tender but for the +strong spirit of riot which turned them into a game at romps, cut short +by Mr. Kendal, as soon as the noise grew very outrageous. ‘That’s enough +to-night; good night.’ And when they each had kissed the monkey face +tossing about among the clothes, Maurice might have heard more pride +than pain in the ‘I never saw such a boy!’ with which they shut the +door. + +‘This is not prudent!’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘Do you think I could have rested till I had seen him? and he said you +had told him not to come down.’ + +‘I would have brought him to you. You are looking very ill; you had +better go to bed at once.’ + +‘No, I should not sleep. Pray let me grow quiet first. Now you know you +trust Maurice,--old Maurice, and I’ll lie on the sofa like any mouse, if +you’ll bring him up and let him talk. You know it will be an interesting +novelty for you to talk, and me to listen! and he has not seen the +baby.’ + +Albinia gained her point, but Mr. Kendal and Lucy first tucked her up +upon the sofa, till she cried out, ‘You have swathed me hand and foot. +How am I to show off that little Awk?’ + +‘I’ll take care of that,’ said Mr. Kendal; and so he did, fully doing +the honours of the little daughter, who had already fastened on his +heart. + +‘But,’ cried Albinia, breaking into the midst, ‘who or what are we, +ungrateful monsters, never to have thought of the man who caught that +dreadful horse!’ + +‘You shall see him as soon as you are strong enough,’ said Mr. Kendal; +‘your brother and I have been with him.’ + +‘Oh, I am glad; I could not rest if he had not been thanked. And can +anything be done for him? What is he? I thought he was a gentleman.’ + +Maurice smiled, and Mr. Kendal answered, ‘Yes, he is Mr. Goldsmith’s +nephew, and I am pleased to find that he is a connexion of your +brother.’ + +‘One of the O’Mores,’ cried Albinia. ‘Oh, Maurice, is it really one of +Winifred’s O’Mores?’ + +‘Even so,’ replied Mr. Ferrars; the very last person I should have +expected to meet on the banks of the Baye! It was that clever son of the +captain’s for whose education Mr. Goldsmith paid, and it seems had sent +for, to consider of his future destination. He only arrived yesterday.’ + +‘A very fine young man,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I was particularly pleased +with his manner, and it was an act of great presence of mind and +dexterity.’ + +‘It is all a maze and mystery to me,’ said Albinia; ‘do tell me all +about it. I can’t make out how the horse came there.’ + +‘I understood that young Dusautoy was calling here,’ said Mr. Kendal; +‘I wondered at even his coolness in coming in by that way, and at your +letting him in.’ + +‘I saw nothing of him,’ said Albinia. ‘Perhaps he was looking for +Gilbert.’ + +‘No,’ said Lucy, looking up from her work, with a slight blush, and +demure voice of secret importance; ‘he had only stepped in for a minute, +to bring me a new fern.’ + +‘Indeed,’ said her father; ‘I was not aware that he took interest in +your fernery.’ + +‘He knows everything about ferns,’ said Lucy. ‘Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy +once had a conservatory filled with the rarest specimens, and he has +given me a great many directions how to manage them.’ + +‘Oh! if he could get you to listen to his maxims, I don’t wonder at +anything,’ exclaimed Albinia. + +‘He had only just come in with the Adiantium, and was telling me how +hydraulic power directed a stream of water near the roots among his +mother’s Fuci,’ said Lucy, rather hurt. ‘He had fastened up his horse +quite securely, and nobody could have guessed that Maurice could have +opened that gate to cross the bridge, far less have climbed up the rail +to the horse’s back. I never shall forget my fright, when we heard +the creature’s feet, and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy began to run after it +directly.’ + +‘As foolish a thing as he could have done,’ said Mr. Kendal, not +impressed with Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy’s condescension in giving chase. +‘It was well poor little Maurice was not abandoned to your discretion, +and his resources.’ + +‘It seems,’ continued Mr. Ferrars, ‘that young O’More was taking a walk +on the towing-path, and was just so far off as to see, without being +able to prevent it, this little monkey scramble from the gate upon the +horse’s neck. How it was that he did not go down between, I can’t guess; +the beast gave a violent start, as well it might, jerked the reins +loose, and set off full gallop. Seeing the child clinging on like a +young panther, he dashed across the meadow, to cut him off at the turn +of the river; and it was a great feat of swiftness, I assure you, to run +so lightly through those marshy meadows, so as to get the start of the +runaway; then he crept up under cover of the hedge, so as not to startle +the horse, and had hold of the bridle, just as he paused before leaping +the gate! He said he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the +urchin safe, and looking more excited than terrified.’ + +‘Yes, he was exceedingly struck with Maurice’s spirit,’ said Mr. Kendal, +who, when the fright and anger were over, could begin to be proud of the +exploit. + +‘They fraternized at once,’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘Maurice imparted that his +name was Maurice Ferrars Kendal, and Ulick, in all good faith and Irish +simplicity, discovered that they were cousins!’ + +‘Oh! Edmund, he must come to the christening dinner!’ + +‘Mind,’ said Maurice, ‘you, know he is not even my wife’s cousin; only +nephew to her second cousin’s husband.’ + +‘For shame, Maurice, cousin is that cousinly does!’ + +‘Very well, only don’t tell the aunts that Winifred saddled all the +O’Mores upon you.’ + +‘Not an O’More but should be welcome for his sake!’ + +‘Nor an Irishman,’ said Mr. Ferrars. + +Albinia suffered so much from the shock, that she could not make her +appearance till noon on the following day. Then, after sitting a little +while in the old study, to hear that grandmamma had not been able to +sleep all night for thinking of Maurice’s danger, and being told some +terrible stories of accidents with horses, she felt one duty done, and +moved on to the drawing-room in search of her brother. + +She found herself breaking upon a tete-a-tete. A sweet, full voice, with +strong cadences, was saying something about duty and advice, and she +would have retreated, but her brother and the stranger both sprang +up, and made her understand that she was by no means to go away. No +introduction was wanted; she grasped the hand that was extended to her, +and would have said something if she could, but she found herself not +strong enough to keep from tears, and only said, ‘I wish little Maurice +were not gone out with his brother, but you will dine with us, and see +him to-morrow.’ + +‘With the greatest pleasure, if my uncle and aunt will spare me.’ + +‘They must,’ said Albinia, ‘you must come to meet your old friend and +_cousin_,’ she added, mischievously glancing at Maurice, but he did +not look inclined to disavow the relationship, and the youth was not a +person whom any one would wish to keep at a distance. He seemed about +nineteen or twenty years of age, not tall, but well made, and with an +air of great ease and agility, rather lounging and careless, yet alert +in a moment. The cast of his features at once betrayed his country, by +the rounded temples, with the free wavy hair; the circular form of +the eyebrow; the fully opened dark blue eye, looking almost black when +shaded; the short nose, and the well-cut chin and lips, with their +outlines of sweetness and of fun, all thoroughly Irish, but of the +best style, and with a good deal of thought and mind on the brow, and +determination in the mouth. Albinia had scarcely a minute, however, for +observation, for he seemed agitated, and in haste to take leave, nor did +her brother press him to remain, since she was still looking very white +and red, and too fragile for anything but rest. With another squeeze of +the hand she let him go, while he, with murmured thanks, and head +bent in enthusiastic honour to the warm kindness of one so sweet and +graceful, took leave. Mr. Ferrars followed him into the hall, leaving +the door open, so that she heard the words, ‘Good-bye, Ulick; I’ll do my +best for you. All I can say is, that I respect you.’ + +‘Don’t respect me too soon,’ he answered; ‘maybe you’ll have to change +your mind. The situation may like me no better than I the situation.’ + +‘No, what you will, you can do; I trust to your perseverance.’ + +‘As my poor mother does! Well, with patience the snail got to Rome, and +if it is to lighten her load, I must bear it. Many thanks, Mr. Ferrars. +Good morning.’ + +‘Good morning; only, Ulick, excuse me, but let me give you a hint; if +the situation is to like you, you must mind your Irish.’ + +‘Then you must not warm my heart with your kindness,’ was the +answer. ‘No, no, never fear, when I’m not with any one who has seen +Ballymakilty, I can speak English so that I could not be known for a +Galway man. Not that I’m ashamed of my country,’ he added; and the next +moment the door shut behind him. + +‘How could you scold him for his Irish?’ exclaimed Albinia, as her +brother re-entered; ‘it sounds so pretty and characteristic.’ + +‘I fear Mr. Goldsmith may think it too characteristic!’ + +‘I am sure Edmund might well call him prepossessing. I hope Mr. +Goldsmith is going to do something handsome for him!’ + +‘Poor lad! Mr. Goldsmith considers that he has purchased him for a +permanent fixture on a high stool. It is a sad disappointment, for he +had been doing his utmost to prepare himself for college, and he has so +far distinguished himself at school, that I see that a very little help +would soon enable him to maintain himself at the University. I could +have found it in my heart to give it to him myself; it would please +Winifred.’ + +‘Oh, let us help; I am sure Edmund would be glad.’ + +‘No, no, this is better for all. Remember this is the Goldsmith’s only +measure of conciliation towards their sister since her marriage, and it +ought not to be interfered with. Poor Ulick says he knows this is the +readiest chance of being of any use to his family, and that his mother +has often said she should be happy if she could but see one of the +six launched in a way to be independent! There are those three eldest, +little better than squireens, never doing a thing but loafing about with +their guns. I used to long for a horse-whip to lay about them, till they +spoke to me, and then not one of the rogues but won my heart with his +fun and good-nature.’ + +‘Then I suppose it is a great thing to have one in the way of +money-making.’ + +‘Hem! The Celtic blood is all in commotion! This boy’s business was to +ask my candid opinion whether there were anything ungentlemanlike in a +clerkship in a bank. It was well it was not you!’ + +‘Now, Maurice, don’t you know how glad I should have been if Gilbert +would have been as wise!’ + +‘Yes, you have some common sense after all, which is more than Ulick +attributes to his kith and kin. When I had proved the respectability of +banking to his conviction, I’ll not say satisfaction, he made me promise +to write to his father. He is making up his mind to what is not only a +great vexation to himself, and very irksome employment, but he knows he +shall be looked down upon as having lost caste with all his family!’ + +‘It really is heroism!’ cried Albinia. + +‘It is,’ said Mr. Ferrars; ‘he does not trust himself to face the clan, +and means to get into harness at once, so as to clench his resolution, +and relieve his parents from his maintenance immediately.’ + +‘Is he to live with that formal Miss Goldsmith?’ + +‘No. In solitary lodgings, after that noisy family and easy home! I +can’t think how he will stand it. I should not wonder if the Galwegian +was too strong after all.’ + +‘We must do all we can for him,’ cried Albinia; ‘Edmund likes him +already. Can’t he dine with us every Sunday?’ + +‘I know you will be kind,’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘Only see how things turn +out before you commit yourself. Ah! I have said the unlucky word which +always makes you fly off!’ + +There was little fear that Ulick O’More would not win his way with +Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, recommended as he was, and with considerable +attractions in the frankness and brightness of his manner. He was a +very pleasant addition to the party who dined at Willow Lawn, after +the christening. No one had time to listen to Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy’s +maxims, and he retired rather sullenly, to lean against the mantelpiece, +and marvel why the Kendals should invite an Irish banker’s clerk to +meet _him_. Gilbert likewise commented on the guest with a muttered +observation on his sisters’ taste; ‘Last year it was all the +Polysyllable, now it would be all the Irishman!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + + + +There was a war of supremacy in the Kendal household. Albinia and her +son were Greek to Greek, and if physical force were on her side, her +own tenderness was against her. As to allies, Maurice had by far the +majority of the household; the much-tormented Susan was her mistress’s +sole supporter; Mr. Kendal and Sophy might own it inexpedient to foster +his outrecuidance, but they so loved to do his bidding, so hated to +thwart him, and so grieved at his being punished, that they were little +better than Gilbert, Lucy, grandmamma, or any of the maids or men. + +The moral sense was not yet stirred, and the boy seemed to be trying the +force of his will like the strength of his limbs. Even as he delighted +to lift a weight the moment he saw that it was heavy, so a command was +to him a challenge to see how much he would undergo rather than obey, +but his resistance was so open, gay, and free, that it could hardly be +called obstinacy, and he gloried in disappointing punishment. The dark +closet lost all terror for him; he stood there blowing the horn through +his hand, content to follow an imaginary chase, and when untimely sent +to bed, he stole Susan’s scissors, and cut a range of stables in the +sheets. The short, sharp infliction of pain answered best, but his +father, though he could give a shake when angry, could _not_ strike when +cool, and Albinia was forced to turn executioner, though with such tears +and trembling that her culprit looked up reassuringly, saying, ‘Never +mind, mamma, I shan’t!’ He did, however, _mind_ her tears, they bore in +upon him the sense of guilt; and after each transgression, he could not +be at peace till he had marched up to her, holding out his hand for the +blow, and making up his face not to wince, and then would cling round +her neck to feel himself pardoned. Justice came to him in a most fair +and motherly shape! The brightest, the merriest of all his playmates +was mamma; he loved her passionately, and could endure no cloud between +himself and her, so that he was slowly learning that submission to her +was peace and pleasure, and rebellion mere pain to both. She established +ten minutes of daily lessons, but even she could not reach beyond the +capture of his restless person, his mind was out of reach, and keen as +he was in everything else, towards “a + b = ab” he was an unmitigated +dunce. Nor did he obey any one who did not use authority and force +of will, and though perfectly simple and sincere, he was too young to +restrain himself without the assistance of the controlling power, so +that in his mother’s absence he was tyrannical and violent, and she +never liked to have him out of her sight, and never was so sure that he +was deep in mischief as when she had not heard his voice for a quarter +of an hour. + +‘Albinia,’ said Mr. Kendal, one relenting autumn day, when November +strove to look like April, ‘I thought of walking to pay Farmer Graves +for the corn. Will you come with me?’ + +‘Delightful, I want to see what Maurice will say to the turkey-cock.’ + +‘Is it not too far for him?’ + +‘He would run quite as many miles in the garden,’ said Albinia, who +would have walked in dread of a court of justice on her return, had not +the scarlet hose been safely prancing on the road before her. + +‘This way, then,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I must get this draft changed at the +bank. Come, Maurice, you will see a friend there.’ + +‘Do you know, Edmund,’ said Albinia, as they set forth, ‘my conscience +smites me as to that youth; I think we have neglected him.’ + +‘I cannot see what more we could have done. If his uncle does not bring +him forward in society, we cannot interfere.’ + +‘It must be a forlorn condition,’ said Albinia; ‘he is above the other +clerks, and he seems to be voted below the Bayford Elite, since the +Polysyllable has made it so very refined! One never meets him anywhere +now it is too dark to walk after the banking hours. Cannot we ask him to +come in some evening?’ + +‘We cannot have our evenings broken up,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I should be +glad to show him any kindness, but his uncle seems to have ruled it that +he is to be considered more as his clerk than as one of his family, and +I doubt if it would be doing him any service to interfere.’ + +They were now at the respectable old freestone building, with +‘Goldsmith’ inscribed on the iron window-blinds, and a venerable date +carved over the door. Inside, those blinds came high, and let in +but little light over the tall desks, at which were placed the +black-horsehair perches of the clerks, old Mr. Goldsmith himself +occupying a lower throne, more accessible to the clients. One of the +high stools stood empty, and Albinia making inquiry, Mr. Goldsmith +answered, with a dry, dissatisfied cough, that More, as he called him, +had struck work, and gone home with a headache. + +‘Indeed,’ said Albinia, ‘I am sorry to hear it. Mr. Hope said he thought +him not looking well.’ + +‘He has complained of headache a good deal lately,’ said Mr. Goldsmith. +‘Young men don’t find it easy to settle to business.’ + +Albinia’s heart smote her for not having thought more of her son’s +rescuer, and she revolved what could or what might have been done. +It really was not easy to show him attention, considering Gilbert’s +prejudice against his accent, and Mr. Kendal’s dislike to an interrupted +evening, and all she could devise was a future call on Miss Goldsmith. +But for Maurice, it would have been a silent walk, and though her mind +was a little diverted by his gallant attempt to bestride the largest pig +in the farm-yard, she was sure Mr. Kendal was musing on the same topic, +and was not surprised when, as they returned, he exclaimed, ‘I have a +great mind to go and see after that poor lad.’ + +‘This way, then,’ said Albinia, turning down a narrow muddy street +parallel with the river. + +‘Impossible!’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘he can never live at the Wharves?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia; ‘he told me that he lodged with an old servant of +the Goldsmiths, Pratt’s wife, at the Lower Wharf.’ + +She pointed to the name of Pratt over a shop-window in a house that +had once seen better days, but which looked so forlorn, that Mr. +Kendal would not look the slatternly maid in the face while so absurd a +question was asked as whether Mr. O’More lived there. + +The girl, without further ceremony, took them up a dark stair, and +opened the door of a twilight room, where Albinia’s first glimpse showed +her the young man with his head bent down on his arms on the table, as +close as possible to the forlorn, black fire, of the grim, dull, sulky +coal of the county, which had filled the room with smoke and blacks. The +window, opened to clear it, only admitted the sickly scent of decaying +weed from the river to compete with the perfume of the cobbler’s +stock-in-trade. Ulick started up pale and astonished, and Mr. Kendal, +struck with consternation, chiefly thought of taking away his wife and +child from the infected atmosphere, and made signs to Albinia not to sit +down; but she was eagerly compassionate. + +‘It was nothing,’ said Ulick, ‘only his head was rather worse than +usual, and he thought it time to give in when the threes put lapwings’ +feathers in their caps just like the fives.’ + +‘Are you subject to these headaches?’ + +‘It is only home-sickness,’ he said. ‘I’ll have got over it soon.’ + +‘I must come and see after you, my good friend,’ said Mr. Kendal, with +suppressed impatience and anxiety. ‘I shall return in a moment or two, +but I am sure you are not well enough for so many visitors taking you by +surprise. Come.’ + +He was so peremptory, that Albinia found herself on the staircase before +she knew what she was about. The fever panic had seized Mr. Kendal +in full force; he believed typhus was in the air, and insisted on her +taking Maurice home at once, while he went himself to fetch Mr. Bowles. +She did not in the least credit fever to be in the chill touch of that +lizard hand, and believed that she could have been the best doctor; but +there was no arguing while he was under this alarm, and she knew that +she might be thankful not to be ordered to observe a quarantine. + +When Mr. Kendal returned home he looked much discomposed, though his +first words were, ‘Thank Heaven, it is no fever! Albinia, we must look +after that poor lad; he is positively poisoned by that pestiferous river +and bad living! Bowles said he was sure he was not eating meat enough. +I dare say that greasy woman gives him nothing fit to eat! Albinia, +you must talk to him--find out whether old Goldsmith gives him a decent +salary!’ + +‘He ought not to be in those lodgings another day. I suppose Miss +Goldsmith had no notion what they were. I fancy she never saw the Lower +Wharf in her life.’ + +‘I never did till to-day,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It was all of a piece--the +whole street--the room--the furniture--why the paper was coming off the +walls! What could they be dreaming of! And there he was, trying to read +a little edition of Prodentius, printed at Salamanca, which he picked up +at a bookstall at Galway. It must have belonged to some priest educated +in Spain. He says any Latin book was invaluable to him. He is infinitely +too good for his situation, and the Goldsmiths are neglecting him +infamously. Look out some rooms fit for him, Albinia.’ + +‘I will try. Let me see--if I could only recollect any; but Mr. Hope has +the only really nice ones in the place.’ + +‘Somewhere he must be, if it is in this house.’ + +‘There is poor old Madame Belmarche’s still empty, with Bridget keeping +it. I wish he could have rooms there.’ + +‘Well, why not? Pettilove told me it must be let as two tenements. If +the old woman could take half, a lodger would pay her rent,’ said Mr. +Kendal, promptly. ‘You had better propose it.’ + +‘And the Goldsmiths?’ asked Albinia. + +‘I will show him the Lower Wharf.’ + +The next afternoon Mr. Kendal desired his wife to go to the Bank and +borrow young O’More for her walking companion. + +‘Really I don’t know whether I have the impudence.’ + +‘I will come and do it for you. You will do best alone with the lad; I +want you to get into his confidence, and find out whether old Goldsmith +treats him properly. I declare, but that I know John Kendal so well, +this would be enough to make me rejoice that Gilbert is not thrown on +the world!’ + +Albinia knew herself to be so tactless, that she saw little hope other +doing anything but setting him against his relations; but her husband +was in no frame to hear objections, so she made none, and only trusted +she should not be very foolish. At least, the walk would be a positive +physical benefit to the slave of the desk. + +Ulick O’More was at his post, and said his head was well, but his hair +stuck up as if his fingers had been many times run through it; he was +much thinner, and the wearied countenance, whitened complexion, and +spiritless sunken eyes, were a sad contrast to the glowing freshness and +life that had distinguished him in the summer. + +Mr. Kendal told the Banker that it had been decided that his nephew +needed exercise, and that Mrs. Kendal would be glad of his company in +a long walk. Mr. Goldsmith seemed rather surprised, but consented, +whereupon the young clerk lighted up into animation, and bounded out of +his prison house, with a springy step learnt upon mountain heather. Mr. +Kendal only waited to hear whither they were bound. + +‘Oh! as far as we can go on the Woodside road,’ said Albinia. ‘I think +the prescription I used to inflict on poor Sophy will not be thrown away +here. I always fancy there is a whiff of sea air upon the hill there.’ + +Ulick smiled at such a fond delusion, bred up as he had been upon the +wildest sea-coast, exposed to the full sweep of the Atlantic storm! She +set him off upon his own scenery, to the destruction of his laborious +English, as he dwelt on the glories of his beloved rocks rent by fierce +sea winds and waves into fantastic, grotesque, or lovely shapes, with +fiords of exquisite blue sea between, the variety of which had been to +him as the gentle foliage of tamer countries. Not a tree stood near the +‘town’ of Ballymakilty, but the wild crags, the sparkling waters, the +broad open hills, and the bogs, with their intensely purple horizon, +held fast upon his heart; and he told of white sands, reported to be +haunted by mermaids, and crevices of rock where the tide roared, and +gave rise to legends of sea monsters, and giants turned to stone. He +was becoming confidential and intimate when, in a lowered voice, he +mentioned the Banshee’s crag, where the shrouded messenger of doom never +failed to bewail each dying child of the O’More, and where his own old +nurse had actually beheld her keening for the uncle who was killed among +the Caffres. Albinia began to know how she ought to respect the O’Mores. + +They were skirting the side of the hill, with a dip of green meadow-land +below them, rising on the other side into coppices. The twang of the +horn, and the babbling cry of the hounds, reminded Albinia that the +hunting season had begun, and looking over a gate, she watched the +parti-coloured forms of the dogs glancing among the brushwood opposite, +and an occasional red coat gleaming out through the hedge above. Just +then the cry ceased, the dogs became silent, and scattered hither and +thither bewildered. Ulick looked eagerly, then suddenly vaulted over the +gate, went forward a few steps, looked again, pointed towards some dark +object which she could barely discern, put his finger in his ear, +and uttered an unearthly screech, incomprehensible to her, but well +understood by the huntsman, and through him by the dogs, which at once +simultaneously dashed in one direction, and came pouring into the meadow +over towards him, down went their heads, up went their curved tails, the +clatter and rushing of hoofs, and the apparition of red coats, showed +the hunters all going round the copse, while at the same moment, away +with winged steps bounded her companion, flying headlong like the wind, +so as to meet the hunt. + + + ‘Ask me not what the lady feels, + Left in that dreadful hour alone,’ + + +laughed Albinia to herself. ‘Well done, speed! Edmund might be satisfied +there’s not much amiss! Through the hedge--over the meadow--a flying +leap over the stream--it is more like a bird than a man--up again. Does +he mean to follow the hunt all the rest of the way? Rather Irish, I must +say! And I do believe they will all come down this lane! I must walk on; +it wont do to be overtaken here between these high hedges. Ah! I thought +he was too much of a gentleman to leave me--here he comes. How much in +his way I must be! I never saw such a runner; not a bit does he slacken +for the hill--and what bright cheeks and eyes! What good it must have +done him!’ + +‘I beg ten thousand pardons!’ cried he, as he came up, scarcely out of +breath. ‘I declare I forgot you, I could not help it, when I saw them at +a check!’ + +‘You feel for the hunter as I do for the fox,’ said Albinia. ‘Is yours +one of the great hunting neighbourhoods?’ + +‘That it is!’ he cried. ‘My grandfather had the grand stud! He and his +seven sons were out three times in the week, and there was a mount for +whoever wanted it!’ + +‘And this generation is not behind the last?’ + +‘Ah! and why would it be?’ exclaimed the boy, the last remnant of +English pronunciation forsaking him. ‘My Uncle Connel has the best mare +on this side the bridge of Athlone! I mean that side.’ + +‘And how is it with you?’ asked Albinia. + +‘We’ve got no horses--that is, except my father’s mare, and the colt, +and Fir Darrig--the swish-tailed pony--and the blind donkey that brings +in the turf. So we younger ones mostly go hunting on foot; and after all +I believe that’s the best sport. Bryan always comes in before any of the +horses, and we all think it a shame if we don’t!’ + +‘I see where you learnt the swiftness of foot that was so useful last +July,’ said Albinia. + +‘That? oh! but Bryan would have been up long before me,’ said Ulick. +‘He’d have made for the lock, not the gate! You should see what sport +we have when the fox takes to the Corrig Dearg up among the rocks--and +little Rosie upon Fir Darrig, with her hair upon the wind, and her +colour like the morning cloud, glancing in and out among the rocks like +the fairy of the glen. There are those that think her the best part of +the hunt; they say the English officers at Ochlochtimore would never +think it worth coming out but for her. I don’t believe that, you know,’ +he added, laughing, ‘though I like to fetch a rise out of Ulick at the +great house by telling him of it.’ + +‘How old is she?’ + +‘Fifteen last April, and she is like an April wind, when it comes warm +and frolicking over the sea! So wild and free, and yet so gentle and +soft! Ellen and Mary are grave and steady, and work hard--every stitch +of my stockings was poor Mary’s knitting, except what poor old Peggy +would send up for a compliment; but Rosie--I don’t think she does a +thing but sing, and ride, and row the boat, and keep the house alive! My +mother shakes her head, but I don’t know what she’ll say when she gets +my aunt’s letter. My Aunt Goldsmith purses up her lips, and says, “I’ll +write to advise my sister to send her daughters to some good school.” + Ellen, maybe, might bear one, but ah! the thought of little Rosie in a +good school!’ + +‘Like her brother Ulick in a good bank, eh?’ + +‘Why,’ he cried, ‘they always called me the steady Englishman!’ + +Albinia laughed, but at that moment the sounds of the hunt again +occupied them, and all were interpreted by Ulick with the keenest +interest, but he would not run away again, though she exhorted him not +to regard her. Presently it swept on out of hearing, and by-and-bye +they reached the summit of the hill, and looked forth on the dark pine +plantations on the opposite undulation, standing out in black relief +against a sky golden with a pale, pure, pearly November sunset, a +‘daffodil sky’ flecked with tiny fleeces of soft bright-yellow light, +reminding Albinia of Fouque’s beautiful dream of Aslauga’s golden hair +showing the gates of Heaven to her devoted knight. She looked for her +companion’s sympathy in her admiration, but the woods seemed to oppress +him, and his panting sigh showed how real a thing was _he-men_. + +‘Oh! my poor sun!’ he broke out, ‘I pity you for having to go down +before your time into these black, stifling woods that rise up to +smother you like giants--and not into your own broad, cool Atlantic, +laughing up your own sparkles of light.’ + +‘We inland people can hardly appreciate your longing for space.’ + +‘It’s a very prison,’ said Ulick; ‘the horizon is choked all round, and +one can’t breathe in these staid stiff hedges and enclosures!’ And he +threw out his arms and flapped them over his breast with a gesture of +constraint. + +‘You seem no friend to cultivation.’ + +‘Why, your meadows would be pretty things if they were a little +greener,’ said Ulick; ‘but one gets tired of them, and of those straight +lines of ploughed field. There’s no sense of liberty; it is like the man +whose prison walls closed in upon him!’ And he gave another weary sigh, +his step lost elasticity, and he moved on heavily. + +‘You are tired; I have brought you too far.’ + +‘Tired by a bit of a step like this?’ cried the boy, disdainfully, as he +straightened himself, and resumed his brisk tread. But it did not last. + +‘I had forgotten that you had not been well,’ she said. + +‘Pshaw!’ muttered Ulick; then resumed, ‘Aye, Mr. Kendal brought in the +doctor upon me--very kind of him--but I do assure you ‘tis nothing but +home sickness; I was nearly as bad when I went to St. Columba, but I got +over it then, and I will again!’ + +‘It may be so in part,’ said Albinia, kindly; ‘but let me be +impertinent, Ulick, for my sister Winifred told me to look after you; +surely you give it every provocation. Such a change of habits is enough +to make any one ill. Should you not ask your uncle for a holiday, and go +home for a little while?’ + +‘Don’t name it, I beg of you,’ cried the poor lad in an agitated voice, +‘it would only bring it all over again! I’ve promised my mother to do +my part, and with His help I _will_! Let the columns run out to all +eternity, and the figures crook themselves as spitefully as they +will, I’ve vowed to myself not to stir till I’ve got the better of the +villains!’ + +‘Ah!’ said Albinia, ‘they have blackened your eyes like the bruises of +material antagonists! Yes, it is a gallant battle, but indeed you must +give yourself all the help you can, for it would be doing your mother no +good to fall ill.’ + +‘I’ve no fears,’ said Ulick; ‘I know very well what is the matter with +me, and that if I don’t give way, it will go off in time. You’ve given +it a good shove with your kindness, Mrs. Kendal,’ he added, with deep +emotion in his sensitive voice; ‘only you must not talk of my going +home, or you’ll undo all you have done.’ + +‘Then I won’t; we must try to make you a home here. And in the first +place, those lodgings of yours; you can never be comfortable in them.’ + +‘Ah! you saw my fire smoking. I never shall learn to make a coal fire +burn.’ + +‘Not only that,’ said Albinia, ‘but you might easily find rooms much +better furnished, and fitter for you.’ + +‘I do assure you,’ exclaimed Ulick, ‘you scarcely saw it! Why, I don’t +think there’s a room at the big house in better order, or so good!’ + +‘At least,’ said Albinia, repressing her deduction as to the big house +of Ballymakilty, ‘you have no particular love for the locality--the +river smell--the stock of good leather, &c.’ + +‘It’s all Bayford and town smell together,’ said Ulick; ‘I never thought +one part worse than another, begging your pardon, Mrs. Kendal.’ + +‘And I am sure,’ she continued, ‘that woman can never make your meals +comfortable. Yes, I see I am right, and I assure you hard head-work +needs good living, and you will never be a match for the rogues in black +and white without good beef-steaks. Now confess whether she gives you +dinners of old shoe-leather.’ + +‘A man can’t sit down to dinner by himself,’ cried Ulick, impatiently. +‘Tea with a book are all that is bearable.’ + +‘And you never go out--never see any one.’ + +‘I dine at my uncle’s every Sunday,’ said Ulick. + +‘Is that all the variety you have?’ + +‘Why, my uncle told me he would not have me getting into what he calls +idle company. I’ve dined once at the vicarage, and drunk tea twice with +Mr. Hope, but it is no use thinking of it--I couldn’t afford it, and +that’s the truth.’ + +‘Have you any books? What can you find to do all the evening?’ + +‘I have a few that bear reading pretty often, and Mr. Hope as lent +me some. I’ve been trying to keep up my Greek, and then I do believe +there’s some way of simplifying those accounts by logarithms, if I could +but work it out. But my mother told me to walk, and I assure you I do +take a constitutional as soon as I come out at half-past four every +day.’ + +‘Well, I have designs, and mind you don’t traverse them, or I shall have +to report you at home. I have a lodging in my eye for you, away from the +river, and a nice clean, tidy Irishwoman to keep you in order, make your +fires, and cram you, if you wont eat, and see if she does not make a man +of you--’ + +‘Stop, stop, Mrs. Kendal!’ cried Ulick, distressed. ‘You are very kind, +but it can’t be.’ + +‘Excuse me, it is economy of the wrong sort to live in a gutter, and +catch agues and fevers. Only think, if it was my boy Gilbert, should I +not be obliged to any one that would tyrannize over him for his good! +Besides, what I propose is not at all beyond such means as Mr. Kendal +tells me are the least Mr. Goldsmith ought to give you. Do you dislike +going into particulars with me? You know I am used to think for Gilbert, +and I am a sort of cousin.’ + +‘You are kindness itself,’ said Ulick; ‘and there! I suppose I must go +to the bottom of it, and it is no news that pence are not plenty among +the O’Mores, though it is no fault of my uncle. See there what my poor +dear mother says.’ + +He drew a letter from his pocket, and gave a page to her. + + +‘I miss you sorely, my boy,’ it said; ‘I know the more what a support +and friend you have been to me now that you are so far away; but all +is made up to me in knowing you to be among my own people, and the +instrument of reconciliation with my brother, as you well know how +great has been the pain of the estrangement caused by my own pride and +wilfulness. I cannot tell you how glad I am that he approves of you, +and that you are beginning to get used to the work that was my own +poor father’s for so long. Bred up as you have been, my mountain lad, I +scarcely dared to hope that you would be able to sit down quietly to it, +with all our hopes of making you a scholar so suddenly frustrated; but I +might have put faith in your loving heart and sense of duty to carry +you through anything. I feel as if a load were off my mind since you and +Bryan are so happily launched. The boy has not once applied for money +since he joined; and if you write to him, pray beg him to be careful, +for it would well-nigh drive your father mad to be pressed any more--the +poor mare has been sold at a dead loss and the Carrick-humbug quarry +company pays no dividends, so how we are to meet the Christmas bills I +cannot guess. But, as you remember, we have won over worse times, and +now Providence has been so good to you and Bryan, what have I to do but +be thankful and hope the best.’ + + +Ulick watched her face, and gave her another note, saying mournfully, +‘You see they all, but my mother, think, that if I am dragging our +family honour through the mire, I’ve got something by it. Poor Bryan, he +knows no better--he’s younger than me by two years.’ + +The young ensign made a piteous confession of the first debt he had been +able to contract, for twenty pounds, with a promise that if his brother +would help him out of this one scrape, he would never run into another. + +‘I am very sorry for you, Ulick,’ said Albinia, ‘and I hate to advise +you to be selfish, but it really is quite impossible for you to be +paymaster for all your brothers’ debts.’ + +‘If it were Connel, I know it would be of no use,’ said Ulick. ‘But +Bryan--you see he has got a start--they gave him a commission, and he is +the finest fellow of us all, and knows what his word is, and keeps it! +Maybe, if I get on, I may be able to save, and help him to his next +step, and then if Redmond could get to college, my mother would be a +happy woman, and all thanks to my uncle.’ + +‘Then it is this twenty pounds that is pinching you now? Is that it?’ + +‘You see my uncle said he would give me enough to keep me as a gentleman +and his nephew, but not enough to keep all the family, as he said. After +my Christmas quarter I shall be up in the world again, and then there +will be time to think of the woman you spoke of--a Connaught woman, did +you say?’ + +When Albinia reported this dialogue to her husband, he was much moved by +this simple self-abnegation. + +‘There is nothing for it,’ he said, ‘but to bring him here till +Christmas, and by that time we will take care that the new lodgings are +cheap enough for him. He must not be left to the mercy of old Goldsmith +and his sister!’ + +Even Albinia was astonished, but Mr. Kendal carried out his intentions, +and went in quest of his new friend; while no one thought of objecting +except grandmamma. + +‘I suppose, my dear,’ she said, ‘that you know what Mr. Goldsmith means +to do for this young man.’ + +‘I am sure I don’t,’ said Albinia. + +‘Really! Ah! well, I’m an old woman, and I may be wrong, but my poor +dear Mr. Meadows would never encourage a banker’s clerk about the house +unless he knew what were his expectations. Irish too! If there was a +thing Mr. Meadows disliked more than another, it was an Irishman! He +said they were all adventurers.’ + +However, Ulick’s first evening at Willow Lawn was on what he called ‘a +headache day.’ He could not have taken a better measure for overcoming +grandmamma’s objections. Poor dear Mr. Meadows’ worldly wisdom was not +sufficiently native to her to withstand the sight of anything so pale +and suffering, especially as he did not rebel against answering her +close examination, which concluded in her pronouncing these intermitting +attacks to be agueish, and prescribing quinine. To take medicines is an +effectual way of gaining an old lady’s love. Ulick was soon established +in her mind as ‘a very pretty behaved young gentleman.’ + +In the evenings, when Mr. Kendal read aloud, Ulick listened, and enjoyed +it from the corner where he sheltered his eyes from the light. He was +told that he ought to go to bed quickly, but after the ladies were +in their rooms, a long buzzing murmur was heard in the passage, and +judicious peeping revealed the two gentlemen, each, candle in hand, the +one with his back against the wall at the top of the stairs, the other +leaning upon the balusters three steps below, and there they stayed, +till the clock struck one, and Ulick’s candle burnt out. + +‘What could you be talking about?’ asked the aggrieved Albinia. + +‘Prometheus Vinctus,’ composedly returned Mr. Kendal. + +Ulick’s eagerness in collecting every crumb of scholarship was a +great bond of union; but there was still more in the bright, open, +demonstrative nature of the youth, which had a great attraction for the +reserved, serious Mr. Kendal, and scarcely a day had passed before they +were on terms of intimacy, almost like an elder and younger brother. +Admitted into the family as a connexion, Ulick at once viewed the girls +as cousins, and treated them with the same easy grace of good-natured +familiarity as if they had been any of the nineteen Miss O’Mores around +Ballymakilty. + +‘How is your head now?’ asked Mr. Kendal. ‘You are late this evening.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Ulick, entering the drawing-room, which was ruddy with +firelight, and fragrant with the breath of the conservatory, and leaning +over an arm-chair, as he tried to rub the aching out of his brow; ‘there +were some accounts to finish up and my additions came out different +every time.’ + +‘A sure sign that you ought to have left off.’ + +‘I was just going to have told my uncle I was good for nothing to-day, +when I heard old Johns mumbling something to him about Mr. More being +unwell, and looking up, I saw that cold grey eye twinkling at me, as +much as to say he was proud to see how soon an Irishman could be beaten. +So what could I do but give him look for look, and go on with eight and +seven, and five and two, as unconcerned as he was.’ + +‘Well,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘you know I think that your uncle’s apparent +indifference may be his fashion of being your best friend.’ + +‘I’d take it like sunshine in May from a stranger, and be proud to +disappoint him,’ said Ulick, ‘but to call himself my uncle, and use +my mother’s own eyes to look at me that way, that’s the stroke! and to +think that I’m only striving to harden myself by force of habit to be +exactly like him! I’d rather enlist to-morrow, if that would not be his +greatest triumph!’ he cried, pressing his hands hard on his temple. ‘It +is very childish, but I could forgive him anything but using my mother’s +eyes that way!’ + +‘You will yet rejoice in the likeness,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘You must +believe in more than you can trace, and when your perseverance has +conquered his esteem, the rest will follow.’ + +‘Follow? The rest, as you call it, would go before at home,’ sighed +Ulick, wearily. ‘Esteem is like fame! what I want begins without it, and +lives as well with or without it!’ + +‘Perhaps,’ said his friend, ‘Mr. Goldsmith would think it weakness to +show preference to a relation before it was earned.’ + +‘Ah then,’ cried Ulick, in a quaint Irish tone, ‘Heaven have mercy on +the little children!’ + +‘Yes, the doctrine can only be consistently held by a solitary man.’ + +‘Where would we be but for inconsistency?’ exclaimed Ulick. + +‘I do not like to hear you talk in that manner,’ said Sophy. +‘Inconsistency is mere weakness.’ + +‘Ah! then you are the dangerous character,’ said Ulick, with a droll +gesture of sheltering himself behind the chair. + +‘I did not call myself consistent, I wish I were,’ she said, gravely. + +‘How she must love the French!’ returned Ulick, confidentially turning +to her father. + +‘Not at all, I detest them.’ + +‘Then you are inconsistent, for they’re the very models of +uncompromising consistency.’ + +‘Yes, to bad principles,’ said Sophy. + +‘Robespierre was a prime specimen of consistency to good principle!’ + +Sophy turned to her father, and with an odd dubious look, asked him, ‘Is +be teasing me?’ + +‘He’d be proud to have the honour,’ Ulick made answer, so that Mr. +Kendal’s smile grew broad. It was the funniest thing to see Ulick +sporting with Sophy’s gravity, constraining her to playfulness, with +something of the compulsion exercised by a large frolicsome puppy upon a +sober old dog of less size and strength. + +‘I do not like to see powers wasted on paradox,’ she said, even as the +grave senior might roll up his lip and snarl. + +‘I’m in earnest, Sophy,’ pursued Ulick, changing his note to eagerness. +‘La grande nation herself finds that logic was her bane. Consistency was +never made for man! Why where would this world be if it did not go two +ways at once?’ + +Sophy did laugh at this Irish version of the centripetal and centrifugal +forces, but she held out. ‘The earth describes a circle; I like straight +lines.’ + +‘Much we shall have of the right direction, unless we are content to +turn right about face,’ said Ulick. ‘The best path of life is but a +herring-bone pattern.’ + +‘What does he know of herring-boning?’ asked Mrs. Kendal, coming in at +the moment, with a white cashmere cloak folded picturesquely over her +delicate blue silk. Ulick in a moment assumed a less careless attitude, +as he answered-- + +‘I found my poetical illustration on the motion of the earth too much +for her, so I descended to the herring-bone as more suited to her +capacity.’ + +‘There he is, mamma,’ said Sophy, ‘pleading that consistency is the most +ruinous thing in the world.’ + +‘I thought as much,’ said Albinia. ‘Prometheus and his kin do most +abound when Ulick’s head is worst, and papa is in greatest danger of +being late.’ + +Mr. Kendal turned round, looked at the time-piece, and marched off. + +‘But mamma!’ continued Sophy, driving straight at her point, ‘what do +you think of consistency?’ + +‘Oh, mamma!’ cried Lucy, coming into the room in a flutter of white; +‘there you are in your beautiful blue! Have you really put it on for the +Drurys?’ + +Sophy bit her lip, neither pleased at the interruption, nor at the +taste. + +‘Have you a graduated scale of dresses for all your friends, Lucy? asked +Ulick. + +‘Everybody has, I suppose,’ said Lucy. + +‘Ah! then I shall know how to judge how I stand in your favour. I never +knew so well what the garb of friendship meant.’ + +‘You must know which way her scale goes,’ said Albinia, laughing at +Sophy’s evident affront at the frivolous turn the conversation had +taken. + +‘That needs no asking,’ quoth Ulick, ‘Unadorned, adorned the most for +the nearest the hearth.’ + +‘That’s all conceit,’ said Lucy. ‘Maybe familiarity breeds contempt.’ + +‘No, no, when young ladies despise, they use a precision that says, +“‘Tis myself I care for, and not you.”’ + +‘What an observer!’ cried Lucy. ‘Now then, interpret my dress to-night!’ + +‘How can you, Lucy!’ muttered the scandalized Sophy. + +‘Well, Sophy, as you will have him to torment with philosophy this +whole evening, I think you might give him a little respite,’ said Lucy, +good-humouredly. ‘I want to know what my dress reveals to him!’ and +drawing up her head, where two coral pins contrasted with her dark +braids, and spreading out her full white skirts and cerise trimmings, +she threw her figure into an attitude, and darted a merry challenge from +her lively black eyes, while Ulick availed himself of the permission to +look critically, and Sophy sank back disgusted. + +‘Miss Kendal can, when she is inclined, produce as much effect with her +beams of the second order as with all her splendours displayed.’ + +‘Stuff,’ said Lucy. + +‘Stuff indeed,’ more sincerely murmured Sophy. + +‘Say something in earnest,’ said Lucy. ‘You professed to tell what I +thought of the people.’ + +‘I hope you’ll never put on such new white gloves where I’m the party +chiefly concerned.’ + +‘What do you mean?’ + +‘They are a great deal too unexceptionable.’ + +If there were something coquettish in the manner of these two, it did +not give Albinia much concern. It was in him ‘only Irish;’ and Fred +Ferrars had made her believe that it was rather a sign of the absence of +love than of its presence. She saw much more respect and interest in his +mischievous attacks on Sophy’s gravity, and though Lucy both pitied him +and liked chattering with him, it was all the while under the secret +protest that he was only a banker’s clerk. + +Sophy was glad of the presence of a third person to obviate the perils +of her evenings with grandmamma, and she beheld the trio set off to +their dinner-party, without the usual dread of being betrayed into +wrangling. Mr. O’More devoted himself to the old lady’s entertainment, +he amused her with droll stories, and played backgammon with her. Then +she composed herself to her knitting, and desired them not to mind her, +she liked to hear young people talk cheerfully; whereupon Sophy, by way +of light and cheerful conversation, renewed the battle of consistency +with a whole broadside of heavy metal. + +When the diners-out came home, they found the war raging as hotly as +ever; a great many historical facts and wise sayings having been fired +off on both sides, and neither having found out that each meant the same +thing. + +However, the hours had gone imperceptibly past them, which could not +be said for the others. The half-yearly dinners at Mr. Drury’s were +Albinia’s dread nearly as much as Mr. Kendal’s aversion. He was certain, +whatever he might intend, to fall into a fit of absence, and she was +almost equally sure to hear something unpleasant, and to regret her own +reply. On the whole, however, Mr. Kendal came away on this evening +the least dissatisfied, for Mr. Goldsmith had asked him with some +solicitude, whether he thought ‘that lad, young More,’ positively +unwell; and had gone the length of expressing that he seemed to be +fairly sharp, and stuck to his work. Mr. Kendal seized the moment for +telling his opinion, of Ulick, and though Mr. Goldsmith coughed and +looked dry and almost contemptuous, he was perceptibly gratified, and +replied with a maxim evidently intended both as an excuse for himself +and as a warning to the Kendals, that young men were always spoilt by +being made too much of--in his younger days--&c. + +Lucy, meantime, was undergoing the broad banter of her unrefined +cousins on the subject of the Irish clerk. A very little grace in the +perpetration would have made it grateful to her vanity, but this was far +too broad raillery, and made her hold up her head with protestations of +her perfect indifference, to which her cousins manifested incredulity, +visiting on her with some petty spite their small jealousies of her +higher pretensions, and of the attention which had been paid to her by +Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy. + +‘Not that he will ever look at you again, Lucy, you need not flatter +yourself,’ said the amiable Sarah Anne. ‘Harry Wolfe writes that he was +flirting with a beautiful young lady who came to see Oxford, and that he +is spending quantities of money.’ + +‘It is nothing to me, I am sure,’ retorted Lucy. ‘Besides, Gilbert says +no such thing.’ + +‘Gilbert! oh, no!’ exclaimed Miss Drury; ‘why, he is just as bad +himself. Papa said, from what Mrs. Wolfe told him, he would not take 500 +pounds to pay Mr. Gilbert’s bills.’ + +Albinia had been hearing much the same story from Mrs. Drury, though not +so much exaggerated, and administered with more condolence. She did not +absolutely believe, and yet she could not utterly disbelieve, so the +result was a letter to Gilbert, with an anxious exhortation to be +careful, and not to be deluded into foolish expenditure in imitation of +the Polysyllable; and as no special answer was returned, she dismissed +the whole from her mind as a Drury allegation. + +The horse chanced to be lame, so that Gilbert could not be met at +Hadminster on his return from Oxford, but much earlier than the omnibus +usually lumbered into Bayford, he astonished Sophy, who was lying on the +sofa in the morning-room, by marching in with a free and easy step, and +a loose coat of the most novel device. + +‘No one else at home?’ he asked. + +‘Only grandmamma. We did not think the omnibus would come in so soon, +but I suppose you took a fly, as there were three of you.’ + +‘As if we were going to stand six miles of bus with the Wolfe cub! +No, Dusautoy brought his horse down with him, and I took a fly!’ said +Gilbert. ‘Well, and what’s the matter with Captain; has the Irishman +been riding him?’ + +Sophy bit her lip to prevent an angry answer, and was glad that Maurice +rushed in, fall of uproarious joy. ‘Hollo! boy, how you grow! What have +you got there?’ + +‘It’s my new pop-gun, that Ulick made me, I’ll shoot you,’ cried +Maurice, retiring to a suitable distance. + +‘I declare the child has caught the brogue! Is the fellow here still?’ + +‘What fellow?’ coldly asked Sophy. + +‘Why, this pet of my father’s.’ + +‘Bang!’ cried Maurice, and a pellet passed perilously close to Gilbert’s +eyes. + +‘Don’t, child. Pray is this banker’s clerk one of our fixtures, Sophy?’ + +‘I don’t know why you despise him, unless it is because it is what you +ought to be yourself,’ Sophy was provoked into retorting. + +‘Apparently my father has a monomania for the article.’ Gilbert intended +to speak with provoking coolness; but another fraternal pellet hit him +fall in the nose, and the accompanying shout of glee was too much for +an already irritated temper. With passion most unusual in him, he caught +hold of the child, and exclaiming, ‘You little imp, what do you mean +by it?’ he wrenched the weapon out of his hand, and dashed it into +the fire, in the midst of an energetic ‘For shame!’ from his sister. +Maurice, with a furious ‘Naughty Gilbert,’ struck at him with both his +little fists clenched, and then precipitated himself over the fender +to snatch his treasure from the grate, but was instantly captured and +pulled back, struggling, kicking, and fighting with all his might, till, +to the equal relief of both brothers, Sophy held up the pop-gun in +the tongs, one end still tinged with a red glow, smoky, blackened, and +perfumed. Maurice made one bound, she lowered it into his grasp as the +last red spark died out, and he clasped it as Siegfried did the magic +sword! + +‘There, Maurice, I didn’t mean it,’ said Gilbert, heartily ashamed and +sorry; ‘kiss and make it up, and then put on your hat, and we’ll come up +to old Smith’s and get such a jolly one!’ + +The forgiving child had already given the kiss, glad to atone for his +aggressions, but then was absorbed in rubbing the charred wood, amazed +that while so much black came off on his fingers, the effect on the +weapon was not proportionate, and then tried another shot in a safer +direction. ‘Come,’ said Gilbert, ‘put that black affair into the fire, +and come along.’ + +‘No!’ said Maurice; ‘it is my dear gun that Ulick made me, and it shan’t +be burnt.’ + +‘What, not if I give you a famous one--like a real one, with a stock +and barrel?’ said Gilbert, anxious to be freed from the tokens of his +ebullition. + +‘No! no!’ still stoutly said the constant Maurice. ‘I don’t want new +guns; I’ve got my dear old one, and I’ll keep him to the end of his days +and mine!’ and he crossed his arms over it. + +‘That’s right, Maurice,’ said Sophy; ‘stick to old friends that have +borne wounds in your service!’ + +‘Well, it’s his concern if he likes such a trumpery old thing,’ said +Gilbert. ‘Come here, boy; you don’t bear malice! Come and have a ride on +my back.’ + +The practical lesson, ‘don’t shoot at your brother’s nose,’ would never +have been impressed, had not mamma, on coming in, found Maurice and +his pop-gun nearly equally black, and by gradual unfolding of cause +and effect, learnt his forgotten offence. She reminded him of ancient +promises never to aim at human creatures, assured him that Gilbert was +very kind not to have burnt it outright; and to the great displeasure, +and temporary relief of all the family, sequestrated the weapon for the +rest of the evening. + +Sophy told her in confidence that Gilbert had been the most to blame, +which she took as merely an instance of Sophy’s blindness to Maurice’s +errors; for the explosion had so completely worked off the Oxford dash, +that he was perfectly meek and amiable. Considering the antecedents, +such a contrast to himself as young O’More could hardly fail to be an +eyesore, walking tame about the home, and specially recommended to +his friendship; but so good-natured was he, and so attractive was the +Irishman, that it took much influence from Algernon Dusautoy to keep +up a thriving aversion. Albinia marvelled at the power exercised over +Gilbert by one whose intellect and pretensions he openly contemned, but +perceived that obstinacy and undoubting self-satisfaction overmastered +his superior intelligence and principle, and that while perceiving all +the follies of the Polysyllable, Gilbert had a strange propensity for +his company, and therein always resumed the fast man, disdainful of the +clerk. He did not like Ulick better for being the immediate cause of the +removal of the last traces of the Belmarche family from their old abode, +which had been renovated by pretty shamrock chintz furniture, the pride +of the two Irish hearts. Indeed it was to be feared that Bridget +would assist in the perpetuation of those rolling R’s which caused Mr. +Goldsmith’s brow to contract whenever his nephew careered along upon +one. + +His departure from Willow Lawn was to take place at Christmas. The +Ferrars party were coming to keep the two consecutive birthdays of +Sophy and Maurice at Bayford, would take him back for Christmas-day to +Fairmead, and on his return he would take possession of his new rooms. + +Maurice’s fete was to serve as the occasion of paying off civilities +to a miscellaneous young party; but as grandmamma’s feelings would have +been hurt, had not Sophy’s been equally distinguished, it was arranged +that Mrs. Nugent should then bring her eldest girl to meet the Ferrarses +at an early tea. + +Just as Albinia had descended to await her guests, Gilbert came down, +and presently said, with would-be indifference, ‘Oh, by-the-by, Dusautoy +said he would look in.’ + +‘The Polysyllable!’ cried Albinia, thunderstruck; ‘what possessed you to +ask him, when you knew I sacrificed Mr. Dusautoy rather than have him to +spoil it all?’ + +‘I didn’t ask him exactly,’ replied Gilbert; ‘it was old Bowles, who met +us, and tried to nail us to eat our mutton with him, as he called it. I +had my answer, and Dusautoy got off by saying he was engaged to us, and +desired me to tell you he would make his excuses in person.’ + +‘He can make no excuse for downright falsehood.’ + +‘Hem!’ quoth Gilbert. ‘You wouldn’t have him done into drinking old +Bowles’s surgery champagne.’ + +‘One comfort is that he wont get any dinner,’ said Albinia, +vindictively. ‘I hope he’ll be ravenously hungry.’ + +‘He may not come after all,’ said Gilbert; and Albinia, laying hold of +that hope, had nearly forgotten the threatened disaster, as her party +appeared by instalments, and Winifred owned to her that Sophy had grown +better-looking than could have been expected. Her eyes had brightened, +the cloudy brown of her cheeks was enlivened, she held herself better, +and the less childish dress was much to her advantage. But above all, +the moody look of suffering was gone, and her face had something of the +grave sweetness and regular beauty of that of her father. + +‘Seventeen,’ said Mrs. Ferrars; ‘by the time she is seventy, she may be +a remarkably handsome woman!’ + +The tea-drinking was in lively operation, when after a thundering +knock, Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was ushered in, with the air of a prince +honouring the banquet of his vassals, saying, ‘I told Kendal I should +presume on your hospitality, I beg you will make no difference on my +account.’ + +Of which gracious permission Albinia was resolved to avail herself. She +left all the insincerity to her husband, and would by no means allow +grandmamma to abdicate the warm corner. She suspected that he wanted +an introduction to Mrs. Nugent, and was resolved to defeat this object, +unless he should condescend to make the request, so she was well +satisfied to see him wedged in between papa and Sophy, while a +prodigious quantity of Irish talk was going on between Mrs. Nugent and +Mr. O’More, with contributions of satire from Mr. Ferrars which kept +every one laughing except little Nora Nugent and Mary Ferrars, who were +deep in the preliminaries of an eternal friendship, and held the ends +of each other’s crackers like a pair of doves. Lucy, however, was ill at +ease at the obscurity which shrouded the illustrious guest, and in her +anxiety, gave so little attention to her two neighbours, that Willie +Ferrars, affronted at some neglect, exclaimed, ‘Why, Lucy, what makes +you screw your eyes about so! you can’t attend to any one.’ + +‘It is because Polly Silly is there,’ shouted Master Maurice from his +throne beside his mamma. + +To the infinite relief of the half-choked Albinia, little Mary Ferrars, +with whom her cousin had been carrying on a direful warfare all day, +fitted on the cap, shook her head gravely at him, and after an appealing +look of indignation, first at his mamma, then at her own, was overheard +confiding to Nora Nugent that Maurice was a very naughty boy--she was +sorry to say, a regular spoilt child. + +‘But how should you hinder Miss Kendal from attending?’ + +‘I’ll tell you, darling. Poor Lucy! she is very fond of me, and I dare +say she wanted me to sit next to her, but you know she will have me for +three days, and I have you only this one evening. I’ll go and speak +to her after tea, when we go into the drawing-room, and then she wont +mind.’ + +Lucy, after an agony of blushes, had somewhat recovered on finding that +no one seemed to apply her brother’s speech, and when the benevolent +Mary made her way to her, and thrust a hand into hers, only a feeble +pressure replied to these romantic blandishments, so anxious was she +to carry to Mrs. Kendal the information that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy +had been so obliging as to desire his servant to bring his guitar and +key-bugle. + +‘We are much obliged,’ said Albinia, ‘but look at that face!’ and she +turned Lucy towards Willie’s open-mouthed, dismayed countenance. You +must tell him the company are not sufficiently advanced in musical +science.’ + +‘But mamma, it would gratify him!’ + +‘Very likely’--and without listening further, Albinia turned to Willie, +who had all day been insisting that papa should introduce her to the new +game of the Showman. + +Infinitely delighted to be relieved from the fear of the guitar, Willie +hunted all who would play into another room; whence they were to be +summoned, one by one, back to the drawing-room by the showman, Mr. +Ferrars, who shrugged his shoulders at the task, but undertook it, and +first called for Mrs. Kendal. + +She found him stationed before the red curtains, which were closely +drawn, and her husband and the three elder ladies sitting by as +audience. + +‘Pray, madam, may I ask what animal you would desire to have exhibited +to you, out of the vast resources that my menagerie contains. Choose +freely, I undertake that whatever you may select, you shall not be +disappointed.’ + +‘What, not if I were to ask for a black spider monkey?’ said Albinia, to +whom it was very charming to be playing with Maurice again. + +Mr. Kendal looked up in entertained curiosity, Mrs. Nugent smiled as if +she thought the showman’s task impossible, and Winifred stretched out to +gain a full view. + +‘A black spider monkey,’ he said, slowly. ‘Allow me to ask, madam, if +you are acquainted with the character of the beast?’ + +‘It doesn’t scratch, does it?’ said she, quickly. + +‘That is for you to answer.’ + +‘I never knew it do so. It does chatter a great deal, but it never +scratched that I knew of.’ + +‘Nor I,’ said the showman, ‘since it was young. Do you think age renders +it graver and steadier?’ + +‘Not a bit. It is always frisky and troublesome, and I never knew it get +a bit better as it grew older.’ + +Winifred laughed outright. Mr. Kendal’s lips were parted by his smile. +‘I wonder what sort of a mother it would make?’ said the showman. + +‘All animals are good mothers, of course.’ + +‘I meant, is it a good disciplinarian?’ + +‘If you mean cuffing its young one for playing exactly the same tricks +as itself.’ + +‘Exactly; and what would be the effect of letting it and its young one +loose in a great scholar’s study?’ + +‘There wouldn’t be much study left.’ + +‘And would it be for his good?’ + +‘Really, Mr. Showman, you ask very odd questions. Shall we try?’ said +Albinia, with a skip backward, so as to lay her hand on the shoulder +of her own great scholar, while the showman drew back the curtain, +observing--‘I wish, ma’am, I could show “it and its young one” together, +but the young specimen is unfortunately asleep. Behold the original +black spider monkey!’ + +There stood the monkey, with sunny brown locks round the laughing +glowing face, and one white paw still lying on the scholar’s +shoulder--while his face made no assurance needful that it was very good +for him! The mirror concealed behind the curtains was the menagerie! +Albinia clapped her hands with delight, and pronounced it the most +perfect of games. + +‘And now let us have Willie,’ said Mrs. Ferrars; ‘it will conduce to the +harmony of the next room.’ + +Willie, already initiated, hoped to puzzle papa as a platypus +ornithoryncus, but was driven to allow that it was a nondescript animal, +neither fish, flesh, nor good red-herring, useless, and very fond of +grubbing in the mud; and if it were not at Botany Bay, it ought to +be! The laughter that hailed his defence of its nose as ‘well, nothing +particular,’ precipitated the drawing up of the curtain and his +apparition in the glass: and then Nora Nugent being called, the +inseparable Mary accompanied her, arm-in-arm, simpering an announcement +that they liked nothing so well as a pair of dear little love-birds. + +Oh, unpitying papa! to draw from the unsuspicious Nora the admission +that they were very dull little birds, of no shape at all, who always +sat hunched up in a corner without any fun, and people said their love +was all stupidity and pretence; in fact, if she had one she should call +it Silly Polly or Polly Silly! + +To silence Willie’s exultation in his sister’s discomfiture, he was sent +to fetch Lucy, whose impersonation of an argus pheasant would not have +answered well but for a suggestion of Albinia, that she was eyes all +over for any delinquency in school. Ulick O’More, owning with a sigh +that he should like to see no beast better than a snipe, gave rise to +much ingenuity by being led to describe it as of a class migratory, +hard to catch, food for powder, given to long bills. There he guessed +something, and stood on the defensive, but could not deny that its +element was bogs, but that it had been seen skimming over water meadows, +and finding sustenance in banks, whereupon the curtain rose. Ulick +rushed upon the battles of his nation, and was only reduced to +quiescence by the entrance of Sophy, who expressed a desire to see +a coral worm, apparently perplexing the showman, who, to gain time, +hemmed, and said, ‘A very unusual species, ma’am,’ which set all the +younger ones in a double giggle, such as confused Sophy, to find herself +standing up, with every one looking at her, and listening for her words. +‘I thought you undertook for any impossibility in earth air or water.’ + +‘Well, ma’am, do you take me for a mere mountebank? But when ladies and +gentlemen take such unusual fancies--and for an animal that--you would +not aver that it is often found from home?’ + +‘Never, I should say.’ + +‘Nor that it is accessible?’ + +‘Certainly not.’ + +‘And why is it so, ma’am?’ + +‘Why,’ said Sophy, bewildered into forgetting her natural history, ‘it +lives at the bottom of the sea; that’s one thing.’ + +‘Where Truth lives,’ said a voice behind. + +‘I beg to differ,’ observed Albinia. ‘Truth is a fresh water fish at the +bottom of a well; besides, I thought coral worms were always close to +the surface.’ + +‘But below it--not in everybody’s view,’ said Sophy--an answer which +seemed much to the satisfaction of the audience, but the showman +insisted on knowing why, and whether it did not conceal itself. ‘It +makes stony caves for itself, out of sight,’ said Sophy, almost doubting +whether she spoke correctly. ‘Well, surely it does so.’ + +‘Most surely,’ said an acclamation so general that she did not like it. +If she had been younger, she would have turned sulky upon the spot, and +Mr. Ferrars almost doubted whether to bring ont his final query. ‘Pray, +ma’am, do you think this creature out of reach in its self-made cave, at +the bottom--no, below the surface of the sea, would be popular enough to +repay the cost of procuring it.’ + +‘Ah! that’s too bad,’ burst out the Hibernian tones. ‘Why, is not the +best of everything hidden away from the common eye? Out of sight--stony +cave--It is the secret worker that lays the true solid foundation, +raises the new realms, and forms the precious jewels.’ The torrent of +r’s was irresistible! + +‘Police! order!’ cried the showman. ‘An Irish mob has got in, and +there’s an end of everything.’ So up went the curtain, and the +polyp appeared, becoming rapidly red coral as she perceived what the +exhibition was, and why the politeness of the Green Isle revolted +from her proclaiming her own unpopularity. But all she did was to turn +gruffly aside, and say, ‘It is lucky there are no more ladies to come, +Mr. Showman, or the mob would turn everything to a compliment.’ + +Gilbert’s curiosity was directed to the Laughing Jackass, and with too +much truth he admitted that it took its tone from whatever it associated +with, and caught every note, from the song of the lark to the bray of +the donkey; then laughed good-humouredly when the character was fitted +upon himself. + +‘That is all, is it not?’ asked the showman. ‘I may retire into private +life.’ + +‘Oh no,’ cried Willie; ‘you have forgotten Mr. Dusautoy.’ + +‘I was afraid you had,’ said Lucy, ‘or you could not have left him to +the last.’ + +‘I am tempted to abdicate,’ said Mr. Ferrars. + +‘No,’ Albinia said. ‘He must have his share, and no one but you can do +it. Where can he be? the pause becomes awful!’ + +‘Willie is making suggestions,’ said Gilbert; ‘his imagination would +never stretch farther than a lion. It’s what he thinks himself and no +mistake.’ + +‘He is big enough to be the elephant,’ said little Mary. + +‘The half-reasoning!’ said Ulick, softly; ‘and I can answer for his +trunk, I saw it come off the omnibus.’ + +‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you persist in such disorderly conduct, the +exhibition will close,’ cried the showman, waving his wand as Willie +trumpeted Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy in, and on the demand what animal he +wanted to see, twitched him as Flibbertigibbet did the giant warder, and +caused him to respond--‘The Giraffe.’ + +‘Has it not another name, sir? A short or a long one, more or less +syllables!’ + +‘Camelopard. A polysyllabic word, certainly,’ said Algernon, looking +with a puzzled expression at the laughers behind; and almost +imagining it possible that he could have made an error, he repeated, +‘Camel-le-o-pard. Yes, it is a polysyllable’--as, indeed, he had added +an unnecessary syllable. + +‘Most assuredly,’ said the showman, looking daggers at his suffocating +sister. ‘May I ask you to describe the creature?’ + +‘Seventeen feet from the crown to the hoof, but falls off behind,’ said +the accurate Mr. Dusautoy; ‘beautiful tawny colour.’ + +‘Nearly as good as a Lion,’ added Gilbert; but Algernon, fancying the +game was by way of giving useful instruction to the children, went on in +full swing. ‘Handsomely mottled with darker brown; a ruminating animal; +so gentle that in spite of its size, none of my little friends need be +alarmed at its vicinity. Inhabits the African deserts, but may be bred +in more temperate latitudes. I myself saw an individual in the Jardin +des Plantes, which was popularly said never to bend its neck to the +ground, but I consider this a vulgar delusion, for on offering it food, +it mildly inclined its head.’ + +‘Let us hope the present specimen is equally condescending,’ said Mr. +Ferrars. + +‘Eh! what! I see myself!’ said Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, with a tone so +inappreciably grand in mystification, that the showman had no choice but +to share the universal convulsion of laughter, while Willie rolling on +the floor with ecstasy, shouted, ‘Yes, it is you that are the thing with +such a long name that it can’t bend its head to the ground!’ + +‘But too good-natured to be annoyed at folly,’ said Mr. Ferrars, +perceiving that it was no sport to him. + +‘This is the way my mischievous uncle has served us all in turn,’ said +Lucy, advancing; ‘we have all been shown up, and there was mamma a +monkey, and I an argus pheasant--’ + +‘Ah! I see,’ said the gentleman. ‘These are your rural pastimes of the +season. Yes, I can take my share in good part, just as I have pelted the +masks at the Carnival.’ + +‘Even a giraffe can bend his head and do at Rome as Rome does,’ +murmured Ulick. But instead of heeding the audacious Irishman, Algernon +patronized the showman by thanks for his exhibition; and then sitting +down by Lucy, asked if he had ever told her of the tricks that he and +il Principe Odorico Moretti used to play at Ems on the old Baron +Sprawlowsky, while Mr. Ferrars, leaning over his sister’s chair, said +aside, ‘I beg your pardon, Albinia; I should not have yielded to Willie. +This “rural pastime” is only in season en famille.’ + +‘Never mind, it served him right.’ + +‘It may have served him right, but had we the right to serve him?’ + +‘I forgive your prudence for the sake of your folly. Could not Oxford +have lessened his pomposity?’ + +‘It comes too late,’ said Maurice. + +Before Ulick went to bed his pen and ink had depicted the entire +caravan. The love-birds were pressed up together, with the individual +features of the two young ladies, and completely little parrots; the +snipe ran along the bars of the cage, looking exactly like all the +O’Mores. The monkey showed nothing but the hands, but one held Maurice, +and the other was clenched as if to cuff him, and grandest of all was, +as in duty bound, Camelopardelis giraffa, thrown somewhat backwards, +with such a majestic form, such a stalking attitude, loftily ruminating +face, and legs so like the Cavendish Dusautoy’s last new pair of +trousers, that Albinia could not help reserving it for the private +delectation of his Aunt Fanny. + +‘It and its young one,’ said Mr. Kendal, as he looked at her portrait; +and the name delighted him so much, that he for some time applied it +with a smile whenever his wife gave him cause to remember how much there +was of the monkey in her composition. + +It was the merriest Christmas ever known at Willow Lawn, and the first +time there had been anything of the atmosphere of family frolic and fun. +The lighting up of Sophy was one great ingredient; hitherto mirth had +been merely endured by her, whereas now, improved health and spirits +had made her take her share, amuse others and be amused, and cease to +be hurt by the jarring of chance words. Lucy was lively as usual, +but rather more excited than Albinia altogether liked; she was doubly +particular about her dress; more disdainful of the common herd, and +had a general air of exaltation that made Albinia rejoice when the +Polysyllable, the horses, the key-bugle, and genre painting disappeared +from the Bayford horizon. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + + + +If the end of the vacation were a relief on Lucy’s account, Albinia +would gladly have lengthened it on Gilbert’s. Letters from his tutor +had disquieted his father; there had been an expostulation followed by +promises, and afterwards one of the usual scenes of argument, complaint, +excuse, lamentation, and wish to amend; but lastly, a murmur that it was +no use to talk to a father who had never been at the University, and did +not know what was expected of a man. + +The aspect of Oxford had changed in Albinia’s eyes since the days of her +brother. Alma Mater had been a vision of pealing bells, chanting voices, +cloistered shades, bright waters--the source of her most cherished +thoughts, the abode of youth walking in the old paths of pleasantness +and peace; and she knew that to faithful hearts, old Oxford was still +the same. But to her present anxious gaze it had become a field of +snares and temptations, whither she had been the means of sending one, +unguarded and unstable. + +Once under the influence of a good sound-hearted friend, he might have +been easily led right, but his intimacy with young Dusautoy seemed to +cancel all hope of this, and to be like a rope about his neck, drawing +him into the same career, and keeping aloof all better influences. +Algernon, with his pride, pomposity, and false refinement, was +more likely to run into ostentations expenditure, than into coarse +dissipation, and it might still be hoped that the two youths would drag +through without public disgrace; but this was felt to be a very poor +hope by those who felt each sin to be a fatal blot, and trembled at the +self-indulgent way of life that might be a more fatal injury than even +the ban of the authorities. + +She saw that the anxiety pressed heavily on Mr. Kendal, and though both +shrank from giving their uneasiness force by putting it into words, +each felt that it was ever-present with the other. Mr. Kendal was deeply +grieving over the effects, for the former state of ignorance and apathy +of the evils of which he had only recently become fully sensible. Living +for himself alone, without cognizance of his membership in one great +universal system, he had needed the sense of churchmanship to make him +act up to his duties as father, neighbour, citizen, and man of property; +and when aroused, he found that the time of his inaction had bound him +about with fetters. A tone of mind had grown up in his family from which +only Sophy had been entirely freed; seeds of ineradicable evil had been +sown, mischiefs had grown by neglect, abuses been established by custom; +and his own personal disadvantages, his mauvaise honte, his +reserved, apparently proud manner, his slowness of speech, dislike to +interruption, and over-vehemence when excited, had so much increased +upon him, as, in spite of his efforts, to be serious hindrances. Kind, +liberal, painstaking, and conscientious as he had become, he was still +looked upon as hard, stern, and tyrannical. His ten years of inertness +had strewn his path with thorns and briars, even beyond his own +household; and when he looked back to his neglect of his son, he felt +that even the worst consequences would be but just retribution. + +Once such feelings would have wrapt him in morbid gloom; now he strove +against his disposition to sit inert and hidden, he did his work +manfully, and endeavoured not to let his want of spirits sadden the +household. + +Nor was he insensible to the cheerful healthy atmosphere of animation +which had diffused itself there; and the bright discussions of the +trifling interests of the day. Ulick O’More was also a care to him, +which did him a great deal of good. + +That young gentleman now lived at his lodgings, but was equally at home +at Willow Lawn, and his knock at the library door, when he wished +to change a book, usually led to some ‘Prometheus’ discussion, and +sometimes to a walk, if Mr. Kendal thought him looking pale; or to +dining and to spending the evening. + +His scrapes were peculiar. He had thoroughly mastered his work, and his +active mind wanted farther scope, so that he threw himself with avidity +into deeper studies, and once fell into horrible disgrace for being +detected with a little Plato on his desk. Mr. Goldsmith nearly gave +him up in despair, and pronounced that he would never make a man of +business. He made matters worse by replying that this was the best +chance of his not being a man of speculation. If he were allowed +to think of nothing but money, he should speculate for the sake of +something to do! + +Before Mr. Goldsmith had half recovered the shock, Mr. Dusautoy and Mr. +Hope laid violent hands upon young O’More for the evening school twice a +week, which almost equally discomposed his aunt. She had never got over +the first blow of Mr. Dusautoy’s innovations, and felt as if her nephew +had gone over to the enemy. She was doubly ungracious at the Sunday +dinner, and venomously critical of the choir’s chanting, Mr. Hope’s +voice, and the Vicar’s sermons. + +The worst scrape came in March. The Willow Lawn ladies were in the lower +end of the garden, which, towards the river, was separated from the lane +that continued Tibb’s Alley, by a low wall surmounted by spikes, and +with a disused wicket, always locked, and nearly concealed by a growth +of laurels; when out brake a horrible hullabaloo in that region of evil +report, the shouts and yells coming nearer, and becoming so distinct +that they were about to retreat, when suddenly a dark figure leapt +over the gate, and into the garden, amid a storm of outcries. As he +disappeared among the laurels, Albinia caught up Maurice, Lucy screamed +and prepared to fly, and Sophy started forward, exclaiming, ‘It is +Ulick, mamma; his face is bleeding!’ But as he emerged, she retreated, +for she had a nervous terror of the canine race, and in his hand, at +arm’s length he held by the neck a yellow dog, a black pot dangling from +its tail. + +‘Take care,’ he shouted, as Albinia set down Maurice, and was running up +to him; ‘he may be mad.’ + +Maurice was caught up again, Lucy shrieked, and Sophy, tottering against +an apple-tree, faintly said, ‘He has bitten you!’ + +‘No, not he; it was only a stone,’ said Ulick, as best he might, with a +fast bleeding upper lip. ‘They were hunting the poor beast to death--I +believe he’s no more mad than I am--only with the fright--but best make +sure.’ + +‘Fetch some milk, Lucy,’ said Albinia. ‘Take Maurice with you. No, don’t +take the poor thing down to the river, he’ll only think you are going to +drown him. Go, Maurice dear.’ + +Maurice safe, Albinia was able to find ready expedients after Sir Fowell +Buxton’s celebrated example. She brought Ulick the gardener’s thick +gauntlets from the tool-house, and supplied him with her knife, with +which he set the poor creature free from the instrument of torture, and +then let him loose, with a pan of milk before him, in the old-fashioned +summer-house, through the window of which he could observe his motions, +and if he looked dangerous, shoot him. + +Nothing could look less dangerous; the poor creature sank down on the +floor and moaned, licked its hind leg, and then dragged itself as +if famished to the milk, lapped a little eagerly, but lay down again +whining, as if in pain. Ulick and Albinia called to it, and it looked +up and tried to wag its tail, whining appealingly. ‘My poor brute!’ he +cried, ‘they’ve treated you worse than a heathen. That’s all--let me see +what I can do for you.’ + +‘Yes, but yourself, Ulick,’ said Albinia, as in his haste he took down +his handkerchief from his mouth; ‘I do believe your lip is cut through! +You had better attend to that first.’ + +‘No, no, thank you,’ said Ulick, eagerly, ‘they’ve broken the poor +wretch’s leg!’ and he was the next moment sitting on the summer-house +floor, lifting up the animal tenderly, regardless of her expostulation +that the injured, frightened creature might not know its friends. But +she did it injustice; it wagged its stumpy tail, and licked his fingers. + +She offered to fetch rag for his surgery, and he farther begged for some +slight bits of wood to serve as splints, he and his brothers had been +dog-doctors before. As she hurried into the house, Sophy, who had sunk +on a sofa in the drawing-room, looking deadly pale, called out, ‘Is he +bitten?’ + +‘No, no,’ cried Albinia, hurrying on, ‘the dog is all safe. It has only +got a broken leg.’ + +Maurice, with whom Lucy had all this time been fighting, came out with +her to see the rest of the adventure; and thought it very cruel that he +was not permitted to touch the patient, which bore the operation with +affecting fortitude and gratitude, and was then consigned to a basket +lined with hay, and left in the summer-house, Mr. Kendal being known to +have an almost eastern repugnance to dogs. + +Then Ulick had leisure to be conducted to the morning-room, and +be rendered a less ghastly spectacle, by some very uncomfortable +sticking-plaster moustaches, which hardly permitted him to narrate his +battle distinctly. He thought the boys, even of Tibb’s Alley, would +hardly have ventured any violence after he had interfered, but for some +young men who aught to have known better; he fancied he had seen young +Tritton of Robbles Leigh, and he was sure of an insolent groom whom Mr. +Cavendish Dusautoy, to the great vexation of his uncle, had recently +sent down with a horse to the King’s Head. They had stimulated the boys +to a shout of Paddy and a shower of stones, and Ulick expected credit +for great discretion, in having fled instead of fought. ‘Ah! if Brian +and Connel had but been there, wouldn’t we have put them to the rout?’ + +Nothing would then serve him but going back to Tibb’s Alley to trace the +dog’s history, and meantime Lucy, from the end of the passage, beckoned +to Albinia, and whispered mysteriously that ‘Sophy would not have any +one know it for the world--but,’ said Lucy, ‘I found her absolutely +fainting away on the sofa, only she would not let me call you, and +ordered that no one should know anything about it. But, mamma, there was +a red-hot knitting-needle sticking out of the fire, and I am quite sure +that she meant if Ulick was bitten, to burn out the place.’ + +Albinia believed Sophy capable of both the resolution and its +consequence; but she agreed with Lucy that no notice should be taken, +and would not seem aware that Sophy was much paler than usual. + +The dog, as well as Ulick could make out, was a waif or stray, belonging +to a gipsy deported that morning by the police, and on whom its master’s +sins had been visited. So without scruple he carried the basket home to +his lodgings, and on the way, had the misfortune to encounter his uncle, +while shirtfront, coat, and waistcoat were fresh from the muddy and +bloody fray, and his visage in the height of disfigurement. + +Mr. Goldsmith looked on the whole affair as an insult to every Goldsmith +of past ages! A mere street row! He ordered Mr. More to his lodgings, +and said he should hear from him to-morrow. Ulick came down to Willow +Lawn in the dark, almost considering himself as dismissed, not knowing +whether to be glad or sorry; and wanting to consult Mr. Kendal whether +it would be possible to work his way at college as Mr. Hope had done, or +even wondering whether he might venture to beg for a recommendation to +‘Kendal and Kendal.’ + +Mr. Kendal was so strongly affected, that he took up his hat and went +straight to Mr. Goldsmith, ‘to put the matter before him in a true +light.’ + +True light or false, it was intolerable in the banker’s eyes, and it +took a great deal of eloquence to persuade him that his nephew was worth +a second trial. Fighting in Tibb’s Alley over a gipsy’s dog, and coming +back looking like a ruffian! Mr. Goldsmith wished him no harm, but it +would be a disgrace to the concern to keep him on, and Miss Goldsmith, +whom Mr. Kendal heartily wished to gag, chimed in with her old +predictions of the consequences of her poor sister’s foolish marriage. +The final argument, was Mr. Kendal’s declaration of the testimonials +with which he would at once send him out to Calcutta, to take the +situation once offered to his own son. No sooner did Mr. Goldsmith hear +that his nephew had an alternative, than he promised to be lenient, and +finally dispatched a letter to U. More, Esquire, with a very serious +rebuke, but a promise that his conduct should be overlooked, provided +the scandal were not repeated, and he should not present himself at the +bank till his face should be fit to be seen. + +Mr. Kendal mounted him the next morning on Gilbert’s horse, and sent him +to Fairmead. The dog was left in charge of Bridget, who treated it with +abundant kindness, but failed to obtain the exclusive affection which +the poor thing lavished upon its rescuer. By the time Ulick came home, +it had arrived at limping upon three legs, and was bent on following +him wherever he went. Disreputable and heinously ugly it was, of tawny +currish yellow (whence it was known as the Orange-man), with a bull-dog +countenance; and the legs that did not limp were bandy. Albinia called +it the Tripod, but somehow it settled into the title of Hyder Ali, to +which it was said to ‘answer’ the most readily, though it would in fact +answer anything from Ulick, and nothing from any one else.. + +Ever at his heels, the ‘brazen Tripod’ contrived to establish an +entrance at Willow Lawn; scratched till Mr. Kendal would interrupt a +‘Prometheus talk’ to let him in at the library door; and gradually made +it a matter of course to come into the drawing-room, and repose upon +Sophy’s flounces. + +This was by way of compensation for his misadventures elsewhere. He was +always bringing Ulick into trouble; shut or tie him up as he might, he +was sure to reappear when least wanted. He had been at church, he had +been in Miss Goldsmith’s drawing-room, he had been found times without +number curled up under Ulick’s desk. Mr. Goldsmith growled hints about +hanging him, and old Mr. Johns, who really was fond of his bright young +fellow clerk, gave grave counsel; but Ulick only loved his protege the +better, and after having exhausted an Irish vocabulary of expostulation, +succeeded in prevailing on him to come no farther than the street; +except on very wet days, when he would sometimes be found on the mat in +the entry, looking deplorably beseeching, and bringing on his master an +irate, ‘Here’s that dog again!’ + +‘Would that no one fell into worse scrapes,’ sighed Mr. Dusautoy, when +he heard of Ulick’s disasters with Hyder Ali, and it was a sigh that the +house of Kendal re-echoed. + +Nobody could be surprised when, towards the long vacation, tidings came +to Bayford, that after long forbearance on the part of the authorities, +the insubordination and riotous conduct of the two young men could be +endured no longer. It appeared that young Dusautoy, with his weak head +and obstinate will, had never attempted to bend to rules, but had taken +every reproof as an insult and defiance. Young men had not been wanting +who were ready to take advantage of his lavish expenditure, and to +excite his disdain for authorities. They had promoted the only wit he +did understand, broad practical jokes and mischief; and had led him +into the riot and gambling to which he was not naturally prone. Gilbert +Kendal, with more sense and principle, had been led on by the contagion +around him, and at last an outrageous wine party had brought matters +to a crisis. The most guilty were the most cunning, and the only two +to whom the affair could actually be brought home, were Dusautoy +and Kendal. The sentence was rustication, and the tutor wrote to Mr. +Dusautoy, as the least immediately affected, to ask him to convey the +intelligence to Mr. Kendal. + +The vicar was not a man to shrink from any task, however painful, but he +felt it the more deeply, as, in spite of his partiality, he was forced +to look on his own favourite Algernon as the misleader of Gilbert; and +when he overtook the sisters on his melancholy way down the hill, he +consulted them how their father would bear it. + +‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said Lucy; ‘he’ll be terribly angry. I should not +wonder if he sent Gilbert straight off to India; should you, Sophy?’ + +‘I hope he will do nothing in haste,’ exclaimed Mr. Dusautoy. ‘I do +believe if those two lads were but separated, or even out of such +company, they would both do very well.’ + +‘Yes,’ exclaimed Lucy; ‘and, after all, they are such absurd +regulations, treating men like schoolboys, wanting them to keep such +regular troublesome hours. Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy told me that there was +no enduring the having everything enforced.’ + +‘If things had been enforced on poor Algernon earlier, this might never +have been,’ sighed his uncle. + +‘I’m sure I don’t see why papa should mind it so much,’ continued Lucy. +‘Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy told me his friend Lord Reginald Raymond had +been rusticated twice, and expelled at last.’ + +‘What do you think of it, Sophy?’ asked the vicar, anxiously. + +‘I don’t feel as if any of us could ever look up again,’ she answered +very low. + +‘Why, no; not that exactly. It is not quite the right way to take +these things, Sophy,’ said Mr. Dusautoy. ‘Boys may be very foolish and +wrong-headed, without disgracing their family.’ + +Sophy did not answer--it was all too fresh and sore, and she did not +find much consolation in the number of youths whom Lucy reckoned up as +having incurred the like penalty. When they entered the house, and Mr. +Dusautoy knocked at the library door, she followed Lucy into the garden, +without knowing where she was going, and threw herself down upon the +grass, miserable at the pain which was being inflicted upon her father, +and with a hardened resentful feeling, between contempt and anger, +against the brother, who, for very weakness, could so dishonour and +grieve him. She clenched her hand in the intensity of her passionate +thoughts and impulses, and sat like a statue, while Lucy, from time to +time, between the tying up of flowers and watering of annuals, came +up with inconsistent exhortations not to be so unhappy--for it was not +expulsion--it was sure to be unjust--nobody would think the worse of +them because young men were foolish--all men of spirit did get into +scrapes-- + +It was lucky for Lucy that all this passed by Sophy’s ear as unheeded +as the babbling of the brook. She did not move, till roused by Ulick +O’More, coming up from the bridge, telling that he had met some Irish +haymakers in the meadows, and saying he wanted to beg a frock for one of +their children. + +‘I think I can find you one,’ said Lucy, ‘if you will wait a minute; but +don’t go in, Mr. Dusautoy is there.’ + +‘Is anything the matter?’ he exclaimed. + +‘Every one must soon know,’ said Lucy; ‘it is of no use to keep it back, +Sophy. Only my brother and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy have got into a scrape +about a wine party, and are going to be rusticated. But wait, I’ll fetch +the frock.’ + +Sophy had almost run away while her sister spoke, but the kind look of +consternation and pity on Ulick’s face deterred her, he in soliloquy +repeated, as if confounded by the greatness of the misfortune, ‘Poor +Gilbert!’ + +‘Poor Gilbert!’ burst from Sophy in irritation at misplaced sympathy; ‘I +thought it would be papa and mamma you cared for!’ + +‘With reason,’ returned Ulick, ‘but I was thinking how it must break his +heart to have pained such as they.’ + +‘I wish he would feel it thus,’ exclaimed Sophy; ‘but he never will!’ + +‘Oh! banish that notion, Sophy,’ cried Ulick, recoiling at the +indignation in her dark eyes, ‘next to grieving my mother, I declare +nothing could crush me like meeting a look such as that from a sister of +mine.’ + +‘How can I help it?’ she said, reserve breaking down in her vehemence, +‘when I think how much papa has suffered--how much Gilbert has to make +up to him--how mamma took him for her own--how they have borne with him, +and set their happiness on him, and yielded to his fancies, only for him +to disappoint them so cruelly, and just because he can’t say No! I hope +he wont come home; I shall never know how to speak to him!’ + +‘But all that makes it so much the worse for him,’ said Ulick, in a tone +of amazement. + +‘Yes, you can’t understand,’ she answered; ‘if he had had one spark of +feeling like you, he would rather have died than have gone on as he has +done.’ + +‘Surely many a man may be overtaken in a fault, and never be wrong at +heart,’ said Ulick. ‘There’s many a worse sin than what the world sets a +blot upon, and I believe that is just why homes were made.’ + +Lucy came back with the frock, and Ulick, thanking her, sped away; while +Sophy slowly went upstairs and hid herself on her couch. For a woman to +find a man thinking her over-hard and severe, is sure either to harden +or to soften her very decidedly, and it was a hard struggle which +would be the effect. There was an inclination at first to attribute his +surprise to the lax notions and foolish fondness of his home, where no +doubt far worse disorders than Gilbert’s were treated as mere matters +of course. But such strong pity for the offender did not seem to accord +with this; and the more she thought, the more sure she became that it +was the fresh charity and sweetness of an innocent spirit, ‘believing +all things,’ and separating the fault from the offender. His words +had fallen on her ear in a sense beyond what he meant. Pride and +uncharitable resentment might be worse sins than mere weakness and +excess. She thought of the elder son in the parable, who, unknowing +of his brother’s temptation and sorrow, closed his heart against his +return; and if her tears would have come, she would have wept that +she could not bring herself to look on Gilbert otherwise than as the +troubler of her father’s peace. + +When her mother at last came upstairs, she only ventured to ask gently, +‘How does papa bear it?’ + +‘It did not come without preparation,’ was the answer; ‘and at first we +were occupied with comforting Mr. Dusautoy, who takes to himself all the +shame his nephew will not feel, for having drawn poor Gilbert into such +a set.’ + +‘And papa?’ still asked Sophy. + +‘He is very quiet, and it is not easy to tell. I believe it was a great +mistake, though not of his making, to send Gilbert to Oxford at all, and +I doubt whether he will ever go back again. + +‘Oh, mamma, not conquer this, and live it down!’ cried Sophy; but then +changing, she sighed and said, ‘If he would--’ + +‘Yes, a great deal depends upon how he may take this, and what becomes +of Algernon Dusautoy; though I suppose there is no lack of other +tempters. Your papa has even spoken of India again; he still thinks he +would be more guarded there, but all depends on the spirit in which we +find him. One thing I hope, that I shall leave it all to his father’s +judgment, and not say one word.’ + +The next post brought a penitent letter from Gilbert, submitting +completely to his father; only begging that he might not see any one at +home until he should have redeemed his character, and promising to work +very hard and deny himself all relaxation if he might only go to a tutor +at a distance. + +This did not at all accord with Mr. Kendal’s views. He had an unavowed +distrust of Gilbert’s letters, he did not fancy a tutor thus selected, +and believed the boy to be physically incapable of the proposed amount +of study. So he wrote a very grave but merciful summons to Willow Lawn. + +Albinia went to meet the delinquent at Hadminster, and was struck by the +different deportment of the two youths. Algernon Dusautoy, whose servant +had met him, sauntered up to her as if nothing had happened, carelessly +hoped all were well at Bayford, and, in spite of her exceeding coldness, +talked on with perfect ease upon the chances of a war with Russia, and +had given her three or four maxims, before Gilbert came up with the +luggage van, with a bag in his hand, and a hurried bewildered manner, +unable to meet her eye. He handed her into the carriage, seated himself +beside her, and drove off without one unnecessary word, while Algernon, +mounting his horse, waved them a disengaged farewell, and cantered +on. Albinia heard a heavy sigh, and saw her companion very wan and +sorrowful, dejection in every feature, in the whole stoop of his figure, +and in the nervous twitch of his hands. The contrast gave an additional +impulse to her love and pity, and the first words she said were, ‘Your +father is quite ready to forgive.’ + +‘I knew he would be so,’ he answered, hardly able to command his voice; +‘I knew you would all be a great deal too kind to me, and that is the +worst of all.’ + +‘No, Gilbert, not if it gives you resolution to resist the next time.’ + +He groaned; and it was not long before she drew from him a sincere +avowal of his follies and repentance. He had been led on by assurances +that ‘every one’ did the like, by fear of betraying his own timidity, by +absurd dread of being disdained as slow; all this working on his natural +indolence and love of excitement, had combined to involve him in habits +which had brought on him this disgrace. It was a hopeful sign that he +admitted its justice, and accused no one of partiality; the reprimand +had told upon him, and he was too completely struck down even to attempt +to justify himself; exceedingly afraid of his father, and only longing +to hide himself. Such was his utter despair, that Albinia had no +scruples in encouraging him, and assuring him with all her heart, that +if taken rightly, the shock that brought him to his senses, might be the +blessing of his life. He did not take comfort readily, though soothed by +her kindness; he could not get over his excessive dread of his father, +and each attempt at reassurance fell short. At last it came out that the +very core of his misery was this, that he had found himself for part +of the journey, in the same train with Miss Durant and two or three +children. He could not tell her where he was going nor why, and he had +leant back in the carriage, and watched her on the platform by stealth, +as she moved about, ‘lovelier and more graceful than ever!’ but how +could he present himself to her in his disgrace and misery? ‘Oh, Mrs. +Kendal, I forgive my father, but my life was blighted when I was cut off +from her!’ + +‘No, Gilbert, you are wrong. There is no blighting in a worthy, +disinterested attachment. To be able to love and respect such a woman +is a good substantial quality in you, and ought to make you a higher and +better man.’ + +Gilbert turned round a face of extreme amazement. ‘I thought,’ he said, +‘I thought you--’ and went no farther. + +‘I respect your feeling for her more than when it was two years +younger,’ she said; ‘I should respect it doubly if instead of making you +ashamed, it had saved you from the need of shame.’ + +‘Do you give me any hope?’ cried Gilbert, his face gleaming into sudden +eager brightness. + +‘Things have not become more suitable,’ said Albinia; and his look +lapsed again into despondency; but she added, ‘Each step towards real +manhood, force of character, and steadiness, would give you weight which +might make your choice worth your father’s consideration, and you worth +that of Genevieve.’ + +‘Oh! would you but have told me so before!’ + +‘It was evident to your own senses,’ said Albinia; and she thought of +the suggestion that Sophy had made. + +‘Too late! too late!’ sighed Gilbert. + +‘No, never too late! You have had a warning; you are very young, and it +cannot be too late for winning a character, and redeeming the time!’ + +‘And you tell me I may love her!’ repeated Gilbert, so intoxicated with +the words, that she became afraid of them. + +‘I do not tell you that you may importune her, or disobey your father. +I only tell you that to look up and work and deny yourself, in honour +of one so truly noble, is one of the best and most saving of secondary +motives. I shall honour you, Gilbert, if you do so use it as to raise +and support you, though of course I cannot promise that she can be +earned by it, and even that motive will not do alone, however powerful +you may think it.’ + +Neither of them said more, but Gilbert sighed heavily several times, and +would willingly have checked their homeward speed. He grew pale as they +entered the town, and groaned as the gates swung back, and they +rattled over the wooden bridge. It was about four o’clock, and he said, +hurriedly, as with a sort of hope, ‘I suppose they are all out.’ + +He was answered by a whoop of ecstasy, and before he was well out of the +carriage, he was seized by the joyous Maurice, shouting that he had been +for a ride with papa, without a leading rein. Happy age for both, too +young to know more than that the beloved playfellow was at home again! + +Little Albinia studied her brother till the small memory came back, and +she made her pretty signs for the well-remembered dancing in his arms. +From such greetings, Gilbert’s wounded spirit could not shrink, much as +he dreaded all others; and, carrying the baby and preceded by Maurice, +while he again muttered that of course no one was at home, he went +upstairs. + +Albinia meantime tapped at the library door. She knew Mr. Kendal to be +there, yearning to forgive, but thinking it right to have his pardon +sought; and she went in to tell him of his son’s keen remorse, and +deadly fear. Displeased and mournful, Mr. Kendal sighed. ‘He has little +to fear from me, would he but believe so! He ought to have come to me, +but--’ + +That ‘but’ meant repentance for over-sternness in times past. + +‘Let me send him to you.’ + +‘I will come,’ said Mr. Kendal, willing to spare his son the terror of +presenting himself. + +There was a pretty sight in the morning-room. Gilbert was on the floor +with the two children, Maurice intent on showing how nearly little +Albinia could run alone, and between ordering and coaxing, drawing her +gently on; her beautiful brown eyes opened very seriously to the great +undertaking, and her round soft hands, with a mixture of confidence +and timidity, trusted within the sturdy ones of her small elder, while +Gilbert knelt on one knee, and stretched out a protecting arm, really to +grasp the little one, if the more childish brother should fail her, and +his countenance, lighted up with interest and affection, was far more +prepossessing than when so lately it had been, full of cowering, almost +abject apprehension. + +Was it a sort of instinctive feeling that the little sister would be his +best shelter, that made him gather the child into his arms, and hold her +before his deeply blushing face as he rose from the floor? She merrily +called out, ‘Papa!’ Maurice loudly began to recount her exploits, and +thus passed the salutation, at the end of which Gilbert found that his +father was taking the little one from him, and giving her to her mother, +who carried her away, calling Maurice with her. + +‘Have you nothing to say to me?’ said Mr. Kendal, after waiting for some +moments; but as Gilbert only looked up to him with a piteous, scared, +uncertain glance, be added; ‘You need not fear me; I believe you have +erred more from weakness than from evil inclinations, and I trust in the +sincerity of your repentance.’ + +These kind words softened Gilbert; he assured his father of his thanks +for his kindness, no one could grieve more deeply, or be more anxious to +atone in any possible manner for what he had unwittingly done. + +‘I believe you, Gilbert,’ said his father; ‘but you well know that +the only way of atoning for the past, as well as of avoiding such +wretchedness and disgrace for the future, is to show greater firmness.’ + +‘I know it is,’ said Gilbert, sorrowfully. + +‘I cannot look into your heart,’ added Mr. Kendal. ‘I can only hope and +believe that your grief for the sin is as deep, or deeper, than that for +the public stigma, for which comparatively, I care little.’ + +Gilbert exclaimed that so indeed it was, and this was no more than the +truth. Out of sight of temptation, and in that pure atmosphere, the loud +revel and coarse witticisms that had led him on, were only loathsome and +disgusting, and made him miserable in the recollection. + +‘I am ready to submit to anything,’ he added, fervently. ‘As long as you +forgive me, I am ready to bear anything.’ + +‘I forgive you from my heart,’ said Mr. Kendal, warmly. ‘I only wish to +consider what may be most expedient for you. I should scarcely like to +send you back to Oxford to retrieve your character, unless I were sure +that you would be more resolute in resisting temptation. No, do not +reply; your actions during this time of penance will be a far more +satisfactory answer than any promises. I had thought of again applying +to your cousin John, to take you into his bank, though you could not now +go on such terms as you might have done when there was no error in the +background, and I still sometimes question whether it be not the safer +method.’ + +‘Whatever you please,’ said Gilbert; ‘I deserve it all.’ + +‘Nay, do not look upon my decision, whatever it may be, as punishment, +but only as springing from my desire for your real welfare. I will +write to your cousin and ask whether he still has a vacancy, but without +absolutely proposing you to him, and we will look on the coming months +as a period of probation, during which we may judge what may be the +wisest course. I will only ask one other question, Gilbert, and you +need not be afraid to answer me fully and freely. Have you any debts at +Oxford?’ + +‘A few,’ stammered Gilbert, with a great effort. + +‘Can you tell me to whom, and the amount?’ + +He tried to recollect as well as he could, while completely frightened +and confused by the gravity with which his father was jotting them down +in his pocket-book. + +‘Well, Gilbert,’ he concluded, ‘you have dealt candidly with me, and you +shall never have cause to regret having done so. And now we will only +feel that you are at home, and dwell no longer on the cause that has +brought you. Come out, and see what we have been doing in the meadow.’ + +Gilbert seemed more overthrown and broken down by kindness than by +reproof. He hardly exerted himself even to play with Maurice, or to +amuse his grandmother; and though his sisters treated him as usual, he +never once lifted up his eyes to meet Sophy’s glance, and scarcely used +his voice. + +Nothing could be more disarming than such genuine sorrow; and Sophy, +pardoning him with all her heart, and mourning for her past want of +charity, watched him, longing to do something for his comfort, and to +evince her tenderness; but only succeeded in encumbering every petty +service or word of intercourse with a weight of sad consciousness. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + + + +‘I had almost written to ask your pardon,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, as +Albinia entered her drawing-room on the afternoon following. ‘I should +like by way of experiment to know what _would_ put that boy out of +countenance. He listened with placid graciousness to his uncle’s +lecture, and then gave us to understand that he was obliged for +his solicitude, and that there was a great deal of jealousy and +misrepresentation at Oxford; but he thought it best always to submit +to authorities, however unreasonable. And this morning, after amiably +paying his respects to me, he said he was going to inquire for Gilbert. +I intimated that Willow Lawn was the last place where he would be +welcome, but he was far above attending to me. Did Gilbert see him?’ + +‘Gilbert was in the garden with us when we were told he was in the +house. Poor fellow, he shuddered, and looked as if he wanted me to guard +him, so I sent him out walking with Maurice while I went in, and found +Lucy entertaining the gentleman. I made myself as cold and inhospitable +as I could, but I am afraid he rather relishes a dignified retenue.’ + +‘Poor boy! I wonder what on earth is to be done with him. I never before +knew what John’s love and patience were.’ + +‘Do you think he will remain here?’ + +‘I cannot tell; we talk of tutors, but John is really, I believe, +happier for having him here, and besides one can be sure the worst he is +doing is painting a lobster. However, much would depend on what you and +Mr. Kendal thought. If he and Gilbert were doing harm to each other, +everything must give way.’ + +‘If people of that age will not keep themselves out of harm’s way, +nobody can do it for them,’ said Albinia, ‘and as long as Gilbert +continues in his present mood, there is more real separation in +voluntarily holding aloof, than if they were sent far apart, only to +come together again at college.’ + +Gilbert did continue in the same mood. The tender cherishing of his home +restored his spirits; but he was much subdued, and deeply grateful, as +he manifested by the most eager and affectionate courtesy, such as made +him almost the servant of everybody, without any personal aim or object, +except to work up his deficient studies, and to avoid young Dusautoy. +He seemed to cling to his family as his protectors, and to follow the +occupations least likely to lead to a meeting with the Polysyllable; +he was often at church in the week, rode with his father, went parish +visiting with the ladies, and was responsible when Maurice fished for +minnows in the meadows. Nothing could be more sincerely desirous to +atone for the past and enter on a different course, and no conduct could +be more truly humble or endearing. + +The imaginary disdain of Ulick O’More was entirely gone, and perceiving +that the Irishman’s delicacy was keeping him away from Willow Lawn, +Gilbert himself met him and brought him home, in the delight of having +heard of a naval cadetship having been offered to his brother, and full +of such eager joy as longed for sympathy. + +‘Happy fellow!’ Gilbert murmured to himself. + +Younger in years, more childish in character, poor Gilbert had managed +to make his spirit world-worn and weary, compared with the fresh manly +heart of the Irishman, all centered in the kindred ‘points of Heaven and +home,’ and enjoying keenly, for the very reason that he bent dutifully +with all his might to a humble and uncongenial task. + +Yet somehow, admire and esteem as he would, there arose no intimacy or +friendship between Gilbert and Ulick; their manners were frank and +easy, but there was no spontaneous approach, no real congeniality, nor +exchange of mind and sympathy as between Ulick and Mr. Kendal. Albinia +had a theory that the friendship was too much watched to take; Sophy +hated herself for the recurring conviction that ‘Gilbert was not the +kind of stuff,’ though she felt day by day how far he excelled her in +humility, gentleness, and sweet temper. + +When the Goldsmiths gave their annual dinner-party, Albinia felt a +sudden glow at the unexpected sight of Ulick O’More. + +‘I am only deputy for the Orange man,’ he said; ‘it is Hyder Ali who +ought to be dining here! Yes, it is his doing, I’d back him against any +detective!’ + +‘What heroism have you been acting together?’ + +‘We had just given Farmer Martin L120 in notes, when as he went out, we +heard little Hyder growling and giving tongue, and a fellow swearing as +if he was at the fair of Monyveagh, and the farmer hallooing thieves. I +found little Hyder had nailed the rascal fast by the leg, just as he had +the notes out of the farmer’s pouch. I collared him, Johns ran for the +police, and the rascal is fast.’ + +‘What a shame to cheat Mr. Kendal of the committal.’ + +‘The policeman said he was gone out, so we had the villain up to the +Admiral with the greater satisfaction, as he was a lodger in one of the +Admiral’s pet public-houses in Tibb’s Alley.’ + +‘Ah, when Gilbert is of age,’ said Albinia, ‘woe to Tibb’s! So you are a +testimonial to the Tripod?’ + +‘So I suspect, for I found an invitation when I came home, I would +have run down to tell you, but I had been kept late, and one takes some +getting up for polite society.’ + +There was a great deal of talk about Hyder’s exploit, and some +disposition to make Mr. O’More the hero of the day; but this was quickly +nipped by his uncle’s dry shortness, and the superciliousness with +which Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy turned the conversation to the provision of +pistols, couriers, and guards, for travelling through the Abruzzi. +The polysyllabic courage, and false alarms on such a scale, completely +eclipsed a real pick-pocket, caught by a gipsy’s cur and a banker’s +clerk. + +Not that Ulick perceived any disregard until later in the evening, when +the young Kendals arrived, and of course he wanted each and all to hear +of his Tripod’s achievement. He met with ready attention from Sophy and +Gilbert, who pronounced that as the cat was to Whittington, so was Hyder +to O’More; but when in his overflowing he proceeded to Lucy, she had +neither eyes nor ears for him, and when the vicar told her Mr. O’More +was speaking to her, she turned with an air of petulance, so that he +felt obliged to beg her pardon and retreat. + +The Bayford parties never lasted later than a few minutes after ten, but +when once Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy and Miss Kendal had possession of the +piano and guitar, there was no conclusion. Song succeeded song, they +wanted nothing save their own harmony, and hardly waited for Miss +Goldsmith’s sleepy thanks. The vicar hated late hours, and the Kendals +felt every song a trespass upon their hosts, but the musicians had their +backs to the world, and gave no interval, so that it was eleven o’clock +before Mr. Kendal, in desperation, laid his hand on his daughter, and +barbarously carried her off. + +The flirtation was so palpable, that Albinia mused on the means of +repressing it; but she believed that to remonstrate, would only be to +give Lucy pleasure, and held her peace till a passion for riding seized +upon the young lady. The old pony had hard service between Sophy’s needs +and Maurice’s exactions, but Lucy’s soul soared far above ponies, and +fastened upon Gilbert’s steed. + +‘And pray what is Gilbert to ride?’ + +‘Oh! papa does not always want Captain, or Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy would +lend him Bamfylde.’ + +‘Thank you,’ returned Gilbert, satirically. + +Next morning Lucy, radiant with smiles, announced that all was settled. +Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy’s Lady Elmira would be brought down for her to +try this afternoon, so Gilbert might keep his own horse and come too, +which permission he received with a long whistle and glance at Mrs. +Kendal, and then walked out of the room. + +‘How disobliging!’ said Lucy. ‘Well then, Sophy, you must make your old +hat look as well as you can, for I suppose it will not quite do to go +without anyone.’ + +Sophy, like her brother, looked at Mrs. Kendal, and with an eye of +indignant appeal and entreaty, while Albinia’s countenance was so full +of displeasure, that Lucy continued earnestly, ‘O, mamma, you can’t +object. You used to go out riding with papa when he was at Colonel +Bury’s.’ + +‘Well, Lucy!’ exclaimed her sister, ‘I did not think even you capable of +such a comparison.’ + +‘It’s all the same,’ said Lucy tartly, blushing a good deal. + +Sophy leapt up to look at her, and Albinia trying to be calm and +judicious, demanded, ‘What is the same as what?’ + +‘Why, Algernon and _me_,’ was the equally precise reply. + +In stately horror, Sophy rose and seriously marched away, leaving, +by her look and manner, a species of awe upon both parties, and some +seconds passed ere, with crimson blushes, Albania ventured to invite the +dreaded admission, by demanding, ‘Now, Lucy, will you be so good as to +tell me the meaning of this extraordinary allusion?’ + +‘Why, to be sure--I know it was very different. Papa was so old, and +_there were us_,’ faltered Lucy, ‘but I meant, you would know how it all +is--how those things--’ + +‘Stop, Lucy, am I to understand by those things, that you wish me to +believe you and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy are on the game terms as--No, I +can’t say it.’ + +‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Lucy, growing frightened, ‘I never +thought there could be such an uproar about my just going out riding.’ + +‘You have led me to infer so much more, that it becomes my duty to have +an explanation, at least,’ she added, thinking this sounded cold, ‘I +should have hoped you would have given me your confidence.’ + +‘O, but you always would make game of him!’ cried Lucy. + +‘Not now; this is much too serious, if you have been led to believe +that his attentions are not as I supposed, because you are the only girl +about here whom he thinks worthy of his notice.’ + +‘It’s a great deal more,’ said Lucy, with more feeling and less vanity +than had yet been apparent. + +‘And what has he been making you think, my poor child?’ said Albinia. +‘I know it is very distressing, but it would be more right and safe if I +knew what it amounts to.’ + +‘Not much after all,’ said Lucy, her tone implying the reverse, and +though her cheeks were crimson, not averse to the triumph of the avowal, +nor enduring as much embarrassment as her auditor, ‘only he made me sure +of it--he said--(now, mamma, you have made me, so I must) that he had +changed his opinion of English beauty--you know, mamma. And another time +he said he had wandered Europe over to--to find loveliness on the banks +of the Baye. Wasn’t it absurd? And he says he does not think it half so +much that a woman should be accomplished herself, as that she should +be able to appreciate other people’s talents--and once he said the +Principessa Bianca di Moretti would be very much disappointed.’ + +‘Well, my dear,’ said Albinia, kindly putting her arm round Lucy’s +waist, ‘perhaps by themselves the things did not so much require to be +told. I can hardly blame you, and I wish I had been more on my +guard, and helped you more. Only if he seems to care so little about +disappointing this lady might he not do the same by you?’ + +‘But she’s an Italian, and a Roman Catholic,’ exclaimed Lucy. + +Albinia could not help smiling, and Lucy, perceiving that this was +hardly a valid excuse for her utter indifference towards her Grandison’s +Clementina, continued, ‘I mean--of course there was nothing in it.’ + +‘Very possibly; but how would it be, if by-and-by he told somebody that +Miss Kendal would be very much disappointed?’ + +‘O, mamma,’ cried Lucy, hastily detaching herself, ‘you don’t know!’ + +‘I cannot tell, my poor Lucy,’ said Albinia. ‘I fear there must be grief +and trouble any way, if you let yourself attend to him, for you know, +even if he were in earnest, it would not be right to think of a person +who has shown so little wish to be good.’ + +Lucy stood for a few moments before the sense reached her mind, then she +dropped into a chair, and exclaimed, + +‘I see how it is! You’ll treat him as grandpapa treated Captain Pringle, +but I shall break my heart, quite!’ and she burst into tears. + +‘My dear, your father and I will do our best for your happiness, and we +would never use concealment. Whatever we do shall be as Christian people +working together, not as tyrants with a silly girl.’ + +Lucy was pleased, and let Albinia take her hand. + +‘Then I will write to decline the horse. It would be far too marked.’ + +‘But oh, mamma! you wont keep him away!’ + +‘I shall not alter our habits unless I see cause. He is much too young +for us to think seriously of what he may have said; and I entreat you +to put it out of your mind, for it would be very sad for you to fix your +thoughts on him, and then find him not in earnest, and even if he were, +you know it would be wrong to let affection grow up where there is no +real dependence upon a person’s goodness.’ + +The kindness soothed Lucy, and though she shed some tears, she did not +resist the decision. Indeed she was sensible of that calm determination +of manner, which all the family had learnt to mean that the measures +thus taken were unalterable, whereas the impetuous impulses often were +reversed. + +Many a woman’s will is like the tide, ever fretting at the verge of the +boundary, but afraid to overpass it, and only tempting the utmost +limit in the certainty of the recall, and Lucy perhaps felt a kind of +protection in the curb, even while she treated it as an injury. She +liked to be the object of solicitude, and was pleased with Albinia’s +extra kindness, while, perhaps, there was some excitement in the belief +that Algernon was missing her, so she was particularly amenable, and not +much out of spirits. + +The original Meadows character, and Bayford breeding, had for a time +been surmounted by Albinia’s influence and training; but so ingrain was +the old disposition, that a touch would at once re-awaken it, and the +poor girl was in a neutral state, coloured by whichever impression had +been most recent. Albinia’s hopes of prevailing in the end increased +when Mrs. Dusautoy told her, with a look of intelligence, that Algernon +was going to stay with a connexion of his mother, a Mr. Greenaway, with +six daughters, very stylish young ladies. + +Six stylish young ladies! Albinia could have embraced them all, and +actually conferred a cordial nod on Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy when she met +him on the way home. + +But as she entered the house, so ominous a tone summoned her to the +library, that she needed not to be told that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy had +been there. + +‘I told him,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘that he was too young for me to +entertain his proposal, and I intimated that he had character to redeem +before presenting himself in such capacity.’ + +‘I hope you made the refusal evident to his intellect.’ + +‘He drove me to be more explicit than I intended. I think he was +astonished. He stared at me for full three minutes before he could +believe in the refusal. Poor lad, it must be real attachment, there +could be no other inducement.’ + +‘And Lucy is exceedingly pretty.’ + +Mr. Kendal glanced at the portrait over the mantelpiece smiled sadly, +and shook his head. + +‘Poor dear,’ continued Albinia, ‘what a commotion there will be in her +head; but she has behaved so well hitherto, that I hope we may steer her +safely through, above all, if one of the six cousins will but catch him +in the rebound! Have you spoken to her?’ + +‘Is it necessary?’ + +‘So asked her grandfather,’ said Albinia, smiling, as he, a little out +of countenance, muttered something of ‘foolish affair--mere child--and +turn her head--’ + +‘That’s done!’ said Albinia, ‘we have only to try to get it straight. +Besides, it would hardly be just to let her think he had meant nothing, +and I have promised to deal openly with her, otherwise we can hardly +hope for plain dealing from her.’ + +‘And you think it will be a serious disappointment?’ + +‘She is highly flattered by his attention, but I don’t know how deep it +may have gone.’ + +‘I wish people would let one’s daughters alone!’ exclaimed Mr. Kendal. +‘You will talk to her then, Albinia, and don’t let her think me more +harsh than you can help, and come and tell me how she bears it.’ + +‘Won’t you speak to her yourself?’ + +‘Do you think I must?’ he said, reluctantly; ‘you know so much better +how to manage her.’ + +‘I think you must do this, dear Edmund,’ she said, between decision and +entreaty. ‘She knows that I dislike the man, and may fancy it my doing +it she only hears it at second hand. If you speak, there will be no +appeal, and besides there are moments when the really nearest should +have no go-betweens.’ + +‘We were not very near without you,’ he said. ‘If it were Sophy, I +should know better what to be about.’ + +‘Sophy would not put you in such a fix.’ + +‘So I have fancied--’ he paused, smiling, while she waited in eager +curiosity, such as made him finish as if ashamed. ‘I have thought our +likings much the same. Have you never observed what I mean?’ + +‘Oh! I never observe anything. I did not find out Maurice and Winifred +till he told me. Who do you think it is? I always thought love would be +the making of Sophy. I see she is another being. What is your guess, Mr. +Hope?’ + +Mr. Kendal made a face of astonishment at such an improbable guess, and +was driven into exclaiming, ‘How could any one help thinking of O’More?’ + +‘Oh! only too delightful!’ cried Albinia. ‘Why didn’t I think of it--but +then his way is so free and cousinly with us all.’ + +‘There may be nothing in it,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘and under present +circumstances it would hardly be desirable.’ + +‘If old Mr. Goldsmith acts as he ought,’ continued Albinia, ‘we should +never lose our Sophy--and what a son we should have! he has so exactly +the bright temper that she needs.’ + +‘Well, well, that is all in the clouds,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I wish the +present were equally satisfactory.’ + +‘Ah, I had better call poor Lucy.’ + +‘Come back with her, pray,’ called Mr. Kendal, nervously. + +Albinia regretted her superfluous gossip when Lucy appeared with eyes so +sparkling, and cheeks so flushed, that it was plain that she had been in +all the miseries of suspense. Her countenance glowed with feeling, that +lifted her beyond her ordinary doll-like prettiness. Albinia’s heart +sank with compassion as she held her hand, and her father stood as if +struck by something more like the vision or his youth than he had been +prepared for; each feeling that something genuine was present, and +respecting it accordingly. + +‘Lucy,’ said Mr. Kendal, tenderly, ‘I see I need not tell you why I have +sent for you. You are very young, my dear, and you must trust us to care +for your happiness.’ + +‘Yes.’ Lucy looked up wistfully. + +‘This gentleman has some qualities such as may make him shine in the +eyes of a young lady; but it is our duty to look farther, and I am +afraid I know nothing of him that could justify me in trusting him with +anything so precious to me.’ + +Lucy’s face became full of consternation, her hand lay unnerved in +Albinia’a pressure, and Mr. Kendal turned his eyes from her to his wife, +as he proceeded, + +‘I have seen so much wretchedness caused by want of religious principle, +that even where the morals appeared unblemished, I should feel no +confidence where I saw no evidence of religion, and I should consider +it as positively wrong to sanction an engagement with such a person. Now +you must perceive that we have every means of forming an opinion of this +young man, and that he has given us no reason to think he would show the +unselfish care for your welfare that we should wish to secure.’ + +Albinia tried to make it comprehensible. ‘You know, my dear, we have +always seen him resolved on his own way, and not caring how he may +inconvenience his uncle and aunt. We know his temper is not always +amiable, and differently as you see him, you must let us judge.’ + +Wrenching her hand away, Lucy burst into tears. Her father looked at +Albinia, as if she ought to have saved him this infliction, and she +began a little whispering about not distressing papa, which checked the +sobs, and enabled him to say, ‘There, that’s right, my dear, I see you +are willing to submit patiently to our judgment, and I believe you will +find it for the best. We will do all in our power to help you, and make +you happy,’ and bending down he kissed her, and left her to his wife. + +In such family scenes, logic is less useful than the power of coming to +a friendly conclusion; Lucy’s awe of her father was a great assistance, +she was touched with his unwonted softness, and did not apprehend +how total was the rejection. But what he was spared, was reserved for +Albinia. There was a lamentable scene of sobbing and weeping, beyond all +argument, and only ending in physical exhaustion, which laid her on the +bed all the rest of the day. + +Gilbert and Sophy could not but be aware of the cause of her distress. +The former thought it a great waste. + +‘Tell Lucy,’ he said, ‘that if she wishes to be miserable for life, +she has found the best way! He is a thorough-bred tyrant at heart, +pig-headed, and obstinate, and with the very worst temper I ever came +across. Not a soul can he feel for, nor admire but himself. His wife +will be a perfect slave. I declare I would as soon sell her to Legree.’ + +Sophy’s views of the gentleman were not more favourable, but she was +in terror lest Lucy should have a permanently broken heart, after the +precedent of Aunt Maria. And on poor Sophy fell the misfortune of being +driven up by grandmamma’s inquiries, to own that the proposal had been +rejected. + +Shade of poor dear Mr. Meadows, didst thou not stand aghast! Five +thousand a year refused! Grandmamma would have had a fit if she had not +conceived a conviction, that imparted a look of shrewdness to her mild, +simple old face. Of course Mr. Kendal was only holding off till the +young man was a little older. He could have no intention of letting his +daughter miss such a match, and dear Lucy would have her carriage, and +be presented at court. + +Sophy argued vehemently against this, and poor grandmamma, who had with +difficulty been taught worldly wisdom as a duty, and always thought +herself good when she talked prudently, began to cry. Sophy, quite +overcome, was equally distressing with her apologies; Albinia found +them both in tears, and Sophy was placed on the sick-list by one of her +peculiar headaches of self-reproach. + +It was a time of great perplexity. Lucy cried incessantly, bursting out +at every trifle, but making no complaints, and submitting so meekly, +that the others were almost as unhappy as herself. + +She was first cheered by the long promised visit from Mrs. Annesley and +Miss Ferrars. Albinia had now no fears of showing off home or children, +and it was a great success. + +The little Awk was in high beauty, and graciously winning, and Maurice’s +likeness to his Uncle William enchanted the aunts, though they were +shocked at his mamma’s indifference to his constant imperilling of life +and limb, and grievously discomfited his sisters by adducing children +who talked French and read history, whereas he could not read d-o-g +without spelling, and had peculiar views as to b and d, p and q. +However, if he could not read he could ride, and Mrs. Annesley scarcely +knew the extent of the favour she conferred, when she commissioned +Gilbert to procure for him a pony as his private property. + +Miss Ferrars had not expected one of the thirty-six O’Mores to turn up +here. She gave some good advice about hasty intimacies, and as it was +received with a defence of the gentility of the O’Mores, the two good +ladies agreed that dear Albinia was quite a child still, not fit for the +care of those girls, and it would be only acting kindly to take Lucy to +Brighton, and show her something of the world, or Albinia would surely +let her fall a prey to that Irish clerk. + +They liked Lucy’s pretty face and obliging ways, and were fond of having +a young lady in their house; they saw her looking ill and depressed, and +thought sea air would be good for her, and though Lucy fancied herself +past caring for gaiety, and was very sorry to leave home and mamma, +she was not insensible to the refreshment of her wardrobe, and the +excitement and honour of the invitation. At night she cried lamentably, +and clung round Albinia’a neck, sobbing, ‘Oh, mamma, what will become of +me without you?’ but in the morning she went off in very fair spirits, +and Albinia augured hopefully that soon her type of perfection would be +no longer Polysyllabic. Her first letters were deplorable, but they soon +became cheerful, as her mornings were occupied by lessons in music and +drawing, and her evenings in quiet parties among the friends whom the +aunts met at Brighton. Aunt Gertrude wrote to announce that her charge +had recovered her looks and was much admired, and this was corroborated +by the prosperous complacency of Lucy’s style. Albinia was more relieved +than surprised when the letters dwindled in length and number, well +knowing that the Family Office was not favourable to leisure; and devoid +of the epistolary gift herself, she always wondered more at people’s +writing than at their silence, and scarcely reciprocated Lucy’s +effusions by the hurried notes which she enclosed in the well-filled +envelopes of Gilbert and Sophy, who, like their father, could cover any +amount of sheets of paper. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + + + +‘There!’ cried Ulick O’More, ‘I may wish you all good-bye. There’s an +end of it.’ + +Mr. Kendal stood aghast. + +‘He’s insulted my father and my family,’ cried Ulick, ‘and does he think +I’ll write another cipher for him?’ + +‘Your uncle?’ + +‘Don’t call him my uncle. I wish I’d never set eyes on his wooden old +face, to put the family name and honour in the power of such as he.’ + +‘What has he done to you?’ + +‘He has offered to take me as his partner,’ cried Ulick, with flashing +eyes; and as an outcry arose, not in sympathy with his resentment, he +continued vehemently, ‘Stay, you have not heard! ‘Twas on condition I’d +alter my name, leave out the O that has come down to me from them that +were kings and princes before his grandfathers broke stones on the +road.’ + +‘He offered to take you into partnership,’ repeated Mr. Kendal. + +‘Do you think I could listen to such terms!’ cried the indignant lad. +‘Give up the O! Why, I would never be able to face my brothers!’ + +‘But, Ulick--’ + +‘Don’t talk to me, Mr. Kendal; I wouldn’t sell my name if you were to +argue to me like Plato, nor if his bank were the Bank of England. I +might as well be an Englishman at once.’ + +‘Then this was the insult?’ + +‘And enough too, but it wasn’t all. When I answered, speaking as coolly, +I assure you, as I’m doing this minute, what does he do, but call it a +folly, and taunt us for a crew of Irish beggars! Beggars we may be, but +we’ll not be bought by him.’ + +‘Well, this must have been an unexpected reception of such a proposal.’ + +‘You may say that! The English think everything may be bought with +money! I’d have overlooked his ignorance, poor old gentleman, if he +would not have gone and spoken of my O as vulgar. Vulgar! So when +I began to tell him how it began from Tigearnach, the O’More of +Ballymakilty, that was Tanist of Connaught, in the time of King Mac +Murrough, and that killed Phadrig the O’Donoghoe in single combat at +the fight of Shoch-knockmorty, and bit off his nose, calling it a sweet +morsel of revenge, what does he do but tell me I was mad, and that he +would have none of my nonsensical tales of the savage Irish. So I said +I couldn’t stand to hear my family insulted, and then--would you believe +it? he would have it that it was I that was insolent, and when I was not +going to apologize for what I had borne from him, he said he had always +known how it would be trying to deal with one of our family, no better +than making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. “And I’m obliged for the +compliment,” said I, quite coolly and politely, “but no Irish pig +would sell his ear for a purse;” and so I came away, quite civilly and +reasonably. Aye, I see what you would do, Mr. Kendal, but I beg with all +my heart you won’t. There are some things a gentleman should not put up +with, and I’ll not take it well of you if you call it my duty to hear +my father and his family abused. I’ll despise myself if I could. _You_ +don’t--’ cried he, turning round to Albinia. + +‘Oh, no, but I think you should try to understand Mr. Goldsmith’s point +of view.’ + +‘I understand it only too well, if that would do any good. Point of +view--why, ‘tis the farmyard cock’s point of view, strutting on the top +of that bank of his own, and patronizing the free pheasant out in the +woods. More fool I for ever letting him clip my wings, but he’s seen the +last of me. No, don’t ask me to make it up. It can’t be done--’ + +‘What can be done to the boy?’ asked Albinia; ‘how can he be brought to +hear reason?’ + +‘Leave him alone,’ Mr. Kendal said, aside; while Ulick in a torrent of +eager cadences protested his perfect sanity and reason, and Mr. Kendal +quietly left the room, again to start on a peace-making mission, but it +was unpromising, for Mr. Goldsmith began by declaring he would not hear +a single word in favour of the ungrateful young dog. + +Mr. Kendal gathered that young O’More had become so valuable, and that +cold and indifferent as Mr. Goldsmith appeared, he had been growing so +fond and so proud of his nephew, as actually to resolve on giving him a +share of the business, and dividing the inheritance which had hitherto +been destined to a certain Andrew Goldsmith, brought up in a relation’s +office at Bristol. Surprised at his own graciousness, and anticipating +transports of gratitude, his dismay and indignation at the reception +of his proposal were extreme, especially as he had no conception of +the offence he had given regarding the unfortunate O as a badge of +Hibernianism and vulgarity. ‘I put it to you, Mr. Kendal, as a sensible +man, whether it would not be enough to destroy the credit of the bank to +connect it with such a name as that, looking like an Irish haymaker’s. I +should be ashamed of every note I issued.’ + +‘It is unlucky,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and a difficulty the lad could hardly +appreciate, since it is a good old name, and the O is a special mark of +nobility.’ + +‘And what has a banker to do with nobility? Pretty sort of nobility +too, at that dog-kennel of theirs in Ireland, and his father, a mere +adventurer if ever there lived one! But I swore when he carried off poor +Ellen that his speculation should do him no good, and I’ve kept my word. +I wish I hadn’t been fool enough to meddle with one of the concern! No, +no, ‘tis no use arguing, Mr. Kendal, I have done with him! I would not +make him a partner, not if he offered to change his name to John Smith! +I never thought to meet with such ingratitude, but it runs in the breed! +I might have known better than to make much of one of the crew. Yet it +is a pity too, we have not had such a clear-headed, trustworthy fellow +about the place since young Bowles died; he has a good deal of the +Goldsmith in him when you set him to work, and makes his figures just +like my poor father. I thought it was his writing the other day till I +looked at the date. Clever lad, very, but it runs in the blood. I shall +send for Andrew Goldsmith.’ + +One secret of Mr. Kendal’s power was that he never interrupted, but +let people run themselves down and contradict themselves; and all he +observed was, ‘However it may end, you have done a great deal for him. +Even if you parted now, he would be able to find a situation.’ + +‘Why--yes,’ said Mr. Goldsmith, ‘the lad knew nothing serviceable when +he came, we had an infinity of maggots about algebra and logarithms to +drive out of his head; but now he really is nearly as good an accountant +as old Johns.’ + +‘You would be sorry to part with him, and I cannot help hoping this may +be made up.’ + +‘You don’t bring me any message! I’ve said I’ll listen to nothing.’ + +‘No; the poor boy’s feelings are far too much wounded,’ said Mr. Kendal. +‘Whether rightly or wrongly, he fancies that his father and family have +been slightingly spoken of, and he is exceedingly hurt.’ + +‘His father! I’m sure I did not say a tenth part of what the fellow +richly deserves. If the young gentleman is so touchy, he had better go +back to Ireland again.’ + +Nothing more favourable could Mr. Kendal obtain, though he thought +Mr. Goldsmith uneasy, and perhaps impressed by the independence of his +nephew’s attitude. + +It was an arduous office for a peace-maker, where neither party could +comprehend the feelings of the other, but on his return he found +that Ulick had stormed himself into comparative tranquillity, and was +listening the better to the womankind, because they had paid due honour +to the amiable ancestral Tigearnach and all his guttural posterity, +whose savage exploits and bloody catastrophes acted as such a sedative, +that by the time he had come down to Uncle Bryan of the Kaffir war, he +actually owned that as to the mighty ‘O,’ Mr. Goldsmith might have erred +in sheer ignorance. + +‘After all,’ said Albinia, ‘U. O’More is rather personal in writing to a +creditor.’ + +‘It might be worse,’ said Ulick, laughing, ‘if my name was John. I. +O’More would be a dangerous confession. But I’ll not be come round even +by your fun, Mrs. Kendal, I’ll not part with my father’s name.’ + +‘No, that would be base,’ said Sophy. + +‘Who would wish to persuade you?’ added Albinia. ‘I am sure you are +right in refusing with your feelings; I only want you to forgive your +uncle, and not to break with him.’ + +‘I’d forgive him his ignorance, but my mother herself could not wish me +to forgive what he said of my father.’ + +‘And how if he thinks this explosion needs forgiveness?’ + +‘He must do without it,’ said Ulick. ‘No, I was cool, I assure you, cool +and collected, but it was not fit for me to stand by and hear my father +insulted.’ + +Albinia closed the difficult discussion by observing that it was time +to dress, and Sophy followed her from the room burning with indignant +sympathy. ‘It would be meanly subservient to ask pardon for defending a +father whom he thought maligned,’ said Albinia, and Sophy took exception +at the word ‘thought.’ + +‘Ah! of course _he_ cannot be deceived!’ said Albinia--but no sooner +were the words spoken than she was half-startled, half-charmed by +finding they had evoked a glow of colour. + +‘How do you think it will end?’ asked Sophy. + +‘I can hardly fancy he will not be forgiven, and yet--it might be +better.’ + +‘Yes, I do think he would get on faster in India,’ said Sophy eagerly; +‘he could do just as Gilbert might have done.’ + +Was it possible for Albinia to have kept out of her eyes a significant +glance, or to have disarmed her lips of a merry smile of amused +encouragement! How she had looked she knew not, but the red deepened on +Sophy’s whole face, and after one inquiring gaze from the eyes they +were cast down, and an ineffable brightness came over the expression, +softening and embellishing. + +‘What have I done?’ thought Albinia. ‘Never mind--it must have been all +there, or it would not have been wakened so easily--if he goes they will +have a scene first.’ + +But when Mr. Kendal came back he only advised Ulick to go to his desk as +usual the next day, as if nothing had happened. + +And Ulick owned that, turn out as things might, he could not quit his +work in the first ardour of his resentment, and with a great exertion +of Christian forgiveness, he finally promised not to give notice of his +retirement unless his uncle should repeat the offence. This time Albinia +durst not look at Sophy. + +Rather according to his friend’s hopes than his own, he was able to +report at the close of the next day, that he had not ‘had a word from +his uncle, except a nod;’ and thus the days passed on, Andrew Goldsmith +did not appear, and it became evident that he was to remain on +sufferance as a clerk. Nor did Albinia and Sophy venture to renew the +subject between themselves. At first there was consciousness in their +silence; soon their minds were otherwise engrossed. + +Mrs. Meadows was suddenly stricken with paralysis, and was thought to +be dying. She recovered partial consciousness in the course of the next +day, but was constantly moaning the name of her eldest and favourite +granddaughter, and when telegraph and express train brought home the +startled and trembling Lucy, she was led at once to the sick bed--where +at her name there was the first gleam of anything like pleasure. + +‘And where have you been, my dear, this long time?’ + +‘I’ve been at--at Brighton, dear grandmamma,’ said Lucy, so much +agitated as scarcely to be able to recall the name, or utter the words. + +‘And--I say, my dear love,’ said Mrs. Meadows, earnestly and +mysteriously, ‘have you seen _him_?’ + +Poor Lucy turned scarlet with distress and confusion, but she was +held fast, and grandmamma pursued, ‘I’m sure he has not his equal for +handsomeness and stateliness, and there must have been a pair of you.’ + +‘Dear grandmamma, we must let Lucy go and take off her things; she +shall come back presently, but she has had a long journey,’ interposed +Albinia, seeing her ready to sink into the earth. + +But Mrs. Meadows had roused into eagerness, and would not let her go. +‘I hope you danced with him, dear,’ she went on; ‘and it’s all nonsense +about his being high and silent. Your papa is bent on it, and you’ll +live like a princess in India.’ + +‘She takes you for your mother--she means papa, whispered Albinia, not +without a secret flash at once of indignation at perceiving how his +first love had been wasted, yet of exultation in finding that no one +but herself had known how to love him; but poor Lucy, completely and +helplessly overcome, could only exclaim in a faltering voice: ‘Oh, +grandmamma, don’t--’ and Albinia was forced to disengage her, support +her out of the room, and leaving her to her sister, hasten back to +soothe the old lady, who had been terrified by her emotion. It had been +a great mistake to bring her in abruptly, when tired with her journey, +and not fully aware what awaited her. But there was at that time reason +to think all would soon be over, and Albinia was startled and confused. + +Albinia had hitherto been the only efficient nurse of the family. +Sophy’s presence seemed to stir up instincts of the old wrangling +habits, and the invalid was always fretful when left to her, so that to +her own exceeding distress she was kept almost entirely out of the sick +room. + +Lucy, on the other hand, was extremely valuable there, her bright manner +and unfailing chatter always amused if needful, and her light step +and tender hand made her useful, and highly appreciated by the regular +nurse. + +For the first few days, they watched in awe for the last dread summons, +but gradually it was impossible not to become in a manner habituated to +the suspense, so that common things resumed their interest, and though +Sophy was pained by the incongruity, it could not have been otherwise +without the spirits and health giving way under the strain. Nothing +could be more trying than to have the mind wrought up to hourly +anticipation of the last parting, and then the delay, without the +reaction of recovery, the spirit beyond all reach of intercourse, and +the mortal frame languishing and drooping. Mr. Kendal had from the first +contemplated the possibility of the long duration of such lingering, and +did his utmost to promote such enlivenment and change for the attendants +as was consistent with their care of the sufferer. They never dared to +be all beyond call at once, since a very little agitation might easily +suffice to bring on a fatal attack, and Albinia and Lucy were forced +to share the hours of exercise and employment between them, and often +Albinia could not leave the house and garden at all. + +Gilbert was an excellent auxiliary, and would devote many an hour to the +cheering of the poor shattered mind. His entrance seldom failed to break +the thread of melancholy murmurs, and he had exactly the gentle, bright +attentive manner best fitted to rouse and enliven. Nothing could be more +irreproachable, than his conduct, and his consideration and gentleness +so much endeared him, that he had never been so much at peace. All he +dreaded was the leaving what was truly to him the sanctuary of home, he +feared alike temptation and the effort of resistance and could not bear +to go away when his grandmother was in so precarious a state, and he +could so much lighten Mrs. Kendal’s cares both by being with her, and +by watching over Maurice. His parents were almost equally afraid of +trusting him in the world; and the embodiment of the militia for the +county offered a quasi profession, which would keep him at home and yet +give him employment. He was very anxious to be allowed to apply for a +commission, and pleaded so earnestly and humbly that it would be his +best hope of avoiding his former errors, that Mr. Kendal yielded, +though with doubt whether it would be well to confine him to so narrow +a sphere. Meantime the corps was quartered at Bayford, and filled +the streets with awkward louts in red jackets, who were inveterate in +mistaking the right for the left, Gilbert had a certain shy pride in his +soldiership, and Maurice stepped like a young Field Marshal when he saw +his brother saluted. + +Nothing had so much decided this step as the finding that young Dusautoy +was to return to his college after Easter. He was at the Vicarage again, +marking his haughty avoidance of the Kendal family, and to their great +joy, Lucy did not appear distressed, she was completely absorbed in her +grandmother, and shrank from all allusion to her lover. Had the small +flutter of vanity been cured by a glimpse beyond her own corner of the +world? + +But soon Albinia became sensible of an alteration in Gilbert. He had +no sooner settled completely into his new employment, than a certain +restless dissatisfaction seemed to have possessed him. He was fastidious +at his meals, grumbled at his horse, scolded the groom, had fits of +petulance towards his brother, and almost neglected Mrs. Meadows. No +one could wonder at a youth growing weary of such attendance, but his +tenderness and amiability had been his best points, and it was grievous +to find them failing. Albinia would have charged the alteration on his +brother officers, if they had not been a very steady and humdrum set, +whose society Gilbert certainly did not prefer. She was more uneasy at +finding that he sometimes saw Algernon Dusautoy, though for Lucy’s sake, +he always avoided bringing his name forward. + +A woman was ill in the bargeman’s cottage by the towing-path, and +Albinia had walked to see her. As she came down-stairs, she heard +voices, and beheld Mr. Hope evidently on the same errand with herself, +talking to Gilbert. She caught the words, ere she could safely descend +the rickety staircase, Gilbert was saying, + +‘Oh! some happy pair from the High Street!’ + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. Hope, ‘I am so blind, I really took it for +your sister, but our shopkeepers’ daughters do dress so!’ + +Albinia looking in the same direction, beheld in a walk that skirted +the meadow towards the wood, two figures, of which only one was clearly +visible, it was nearly a quarter of a mile off, but there was something +about it that made her exclaim, ‘Why, that’s Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy! +whom can he be walking with?’ + +Gilbert started violently at hearing her behind him, and a word or two +of greeting passed with Mr. Hope, then there was some spying at the +pair, but they were getting further off, and disappeared in the wood, +while Gilbert, screwing up his eyes, and stammering, declared he did not +know; it might be, he did not think any one could be recognised at +such a distance; and then saying that he had fallen in with Mr. Hope by +chance, he hastened on. The curate made a brief visit, and walked home +with her, examining her on her impression that the gentleman was young +Dusautoy, and finally consulting her on the expediency of mentioning +the suspicion to the vicar, in case he should be deluding some foolish +tradesman’s daughter. Albinia strongly advised his doing so; she had +much faith in her own keen eyesight, and could not mistake the majestic +mien of Algernon; she thought the vicar ought at once to be warned, but +felt relieved that it was not her part to speak. + +She was very glad when Mr. Hope took an opportunity of telling her that +young Dusautoy was going to the Greenaways in a day or two. + +As to Gilbert, it was as if this departure had relieved him from an +incubus; he was in better spirits from that moment, and returned to his +habits of kindness to both grandmamma and Maurice. + +The manifold duties of head sick-nurse, governess, and housekeeper, were +apt to clash, and valiant and unwearied as Albinia was, she was obliged +perforce to leave the children more to others than she would have +preferred. Little Albinia was all docility and sweetness, and already +did such wonders with her ivory letters, that the exulting Sophy tried +to abash Maurice by auguring that she would be the first to read; to +which, undaunted, he replied, ‘She’ll never be a boy!’ Nevertheless +Maurice was developing a species of conscience, rendering him +trustworthy and obedient out of sight, better, in fact, alone with his +own honour and his mother’s commands, than with any authority that he +could defy. He knew when his father meant to be obeyed, and Gilbert +managed him easily; but he warred with Lucy, ruled Sophy, and had no +chivalry for any one but little Albinia, nor obedience except for his +mother, and was a terror to maid-servants and elder children. With much +of promise, he was anything but an agreeable child, and whilst no one +but herself ever punished, contradicted, or complained of him, Albinia +had a task that would have made her very uneasy, had not her mind been +too fresh and strong for over-sense of responsibility. Each immediate +duty in its turn was sufficient for her. + +Maurice’s shadow-like pursuit of Gilbert often took him off her hands. +It might sometimes be troublesome to the elder brother, and now and +then rewarded with a petulant rebuff, but Maurice was only the more +pertinacious, and on the whole his allegiance was requited with ardent +affection and unbounded indulgence. Nay, once when Maurice and his pony, +one or both, were swept on by the whole hunt, and obliged to follow the +hounds, Gilbert in his anxiety took leaps that he shuddered to remember, +while the urchin sat the first gallantly, and though he fell into the +next ditch, scrambled up on the instant, and was borne by his spirited +pony over two more, amid universal applause. Mr. Nugent himself rode +home with the brothers to tell the story; papa and mamma were too much +elated at his prowess to scold. + +The eventful year 1854 had begun, and General Ferrars was summoned from +Canada to a command in the East. On his arrival in England, he wrote to +his brother and sister to meet him in London, and the aunts, +delighted to gather their children once more round them, sent pressing +invitations, only regretting that there was not room enough in the +Family Office for the younger branches. + +Mr. Ferrars’ first measure was to ride to Willow Lawn. Knocking at the +door of his sister’s morning-room, he found Maurice with a pouting lip, +back rounded, and legs twisted, standing upon his elbows, which were +planted upon the table on either side of a calico spelling-book. +Mr. Kendal stood up straight before the fire, looking distressed and +perplexed, and Albinia sat by, a little worn, a little irritable, and +with the expression of a wilful victim. + +All greeted the new-comer warmly, and Maurice exclaimed, ‘Mamma, I may +have a holiday now!’ + +‘Not till you have learnt your spelling.’ There was some sharpness in +the tone, and Maurice’s shoulder-blades looked sulky. + +‘In consideration of his uncle,’ began Mr. Kendal, but she put her hand +on the boy, saying, ‘You know we agreed there were to be no holidays for +a week, because we did not use the last properly.’ + +He moved off disconsolately, and his father said, ‘I hope you are come +to arrange the journey to London. Is Winifred coming with you?’ + +‘No; a hurry and confusion, and the good aunts would be too much for +her, you will be the only one for inspection.’ + +‘Yes, take him with you, Maurice,’ said Albinia, ‘he must see William.’ + +‘You must be the exhibitor, then,’ her brother replied. + +‘Now, Maurice, I know what you are come for, but you ought to know +better than to persuade me, when you know there are six good reasons +against my going.’ + +‘I know of one worth all the six.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I have been telling her that she is convincing +me that I did wrong in allowing her to burthen herself with this +charge.’ + +‘That’s nothing to the purpose,’ said Albinia; ‘having undertaken it, +when you all saw the necessity, I cannot forsake it now--’ + +‘If Mrs. Meadows were in the same condition as she was in two months +ago, there might be a doubt,’ said Mr. Kendal; but she is less dependent +on your attention, and Lucy and Gilbert are most anxious to devote +themselves to her in your absence.’ + +‘I know they all wish to be kind, but if anything went wrong, I should +never forgive myself!’ + +‘Not if you went out for pleasure alone,’ said her brother; ‘but +relationship has demands.’ + +‘Of course,’ she said, petulantly, ‘if Edmund is resolved, I must go, +but that does not convince me that it is right to leave everything to +run riot here.’ + +Mr. Kendal looked serious, and Mr. Ferrars feared that the winter +cares had so far told on her temper, that perplexity made her wilful in +self-sacrifice. There was a pause, but just as she began to perceive she +had said something wrong, the lesser Maurice burst out in exultation, + +‘There, it is not indestructible!’ + +‘What mischief have you been about?’ The question was needless, for the +table was strewn with snips of calico. + +‘This nasty spelling-book! Lucy said it was called indestructible, +because nobody could destroy it, but I’ve taken my new knife to it. And +see there!’ + +‘And now can you make another?’ said his uncle. + +‘I don’t want _to_.’ + +‘Nor _one_ either, sir,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘What shall we have to tell +Uncle William about you! I’m afraid you are one of the chief causes of +mamma not knowing how to go to London.’ + +Maurice did not appear on the way to penitence, but his mother said, +‘Bring me your knife.’ + +He hung down his head, and obeyed without a word. She closed it, +and laid it on the mantel-shelf, which served as a sort of pound for +properties in sequestration. + +‘Now, then, go,’ she said, ‘you are too naughty for me to attend to +you.’ + +‘But when will you, mamma?’ laying a hand on her dress. + +‘I don’t know. Go away now.’ + +He slowly obeyed, and as the door shut, she said, ‘There!’ in a tone as +if her view was established. + +‘You must send him to Fairmead,’ said the uncle. + +‘To “terrify” Winifred? No, no, I know better than that; Gilbert can +look after him. I don’t so much care about that.’ + +The admission was eagerly hailed, and objection after objection removed, +and having recovered her good humour, she was candid, and owned how much +she wished to go. ‘I really want to make acquaintance with William. I’ve +never seen him since I came to my senses, and have only taken him on +trust from you.’ + +‘I wish equally that he should see you,’ said her brother. ‘It would +be good for him, and I doubt whether he has any conception what you are +like.’ + +‘I’d better stay at home, to leave you and Edmund to depict for his +benefit a model impossible idol--the normal woman.’ + +Maurice looked at her, and shook his head. + +‘No--it would be rather--it and its young one, eh?’ + +Maurice took both her hands. ‘I should not like to tell William what I +shall believe if you do not come.’ + +‘Well, what--’ + +‘That Edmund is right, and you have been overtasked till you are careful +and troubled about many things.’ + +‘Only too much bent on generous self-devotion,’ said Mr. Kendal, +eagerly; ‘too unselfish to cast the balance of duties.’ + +‘Hush, Edmund,’ said Albinia. ‘I don’t deserve fine words. I honestly +believe I want to do what is right, but I can’t be sure what it is, and +I have made quite fuss enough, so you two shall decide, and then I shall +be made right anyway. Only do it from your consciences.’ + +They looked at each other, taken aback by the sudden surrender. Mr. +Ferrars waited, and her husband said, ‘She ought to see her brother. She +needs the change, and there is no sufficient cause to detain her.’ + +‘She must be content sometimes to trust,’ said Mr. Ferrars. + +‘Aye, and all that will go wrong, when my back is turned.’ + +‘Let it,’ said her brother. ‘The right which depends on a single human +eye is not good for much. Let the weeds grow, or you can’t pull them +up.’ + +‘Let the mice play, that the cat may catch them,’ said Albinia, striving +to hide her care. ‘One good effect is, that Edmund has not begun to +groan.’ + +Indeed, in his anxiety that she should consent to enjoy herself, he had +not had time to shrink from the introduction. + +Outside the door they found Maurice waiting, his spelling learnt from a +fragment of the indestructible spelling-book, and the question followed, +‘Now, mamma, you wont say I’m too naughty for you to go to London and +see Uncle William?’ + +‘No, my little boy, I mean to trust you, and tell Uncle William that my +young soldier is learning the soldier’s first duty--obedience.’ + +‘And may I have my knife, mamma?’ + +Papa had settled that question by himself taking it off the +chimney-piece and restoring it. If mamma wished the penance to have been +longer, she neither looked it nor said it. + +The young people received the decision with acclamation, and the two +elder ones vied with one another in attempts to set her mind at rest by +undertaking everything, and promising for themselves and the children +perfect regularity and harmony. Sophy, with a bluntness that King Lear +would have highly disapproved, said, ‘She was glad mamma was going, but +she knew they should be all at sixes and sevens. She would do her best, +and very bad it would be.’ + +‘Not if you don’t make up your mind beforehand that it must be bad,’ +said her uncle. + +Sophy smiled, she was much less impervious to cheerful auguries, and +spoke with gladness of the pleasure it would give her friend Genevieve +to see Mrs. Kendal. + +Mr. Ferrars had a short interview with Ulick, and was amused by +observing that little Maurice had learnt as much Irish as Ulick had +dropped. After the passing fever about his O had subsided, he was +parting with some of his ultra-nationality. The whirr of his R’s and his +Irish idioms were far less perceptible, and though a word of attack on +his country would put him on his mettle, and bring out the Kelt in full +force, yet in his reasonable state, his good sense and love of order +showed an evident development, and instead of contending that Galway was +the most perfect county in the world, he only said it might yet be so. + +‘Isn’t he a noble fellow?’ cried Albinia, warmly. + +‘Yes,’ said her brother; ‘I doubt whether all the O’Mores put together +have ever made such a conquest as he has.’ + +‘It was fun to see how the aunts were dismayed to find one of the horde +in full force here. I believe it was as a measure of precaution that +they took Lucy away. I was very glad for Lucy to go, but hers was not +exactly the danger.’ + +‘Ha!’ said Maurice; and Albinia blushed. Whereupon he said +interrogatively, ‘Hem?’ which made her laugh so consciously that he +added, ‘Don’t you go and be romantic about either of your young ladies, +or there will be a general burning of fingers.’ + +‘If you knew all our secrets, Maurice, you would think me a model of +prudence and forbearance.’ + +‘Ho!’ was his next interjection, ‘so much the worse. For my own part, I +don’t expect prudence will come to you naturally till the little Awk has +a lover.’ + +‘Won’t it come any other way?’ + +‘Yes, in _one_ way,’ he said, gravely. + +‘And that way is not easily found by those who have neither humility nor +patience,’ she said, sadly, ‘who rush on their own will.’ + +‘Nay, Albinia, it is being sought, I do believe; and remember the +lines-- + + + “Thine own mild energy bestow, + And deepen while thou bidst it flow, + More calm our stream of love.”’ + + +Forced to resign herself to her holiday, Albinia did so with a good +grace, in imitation of her brother, who assured her that he had brought +a bottle of Lethe, and had therein drowned wife, children, and parish. +Mr. Kendal’s spirits, as usual, rose higher every mile from Bayford, and +they were a very lively party when they arrived in Mayfair. + +The good aunts were delighted to have round them all those whom they +called their children; all except Fred, whom the new arrangements had +sent to rejoin his regiment in Ireland. + +Sinewy, spare, and wiry, with keen gray eyes under straight brows, +narrow temples, a sunburnt face, and alert, upright bearing and quick +step, William Ferrars was every inch a soldier; but nothing so much +struck Mr. and Mrs. Kendal as the likeness to their little Maurice, +though it consisted more in air and gesture than in feature. His speech +was brief and to the point, softened into delicately-polished courtesy +towards womankind, in the condescension of strength to weakness--the +quality he evidently thought their chief characteristic. + +Albinia was amused as she watched him with grown-up eyes, and compared +present with past impressions. She could now imagine that she had been +an inconvenient charge to a young soldier brother, and that he had been +glad to make her over to the aunts, only petting and indulging her as +a child; looking down on her fancies, and smiling at her sauciness +when she was an enthusiastic maiden--treatment which she had so much +resented, that she had direfully offended Maurice by pronouncing William +a mere martinet, when she was hurt at his neither reading the Curse of +Kehama, nor entering into her plans for Fairmead school. + +Having herself become a worker, she could better appreciate a man +who had seen and acted instead of reading, recollected herself as +an emanation of conceit, and felt shy and anxious, even more for her +husband than for herself. How would the scholar and the soldier fare +together? and could she and Maurice keep them from wearying of each +other? She had little trust in her own fascinations, though she saw the +General’s eye approvingly fixed on her, and believing herself to be a +more pleasing object in her womanly bloom than in her unformed girlhood. + +‘How does the Montreal affair go on?’ she asked. + +‘What affair?’ + +‘Fred and Miss Kinnaird.’ + +‘I am sorry to say he has not put it out of his head.’ + +‘Surely she is a very nice person.’ + +‘Pshaw! He has no right to think of a wife these dozen years.’ + +‘Not even think? When he is not to have one at any rate till he is a +field officer!’ + +‘And he is a fool to have one then. A mere encumbrance to himself and +the entire corps.’ + +‘Yes, I know,’ said Albinia, ‘she always gets the best cabin.’ + +‘And that is no place for her! No man, as I have told Fred over and over +again, ought to drag a woman into hardships for which she is not fitted, +and where she interferes with his effectiveness and the comfort of every +one else.’ + +The identical lecture of twelve years since, when he had feared +Albinia’s becoming this inconvenient appendage! If he had repeated it +on all like occasions, she did not wonder that it had wearied his +aide-de-camp. + +‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘the backwoods may have fitted Miss Emily for the +life; and I can’t but be glad of Fred’s having been steady to anything.’ + +Considering this speech like the Kehama days, the General went on to +dilate on the damage that marriage was to the ‘service,’ removing the +best officers, first from the mess, and then from the army. + +‘What a pity William was born too late to be a Knight of St. John!’ said +Albinia. + +All laughed, but she doubted whether he were pleased, for he addressed +himself to one of the aunts, while Maurice spoke to her in an under +tone--‘I believe he is quite right. Homes are better for the individual +man, but not for the service. How remarkably the analogy holds with this +other service!’ + +‘You mean what St. Paul says of the married and unmarried?’ + +‘I always think he and his sayings are the most living lessons I know on +the requirements of the other army.’ + +Albinia mused on the insensible change in Maurice. He had not embraced +his profession entirely by choice. It had always been understood that +one of the younger branches must take the family living; and as Fred had +spurned study, he had been bred up to consider it as his fate, and if +he had ever had other wishes, he had entirely accepted his destiny, +and sincerely turned to his vocation. The knowledge that he must be +a clergyman had ruled him and formed him from his youth, and acting +through him on his sister, had rendered her more than the accomplished, +prosperous young lady her aunts meant to have made her. Yet, even up to +a year or two after his Ordination, there had been a sense of sacrifice; +he loved sporting, and even balls, and it had been an effort to renounce +them. He had avoided coming to London because his keen enjoyment of +society tended to make him discontented with his narrow sphere; she had +even known him to hesitate to ride with the staff at a review, lest he +should make himself liable to repinings. And now how entirely had all +this passed away, not merely by outgrowing the enterprising temper +and boyish habits, nor by contentment in a happy home, but by the +sufficiency and rest of his service, the engrossment in the charge from +his great Captain. Without being himself aware of it, he had ceased +to distrust a holiday, because it was no longer a temptation; and his +animation and mirth were the more free, because self-regulation was so +thoroughly established, that restraint was no longer felt. + +Mrs. Annesley was talking of the little Kendals, who she had ruled +should be at Fairmead. + +‘No,’ said Maurice, ‘Albinia thought her son too mighty for Winifred. +Our laudable efforts at cousinly friendship usually produce war-whoops +that bring the two mammas each to snatch her own offspring from the +fray, with a scolding for the sake of appearances though believing the +other the only guilty party.’ + +‘Now, Maurice,’ cried Albinia, ‘you confess how fond Mary is of setting +people to rights.’ + +‘Well--when Maurice bullies Alby.’ + +‘Aye, you talk of the mammas, and you only want to make out poor Maurice +the aggressor.’ + +‘Never mind, they will work in better than if they were fabulous +children. Ah, you are going to contend that yours is a fabulous child. +Take care I don’t come on you with the indestructible--’ + +‘Take care I don’t come on you with Mary’s lessons to Colonel Bury on +the game-law.’ + +‘Does it not do one good to see those two quarrelling just like old +times?’ exclaimed one aunt to the other. + +‘And William looking on as contemptuous as ever?’ said Albinia. + +‘Not at all. I rejoice to have this week with you. I should like to see +your boy. Maurice says he is a thorough young soldier.’ + +Mr. Kendal looked pleased. + +The man of study had a penchant for the man of action, and the +brothers-in-law were drawing together. Mars, the great geographical +master, was but opening his gloomy school on the Turkish soil, and the +world was discovering its ignorance beyond the Pinnock’s Catechisms of +its youth. Maurice treated Mr. Kendal as a dictionary, and his stores of +Byzantine, Othman, and Austrian lore, chimed in with the perceptions of +the General, who, going by military maps, described plans of operations +which Mr. Kendal could hardly believe he had not found in history, while +he could as little credit that Mr. Kendal had neither studied tactics, +nor seen the spots of which he could tell such serviceable minutiae. + +They had their heads together over the map the whole evening, and the +next morning, when the General began to ask questions about Turkish, his +sister was proud to hear her husband answering with the directness and +precision dear to a military man. + +‘That’s an uncommonly learned man, Albinia’s husband,’ began the +General, as soon as he had started with his brother on a round of +errands. + +‘I never met a man of more profound and universal knowledge.’ + +‘I don’t see that he is so grave and unlike other people. Fred reported +that he was silence itself, and she might as well have married Hamlet’s +ghost.’ + +‘Fred saw him at a party,’ said Maurice; then remembering that this +might not be explanatory, he added, ‘He shines most when at ease, and +every year since his marriage has improved and enlivened him.’ + +‘I am satisfied. I hardly knew how to judge, though I did not think +myself called upon to remonstrate against the marriage, as the aunts +wished. I knew I might depend on you, and I thought it high time that +she should be settled.’ + +‘I have been constantly admiring her discernment, for I own that at +first his reserve stood very much in my way, but since she has raised +his spirits, and taught him to exert himself, he has been a most +valuable brother to me. + +‘Then you think her happy? I was surprised to see her such a +fine-looking woman; my aunts had croaked so much about his children and +his mother, that I thought she would be worn to a shadow.’ + +‘Very happy. She has casual troubles, and a great deal of work, but that +is what she is made for.’ + +‘How does she get on with his children?’ + +‘Hearty love for them has carried her through the first difficulties, +which appalled me, for they had been greatly mismanaged. I am afraid +that she has not been able to undo some of the past evil; and with all +her good intentions, I am sometimes afraid whether she is old enough to +deal with grown-up young people.’ + +‘You don’t mean that Kendal’s children are grown up? I should think him +younger than I am.’ + +‘He is so, but civil servants marry early, and not always wisely; and +the son is about twenty. Poor Albinia dotes on him, and has done more +for him than ever his father did; but the lad is weak and tender every +way, with no stamina, moral or physical, and with just enough property +to do him harm. He has been at Oxford and has failed, and now he is in +the militia, but what can be expected of a boy in a country town, with +nothing to do? I did not like his looks last week, and I don’t think +his being there, always idle, is good for that little manly scamp of +Albinia’s own.’ + +‘Why don’t they put him into the service?’ + +‘He is too old.’ + +‘Not too old for the cavalry!’ + +‘He can ride, certainly, and is a tall, good-looking fellow; but I +should not have thought him the stuff to make a dragoon. He has always +been puling and delicate, unfit for school, wanting force.’ + +‘Wanting discipline,’ said the General. ‘I have seen a year in a good +regiment make an excellent officer of that very stamp of youngster, just +wanting a mould to give him substance.’ + +‘The regiment should be a very good one,’ said Mr. Ferrars; ‘he would be +only too easily drawn in by the bad style of subaltern.’ + +‘Put him into the 25th Lancers,’ said the General, ‘and set Fred to look +after him. Rattlepate as he is, he can take excellent care of a lad to +whom he takes a fancy, and if Albinia asked him, he would do it with all +his heart.’ + +‘I wish you would propose it, though I am afraid his father will never +consent. I would do a great deal to get him away before he has led +little Maurice into harm.’ + +‘This consideration moved the Rector of Fairmead himself to broach the +subject, but neither Mr. Kendal nor Albinia could think of venturing +their fragile son in the army, though assured that there was little +chance that the 25th Lancers would be summoned to the east, and they +would only hold out hopes of little Maurice by and by. + +Albinia’s martial ardour was revived as she listened with greater grasp +of comprehension to subjects familiar in her girlhood. She again met +old friends of her father, the lingering glories of the Peninsula and +Waterloo, who liked her for her own sake as well as for her father’s, +while Maurice looked on, amused by her husband’s silent pride in her, +and her hourly progress in the regard of the General, who began to talk +of making a long visit to Fairmead, after what he expected would be +a slight demonstration on the Danube. He even began to regret the +briefness of the time that he could spend in their society. + +Much was crowded into that week, but Albinia contrived to find an +hour for a call on her little French friend, to whom she had already +forwarded the parcels she had brought from home--a great barm-brack from +Biddy, and a store of delicate convent confections from Hadminster. + +She was set down at a sober old house in the lawyers’ quarter of the +world, and conducted to a pretty, though rather littered drawing-room, +where she found a delicate-looking young mamma, and various small +children. + +‘I’m so glad,’ said little Mrs. Rainsforth, ‘that you have been able to +come; it will be such a pleasure to dear Miss Durant; and while one +of the children was sent to summon the governess, the lady continued, +nervously but warmly, ‘I hope you will think Miss Durant looking well; +I am afraid she shuts herself up too much. I’m sure she is the greatest +comfort, the greatest blessing to us.’ + +Albinia’s reply was prevented by a rush of children, followed by the +dear little trim, slight figure. There was no fear that Genevieve did +not look well or happy. Her olive complexion was healthy; her dark eyes +lustrous with gladness; her smile frank and unquelled; her movements +full of elastic life. + +She led the way to the back parlour, dingy by nature, but bearing living +evidence to the charm which she infused into any room. Scratched table, +desks, copybooks, and worn grammars, had more the air of a comfortable +occupation than of the shabby haunt of irksome taskwork. There were +flowers in the window, and the children’s treasures were arranged +with taste. Genevieve loved her school-room, and showed off its little +advantages with pretty exultation. If Mrs. Kendal could only see how +well it looked with the curtains down, after tea! + +And then came the long, long talk over home affairs, and the history of +half the population of Bayford, Genevieve making inquiries, and drinking +in the answers as if she could not make enough of her enjoyment. + +Not till all the rest had been discussed, did she say, with dropped +eyelids, and a little blush, ‘Is Mr. Gilbert Kendal quite strong?’ + +‘Thank you, he has been much better this winter, and so useful and kind +in nursing grandmamma!’ + +‘Yes, he was always kind.’ + +‘He was going to beg me to remember him to you, but he broke off, and +said you would not care.’ + +‘I care for all goodness towards me,’ answered Genevieve, lifting her +eyes with a flash of inquiry. + +‘I am afraid he is as bad as ever, poor fellow,’ said Albinia, with a +little smile and sigh; ‘but he has behaved very well. I must tell you +that you were in the same train with him on his journey from Oxford, and +he was ashamed to meet your eye.’ + +‘Ah, I remember well. I thought I saw him. I was bringing George +and Fanny from a visit to their aunts, and I was sure it must be Mr. +Gilbert.’ + +‘As prudent as ever, Genevieve.’ + +‘It would not have been right,’ she said, blushing; ‘but it was such +a treat to see a Bayford face, that I had nearly sprung out of the +waiting-room to speak to him at the first impulse.’ + +‘My poor little exile!’ said Albinia. + +‘No, that is not my name. Call me my aunt’s bread-winner. That’s my +pride! I mean my cause of thankfulness. I could not have earned half so +much at home.’ + +‘I hope indeed you have a home here.’ + +‘That I have,’ she fervently answered. ‘Oh, without being a homeless +orphan, one does not learn what kind hearts there are. Mr. and Mrs. +Rainsforth seemed only to fear that they should not be good enough to +me.’ + +‘Do you mean that you found it a little oppressive?’ + +‘Fi donc, Madame! Yet I must own that with her timid uneasy way, and his +so perfect courtesy, they did alarm me a little at first. I pitied them, +for I saw them so resolved not to let me feel myself de trop, that I +knew I was in their way.’ + +‘Did not that vex you?’ + +‘Why, I suppose they set their inconvenience against the needs of their +children, and my concern was to do my duty, and be as little troublesome +as possible. They pressed me to spend my evenings with them, but I +thought that would be too hard on them, so I told them I preferred +the last hours alone, and I do not come in unless there are others to +prevent their being tete-a-tete.’ + +‘Very wise. And do you not find it lonely?’ + +‘It is my time for reading--my time for letters--my time for being at +home!’ cried Genevieve. ‘Now however that I hope I am no longer a weight +on them, Mrs. Rainsforth will sometimes ask me to come and sing to him, +or read aloud, when he comes home so tired that he cannot speak, and her +voice is weak. Alas! they are both so fragile, so delicate.’ + +Her soul was evidently with them and with her charges, of whom there +was so much to say, that the carriage came all too soon to hurry Albinia +away from the sight of that buoyant sweetness and capacity of happiness. + +She was rather startled by Miss Ferrars saying, ‘By-the-by, Albinia, how +was it that you never told us of the development of the Infant prodigy? + +‘I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Gertrude.’ + +‘Don’t you remember that boy, that Mrs. Dusautoy Cavendish’s son, whom +that poor little companion of hers used to call l’Enfant prodigue. I did +not know he was a neighbour of yours, as I find from Lucy.’ + +‘What did Lucy tell you about him? She did not meet him!’ cried Albinia, +endeavouring not to betray her alarm. ‘I mean, did she meet him?’ + +‘Indeed,’ said Miss Ferrars, ‘you should have warned us if you had any +objection, my dear.’ + +‘Well, but what did happen?’ + +‘Oh, nothing alarming, I assure you. They met at a ball at Brighton; +Lucy introduced him, and said he was your vicar’s nephew; they danced +together. I think only once.’ + +‘I wish you had mentioned it. When did it happen?’ + +‘I can hardly tell. I think she had been about a fortnight with us, +but she seemed so indifferent that I should never have thought it worth +mentioning. I remember my sister thought of asking him to a little +evening party of ours, and Lucy dissuading her. Now, really, Albinia, +don’t look as if we had been betraying our trust. You never gave us any +reason to think--’ + +‘No, no. I beg your pardon, dear aunt. I hope there’s no harm done. If +I could have thought of his turning up, I would--But I hope it is all +right.’ + +Such good accounts came from both homes, and the General was so +unwilling to part with his brother and sister, that he persuaded them to +accompany him to Southampton for embarkation. They all felt that these +last days, precious now, might be doubly precious by-and-by, and alone +with them and free from the kindly scrutiny of the good aunts, William +expanded and evinced more warm fraternal feeling than he had ever +manifested. He surprised his sister by thanking her warmly for having +come to meet him. ‘I am glad to have been with you, Albinia; I am +glad to have seen your husband. I have told Maurice that I am heartily +rejoiced to see you in such excellent hands.’ + +‘You must come and see the children, and know him better.’ + +‘I hope so, when this affair is over, and I expect it will be soon +settled. Anyway, I am glad we have been together. If we meet again, we +will try to see more of one another.’ + +He had said much more to his brother, expressing regret that he had +been so much separated from his sister. Thorough soldier as he was, and +ardent for active service, the sight of her and her husband had renewed +gentler thoughts, and he was so far growing old that the idea of home +and rest came invitingly before him. He was softened at the parting, and +when he wrung their hands for the last time on the deck of the steamer, +they were glad that his last words were, ‘God bless you.’ + +There had been some uncertainty as to the time of his sailing, and +Fairmead and Bayford had been told that unless their travellers arrived +by the last reasonable train on Friday, they were not to be expected +till the same time on Saturday, Maurice having concocted a scheme for +crossing by several junction lines, so as to save waiting; but they had +not reckoned on the discourtesies of two rival companies whose lines met +at the same station, and the southern train was only in time to hear the +parting snort of the engine that it professed to catch. + +The Ferrars’ nature, above all when sore with farewells, was not made to +submit to having time wasted by treacherous trains on a cold wintry +day, and at a small new station, with an apology for a waiting-room, no +bookstall, and nothing to eat but greasy gingerbread and hard apples. + +Maurice relieved his feelings by heartily rowing all the officials, but +he could obtain no redress, as he knew full well the whole time, nor +would any train pick them up for full three hours. + +So indignant was he, that amusement rendered Albinia patient, especially +when he took to striding up and down the platform, devising cases in +which the delay might be actionable, and vituperating the placability of +Mr. Kendal, who having wrapt up his wife in plaids and seated her on the +top of the luggage, had set his back to the wall, and was lost to the +present world in a book. + +‘Never mind, Maurice,’ said Albinia; ‘in any other circumstances we +should think three hours of each other a great boon.’ + +‘If anything could be an aggravation, it would be to see Albinia +philosophical.’ + +‘You make me so on the principle of the Helots and Spartans.’ + +It was possible to get to Hadminster by half-past seven, and on to +Bayford by nine o’clock, but Fairmead lay further from the line, and +the next train did not stop at the nearest station, so Maurice agreed to +sleep at Bayford that night; and this settled, set out with his sister +to explore the neighbourhood for eatables and church architecture. They +made an ineffectual attempt to rouse Mr. Kendal to go with them, but he +was far too deep in his book, and only muttered something about looking +after the luggage. They found a stale loaf of bread, and a hideous +church, but it was a merry walk, and brought them back in their +liveliest mood, which lasted even to pronouncing it ‘great fun’ that the +Hadminster flies were all at a ball, and that the omnibus must convey +them home by the full moonlight. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + + + +Slowly the omnibus rumbled over the wooden bridge, and then with a +sudden impulse it thundered up to the front door. + +Albinia jumped out, and caught Sophy in her arms, exclaiming, ‘And how +are you all, my dear?’ + +‘We had quite given you up,’ Gilbert was saying. ‘The fire is in the +library,’ he added, as Mr. Kendal was opening the drawing-room door, +and closing it in haste at the sight of a pale, uninviting patch of +moonlight, and the rush of a blast of cold wind. + +‘And how is grandmamma? and the children? My Sophy, you don’t look well, +and where’s Lucy?’ + +Ere she could receive an answer, down jumped, two steps at a time, a +half-dressed figure, all white stout legs and arms which were speedily +hugging mamma. + +‘There’s my man!’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘a good boy, I know.’ + +‘No!’ cried the bold voice. + +‘No?’ (incredulously) what have you been doing?’ + +‘I broke the conservatory with the marble dog, and--’ he looked at +Gilbert. + +‘There’s my brave boy,’ said Mr. Kendal, who had suffered so much from +his elder son’s equivocation as to be ready to overlook anything for the +sake of truth. ‘Here, Uncle Maurice, shake hands with your godson, who +always tells truth.’ + +The urchin folded his arms on his bosom, and looked like a young +Bonaparte. + +‘Where’s your hand? said his uncle. ‘Wont you give it to me?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘He will be wiser to-morrow, if you are so good as to try him again,’ +said Albinia, who knew nothing did him more harm than creating a +commotion by his caprices; ‘he is up too late, and fractious with +sleepiness. Go to bed now, my dear.’ + +‘I shall not be wiser to-morrow,’ quoth the child, marching out of the +room in defiance. + +‘Monkey! what’s the matter now?’ exclaimed Albinia; ‘I suppose you have +all been spoiling him. But what’s become of Lucy?’ + +‘Gilbert said she was at the Dusautoys,’ replied Sophy; ‘but if you +would but come to grandmamma! She found out that you were expected, and +she is in such a state that we have not known what to do.’ + +‘I’ll come, only, Sophy dear, please order tea and something to eat. +Your uncle looks ravenous.’ + +She broke off, as there advanced into the room a being like Lucy, +but covered with streams and spatters of flowing sable tears, like a +heraldic decoration, over face, neck, and dress. + +All unconscious, she came with outstretched hands and words of welcome, +but an astonished cry of ‘Lucy!’ met her, and casting her eyes on her +dress, she screamed, ‘Oh goodness! it’s ink!’ + +‘Where can you have been? what have you been doing?’ + +‘I--don’t know--Oh! it was the great inkstand, and not the scent--Oh! +it is all over me! It’s in my hair!’ shuddering. ‘Oh, dear! oh dear! I +shall never get it out!’ and off she rushed, followed by Gilbert, and +was soon heard calling the maids to bring hot water to her room. + +‘What is all this?’ asked Mr. Kendal. + +‘I do not know,’ mournfully answered Sophy. + +Albinia left the library, and taking a candle, went into the empty +drawing-room. The moonlight shone white upon the table, and showed +the large cut-glass ink-bottle in a pool of its own contents; and the +sofa-cover had black spots and stains as if it had partaken of the +libation. + +Sophy saw, and stood like a statue. + +‘You know nothing, I am sure,’ said Albinia. + +‘Nothing!’ repeated Sophy, with a blank look of wretchedness. + +‘If you please, ma’am,’ said the nurse at the door, ‘could you be kind +enough to come to Mrs. Meadows, she will be quieter when she has seen +you?’ + +‘Sophy dear, we must leave it now,’ said Albinia. ‘You must see to their +tea, they have had nothing since breakfast.’ + +She hastened to the sick room, where she found Mrs. Meadows in a painful +state of agitation and excitement. The nurse said that until this +evening, she had been as usual, but finding that Mrs. Kendal was +expected, she had been very restless; Miss Kendal was out, and neither +Miss Sophy nor Mr. Gilbert could soothe her. + +She eagerly grasped the hand of Albinia who bent down to kiss her, and +asked how she had been. + +‘Oh! my dear, very unwell, very. They should not leave me to myself so +long, my dear. I thought you would never come back,’ and she began to +cry, and say, ‘no one cared for an old woman.’ + +Albinia assured her that she was not going away, and restrained her own +eager and bewildered feelings to tranquillize her, by prosing on in the +lengthy manner which always soothed the poor old lady. It was a great +penance, in her anxiety to investigate the mysteries that seemed to +swarm in the house, but at last she was able to leave the bedside, +though not till she had been twice summoned to tea. + +Sophy, lividly pale, was presiding with trembling hands; Gilbert, +flushed and nervous, waiting on every one, and trying to be lively and +at ease, but secret distress was equally traceable in each. + +She durst only ask after the children, and heard that her little +namesake had been as usual as good and sweet as child could be. And +Maurice? + +‘He’s a famous fellow, went on capitally,’ said Gilbert. + +‘Yes, till yesterday,’ hoarsely gasped Sophy, sincerity wrenching out +the protest by force. + +‘Ah, what has he been doing to the conservatory?’ + +‘He let the little marble dog down from the morning-room window with my +netting silk; it fell, and made a great hole,’ said Sophy. + +‘What, as a form of dawdling at his lessons?’ + +‘Yes, but he has not been at all tiresome about them except to-day and +yesterday.’ + +‘And he has told the exact truth,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘his gallant +confession has earned the little cannon I promised him.’ + +‘I believe,’ said Albinia, ‘that it would be greater merit in Maurice +to learn forbearance than to speak truth and be praised for it. I have +never seen his truth really tried.’ + +‘I value truth above all other qualities,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘So do I,’ said Albinia, ‘and it is my greatest joy in that little +fellow; but some time or other it must cost him something, or it will +not be tested.’ + +Mr. Kendal did not like this, and repeated that he must have his cannon. +Albinia fancied that she heard something like a groan from Gilbert. + +When they broke up for the night, she threw her arm round Sophy as they +went upstairs, saying, ‘My poor dear, you look half dead. Have things +been going very wrong?’ + +‘Only these two days,’ said Sophy, ‘and I don’t know that they have +either. I am glad you are come!’ + +‘What kind of things?’ said Albinia, following her into her room. + +‘Don’t ask,’ at first began Sophy, but then, frowning as if she could +hardly speak, she added, ‘I mean, I don’t know whether it is my own +horrid way, or that there is really an atmosphere of something I don’t +make out.’ + +‘Didn’t you tell me Lucy was at the Vicarage?’ said Albinia, suddenly. + +‘Gilbert said yes, when I asked if she could be with the Dusautoys,’ +said Sophy, ‘when grandmamma wanted her and she did not come. Mamma, +please don’t think of what I said, for very likely it is only that I am +cross, because of being left alone with grandmamma so long this evening, +and then Maurice being slow at his lessons.’ + +‘You are not cross, Sophy; you are worn out, and perplexed, and +unhappy.’ + +‘Oh! not now you are come home,’ and Sophy laid her head on her shoulder +and cried with relief and exhaustion. Albinia caressed her, saying, + +‘My trust, my mainstay, my poor Sophy! There, go to bed and sleep, and +don’t think of it now. Only first tell me one thing, is that Algernon at +home?’ + +‘No!’ said Sophy, vehemently, ‘certainly not!’ + +Albinia breathed more freely. + +‘Everybody,’ said Sophy, collecting herself, ‘has gone on well, Gilbert +and Lucy have been as kind as could be, and Maurice very good, but +yesterday morning he went on in his foolish way at lessons, and Gilbert +took him out riding before he had finished them. They came in very late, +and I think Maurice must have been overtired, for he was so idle this +morning, that I threatened to tell, and put him in mind of the cannon +papa promised him; but somehow I must have managed badly for he only +grew more defiant, and ended by letting the marble dog out of window, so +that it went through the roof of the conservatory.’ + +‘Yes, of course it was your fault, or the marble dog’s,’ said Albinia, +smiling, and stroking her fondly. ‘Ah! we ought to have come home at +the fixed time, and not left you to their mercy; but one could not hurry +away from William, when he was so much more sorry to leave us than we +ever expected.’ + +‘Oh! mamma, don’t talk so! We were so glad. If only we could help being +such a nuisance!’ + +Albinia contrived to laugh, and withdrew, intending to make a visit of +inquiry to Lucy, but she could not refuse herself the refreshment of a +kiss to the little darling who could have no guile to hide, no wrong to +confess. She had never so much realized the value of the certainty of +innocence as when she hung over the crib, and thought that when those +dark fringed lids were lifted, the eyes would flash with delight at +meeting her, without one drawback. + +Suddenly a loud roar burst from the little room next to Gilbert’s, in +which Maurice had lately been installed. She hurried swiftly in that +direction, but a passage and some steps lay between, and Gilbert had +been beforehand with her. + +She heard the words, ‘I don’t care! I don’t care if it is manly! I will +tell; I can’t bear this!’ then as his brother seemed to be hushing him, +he burst out again, ‘I wouldn’t have minded if papa wouldn’t give me the +cannon, but he will, and that’s as bad as telling a lie!’ I can’t sleep +if you wont let me off my promise!’ + +Trembling from head to foot, her voice low and quivering with +concentrated, incredulous wrath, Albinia advanced. ‘Are you teaching my +child falsehood?’ she said; and Gilbert felt as if her look were worse +to him than a thousand deaths. + +‘O mamma! mamma! Gilbert! let me tell her,’ cried the child; and +Albinia, throwing herself on her knees, clasped him in her arms, as +though snatching him from the demon of deceit. + +‘Tell all, Maurice,’ said Gilbert, folding his arms; ‘it is to your +credit, if you would believe so. I shall be glad to have this misery +ended any way! It was all for the sake of others.’ + +‘Mamma,’ Maurice said, in the midst of these mutterings of his unhappy +brother, ‘I can’t have the cannon without papa knowing it all. I +couldn’t shake hands with Uncle Maurice for telling the truth, for I had +not told it.’ + +‘And what is it, my boy?’ tell me now, no one can hinder you.’ + +‘I scratched and fought him--Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy--I kicked down +the decanter of wine. They told me it was manly not to tell, and I +promised.’ + +He was crying with the exceeding pain and distress of a child whose +tears were rare, and Albinia rocked him in her arms. + +Gilbert cautiously shut the door, and said sadly, ‘Maurice behaved +nobly, if he would only believe so. You would be proud of your son +if you had seen him. They wanted to make him drink wine, and he was +fighting them off.’ + +‘And where were you, Gilbert, you to whom I trusted him?’ + +‘I could not help it,’ said Gilbert; then as her lip curled with +contempt, and her eye spoke disappointment, he cast himself on the +ground, exclaiming, ‘Oh, if you knew how I have been mixed up with +others, and what I have gone through, you would pity me. Oh, Maurice, +don’t cry, when I would give worlds to be like you. Why do you let him +cry? why don’t you tell him what a brave noble boy he is?’ + +‘I don’t know what to think or believe,’ said Albinia, coldly, but +returning vehemently to her child, she continued, ‘Maurice, my dear, no +one is angry with you! You, at least, I can depend on. Tell me where you +have been, and what they have been doing to you.’ + +Even with Gilbert’s explanations, she could hardly understand Maurice’s +narrative, but she gathered that on Thursday, the brothers had ridden +out, and were about to turn homewards, when Archie Tritton, of whom to +her vexation Maurice spoke familiarly, had told Gilbert that a friend +was waiting for him at the inn connected with the training stables, +three miles farther on. Gilbert had demurred, but was told the matter +would brook no delay, and yielded on being pressed. He tried to suppress +the friend’s name, but Maurice had called him Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy. + +While Gilbert was engaged with him, Tritton had introduced Maurice +to the horses and stable boys, whose trade had inspired him with such +emulation, that he broke off in the midst of his confession to ask +whether he could be a jockey and also a gentleman. All this had detained +them till so late, that they had been drawn into staying to dinner. +Maurice had gone on very happily, secure that he was right in Gilbert’s +hands, and only laying up a few curious words for explanation; but when +he was asked to drink wine, he stoutly answered that mamma did not allow +it. + +Idle mischief prompted Dusautoy and Tritton to set themselves to +overpower his resistance. Gilbert’s feeble remonstrances were treated as +a jest, and Algernon, who could brook no opposition, swore that he would +conquer the little prig. Maurice found himself pinioned by strong +arms, but determined and spirited, he made a vigorous struggle, and so +judiciously aimed a furious kick, that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy staggered +back, stumbling against the table, and causing a general overthrow. + +The victory was with Maurice, but warned as he had often been against +using his natural weapons, he thought himself guilty of a great crime. +The others, including, alas! Gilbert, strove to persuade him it was a +joke, and, above all, to bind him to silence, for Tritton and Dusautoy +would never have ventured so far, could they have imagined the +possibility of such terms as those on which he lived with his parents. +They attacked the poor child on the score of his manly aspirations, +telling him it was babyish to tell mamma and sisters everything, a +practice fit for girls, not for boys or men. These assurances extracted +a pledge of secrecy, which was kept as long as his mother was absent, +and only rendered him reckless by the sense that he had forfeited the +prize of good conduct; but the sight of her renewed the instinct of +confidence, and his father’s reliance on his truth so acted on his sense +of honour, that he could not hold his peace. + +‘May I tell papa? and will he let me have the cannon?’ he finished. + +‘You shall certainly tell him, my dear, dear little boy, and we will +see what he says about the cannon,’ she said, fervently kissing him. ‘It +will be some comfort for him to hear how you have behaved, my precious +little man. I thank God with all my heart that He has saved you from +putting anything before truth. I little thought I was leaving you to a +tempter!’ + +The child did not fully understand her. His was a very simple nature, +and he was tired out by conflicting emotions. His breast was relieved, +and his mother caressed him; he cared for nothing more, and drawing her +hand so as to rest his cheek on it, he looked up in her face with soft +weary happiness in his eyes, then let the lids sink over them, and fell +peacefully asleep, while the others talked on. ‘At least you will do me +the poor justice of believing it was not willingly,’ said Gilbert. + +‘I wish you would not talk to me,’ she answered, averting her face and +speaking low as if to cut the heart; ‘I don’t want to reproach you, and +I can’t speak to you properly.’ + +‘If you would only hear me, my only friend and helper! But it was all +that was wanting! I have forfeited even your toleration! I wonder why I +was born!’ + +He was taking up his light to depart, but Albinia’s fear of her own +temper made her suspect that she had spoken vindictively, and she said, +‘What can I do, Gilbert? Here is this poor child, whom I trusted to you, +who can never again be ignorant of the sound of evil words, and only +owes it to God’s mercy on his brave spirit that this has not been the +beginning of destruction. I feel as if you had been trying to snatch +away his soul!’ + +‘And will you, can you not credit,’ said Gilbert, nearly inaudibly, +‘that I did not act by my free will? I had no notion that any such thing +could befall him, and would never have let them try to silence him, but +to shield others.’ + +‘Others! Yes, Archie Tritton and Algernon Dusautoy! I know what your +free-will is in their hands, and yet I thought you cared for your +brother enough to guard him, if not yourself.’ + +‘If you knew the coercion,’ muttered Gilbert. ‘I protest, as I would to +my dying day, that I had no intention of going near the stables when I +set out, and would never have consented could I have helped it.’ + +‘And why could not you help it?’ + +Gilbert gasped. ‘Tritton brought me a message from Dusautoy, insisting +on my meeting him there. It was too late to take Maurice home, and I +could not send him with Archie. I expected only to exchange a few words +at the door. It was Tritton who took Maurice away to the stables.’ + +‘I hear, but I do not see the compulsion, only the extraordinary +weakness that leads you everywhere after those men.’ + +‘I must tell you, I suppose,’ groaned Gilbert; ‘I can bear anything +but this. There’s a miserable money entanglement that lays me under a +certain obligation to Dusautoy.’ + +‘Your father believed you had told him of all your debts,’ she said, in +a tone of increased scorn and disappointment. + +‘I did--I mean--Oh! Mrs. Kendal, believe me, I intended to have told +him the utmost farthing--I thought I had done so--but this was a +thing--Dusautoy had persuaded me into half consenting to have some wine +with him from a cheating Portuguese--then ordered more than ever I knew +of, and the man went and became bankrupt, and sent in a great abominable +bill that I no more owned, nor had reason to expect than my horse.’ + +‘So you preferred intriguing with this man to applying openly to your +father?’ + +‘It was no doing of mine. It was forced upon me, and, in fact, the +account was mixed up with his. It was the most evil hour of my life when +I consented. I’ve not had a moment’s peace or happiness since, and it +was the promise of the bill receipted that led me to this place.’ + +‘And why was this place chosen for the meeting? You and Mr. Cavendish +Dusautoy live only too near one another.’ + +‘He is not at the Vicarage,’ faltered Gilbert. + +Albinia suddenly grew pale with apprehension. ‘Gilbert,’ she said, +‘there is only one thing that could make this business worse;’ and as +she saw his change of countenance, she continued, ‘Then it is so, and +Lucy is his object.’ + +‘He did not speak, but his face was that of a convicted traitor, and +fresh perceptions crowded on her, as she exclaimed, horror struck, ‘The +ink! Yes, when you said she was with the Dusautoys! I understand! He has +been in hiding, he has been here! And this expedition was to arrange +a clandestine meeting between them under your father’s own roof! +You conniving! you who said you would sooner see your sister sold to +Legree!’ + +‘It is all true,’ said Gilbert, moodily, his elbows on the table and his +face in his hands, ‘and if the utmost misery for weeks past could be any +atonement, it would be mine. But at least I have done nothing willingly +to bring them together. I have only gone on in the hope and trust that I +was some protection to poor Lucy.’ + +‘Fine protection,’ sighed Albinia. ‘And how has it been? how does it +stand?’ + +‘Why, they met at Brighton, I believe. She used to walk on the chain +pier before breakfast, and he met her there. If he chooses, he can +make any one do what he likes, because he does not understand no for an +answer. Then when she came home, he used to meet her on the bridge, when +you sent her out for a turn in the evening, and sometimes she would make +me take her out walking to meet him. Don’t you see how utterly miserable +it was for me; when they had volunteered this help all out of kindness, +it was impossible for me to speak to you.’ + +Albinia made a sound of contempt, and said, ‘Go on.’ + +‘That time when you and Mr. Hope saw them, Lucy was frightened, and they +had a quarrel, he went away, and I hoped and trusted it had died out. +I heard no more till yesterday, when I was dragged into giving him this +meeting. It seems that he had only just discovered your absence, and +wanted to take the opportunity of seeing her. I was in hopes you would +have come back; I assured him you would; but he chose to watch, till +evening, and then Lucy was to meet him in the conservatory. Poor Lucy, +you must not be very angry with her, for she was much averse to it, and +I enclosed a letter from her to forbid him to come. I thought all was +safe, till I actually heard their voices, and grandmamma got into an +agitation, and Sophy was running about wild to find Lucy. When you +came home, papa’s opening the door frightened Lucy, and it seems that +Dusautoy thought that she was going to faint and scream, and laid hold +of the ink instead of the eau-de-cologne. There! I believe the ink would +have betrayed it without me. Now you have heard everything, Mrs. Kendal, +and can believe there is not a more wretched and miserable creature +breathing than I am.’ + +Albinia slowly rose, and put her hand to her brow, as though confused +with the tissue of deceit and double dealing. + +‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal, will you not speak to me?’ I solemnly declare that I +have told you all.’ + +‘I am thinking of your father.’ + +With a gesture of acquiescent anguish and despair, he let her pass, +held open the door, and closed it softly, so as not to awaken the happy +sleeper. + +‘Good night,’ she said, coldly, and turned away, but his mournful, +resigned ‘Good night,’ was so utterly broken down that her heart was +touched, and turning she said, ‘Good night, Gilbert, I am sorry for you; +I believe it is weakness and not wickedness.’ + +She held out her hand, but instead of being shaken, it was pressed to +his lips, and the fingers were wet with his tears. + +Feeling as though the bad dreams of a night had taken shape and life, +Albinia stood by the fire in her sitting-room the next morning, trying +to rally her judgment, and equally dreading the sight of those who had +caused her grief, and of those who would share the shock she had last +night experienced. + +The first knock announced one whom she did not expect--Gilbert, +wretchedly pale from a sleepless night, and his voice scarcely audible. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ he said; ‘but I thought I might have led you to be +hard on Lucy: I do believe it was against her will.’ + +Before she could answer, the door flew wide, and in rushed Maurice, +shouting, ‘Good morning, mamma;’ and at his voice Mr. Kendal’s +dressing-room door was pushed back, and he called, ‘Here, Maurice.’ + +As the boy ran forward, he was met and lifted to his father’s breast, +while, with a fervency he little understood, though he never forgot it, +the words were uttered, + +‘God bless you, Maurice, and give you grace to go on to withstand +temptation, and speak the truth from your heart!’ + +Maurice was impressed for a moment, then he recurred to his leading +thought-- + +‘May I have the cannon, papa? I did kick--I broke the bottle, but may I +have the cannon?’ + +‘Maurice, you are too young to understand the value of your resistance. +Listen to me, my boy, for you must never forget this: you have been +taken among persons who, I trust, will never be your companions.’ + +‘Oh!’ interrupted Maurice, ‘must I never be a jockey?’ + +‘No, Maurice. Horses are perverted to bad purposes by thoughtless +men, and you must keep aloof from such. You were not to blame, for you +refused to do what you knew to be wrong, and did not know it was an +improper place for you.’ + +‘Gilbert took me,’ said Maurice, puzzled at the gravity, which convinced +him that some one was in fault, and of course it must be himself. + +‘Gilbert did very wrong,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and henceforth you must +learn that you must trust to your own conscience, and no longer believe +that all your brother tells you is right.’ + +Maurice gazed in inquiry, and perceiving his brother’s downcast air, ran +to his mother, crying, ‘Is papa angry?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Gilbert, willing to spare her the pain of a reply, ‘he is +justly angry with me for having exposed you to temptation. Oh, Maurice, +if I had been made such as you, it would have been better for us all!’ + +It was the first perception that a grown person could do wrong, and +that person his dear Gilbert. As if the grave countenances were +insupportable, he gave a long-drawn breath, hid his face on his mother’s +knee, and burst into an agony of weeping. He was lifted on her lap in +a moment, father and mother both comforting him with assurances that he +was a very good boy, and that papa was much pleased with him, Mr. Kendal +even putting the cannon into his hand, as a tangible evidence of favour; +but the child thrust aside the toy, and sliding down, took hold of his +brother’s languid, dejected hand, and cried, with a sob and stamp of his +foot, + +‘You shan’t say you are naughty: I wont let you!’ + +Alas! it was a vain repulsion of the truth that this is a wicked world. +Gilbert only put him back, saying, + +‘You had better go away from me, Maurice: you cannot understand what I +have done. Pray Heaven you may never know what I feel!’ + +Maurice did but cling the tighter, and though Mr. Kendal had not yet +addressed the culprit, he respected the force of that innocent love +too much to interfere. The bell rang, and they went down, Maurice still +holding by his brother, and when his uncle met them, it was touching to +see the generous little fellow hanging back, and not giving his own hand +till he had seen Gilbert receive the ordinary greeting. + +Though Mr. Ferrars had been told nothing, he could not but be aware +of the symptoms of a family crisis--the gravity of some, and the pale, +jaded looks of others. Lucy was not one of these; she came down with +little Albinia in her arms, and began to talk rather airily, excusing +herself for not having come down in the evening because that ‘horrid +ink’ had got into her hair, and tittering a little over the absurdity +of her having picked up the inkstand in the dark. Not a word of response +did she meet, and her gaiety died away in vague alarm. Sophy, the most +innocent, looked wretched, and Maurice absolutely began to cry again, at +the failure of some manoeuvre to make his father speak to Gilbert. + +His tears broke up the breakfast-party. His mother led him away to +reason with him, that, sad as it was, it was better that people should +be grieved when they had transgressed, as the only hope of their +forgiveness and improvement. Maurice wanted her to reverse the +declaration that Gilbert had done wrong; but, alas! this could not be, +and she was obliged to send him out with his little sister, hoping that +he would work off his grief by exercise. It was mournful to see the +first shadow of the penalty of sin falling on the Eden of his childhood! + +With an aching heart, she went in search of Lucy, who had taken +sanctuary in Mrs. Meadows’s room, and was not easily withdrawn from +thence to a tete-a-tete. Fearful of falsehood, Albinia began by telling +her she knew all, and how little she had expected such a requital of +trust. + +Lucy exclaimed that it had not been her fault, she had always wanted +to tell, and gradually Albinia drew from her the whole avowal, half +shamefaced, half exultant. + +She had never dreamt of meeting Algernon at Brighton--it was quite by +chance that she came upon him at the officers’ ball when he was staying +with Captain Greenaway. He asked her to dance, and she had said yes, all +on a sudden, without thinking, and then she fancied he would go away; +she begged him not to come again, but whenever she went out on the +chain-pier before breakfast, there he was. + +Why did she go thither? She hung her head. Mrs. Annesley had desired her +to walk; she could not help it; she was afraid to write and tell what +was going on--besides, he would come, though she told him she would not +see him; and she could not bear to make him unhappy. Then, when she +came home, she had been in hopes it was all over, but she had been very +unhappy, and had been on the point of telling all about it many times, +when mamma looked at her kindly; but then he came to the Vicarage, and +he would wait for her at the bridge, and write notes to her, and she +could not stop it; but she had always told him it was no use, she never +would be engaged to him without papa’s consent. She had only promised +that she would not marry any one else, only because he was so very +desperate, and she was afraid to break it off entirely, lest he should +go and marry the Principessa Bianca, a foreigner and Papist, which would +be so shocking for him and his uncle. Gilbert could testify how grieved +she was to have any secrets from mamma; but Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was +so dreadful when she talked of telling, that she did not know what would +happen. + +When he went away, and she thought it was all over--mamma might +recollect how hard it was for her to keep up, and what a force she put +upon herself--but she would rather have pined to death than have said +one word to bring him back, and was quite shocked when Gilbert gave her +his note, to beg her to let him see her that evening, before the party +returned; she said, with all her might, that he must not come, and when +he did, she was begging him all the time to go away, and she was so +dreadfully frightened when they actually came, that she had all but gone +into hysterics, or fainted away, and that was the way he came to throw +the ink at her--she was so very much shocked, and so would he be--and +really she felt the misfortune to the beautiful new sofa-cover as a most +serious calamity and aggravation of her offence. + +It was not easy to know how to answer; Albinia was scornful of the +sofa-cover, and yet it was hard to lay hold of a tangible subject on +which to show Lucy her error, except in the concealment, which, by her +own showing, she had lamented the whole time. She had always said no, +but, unluckily, her noes were of the kind that might easily be made to +mean yes, and she evidently had been led on partly by her own heart, +partly by the force of the stronger will, though her better principles +had filled her with scruples and misgivings at every stage. She had been +often on the point of telling all, and asking forgiveness; and here it +painfully crossed Albinia, that if she herself had been less hurried, +and less disposed to take everything for granted, a little tenderness +might have led to a voluntary confession. + +Still Lucy defended herself by the compulsion exercised on her, and she +would hear none of the conclusions Albinia drew therefrom; she would +not see that the man who drove her to a course of disobedience and +subterfuge could be no fit guide, and fired up at a word of censure, +declaring that she knew that mamma had always hated him, and that now +he was absent, she would not hear him blamed. The one drop of true love +made her difficult to deal with, for the heart was really made over to +the tyrant, and Albinia did not feel herself sufficiently guiltless of +negligence and imprudence to rebuke her with a comfortable conscience. + +Mr. Kendal had been obliged to attend to some justice business--better +for him, perhaps, than acting as domestic magistrate--and meanwhile the +Vicar of Fairmead found himself forgotten. He wanted to be at home, yet +did not like to leave his sister in unexplained trouble, though not sure +whether he might not be better absent. + +Time passed on, he finished the newspaper, and wrote letters, and then, +seeing no one, he had gone into the hall to send for a conveyance, when +Gilbert, coming in from the militia parade, became the recipient of his +farewells, but apparently with so little comprehension, that he broke +off, struck by the dejected countenance, and wandering eye. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ Gilbert said, passing his hand over his brow, ‘I +did not hear.’ + +‘I was only asking you to tell my sister that I would not disturb her, +and leaving my good-byes with you.’ + +‘You are not going?’ + +‘Thank you; I think my wife will grow anxious.’ + +‘I had hoped’--Gilbert sighed and paused--‘I had thought that perhaps--’ + +The wretchedness of his tone drove away Mr. Ferrars’s purpose of +immediate departure, and returning to the drawing-room he said, ‘If +there were any way in which I could be of use.’ + +‘Then you do not know?’ said Gilbert, veiling his face with his hand, as +he leant on the mantel-shelf. + +‘I know nothing. I could only see that something was amiss. I was +wishing to know whether my presence or absence would be best for you +all.’ + +‘Oh! don’t go!’ cried Gilbert. Nobody must go who can be any comfort to +Mrs. Kendal.’ + +A few kind words drew forth the whole piteous history that lay so +heavily on his heart. Reserves were all over now; and irregularly and +incoherently he laid open his griefs and errors, his gradual absorption +into the society with which he had once broken, and the inextricable +complication of mischief in which he had been involved by his debt. + +‘Yet,’ he said, ‘all the time I longed from my heart to do well. It +was the very thing that led me into this scrape. I thought if the man +applied to my father, as he threatened, that I should be suspected of +having concealed this on purpose, and be sent to India, and I was so +happy, and thought myself so safe here. I did believe that home and Mrs. +Kendal would have sheltered me, but my destiny must needs hunt me out +here, and alienate even her!’ + +‘The way to find the Devil behind the Cross, is to cower beneath it in +weak idolatry, instead of grasping it in courageous faith,’ said Mr. +Ferrars. ‘Such faith would have made you trust yourself implicitly to +your father. Then you would either have gone forth in humble acceptance +of the punishment, or else have stayed at home, free, pardoned, and +guarded; but, as it was, no wonder temptation followed you, and you had +no force to resist it.’ + +‘And so all is lost! Even dear little Maurice can never be trusted to +me again! And his mother, who would, if she could, be still merciful and +pitying as an angel, she cannot forget to what I exposed him! She will +never be the same to me again! Yet I could lay down my life for any of +them!’ + +Mr. Ferrars watched the drooping figure, crouching on his chairs, elbows +on knees, head bowed on the supporting hands, and face hidden, and, +listening to the meek, affectionate hopelessness of the tone, he +understood the fond love and compassion that had often surprised him in +his sister, but he longed to read whether this were penitence towards +God, or remorse towards man. + +‘Miserable indeed, Gilbert,’ he said, ‘but if all were irretrievably +offended, there still is One who can abundantly pardon, where repentance +is true.’ + +‘I thought’--cried Gilbert--‘I thought it had been true before! If pain, +and shame, and abhorrence could so render it, I know it was when I came +home. And then it was comparative happiness; I thought I was forgiven, I +found joy and peace where they are promised’--the burning tears dropped +between his fingers--but it was all delusion; not prayers nor sacraments +can shield me--I am doomed, and all I ask is to be out of the way of +ruining Maurice!’ + +‘This is mere despair,’ said Mr. Ferrars. ‘I cannot but believe your +contrition was sincere; but steadfast courage was what you needed, and +you failed in the one trial that may have been sent you to strengthen +and prove you. The effects have been terrible, but there is every +hope that you may retrieve your error, and win back the sense of +forgiveness.’ + +‘If I could dare to hope so--but I cannot presume to take home to myself +those assurances, when I know that I only resolve, that I may have +resolutions to break.’ + +‘Have you ever laid all this personally before Mr. Dusautoy?’ + +‘No; I have thought of it, but, mixed up as this is with his nephew and +my sister, it is impossible! But you are a clergyman, Mr. Ferrars!’ he +added, eagerly. + +Mr. Ferrars thought, and then said, + +‘If you wish it, Gilbert, I will gladly do what I can for you. I believe +that I may rightly do so.’ + +His face gleamed for a moment with the light of grateful gladness, as if +at the first ray of comfort, and then he said, ‘I am sure none was ever +more grieved and wearied with the burden of sin--if that be all.’ + +‘I think,’ said Mr. Ferrars, ‘that it might be better to give time to +collect yourself, examine the past, separate the sorrow for the sin from +the disgrace of the consequences, and then look earnestly at the sole +ground of hope. How would it be to come for a couple of nights to +Fairmead, at the end of next week?’ + +Gilbert gratefully caught at the invitation; and Mr. Ferrars gave him +some advice as to his reading and self-discipline, speaking to him as +gently and tenderly as Albinia herself. Both lingered in case the other +should have more to say, but at last Gilbert stood up, saying, + +‘I would thankfully go to Calcutta now, but the situation is filled up, +and my father said John Kendal had been enough trifled with. If I saw +any fresh opening, where I should be safe from hurting Maurice!’ + +‘There is no reason you and your brother should not be a blessing to +each other.’ + +‘Yes, there is. Till I lived at home, I did not know how impossible +it is to keep clear of old acquaintance. They are good-natured +fellows--that Tritton and the like--and after all that has come and +gone, one would be a brute to cut them entirely, and Maurice is always +after me, and has been more about with them than his mother knows. Even +if I were very different, I should be a link, and though it might be no +great harm if Maurice were a tame mamma’s boy--you see, being the fellow +he is, up to anything for a lark, and frantic about horses--I +could never keep him from them. There’s no such great harm in +themselves--hearty, good-natured fellows they are--but there’s a worse +lot that they meet, and Maurice will go all lengths whenever he begins. +Now, so little as he is now, if I were once gone, he would never run +into their way, and they would never get a hold of him.’ + +Mr. Ferrars had unconsciously screwed up his face with dismay, but he +relaxed it, and spoke kindly. + +‘You are right. It was a mistake to stay at home. Perhaps your regiment +may be stationed elsewhere.’ + +‘I don’t know how long it may be called out. If it were but possible to +make a fresh beginning.’ + +‘Did you hear of my brother’s suggestion?’ + +‘I wish--but it is useless to talk about that. I could not presume to +ask my father for a commission--Heaven knows when I shall dare to speak +to him!’ + +‘You have not personally asked his pardon after full confession.’ + +‘N-o--Mrs. Kendal knows all.’ + +‘Did you ever do such a thing in your life?’ + +‘You don’t know what my father is.’ + +‘Neither do you, Gilbert. Let that be the first token of sincerity.’ + +Without leaving space for another word, Mr. Ferrars went through the +conservatory into the garden, where, meeting the children, he took the +little one in his arms, and sent Maurice to fetch his mamma. Albinia +came down, looking so much heated and harassed, that he was grieved to +leave her. + +‘Oh, Maurice, I am sorry! You always come in for some catastrophe,’ she +said, trying to smile. ‘You have had a most forlorn morning.’ + +‘Gilbert has been with me,’ he said. ‘He has told me all, my dear, and I +think it hopeful: I like him better than I ever did before.’ + +‘Poor feather, the breath of your lips has blown him the other way,’ +said Albinia, too unhappy for consolation. + +‘Well, it seems to me that you have done more for him than I ever quite +believed. I did not expect such sound, genuine religious feeling.’ + +‘He always had plenty of religious sentiment,’ said Albinia, sadly. + +‘I have asked him to come to us next week. Will you tell Edmund so?’ + +‘Yes. He will be thankful to you for taking him in hand. Poor boy, I +know how attractive his penitence is, but I have quite left off building +on it.’ + +Mr. Ferrars defended him no longer. He could not help being much moved +by the youth’s self-abasement, but that might be only because it was new +to him, and he did not even try to recommend him to her mercy; he knew +her own heart might be trusted to relent, and it would not hurt Gilbert +in the end to be made to feel the full weight of his offence. + +‘I must go,’ he said, ‘though I am sorry to leave you in perplexity. I +am afraid I can do nothing for you.’ + +‘Nothing--but feel kindly to Gilbert,’ said Albinia. ‘I can’t do so yet. +I don’t feel as if I ever could again, when I think what he was doing +with Maurice. Yes, and how easily he could have brought poor Lucy to her +senses, if he had been good for anything! Oh! Maurice, this is sickening +work! You should be grateful to me for not scolding you for having taken +me from home!’ + +‘I do not repent,’ said her brother. ‘The explosion is better than the +subterranean mining.’ + +‘It may be,’ said Albinia, ‘and I need not boast of the good I did at +home! My poor, poor Lucy! A little discreet kindness and watchfulness on +my part would have made all the difference! It was all my running my +own way with my eyes shut, but then, I had always lived with trustworthy +people. Well, I wont keep you listening to my maundering, when Winifred +wants you. Oh! why did that Polysyllable ever come near the place?’ + +Mr. Ferrars said the kindest and most cheering things he could devise, +and drove away, not much afraid of her being unforgiving. + +He was disposed to stake all his hopes of the young man on the issue of +his advice to make a direct avowal to his father. And Gilbert made the +effort, though rather in desperation than resolution, knowing that his +condition could not be worse, and seeing no hope save in Mr. Ferrars’ +counsel. He was the first to seek Mr. Kendal, and dreadful to him as was +the unaltering melancholy displeasure of the fixed look, the steadily +penetrating deep dark eyes, and the subdued sternness of the voice, he +made his confession fully, without reserve or palliation. + +It was more than Mr. Kendal had expected, and more, perhaps, than he +absolutely trusted, for Gilbert had not hitherto inspired faith in his +protestations that he spoke the whole truth and nothing but the truth, +nor had he always the power of doing so when overpowered by fright. The +manner in which his father laid hold of any inadvertent discrepancy, +treating it as a wilful prevarication, was terror and agony; and well +as he knew it to be the meed of past equivocation, he felt it cruel to +torture him by implied suspicion. Yet how could it be otherwise, when +he had been introducing his little brother to his own corrupters, and +conniving at his sister’s clandestine correspondence with a man whom he +knew to be worthless?’ + +The grave words that he obtained at last, scarcely amounted to +pardon; they implied that he had done irreparable mischief and acted +disgracefully, and such forgiveness as was granted was only made +conditional on there being no farther reserves. + +Alas! even with all tender love and compassion, no earthly parent can +forgive as does the Heavenly Father. None but the Omniscient can test +the fulness of the confession, nor the sincerity of ‘Father, I have +sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more worthy to be +called Thy son.’ This interview only sent the son away more crushed and +overwhelmed, and yearning towards the more deeply offended, and yet more +compassionate Father. + +Mr. Kendal, after this interview, so far relaxed his displeasure as +to occasionally address Gilbert when they met at luncheon after this +deplorable morning, while towards Lucy he observed a complete silence. +It was not at first that she perceived this, and even then it struck +more deeply on Sophia than it did on her. + +Mr. Kendal shrank from inflicting pain on the good vicar, and it +was decided that the wives should be the channel through which the +information should be imparted. Albinia took the children, sending them +to play in the garden while she talked to Mrs. Dusautoy. She found that +keen little lady had some shrewd suspicions, but had discovered nothing +defined enough to act upon, and was relieved to have the matter opened +at last. + +As to the ink, no mortal could help laughing over it; even Albinia, who +had been feeling as if she could never laugh again, was suddenly struck +by the absurdity, and gave way to a paroxysm of merriment. + +‘Properly managed, I do think it might put an end to the whole affair,’ +said Mrs. Dusautoy. ‘He could not stand being laughed at.’ + +‘I’m afraid he never will believe that he can be laughed at.’ + +‘Yes, that is unlucky,’ said Mrs. Dusautoy, gravely; but recollecting +that she was not complimentary, she added, ‘You must not think we +undervalue Lucy. John is very fond of her, and the only objection is, +that it would require a person of more age and weight to deal with +Algernon.’ + +‘Never mind speeches,’ sighed Albinia; ‘we know too well that nothing +could be worse for either. Can’t you give him a tutor and send him to +travel.’ + +‘I’ll talk to John; but unluckily he is of age next month, and there’s +an end of our power. And John would never keep him away from hence, for +he thinks it his only chance.’ + +‘I suppose we must do something with Lucy. Heigh-ho! People used not +to be always falling in love in my time, except Fred, and that was in a +rational way; that could be got rid of!’ + +The effect of the intelligence on the vicar was to make him set out at +once to the livery-stables in quest of his nephew, but he found that the +young gentleman had that morning started for London, whither he proposed +to follow him on the Monday. Lucy cried incessantly, in the fear that +the gentle-hearted vicar might have some truculent intentions towards +his nephew, and was so languid and unhappy that no one had the heart to +scold her; and comforting her was still more impossible. + +Mr. Kendal used to stride away from the sight of her swollen eyes, and +ask Albinia why she did not tell her that the only good thing that could +happen to her would be, that she should never see nor hear of the fellow +again. + +Why he did not tell her so himself was a different question. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + + + +‘Well, Albinia,’ said Mr. Kendal, after seeing Mr. Dusautoy on his +return from London. + +There was such a look of deprecation about him, that she exclaimed, ‘One +would really think you had been accepting this charming son-in-law.’ + +‘Suppose I had,’ he said, rather quaintly; then, as he saw her hands +held up, ‘conditionally, you understand, entirely conditionally. What +could I do, when Dusautoy entreated me, with tears in his eyes, not to +deprive him of the only chance of saving his nephew?’ + +‘Umph,’ was the most innocent sound Albinia could persuade herself to +make. + +‘Besides,’ continued Mr. Kendal, ‘it will be better to have the affair +open and avowed than to have all this secret plotting going on without +being able to prevent it. I can always withhold my consent if he should +not improve, and Dusautoy declares nothing would be such an incentive.’ + +‘May it prove so!’ + +‘You see,’ he pursued, ‘as his uncle says, nothing can be worse than +driving him to these resorts, and when he is once of age, there’s an end +of all power over him to hinder his running straight to ruin. Now, when +he is living at the Vicarage, we shall have far more opportunity of +knowing how he is going on, and putting a check on their intercourse, if +he be unsatisfactory.’ + +‘If we can.’ + +‘After all, the young man has done nothing that need blight his future +life. He has had great disadvantages, and his steady attachment is much +in his favour. His uncle tells me he promises to become all that we +could wish, and, in that case, I do not see that I have the right +to refuse the offer, when things have gone so far--conditionally, of +course.’ He dwelt on that saving clause like a salve for his misgivings. + +‘And what is to become of Gilbert and Maurice, with him always about the +house?’ exclaimed Albinia. + +‘We will take care he is not too much here. He will soon be at Oxford. +Indeed, my dear, I am sorry you disapprove. I should have been as glad +to avoid the connexion as you could be, but I do not think I had any +alternative, when Mr. Dusautoy pressed me so warmly, and only asked +that he should be taken on probation; and besides, when poor Lucy’s +affections are so decidedly involved.’ + +Albinia perceived that there had been temper in her tone, and could +object no further, since it was too late, and as she could not believe +that her husband had been weak, she endeavoured to acquiesce in his +reasoning, and it was a strong argument that they should see Lucy bright +again. + +‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that you would prefer that I should announce my +decision to her myself!’ + +It was a more welcome task than spreading gloom over her countenance, +but she entered in great trepidation, prepared to sink under some stern +mandate, and there was nothing at first to undeceive her, for her father +was resolved to atone for his concession by sparing her no preliminary +thunders, and began by depicting her indiscretion and deceit, as well +as the folly of attaching herself to a man without other recommendations +than figure and fortune. + +How much Lucy heard was uncertain; she leant on a chair with drooping +head and averted face, trembling, and suppressing a sob, apparently +too much frightened to attend. Just when the exordium was over, and +‘Therefore I lay my commands on you’ might have been expected, it turned +into, ‘However, upon Mr. Dusautoy’s kind representation, I have resolved +to give the young man a trial, and provided he convinces me by his +conduct that I may safely entrust your happiness to him, I have told his +uncle that I will not withhold my sanction.’ + +With a shriek of irrepressible feeling, Lucy looked from father to +mother, and clasped her hands, unable to trust her ears. + +‘Yes, Lucy,’ said Albinia, ‘your father consents, on condition that +nothing further happens to excite his doubts of Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy. +It rests with yourself now, it is not too late. After all that has +passed, you would incur much deserved censure if you put an end to the +affair; but even that would be better, far better, than entering into an +engagement with a man without sound principle.’ + +‘Your mother is quite right, Lucy,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘This is the only +time. Gratified vanity has led you too far, and you have acted as I +hoped no child of mine would ever act, but you have not forfeited our +tenderest care. You are not engaged to this man, and no word of yours +would be broken. If you hesitate to commit yourself to him, you have +only to speak, and we would gladly at once do everything that could +conduce to make you happy.’ + +‘You don’t want me to give him up!’ cried Lucy. ‘Oh! mamma, did not he +say he had consented?’ + +‘I said it rested with yourself Lucy. Do not answer me now. Come to +me at six o’clock, and tell me, after full reflection, whether I am to +consider you as ready to pledge yourself to this young man.’ + +It was all that could be done. Albinia had a dim hope that the sense of +responsibility, and dread of that hard will and selfish temper, might so +rise upon Lucy as to startle her, but then, as Mr. Kendal observed, if +she should decide against him, she would have used him so extremely ill, +that they should feel nothing but shame. + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia, ‘but it would be better to be ashamed of a girl’s +folly, than to see her made miserable for life. Poor Lucy! if she decide +against him, she will become a woman at once, if not, I’m afraid it +will be the prediction about Marie Antoinette over again--very gay, and +coming right through trial.’ + +They were obliged to tell Sophy of the state of things. She stood up +straight, and said, slowly and clearly, ‘I do not like the world at +all.’ + +‘I don’t quite see what you mean.’ + +‘Every one does what can’t be helped, and it is not _the_ thing.’ + +‘Explain yourself, Sophy,’ said her father, amused. + +‘I don’t think Lucy ought to be making the decision at all,’ said Sophy. +She did that long ago, when first, she attended to what he said to her. +If she does not take him now, it will be swearing to her neighbour, and +disappointing him, because it is to her own hindrance.’ + +‘Yes, Sophy; but I believe it is better to incur the sin of breaking a +promise, than to go on when the fulfilment involves not only suffering, +but mischief. Lucy has repeatedly declared there was no engagement.’ + +‘I know it could not be helped; but Mr. Dusautoy ought not to have asked +papa.’ + +‘Nor papa to have consented, my Suleiman ben Daood,’ said Mr. Kendal. +‘Ah! Sophy, we all have very clear, straightforward views at eighteen of +what other people ought to do.’ + +‘Papa--I never meant--I did not think I was saying anything wrong. I +only said I did not like the world.’ + +‘And I heartily agree with you, Sophy, and if I had lived in it as +short a time as you have, perhaps “considerations” would not affect my +judgment.’ + +‘I am always telling Sophy she will be more merciful as she grows +older,’ said Albinia. + +‘If it were only being more merciful, it would be very well,’ said Mr. +Kendal; ‘but one also becomes less thorough-going, because practice is +more painful than theory, and one remembers consequences that have made +themselves felt. It is just as well that there should be young people to +put us in mind what our flights once were.’ + +Albinia and Sophy left Lucy to herself; they both wished to avoid the +useless ‘What shall I do?’ and they thought that, driven back on her own +resources, even _her_ own mind might give her better counsel than the +seven watchmen aloft in a high tower. + +She came down looking exceedingly pale. Mr. Kendal regarded her +anxiously, and held his hand out to her kindly. + +‘Papa,’ she said, simply, ‘I can’t give it up. I do love him.’ + +‘Very well, my dear,’ he answered, ‘there is no more to be said than +that I trust he will merit your affection and make you happy.’ + +Good Mr. Dusautoy was as happy as a king; he took Lucy in his arms, and +kissed her as if she had been his child, and with her hands folded +in his own, he told her how she was to teach his dear Algernon to be +everything that was good, and to lead him right by her influence. She +answered with caresses and promises, and whoever had watched her eye, +would have seen it in a happy day-dream of Algernon’s perfection, and +his uncle thanking her for it. + +She had expected that grandmamma would have been very happy; but +marriage had, with the poor old lady, led to so much separation, that +her weakened faculties took the alarm, and she received the tidings by +crying bitterly, and declaring that every one was going away and leaving +her. Lucy assured her over and over again that she was never going to +desert her, and as Mr. Kendal had made it a condition that Algernon +should finish his Oxford career respectably, there was little chance +that poor Mrs. Meadows would survive until the marriage. + +All along Gilbert made no remark. Though he had been left out of the +family conclaves, and his opinion not asked, he submitted with the +utmost meekness, as one who knew that he had forfeited all right to be +treated as son and heir. The more he was concerned at the engagement, +the greater stigma he would place on his own connivance; so he said +nothing, and only devoted himself to his grandmother, as though the +attendance upon her were a refuge and relief. More gentle and patient +than ever, he soothed her fretfulness, invented pleasures for her, and +rendered her so placid and contented, that her health began to improve. + +Not for a moment did he seem to forget his error; and Albinia’s +resolution to separate Maurice from him, could not hold when he himself +silently assumed the mournful necessity, and put the child from him when +clamorous for rides, till there was an appeal to papa and mamma. +Mr. Kendal gave one look of inquiry at Albinia, and she began some +matter-of-course about Gilbert being so kind--whereupon the brothers +were together as before. When Albinia visited her little boy at night, +she found that Gilbert had been talking to him of his eldest brother, +and she heard more of Edmund’s habits and tastes from the little fellow +who had never seen him, than from either the twin-brother or the sister +who had loved him so devotedly. It was as if Gilbert knew that he +could be doing Maurice no harm when leading him to think of Edmund, and +perhaps he felt some intrinsic resemblance in the deep loving strength +of the two natures. + +The invitation to Fairmead spared him the pain and shame of Algernon +Dusautoy’s first reception as Lucy’s accepted lover. He went early on +Saturday morning, and young Dusautoy, arriving in the evening, was +first ushered into the library; while Albinia did her best to soothe +the excited nerves and fluttering spirits of Lucy, who was exceedingly +ashamed to meet him again under the eyes of others, after such a course +of stolen interviews, and what she had been told of her influence doing +him good only alarmed her the more. + +Well she might, for if ever character resembled that of the iron pot +borne down the stream in company with the earthen one, it was the object +of her choice. Poor pipkin that Gilbert was, the contact had cost him a +smashing blow, and for all clay of the more fragile mould, the best hope +was to give the invulnerable material a wide berth. Talk of influence! +Mr. Dusautoy might as well hope that a Wedgwood cream-jug would guide a +copper cauldron and keep verdigris aloof. + +His attraction for Lucy had always been a mystery to her family, who +perhaps hardly did justice to the magnetism of mere force of purpose. +Better training might have ennobled into resolution that which was now +doggedness and obstinacy, and, even in that shape, the real element of +strength had a tendency to work upon softer natures. Thus it had acted +in different ways with the Vicar, with Gilbert, and with Lucy; each had +fallen under the power of his determination, with more or less of their +own consent, and with Lucy the surrender was complete; she no sooner +sat beside Algernon than she was completely his possession, and his +complacent self-satisfaction was reflected on her face in a manner that +told her parents that she was their own no longer, but given up to a +stronger master. + +Albinia liked neither to see nor to think about it, and kept aloof as +much as she could, dividing herself between grandmamma and the children. +On Tuesday morning, during Maurice’s lessons, there was a knock at the +sitting-room door. She expected Gilbert, but was delighted to see her +brother. + +‘I thought you were much too busy to come near us?’ + +‘So I am; I can’t stay; so if Kendal be not forthcoming you must give +this fellow a holiday.’ + +‘He is gone to Hadminster, so--’ + +‘Where’s Gilbert?’ broke in little Maurice. + +‘He went to his room to dress to go up to parade,’ said Mr. Ferrars, and +off rushed the boy without waiting for permission. + +Albinia sighed, and said, ‘It is a perfect passion.’ + +‘Don’t mourn over it. Love is too good a thing to be lamented over, and +this may turn into a blessing.’ + +‘I used to be proud of it.’ + +‘So you shall be still. I am very much pleased with that poor lad.’ + +She would not raise her eyes, she was weary of hoping for Gilbert, +and his last offence had touched her where she had never been touched +before. + +‘Whatever faults he has,’ Mr. Ferrars said, ‘I am much mistaken if his +humility, love, and contrition be not genuine, and what more can the +best have?’ + +‘Sincerity!’ said Albinia, hopelessly. ‘There’s no truth in him!’ + +‘You should discriminate between deliberate self-interested deception, +and failure in truth for want of moral courage. Both are bad enough, but +the latter is not “loving a lie,” not such a ruinous taint and evidence +of corruption as the former.’ + +‘It is curious to hear you repeating my old excuses for him,’ said +Albinia, ‘now that he has cast his glamour over you.’ + +‘Not wrongly,’ said her brother. ‘He is in earnest; there is no acting +about him.’ + +‘Yes, that I believe; I know he loves us with all his heart, poor boy, +especially Maurice and me, and I think he had rather go right than +wrong, if he could only be let alone. But, oh! it is all “unstable as +water.” Am I unkind, Maurice? I know how it would be if I let him talk +to me for ten minutes, or look at me with those pleading brown eyes of +his!’ + +Mr. Ferrars knew it well, and why she was steeled against him, but he +put this aside, saying that he was come to speak of the future, not of +the past, and that he wanted Edmund to reconsider William’s advice. He +told her what Gilbert had said of the difficulty of breaking off old +connexions, and the danger to Maurice from his acquaintance. An exchange +into another corps of militia might be for the worse, the occupation was +uncertain, and Mr. Ferrars believed that a higher position, companions +of a better stamp, and the protection of a man of lively manners, quick +sympathy, and sound principle, like their cousin Fred, might be the +opening of a new life. He had found Gilbert most desirous of such a +step, regarding it as his only hope, but thinking it so offensively +presumptuous to propose it to his father under present circumstances, +his Oxford terms thrown away, and himself disgraced both there and at +home, that the matter would hardly have been brought forward had not +Mr. Ferrars undertaken to press it, under the strong conviction that +remaining at home would be destruction, above all, with young Dusautoy +making part of the family. + +‘I declare,’ said Mr. Ferrars, ‘he looked so much at home in the +drawing-room, and welcomed Gilbert with such an air of patronage, that I +could have found it in my heart to have knocked him down!’ + +It was a treat to hear Maurice speak so unguardedly, and Albinia +laughed, and asked whether he thought it very wrong to hope that the +Polysyllable would yet do something flagrant enough to open Lucy’s eyes. + +‘I’ll allow you to hope that _if_ he should, her eyes _may_ be opened,’ +said Maurice. + +Albinia began a vehement vindication for their having tolerated the +engagement, in the midst of which her brother was obliged to depart, +amused at her betrayal of her own sentiments by warfare against what he +had never said. + +She had treated his counsel as chimerical, but when she repeated it to +her husband, she thought better of it, since, alas! it had become her +great object to part those two loving brothers. Mr. Kendal first asked +where the 25th Lancers were, then spoke of expense, and inquired what +she knew of the cost of commissions, and of her cousin’s means. All +she could answer for was, that Fred’s portion was much smaller than +Gilbert’s inheritance, but at least she knew how to learn what was +wanted, and if her friends, the old Generals, were to be trusted, she +ought to have no lack of interest at the Horse Guards. + +Gilbert was taken into counsel, and showed so much right spirit and good +sense, that the discussion was friendly and unreserved. It ended in the +father and son resorting to Pettilove’s office to ascertain the amount +of ready money in his hands, and what income Gilbert would receive on +coming of age. The investigation somewhat disappointed the youth, who +had never thoroughly credited what his father told him of the necessity +of his exerting himself for his own maintenance, nor understood how +heavy a drain on his property were the life-interests of his father +and grandmother, and the settlement on his aunt. By-and-by, he might be +comparatively a rich man, but at first his present allowance would +be little more than doubled, and the receipts would be considerably +diminished by an alteration of existing system of rents, such as had +so long been planned. It was plain that the almshouses were the +unsubstantial fabric of a dream, but no one now dared to refer to them, +and Mr. Kendal desired Albinia to write to consult her cousin. + +Captain Ferrars was so much flattered at her asking his protection +for anything, that he would have promised to patronize Cousin Slender +himself for her sake. He praised the Colonel and lauded the mess to the +skies, and economy being his present hobby, he represented himself +as living upon nothing, and saving his pay. He further gave notice of +impending retirements, and advised that the application should be made +without loss of time, lamenting grievously himself that there was no +chance for the 25th, of a touch at the Russians. + +Something in his letter put every one into a hurry, and a correspondence +began, which resulted in Gilbert’s being summoned to Sandhurst for +an examination, which he passed creditably. The purchase-money was +deposited, and the household was daily thrown into a state of excitement +by the arrival of official-looking envelopes, which turned out to +contain solicitations from tailors and outfitters, bordered with +portraits of camp-beds and portable baths, until, at last, when the real +document appeared, Gilbert tossed it aside as from ‘another tailor:’ but +Albinia knew the article too well to mistake it, and when the long blue +cover was opened, it proved to convey more than they had reckoned upon. + +Gilbert Kendal held a commission in the 25th Lancers, and the corps +was under immediate orders for the East. The number of officers being +deficient, he was to join the headquarters at Cork, without going to the +depot, and would thence sail with a stated minimum of baggage. + +Albinia could not look up. She knew her husband had not intended thus +to risk the last of his eldest-born sons; and though her soldier-spirit +might have swelled with exultation had her own brave boy been concerned, +she dreaded the sight of quailing or dismay in Gilbert. + +‘Going really to fight the Russians,’ shouted Maurice, as the meaning +reached him. ‘Oh! Gibbie, if I was but a man to go with you!’ + +‘You will do your duty, my boy,’ said his father. + +‘By God’s help,’ was the reverent answer which emboldened Albinia to +look up at him, as he stood with Maurice clinging by both hands to him. +She had done him injustice, and her heart bounded at the sight of the +flush on his cheek, the light in his eyes, and the expression on his +lips, making his face finer and more manly than she had ever seen it, as +if the grave necessity, and the awe of the unseen glorious danger, were +fixing and elevating his wandering purpose. To have no choice was a +blessing to an infirm will, and to be inevitably out of his own power +braced him and gave him rest. She held out her hand to him, and there +was a grasp of inexpressible feeling, the first renewal of their old +terms of sympathy and confidence. + +There was no time to be lost; Mr. Kendal would go to London with him by +the last train that day, to fit him out as speedily as possible, before +he started for Cork. + +Every one felt dizzy, and there was no space for aught but action. +Perhaps Albinia was glad of the hurry, she could not talk to Gilbert +till she had learnt to put faith in him, and she would rather do him +substantial kindnesses than be made the sharer of feelings that had too +often proved like the growth of the seed which found no depth of earth. + +She ran about for him, worked for him, contrived for him, and gave him +directions; she could not, or would not, perceive his yearning for an +effusion of penitent tenderness. He looked wistfully at her when he was +setting out to take leave at the Vicarage, but she had absorbed herself +in flannel shirts, and would not meet his eye, nor did he venture to +make the request that she would come with him. + +Indeed, confidences there could be but few, for Maurice and Albinia hung +on either side of him, so that he could hardly move, but he resisted all +attempt to free him even from the little girl, who was hardly out of his +arms for ten minutes together. It was only from her broken words that +her mother understood that from the vicarage he had gone to the church. +Poor little Albinia did not like it at all. ‘Why was brother Edmund up +in the church, and why did Gilbert cry?’ + +Maurice angrily enunciated, ‘Men never cry,’ but not a word of the visit +to the church came from him. + +Algernon Dusautoy had wisely absented himself, and the two sisters +devoted themselves to the tasks in hand. Sophy worked as hard as did +Mrs. Kendal, and spoke even less, and Lucy took care of Mrs. Meadows, +whose nerves were painfully excited by the bustle in the house. It had +been agreed that she should not hear of her grandson’s intention till +the last moment, and then he went in, putting on a cheerful manner, +to bid her good-bye, only disclosing that he was going to London, but +little as she could understand, there was an instinct about her that +could not be deceived, and she began to cry helplessly and violently. + +Mrs. Kendal and Lucy were summoned in haste; Gilbert lingered, trying +to help them to restore her to composure. But time ran short; his father +called him, and they hardly knew that they had received his last hurried +embrace, nor that he was really gone, till they heard Maurice shouting +like a Red Indian, as he careered about in the garden, his only resource +against tears; and Sophy came in very still, very pale, and incapable of +uttering a word or shedding a tear. Albinia was much concerned, for she +could not bear to have sent him away without a more real adieu, and word +of blessing and good augury; it made her feel herself truly unforgiving, +and perhaps turned her heart back to him more fully and fondly than +any exchange of sentiment would have done. But she had not much time +to dwell on this omission, for poor Mrs. Meadows missed him sorely, and +after two days’ constant fretting after him, another paralytic stroke +renewed the immediate danger, so that by the time Mr. Kendal returned +from London she was again hovering between life and death. + +Mr. Kendal, to his great joy, met Frederick Ferrars at the ‘Family +Office.’ The changes in the regiment had given him his majority, and he +had flashed over from Ireland to make his preparations for the campaign. +His counsel had been most valuable in Gilbert’s equipment, especially in +the knotty question of horses, and he had shown himself so amiable and +rational that Mr. Kendal was quite delighted, and rejoiced in committing +Gilbert to his care. He had assumed the trust in a paternal manner, and, +infected by his brilliant happiness and hopefulness, Gilbert had gone +off to Ireland in excellent spirits. + +‘Another thing conduced to cheer him,’ said Mr. Kendal afterwards to his +wife, with a tone that caused her to exclaim, ‘You don’t mean that he +saw Genevieve?’ + +‘You are right. We came upon her in Rivington’s shop, while we were +looking for the smallest Bible. I saw who it was chiefly by his change +of colour, and I confess I kept out of the way. The whole did not last +five minutes; she had her pupils with her, and soon went away; but he +thanked me, and took heart from that moment. Poor boy, who would have +thought the impression would have been so lasting?’ + +‘Well, by the time he is a field-officer, even William will let him +please himself,’ said Albinia, lightly, because her heart was too full +for her to speak seriously. + +She tried, by a kind letter, to atone for the omitted farewell, and it +seemed to cheer and delight Gilbert. He wrote from Cork as if he had +imbibed fresh hope and enterprise from his new companions, he liked +them all, and could not say enough of the kindness of Major Ferrars. +Everything went smoothly, and in the happiest frame he sailed from Cork, +and was heard of again at Malta and Gallipoli, direfully sea-sick, but +reviving to write most amusing long descriptive letters, and when he +reached the camp at Yarna, he reported as gratefully of General Ferrars +as the General did kindly of him. + +Those letters were the chief pleasures in a harassing spring and summer. +It was well that practice had trained Sophia in the qualities of a +nurse, for Lucy was seldom available when Algernon Dusautoy was at home; +she was sure to be riding with him, or sitting for her picture, or the +good Vicar, afraid of her overworking herself, insisted on her spending +the evening at the vicarage. + +She yielded, but not with an easy conscience, to judge by her numerous +apologies, and when Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy returned to Oxford, she +devoted herself with great assiduity to the invalid. Her natural gifts +were far more efficient than Sophy’s laboriously-earned gentleness, +and her wonderful talent for prattling about nothing had a revivifying +influence, sparing much of the plaintive weariness which accompanied +that mournful descent of life’s hill. + +Albinia had reckoned on a rational Lucy until the Oxford term should be +over. She might have anticipated a failure in the responsions, (who, +in connexion with the Polysyllable, could mention being plucked for the +little-go?) but it was more than she did expect that his rejection would +send him home in sullen resentment resolved to punish Oxford by the +withdrawal of his august name. He had been quizzed by the young, +reprimanded by the old, plucked by the middle-aged, and he returned with +his mouth, full of sentences against blind, benighted bigotry, and the +futility of classical study, and of declamations, as an injured orphan, +against his uncle’s disregard of the intentions of his dear deceased +parent, in keeping him from Bonn, Jena, Heidelberg, or any other of the +outlandish universities whose guttural names he showered on the meek +Vicar’s desponding head. + +He was twenty-one, and could not be sent whither he would not go. His +uncle’s resource was Mr. Kendal, who strongly hoped that the link was +about to snap, when, summoning the gentleman to the library, he gave him +to understand that he should consider a refusal to resume his studies +as tantamount to a dissolution of the engagement. A long speech ensued +about dear mothers, amiable daughters, classics, languages, and foreign +tours. That was all the account Mr. Kendal could give his wife of the +dialogue, and she could only infer that Algernon’s harangue had sent him +into such a fit of abstraction, that he really could not tell the drift +of it. However, he was clear that he had himself given no alternative +between returning to Oxford and resigning Lucy. + +That same evening, Lucy, all blushes and tears, faltered out that she +was very unwilling, she could not bear to leave them all, nor dear +grandmamma, but dear Algernon had prevailed on her to say next August! + +When indignant astonishment permitted Albinia to speak, she reminded +Lucy that a respectable career at Oxford had been the condition. + +‘I know,’ said Lucy, ‘but dear Algernon convinced papa of the +unreasonableness of such a stipulation under the circumstances.’ + +Albinia felt the ground cut away under her feet, and all she could +attempt was a dry answer. ‘We shall see what papa says; but you, Lucy, +how can you think of marrying with your grandmamma in this state, and +Gilbert in that camp of cholera--’ + +‘I told Algernon it was not to be thought of,’ said Lucy, her tears +flowing fast. But I don’t know what to do, no one can tell how long it +may go on, and we have no right to trifle with his feelings.’ + +‘If he had any feelings for you, he would not ask it.’ + +‘No, mamma, indeed!’ cried Lucy, earnestly; ‘it was his feeling for me; +he said I was looking quite languid and emaciated, and that he could not +allow my--good looks and vivacity to be diminished by my attendance in +a sick chamber. I told him never to mind, for it did not hurt me; but he +said it was incumbent on him to take thought for me, and that he could +not present me to his friends if I were not in full bloom of beauty; +yes, indeed, he said so; and then he said it would be the right season +for Italy.’ + +‘It is impossible you can think of going so far away! Oh, Lucy! you +should not have consented.’ + +‘I could not help it,’ said Lucy, sobbing. ‘I could not bear to +contradict him, but please, mamma, let papa settle it for me. I don’t +want to go away; I told him I never would, I told him I had promised +never to leave dear grandmamma; but you see he is so resolute, and he +cannot bear to be without me. Oh! do get him to put it off--only if he +is angry and goes to Italy without me, I know I shall die!’ + +‘We will take care of you, my dear. I am sure we shall be able to show +him how impossible a gay wedding would be at present; and I do not +think he can press it,’ said Albinia, moved into soothing the present +distress, and relieved to find that there was no heartlessness on Lucy’s +side. + +What a grand power is sheer obstinacy! It has all the momentum of +a stone, or cannon-ball, or any other object set in motion without +inconvenient sensations to obstruct its course! + +Algernon Dusautoy had decided on being married in August, and taking +his obedient pupil-wife through a course of lectures on the continental +galleries of art; and his determined singleness of aim prevailed against +the united objections and opposition of four people, each of double or +quadruple his wisdom and weight. + +His first great advantage was, that, as Albinia surmised, Mr. Kendal +could not recal the finale of their interview, and having lost the +thread of the rigmarole, did not know to what his silence had been +supposed to assent. Next, Algernon conquered his uncle by representing +Lucy as on the road to an atrophy, and persuading him that he should be +much safer on the Continent with a wife than without one: and though the +two ladies were harder to deal with in themselves, they were obliged +to stand by the decision of their lords. Above all, he made way by +his sincere habit of taking for granted whatever he wished, and by his +magnanimous oblivion of remonstrance and denial; so that every day one +party or the other found that assumed, as fixed in his favour, which had +the day before been most strenuously refused. + +‘If you consented to this, I thought I could not refuse that.’ + +‘I consent! I told him it was the last thing I could think of.’ + +‘Well, I own I was surprised, but he told me you had readily come into +his views.’ + +Such was the usual tenor of consultations between the authorities, until +their marvel at themselves and each other came to a height when they +found themselves preparing for the wedding on the very day originally +chosen by Algernon. + +Mr. Kendal’s letter to Gilbert was an absolute apology. Gilbert in +Turkey was a very different person from Gilbert at Bayford, and had +assumed in his father’s mind the natural rights of son and heir; he +seemed happy and valued, and the heat of the climate, pestiferous to so +many, seemed but to give his Indian constitution the vigour it needed. +When his comrades were laid up, or going away for better air, much +duty was falling on him, and he was doing it with hearty good-will and +effectiveness. Already the rapid changes had made him a lieutenant, and +he wrote in the highest spirits. Moreover, he had fallen in with Bryan +O’More, and had been able to do him sundry kindnesses, the report of +which brought Ulick to Willow Lawn in an overflow of gratitude. + +It was a strange state of affairs there. Albinia was ashamed of the plea +of ‘could not help it,’ and yet that was the only one to rest on; the +adherence to promises alone gave a sense of duty, and when or how the +promises had been given was not clear. + +Besides, no one could be certain even about poor Lucy’s present +satisfaction; she sometimes seemed like a little bird fluttering under +the fascination of a snake. She was evidently half afraid of Algernon, +and would breathe more freely when he was not at hand; but then a +restlessness would come on if he did not appear as soon as she expected, +as if she dreaded having offended him. She had violent bursts of +remorseful tears, and great outpourings of fondness towards every one +at home, and she positively did look ill enough to justify Algernon in +saying that the present condition of matters was hurtful to her. Still +she could not endure a word that remotely tended towards advising her +to break off the engagement, or even to retard the wedding, and her +admiration of her intended was unabated. + +Indeed, his affection could not be doubted; he liked her adoration of +all his performances, and he regarded her with beneficent protection, as +a piece of property; he made her magnificent presents, and conceded +to her that the wedding tour should not be beyond Clifton, whence they +would return to Willow Lawn, and judge ere deciding on going abroad. + +He said that it would be ‘de bon ton’ to have the marriage strictly +private. Even he saw the incongruity of festivity alongside of that +chamber of decay and death; and besides, he had conceived such a +distaste to the Drury family, that he had signified to Lucy that they +must not make part of the spectacle. + +Albinia and Sophy thought this so impertinent, that they manfully fought +the battles of the Drurys, but without prevailing; Albinia took her +revenge, by observing that this being the case, it was impossible to ask +her brother and little Mary, whose well-sounding names she knew Algernon +ambitionated for the benefit of the county paper. + +Always doing what was most contrary to the theories with which she +started in life, Albinia found herself taking the middle course that +she contemned. She was marrying her first daughter with an aching, +foreboding heart, unable either to approve or to prevent, and obliged +to console and cheer just when she would have imagined herself insisting +upon a rupture at all costs. + +Sophy had said from the first that her sister could not go back. +She expected her to be unhappy, and believed it the penalty of the +wrongdoings in consenting to the clandestine correspondence; and treated +her with melancholy kindness as a victim under sentence. She was very +affectionate, but not at all consoling when Lucy was sad, and she was +impatient and gloomy when the trousseau, or any of the privileges of a +fiancee brought a renewal of gaiety and importance. A broken heart and +ruined fortunes were the least of the consequences she augured, and she +went about the house as if she had realized them both herself. + +The wedding-day came, and grandmamma was torpid and only half conscious, +so that all could venture to leave her. The bride was not allowed to +see her, lest the agitation should overwhelm both; for the poor girl was +indeed looking like the victim her sister thought her, pale as death, +with red rings round her extinguished eyes, and trembling from head +to foot, the more at the apprehension that Algernon would think her a +fright. + +After all that lavender and sal-volatile could do for her, she was such +a spectacle, that when her father came to fetch her he was shocked, and +said, tenderly, ‘Lucy, my child, this must not be. Say one word, and all +shall be over, and you shall never hear a word of reproach.’ + +But Lucy only cast a frightened glance around, and rising up with the +accents of perfect sincerity, said, ‘No, papa; I am quite ready; I am +quite happy. I was only silly.’ + +Her mind was evidently made up, and it was past Albinia’s divination +whether her agitation were composed of fear of the future and remorse +for the past, or whether it were mere love of home and hurry of spirits, +exaggerated by belief that a bride ought to weep. Probably it was a +compound of all, and the whole of her reply perfect truth, especially +the final clause. + +So they married her, poor child, very much as if they had been attending +her to the block. Sophy’s view of the case had infected them all beyond +being dispelled by the stately complacency of the bridegroom, or the +radiant joy and affection of his uncle. + +They put her into a carriage, watched her away, and turned back to the +task which she had left them, dreading the effects of her absence. She +was missed, but less than they feared; the faculties had become too +feeble for such strong emotion as had followed Gilbert’s departure; and +the void was chiefly perceptible by the plaintive and exacting clinging +to Albinia, who had less and less time to herself and her children, and +was somewhat uneasy as to the consequences as regarded Maurice. While +Gilbert was at home, the child had been under some supervision; but now +his independent and unruly spirit was left almost uncontrolled, except +by his own intermittent young conscience, his father indulged him, and +endured from him what would have been borne from no one else; and Sophy +was his willing slave, unable to exact obedience, and never complaining, +save under the most stringent necessity or sense of duty. He was too +young for school, and there was nothing to be done but to go on, +from day to day, in the trust that no harm could eventually ensue in +consequence of so absolute a duty as the care of the sufferer; and that +while the boy’s truth and generosity were sound, though he might be a +torment, his character might be all the stronger afterwards for that +very indocility. + +It was not satisfactory, and many mothers would have been miserable; but +it was not in Albinia’s nature to be miserable when her hands were full, +and she was doing her best. She had heard her brother say that when good +people gave their children sound principles and spoilt them, they gave +the children the trouble of self-conquest instead of doing it for them. +She had great faith in Maurice’s undertaking this task in due time; +and while she felt that she still had her hand on the rein she must be +content to leave it loose for a while. + +Besides, when his father and sisters, and, least of all, herself, did +not find him a plague, did it much matter if other people did? + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + + + +Exulting peals rang out from the Bayford tower, and as Mr. and Mrs. +Cavendish Dusautoy alighted from their carriage at Willow Lawn, the cry +of the vicar and of the assembled household was, ‘Have you heard that +Sebastopol is taken?’ + +‘Any news of Gilbert?’ was Lucy’s demand. + +‘No, the cavalry were not landed, so he had nothing to do with it.’ + +‘I say, uncle,’ said Algernon, ‘shall I send up a sovereign to those +ringers?’ + +‘Eh! poor fellows, they will be very glad of it, thank you; only I must +take care they don’t drink it up. I’m sure they must be tired enough; +they’ve been at it ever since the telegraph came in!’ + +‘There!’ exclaimed Algernon; ‘Barton must have telegraphed from the +station when we set out!’ + +‘You? Did you think the bells were ringing for _you_,’ exclaimed his +uncle, ‘when there’s a great battle won, and Sebastopol taken?’ + +‘Telegraphs are always lies!’ quoth Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, tersely, +‘I don’t believe anything has happened at all!’ and he re-pocketed the +sovereign. + +Meantime Lucy was in a rapture of embracing. She was spread out with +stiff silk flounces and velvet mantle, so as to emulate her husband’s +importance, and her chains and bracelets clattered so much, that Mr. +Kendal could not help saying, ‘You should have taken lessons of your +Ayah, to learn how to manage your bangles.’ + +‘Oh! papa,’ said she, with a newly-learnt little laugh, ‘I could not +help it; Louise could not find room for them in my dressing-case.’ + +They were not, however, lost upon the whole of the family. Grandmamma’s +dim eyes lighted when she recognised her favourite grand-daughter in +such gorgeous array, and that any one should have come back again was so +new and delightful, that it constantly recurred as a fresh surprise and +pleasure. + +All were glad to have her again--their own Lucy, as she still was, +though somewhat of the grandiose style and self-consequence of her +husband had overlaid the original nature. She was as good-natured and +obliging as ever, and though beginning by conferring her favours as +condescensions, she soon would forget that she was the great Mrs. +Cavendish Dusautoy, and quickly become the eager, helpful Lucy. She was +in very good looks, and bright and happy, admiring Algernon, rejoicing +to obey his behests, and enhancing his dignity and her own by her +discourses upon his talents and importance. How far she was at ease with +him, Albinia sometimes doubted; there now and then was an air of greater +freedom when he left the room, and some of her favourite old household +avocations were tenderly resumed by stealth, as though she feared he +might think them unworthy of his wife. + +She gave her spare time to the invalid, who was revived by her presence +as by a sunbeam; and Albinia, in her relief and gratitude, did her +utmost to keep Algernon happy and contented. She resigned a room to him +as an atelier, and let the little Awk be captured to have her likeness +taken, she promoted the guitar and key-bugle, and abstained from +resenting his strictures on her dinners. + +Such a guest reduced Mr. Kendal to absolute silence, but she did not +think he suffered much therefrom, and he was often relieved, for all +the neighbourhood asked the young couple to dinner. Mrs. Cavendish +Dusautoy’s toilette was as good as a play to the oldest and youngest +inhabitants of the house, her little sister used to stand by the +dressing-table with her small fingers straightened to sustain a column +of rings threaded on them, and her arm weighed down with bracelets, and +grandmamma’s happiest moments were when she was raised up to contemplate +the costly robes, jewelled neck, and garlanded head of her darling. + +When it turned out that Sebastopol was anything but taken, Mr. Cavendish +Dusautoy’s incredulity was a precious confirmation of his esteem for his +own sagacity, more especially as Ulick O’More and Maurice had worn out +the little brass piece of ordnance in firing feux de joie. + +‘But,’ said Maurice, ‘papa always said it was not true. Now you only +said so when you found the bells were ringing for that, and not for +you.’ + +Maurice’s observations were not always convenient. Algernon, with much +pomp, had caused a horse to be led to the door, for which he had lately +paid eighty guineas, and he was expatiating on its merits, when Maurice +broke out, ‘That’s Macheath, the horse that Archie Tritton bought of Mr. +Nugent’s coachman for twenty pounds.’ + +‘Hush, Maurice!’ said his father, ‘you know nothing of it; and Mr. +Cavendish Dusautoy pursued, ‘It was bred at Lord Lewthorp’s, and sold +because it was too tall for its companion. Laing was on the point of +sending it to Tattersalls, where he was secure of a hundred, but he was +willing to oblige me, as we had had transactions before.’ + +‘Papa!’ cried Maurice, ‘I know it is Macheath, for Mr. Tritton showed +him to Gilbert and me, when he had just got him, and said he was a showy +beast, but incurably lame, so he should get what he could for him +from Laing. Now, James, isn’t it?’ he called to the servant who was +sedulously turning away a grinning face, but just muttered, ‘Same, sir.’ + +Mr. Kendal charitably looked the other way, and Algernon muttered some +species of imprecation. + +Thenceforth Maurice took every occasion of inquiring what had become of +Macheath, whether Laing had refunded the price, and what had been done +to him for telling stories. + +If the boy began in innocence, he went on in mischief; he was just old +enough to be a most aggravating compound of simplicity and malice. He +was fully aware that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was held cheap by his +own favourites, and had been partly the cause of his dear Gilbert’s +troubles, and his sharp wits and daring nature were excited to the +utmost by the solemn irritation that he produced. Not only was it +irresistibly droll to tease one so destitute of fun, but he had the +strongest desire to see how angry it was possible to make the big +brother-in-law, of whom every one seemed in awe. + +First, he had recourse to the old term Polysyllable, and when Lucy +remonstrated, he answered, ‘I’ve a right to call my brother what I +please.’ + +‘You know how angry mamma would be to hear you.’ + +‘Mamma calls him the Polysyllable herself,’ said Maurice, looking full +at his victim. + +Lucy, who would have given the world to hinder this epithet from coming +to her husband’s knowledge, began explaining something about Gilbert’s +nonsense before he knew him, and how it had been long disused. + +‘That’s not true, Lucy,’ quoth the tormentor. ‘I heard mamma tell Sophy +herself this morning to write for some fish-sauce, because she said that +Polysyllable was so fanciful about his dinner.’ + +Lucy was ready to cry, and Algernon, endeavouring to recal his usual +dignity, exclaimed, ‘If Mrs. Kendal--I mean, Mrs. Kendal has it in her +power to take liberties, but if I find you repeating such again, you +little imp, it shall be at your risk.’ + +‘What will you do to me?’ asked the sturdy varlet. + +‘Dear Maurice, I hope you’ll never know! Pray don’t try!’ cried Lucy; +but if she had had any knowledge of character, she would have seen that +she had only provoked the little Berserkar’s curiosity, and had made him +determined on proving the undefined threat. So the unfortunate Algernon +seldom descended the stairs without two childish faces being protruded +from the balusters of the nursery-flight over-head, pursuing him with +hissing whispers of ‘Polysyllable’ and ‘Polly-silly,’ and if he ventured +on indignant gestures, Maurice returned them with nutcracker grimaces +and provoking assurances to his little sister that he could not hurt +her. + +Algernon could not complain without making himself ridiculous, and +Albinia was too much engaged to keep watch over her son, so that the +persecution daily became more intolerable, and barren indications of +wrath were so diverting to the little monkey, that the presence of the +heads of the family was the sole security from his tricks. Poor Lucy +was the chief sufferer, unable to restrain her brother, and enduring +the brunt of her husband’s irritation, with the great disappointment of +being unable to make him happy at her home, and fearing every day that +he would fulfil his threat of not staying another week in the house with +that intolerable child, for the sake of any one’s grandmother. + +Tidings came, however, that completely sobered Maurice, and made them +unable to think of moving. It was the first rumour of the charge of +Balaklava, with the report that the 25th Lancers were cut to pieces. +In spite of Algernon’s reiteration that telegraphs were lies, all the +household would have been glad to lose the sense of existence during the +time of suspense. Albinia’s heart was wrung as she thought of the cold +hurried manner of the last farewell, and every look she cast at her +husband’s calm melancholy face, seemed to be asking pardon that his son +was not safe in India. + +Late that evening the maid came hurriedly in with a packet of papers. ‘A +telegraph, ma’am, come express from Hadminster.’ + +It was to Mrs Kendal from one of her friends at the Horse Guards. She +did not know how she found courage to turn her eyes on it, but her +shriek was not of sorrow. + +‘Major the Honourable F. Ferrars, severely wounded--right arm +amputated.’ + +‘Lieutenant Gilbert Kendal, slightly wounded--contusion, rib broken.’ + +She saw the light of thankfulness break upon Mr. Kendal’s face, and the +next moment flew up to her boy’s bed-side. He started up, half asleep, +but crying out, Mamma, where’s Gibbie?’ + +‘Safe, safe! Maurice dearest, safe; only slightly wounded! Oh, Maurice, +God has been very good to us!’ + +He flung his arms round her neck, as she knelt beside his crib in the +dark, and thus Mr. Kendal found the mother and son. As he bent to kiss +them, Maurice exclaimed, with a sort of anger, ‘Oh, mamma, why have I +got a bullet in my throat?’ + +Albinia laughed a little hysterically, as if she had the like bullet. + +‘It was very kind of Lord H----,’ fervently exclaimed Mr. Kendal; ‘you +must write to thank him, Albinia. Gilbert may be considered safe while +he is laid up. Perhaps he may be sent home. What should you say to that, +Maurice?’ + +‘Oh! I wouldn’t come home to lose the fun,’ said Maurice. ‘Oh, mamma, +let me get up to tell Awkey, and run up to Ulick! Gilbert will be the +colonel when I’m a cornet! Oh! I must get up!’ + +His outspoken childish joy seemed to relieve Albinia’s swelling heart, +too full for the expression of thankfulness, and the excitement was too +much even for the boy, for he burst into passionate sobs when forbidden +to get up and waken his little sister. + +The sobering came in Mr. Kendal’s mention of Fred. Albinia was obliged +to ask what had happened to him, and was shocked at having overlooked +so terrible a misfortune; but Maurice seemed to be quite satisfied. +‘You know, mamma, it said they were cut to pieces. Can’t they make him +a wooden arm?’ evidently thinking he could be repaired as easily as the +creatures in his sister’s Noah’s Ark. Even Algernon showed a heartiness +and fellow-feeling that seemed to make him more like one of the family. +Moreover, he was so much elevated at the receipt of a telegraph direct +from the fountain-head, that he rode about the next day over all the +neighbourhood with the tidings and comported himself as though he had +private access to all Lord Raglan’s secrets. + +The unwonted emotion tamed Maurice for several days, and his behaviour +was the better for his daily rides with papa to Hadminster, to forestall +the second post. At last, on his return, his voice rang through the +house. ‘Mamma, where are you? The letter is come, and Gilbert shot two +Russians, and saved Cousin Fred!’ + +‘I opened your letter, Albinia,’ said Mr. Kendal; and, as she took it +from him, he said, ‘Thank God, I never dared hope for such a day as +this!’ + +He shut himself into the library, while Albinia was sharing with Sophy +the precious letter, but with a moment’s disappointment at finding it +not from Gilbert, but from her brother William. + +‘Before you receive this,’ he wrote, ‘you will have heard of the affair +of to-day, and that our two lads have come out of it better than some +others. There are but nine officers living, and only four unhurt out of +the 25th Lancers, and Fred’s escape is entirely owing to your son.’ + +Then followed a brief narrative of the events of Balaklava, that fatal +charge so well described as ‘magnifique mais pas la guerre,’ a history +that seemed like a dream in connexion with the timid Gilbert. His +individual story was thus:--He safely rode the ‘half a league’ forward, +but when more than half way back, his horse was struck to the ground +by a splinter of the same shell that overthrew Major Ferrars, at a few +paces’ distance from him. Quickly disengaging himself from his horse, +Gilbert ran to assist his friend, and succeeded in extricating him from +his horse, and supporting him through the remainder of the terrible +space commanded by the batteries. Fred, unable to move without aid, and +to whom each step was agony, had entreated Gilbert to relinquish his +hold, and not peril himself for a life already past rescue; but Gilbert +had not seemed to hear, and when several of the enemy came riding down +on them, he had used his revolver with such effect, as to lay two of the +number prostrate, and deter the rest from repeating the attack. + +‘All this I heard from Fred,’ continued the General; ‘he is in his usual +spirits, and tells me that he feels quite jolly since his arm has been +off, and he has been in his own bed, but I fear he has a good deal to +suffer, for his right side is terribly lacerated, and I shall be glad +when the next few days are over. He desires me to say with his love that +the best turn you ever did him was putting young Kendal into the 25th. +Tell your husband that I congratulate him on his son’s conduct, and +am afraid that his promotion without purchase is only too certain. +Gilbert’s only message was his love. Speaking seems to give him pain, +and he is altogether more prostrated than so slight a wound accounts +for; but when I saw him, he had just been told of the death of his +colonel and several of his brother officers, among them young Wynne, who +shared his tent; and he was completely overcome. There is, however, no +cause for uneasiness; he had not even been aware that he was hurt, until +he fainted while Fred was under the surgeon’s hands, and was then found +to have an ugly contusion of the chest, and a fracture of the uppermost +rib on the left side. A few days’ rest will set all that to rights, +and I expect to see him on horseback before we can ship poor Fred for +Scutari. In the meantime they are both in Fred’s tent, which is fairly +comfortable.’ + +Albinia understood whence came Gilbert’s heroism. He had charged +at first, as he had hunted with Maurice, because there was no doing +otherwise, and in the critical moment the warm heart had done the rest, +and equalled constitutional courage: but then, she saw the gentle tender +spirit sinking under the slight injury, and far more at the suffering +of his friend, the deadly havoc among his comrades, and his own share in +the carnage. The General coolly mentioned the two enemies who had fallen +by his pistol, and Maurice shouted about them as if they had been two +rabbits, but she knew enough of Gilbert to be sure that what he might +do in the exigency of self-defence, would shock and sicken him in +recollection. Poor Fred! how little would she once have believed that +his frightful wound could be a secondary matter with her, only enhancing +her gratitude on account of another. + +That was a happy evening; Maurice was sent to ask Ulick to dinner, and +at dessert drank the healths of his soldier relatives, among whom Mr. +Kendal with a smile at Ulick, included Bryan O’More. + +In the universal good-will of her triumph, Albinia having read her +precious letter to every one, resolved to let the Drurys hear it, before +forwarding it to Fairmead. Lucy’s neglect of that family was becoming +flagrant, and Albinia was resolved to take her to make the call. +Therefore, after promulgating her intentions too decidedly for Algernon +to oppose them, she set out with Lucy in the most virtuous state of +mind. Maurice was to ride out with his father, and Sophy was taking +care of grandmamma, so she made her expedition with an easy mind, and +absolutely enjoyed the change of scenery. + +The war had drawn every one nearer together, and Mrs. Drury was really +anxious about Gilbert, and grateful for the intelligence. Nor did Lucy +meet with anything unpleasant. Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy, in waist-deep +flounces, a Paris bonnet, and her husband’s dignity, impressed her +cousins, and whatever use they might make of their tongues, it was not +till after she was gone. + +As the carriage stopped at the door, Sophy came out with such a +perturbed an expression, as seemed to prelude fatal tidings; and Lucy +was pausing to listen, when she was hastily summoned by her husband. + +‘Oh! mamma, he has struck Maurice such a blow!’ cried Sophy. + +‘Algernon? where’s Maurice? is he hurt?’ + +‘He is in the library with papa.’ + +She was there in a moment. Maurice sat on his father’s knee, listening +to Pope’s Homer, leaning against him, with eye, cheek, and nose +exceedingly swelled and reddened; but these were symptoms of which she +had seen enough in past days not to be greatly terrified, even while she +exclaimed aghast. + +‘Aye!’ said Mr. Kendal, sternly. ‘What do you think of young Dusautoy’s +handiwork?’ + +‘What could you have done to him, Maurice?’ + +‘I painted his image.’ + +‘The children got into the painting-room,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘and did +some mischief; Maurice ought to have known better, but that was +no excuse for his violence. I do not know what would have been the +consequence, if poor little Albinia’s screams had not alarmed me. I +found Algernon striking him with his doubled fist.’ + +‘But I gave him a dig in the nose,’ cried Maurice, in exultation; ‘I +pulled ever so much hair out of his whiskers. I had it just now.’ + +‘This sounds very sad,’ said Albinia, interrupting the search for the +trophy. ‘What were you doing in the painting-room? You know you had no +business there.’ + +‘Why, mamma, little Awk wanted me to look at the pictures that Lucy +shows her. And then, don’t you know his image? the little white bare boy +pulling the thorn out of his foot. Awkey said he was naughty not to +have his clothes on, and so I thought it would be such fun to make a +militiaman of him, and so the paints were all about, and so I gave him a +red coat and black trousers.’ + +‘Oh, Maurice, Maurice, how could you?’ + +‘I couldn’t help it, mamma! I did so want to see what Algernon would +do!’ + +‘Well.’ + +‘So he came up and caught us. And wasn’t he in a jolly good rage? that’s +all. He stamped, and called me names, and got hold of me to shake me, +but I know I kicked him well, and I had quite a handful out of his +whisker; but you see poor little Awkey is only a girl, and couldn’t help +squalling, so papa came up.’ + +‘And in time!’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘he reeled against me, almost stunned, +and was hardly himself for some moments. His nose bled violently. That +fellow’s fist might knock down an ox.’ + +‘But he didn’t knock _me_ down,’ said Maurice. ‘You told me he did not, +papa.’ + +‘That’s all he thinks of!’ said Mr. Kendal, in admiration. + +‘Not a cry nor a tear from first to last. I told Sophy to let me know +when Bowles came.’ + +‘For a black eye?’ cried the hard-hearted mother, laughing. ‘You should +have seen what Maurice and Fred used to do to each other.’ + +‘Oh, tell me, mamma,’ cried Maurice, eagerly. + +‘Not now, master,’ she said, not thinking his pugnacity in need of +such respectable examples. ‘It would be more to the purpose to ask Mr. +Cavendish Dusautoy’s pardon for such very bad behaviour.’ + +Mr. Kendal looked at her in indignant surprise. ‘Ours is not the side +for the apology,’ he said. ‘If Dusautoy has a spark of proper feeling, +he must excuse himself for such a brutal assault.’ + +‘I am afraid Maurice provoked it; I hope my little boy is sorry for +having been so mischievous, and sees that he deserves--’ + +Mr. Kendal silenced her by an impatient gesture, and feeling that +anything was better than the discussion before the boy, she tried to +speak indifferently, and not succeeding, left the room, much annoyed +that alarm and indignation had led the indulgent father to pet and coax +the spirit that only wanted to be taken down, and as if her discipline +had received its first real shock. + +Mr. Kendal followed her upstairs, no less vexed. ‘Albinia, this is +absurd,’ he said. ‘I will not have the child punished, or made to ask +pardon for being shamefully struck.’ + +‘It was shameful enough,’ said Albinia; ‘but, after all, I can’t wonder +that Algernon was in a passion; Maurice did behave very ill, and it +would be much better for him if you would not make him more impudent +than he is already.’ + +‘I did not expect you to take part against your own child, when he +has been so severely maltreated,’ said he, with such unreasonable +displeasure, that almost thinking it play, she laughed and said, ‘You +are as bad as the mothers of the school-children, when they wont have +them beaten.’ + +He gave a look as if loth to trust his ears, walked into his room, and +shut the door. The thrill of horror came over her that this was the +first quarrel. She had been saucy when he was serious, and had offended +him. She sprang to the door, knocked and called, and was in agony at +the moment’s delay ere he returned, with his face still stern and +set. Pleading and earnest she raised her eyes, and surrendered +unconditionally. ‘Dear Edmund, don’t be vexed with me, I should not have +said it.’ + +‘Never mind,’ he said, affectionately; ‘I do not wish to interfere with +your authority, but it would be impossible to punish a child who has +suffered so severely; and I neither choose that Dusautoy should be made +to think himself the injured party, nor that Maurice should be put to +the pain of apologizing for an offence, which the other party has taken +on himself to cancel with interest.’ + +Albinia was too much demolished to recollect her two arguments, that +pride on their side would only serve to make Algernon prouder, and that +she did not believe that asking pardon would be so bitter a pill to +Maurice as his father supposed. She could only feel thankful to have +been forgiven for her own offence. + +When they met at dinner, all were formal, Algernon stiff and haughty, +ashamed, but too grand to betray himself, and Lucy restless and uneasy, +her eyes looking as if she had been crying. When Maurice came in at +dessert, the fourth part of his countenance emulating the unlucky cast +in gorgeous hues of crimson and violet, Algernon was startled, and +turning to Albinia, muttered something about ‘never having intended,’ +and ‘having had no idea.’ + +He might have said more, if Mr. Kendal, with Maurice on his knee, had +not looked as if he expected it; and that look sealed Albinia’s lips +against expressing regret for the provocation; but Maurice exclaimed, +‘Never mind, Algernon, it was all fair, and it doesn’t hurt now. I +wouldn’t have touched your image, but that I wanted to know what you +would do to me. Shake hands; people always do when they’ve had a good +mill.’ + +Mr. Kendal looked across the table to his wife in a state of unbounded +exultation in his generous boy, and Albinia felt infinitely relieved and +grateful. Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy took the firm young paw, and said with +an attempt at condescension, ‘Very well, Maurice, the subject shall +be mentioned no more, since you have received a severer lesson than I +intended, and appear sensible of your error.’ + +‘It wasn’t you that made me so,’ began Maurice, with defiant eye; but +with a strong sense of ‘let well alone,’ his father cut him short with, +‘That’s enough, my man, you’ve said all that can be wished,’ lifted him +again on his knee, and stopped his mouth with almonds and raisins. + +The subject was mentioned no more; Lucy considered peace as proclaimed, +and herself relieved from the necessity of such an unprecedented deed +as preferring an accusation against Maurice, and Albinia, unaware of the +previous persecution, did not trace that Maurice considered himself as +challenged to prove, that experience of his brother-in-law’s fist did +not suffice to make him cease from his ‘fun.’ + +Two days after, Algernon was coming in from riding, when a simple voice +upon the stairs observed, ‘Here’s such a pretty picture!’ + +‘Eh! what?’ said Algernon; and Maurice held it near to him as he stood +taking off his great coat. + +‘Such a pretty picture, but you mustn’t have it! No, it is Ulick’s.’ + +‘Heavens and earth!’ thundered Algernon, as he gathered up the meaning. +‘Who has dared--? Give it me--or--’ and as soon as he was freed from the +sleeves, he snatched at the paper, but the boy had already sprung up to +the first landing, and waving his treasure, shouted, ‘No, it’s not for +you, I’ll not give you Ulick’s picture.’ + +‘Ulick!’ cried Algernon, in redoubled fury. ‘You’re put up to this! Give +it me this instant, or it shall be the worse for you;’ but ere he could +stride up the first flight, Maurice’s last leg was disappearing round +the corner above, and the next moment the exhibition was repeated +overhead in the gallery. Thither did Algernon rush headlong, following +the scampering pattering feet, till the door of Maurice’s little room +was slammed in his face. Bursting it open, he found the chamber empty, +but there was a shout of elvish laughter outside, and a cry of dismay +coming up from the garden, impelled him to mount the rickety deal-table +below the deep sunk dormer window, when thrusting out his head and +shoulders, he beheld his wife and her parents gazing up in terror from +the lawn. No wonder, for there was a narrow ledge of leading without, +upon which Maurice had suddenly appeared, running with unwavering steps +till in a moment he stooped down, and popped through the similar window +of Gilbert’s room. + +While still too dizzy with horror to feel secure that the child was +indeed safe within, those below were startled by a frantic shout from +Algernon: ‘Let me out! I say, the imp has locked me in! Let me out!’ + +Albinia flew into the house and upstairs. Maurice was flourishing the +key, and executing a war-dance before the captive’s door, with a chant +alternating of war-whoops, ‘Promise not to hurt it, and I’ll let you +out!’ and ‘Pity poor prisoners in a foreign land!’ + +She called to him to desist, but he was too wild to be checked by her +voice, and as she advanced to capture him, he shot like an arrow to the +other end of the passage, and down the back-stairs. She promised speedy +rescue, and hurried down, hoping to seize the culprit in the hall, but +he had whipped out at the back-door, and was making for the garden +gate, when his father hastened down the path to meet him, and seeing his +retreat cut off, he plunged into the bushes, and sprang like a cat up a +cockspur-thorn, too slender for ascent by a heavier weight, and thence +grinned and waved his hand to his prisoner at the window. + +‘Maurice,’ called his father, ‘what does this mean?’ + +‘I only want to take home Ulick’s picture. Then I’ll let him out.’ + +‘What picture?’ + +‘That’s my secret.’ + +‘This is not play, Maurice,’ said Albinia. ‘Attend to papa.’ + +The boy swung the light shrub about with him in a manner fearful to +behold, and looked irresolute. Lucy put in her cry, ‘You very naughty +child, give up the key this moment,’ and above, Algernon bawled appeals +to Mr. Kendal, and threats to Maurice. + +‘Silence!’ said Mr. Kendal, sternly. ‘Maurice, this must not be. Come +down, and give me the key of your room.’ + +‘I will, papa,’ said Maurice, in a reasonable voice. ‘Only please +promise not to let Algernon have Ulick’s picture, for I got it without +his knowing it.’ + +‘I promise,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Let us put an end to this.’ + +Maurice came down, and brought the key to his father, and while Lucy +hastened to release her husband, Mr. Kendal seized the boy, finding him +already about again to take flight. + +‘Papa, let me take home Ulick’s picture before he gets out,’ said +Maurice, finding the grasp too strong for him; but Mr. Kendal had taken +the picture out of his hand, and looked at it with changed countenance. + +It depicted the famous drawing-room scene, in its native element, the +moon squinting through inky clouds at Lucy swooning on the sofa, while +the lofty presence of the Polysyllable discharged the fluid from the +inkstand. + +‘Did Mr. O’More give you this?’ asked Mr. Kendal. + +‘No, it tumbled out of his paper-case. You know he said I might go to +his rooms and get the Illustrated News with the picture of Balaklava, +and so the newspaper knocked the paper-case down, and all the things +tumbled out, so I picked this up, and thought I would see what Algernon +would say to it, and then put it back again. Let me have it, papa, if he +catches me, he’ll tear it to smithereens.’ + +‘Don’t talk Irish, sir,’ said his father. ‘I see where your impertinence +comes from, and I will put a stop to it.’ + +Maurice gave back a step, amazed at his father’s unwonted anger, but far +greater wrath was descending in the person of Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, +who came striding across the lawn, and planting himself before his +father-in-law, demanded, ‘I beg to know, sir, if it is your desire that +I should be deliberately insulted in this house?’ + +‘No one can be more concerned than I am at what has occurred.’ + +‘Very well, sir; then I require that this intolerable child be soundly +flogged, that beggarly Irishman kicked out, and that infamous libel +destroyed!’ + +‘Oh, papa,’ cried Maurice, ‘you promised me the picture should be safe!’ + +‘I promise you, you impudent brat,’ cried Algernon, ‘that you shall +learn what it is to insult your elders! You shall be flogged till you +repent it!’ + +‘You will allow me to judge of the discipline of my own family,’ said +Mr. Kendal. + +‘Ay! I knew how it would be! You encourage that child in every sort of +unbearable impudence; but I have endured it long enough, and I give you +warning that I do not remain another night under this roof unless I see +the impertinence flogged out of him.’ + +‘Papa never whips me,’ interposed Maurice. ‘You must ask mamma.’ + +Mr. Kendal bit his lips, and Albinia could have smiled, but their sense +of the ludicrous inflamed Algernon, and like one beside himself, he +swung round, and declaring he should ask his uncle if that were proper +treatment, he marched across the lawn, while Mr. Kendal exclaimed, ‘More +childish than Maurice!’ + +‘Oh, mamma, what shall I do?’ was Lucy’s woful cry, as she turned back, +finding herself unable to keep up with his huge step, and her calls +disregarded. + +‘My dear,’ said Albinia, affectionately, ‘you had better compose +yourself and follow him. His uncle will bring him to reason, and then +you can tell him how sorry we are.’ + +‘You may assure him,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘that I am as much hurt as he can +be, that such an improper use should have been made of O’More’s intimacy +here, and I mean to mark my sense of it.’ + +‘And,’ said Lucy, ‘I don’t think anything would pacify him so much as +Maurice being only a little beaten, not to hurt him, you know.’ + +‘If Maurice be punished, it shall not be in revenge,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘I’m afraid nothing else will do,’ said Lucy, wringing her hands. ‘He +has really declared that he will not sleep another night here unless +Maurice is punished; and whatever he says, he’ll do, and I know it would +kill me to go away in this manner.’ + +Her father confidently averred that he would do no such thing, but she +cried so much as to move Maurice into exclaiming, ‘Look here, Lucy, I’ll +come up with you, and let him give me one good punch, and then we shall +all be comfortable again.’ + +‘I don’t know about the punching,’ said Albinia; ‘but I think the least +you can do, Maurice, is to go and ask his forgiveness for having been so +very naughty. You were not thinking what you were about when you locked +him in.’ + +This measure was adopted, Mr. Kendal accompanying Lucy and the boy, +while Albinia went in search of Sophy, whom she found in grandmamma’s +room, looking very pale. ‘Well?’ was the inquiry, and she told what had +passed. + +‘I hope Maurice will be punished,’ said Sophy; so unwonted a sentiment, +that Albinia quite started, though it was decidedly her own opinion. + +‘That meddling with papers was very bad,’ she said, with an extenuating +smile. + +‘Fun is a perfect demon when it becomes master,’ said Sophy. It +was plain that it was not Maurice that she was thinking of, but the +caricature. Her sister should have been sacred from derision. + +‘We must remember,’ she said, ‘that it was only through Maurice’s +meddling that we became aware of the existence of this precious work. It +is not as if he had shown it to any one. + +‘How many of the O’Mores have made game of it?’ asked Sophy, bitterly. +‘No, I am glad I know of it, I shall not be deceived any more.’ + +With these words she withdrew, evidently resolved to put an end to +the subject. Her face was like iron, and Albinia grieved for the deep +resentment that the man whom she had ventured to think of as devoted to +herself, had made game of her sister. Poor Sophy, to her that tryste had +been a subject of unmitigated affliction and shame, and it was a +cruel wound that Ulick O’More should, of all men, have turned it into +ridicule. What would be the effect on her? + +In process of time Mr. Kendal returned. ‘Albinia,’ he said, ‘this is +a most unfortunate affair. He is perfectly impracticable, insists on +starting for Paris to-morrow, and I verily believe he will.’ + +‘Poor Lucy.’ + +‘She is in such distress, that I could not bear to look at her, but +he will not attend to her, nor to his uncle and aunt. Mrs. Dusautoy +proposed that they should come to the vicarage, where there would be no +danger of collisions with Maurice; but his mind can admit no idea but +that he has been insulted, and that we encourage it, and he thinks his +dignity concerned in resenting it.’ + +‘Not much dignity in being driven off the field by a child of six years +old.’ + +‘So his aunt told him, but he mixes it up with O’More, and insists on +my complaining to Mr. Goldsmith, and getting the lad dismissed for a +libellous caricaturist, as he calls it. Now, little as I should have +expected such conduct from O’More, it could not be made a ground of +complaint to his uncle.’ + +‘I should think not. No one with more wit than Algernon would have +dreamt of it! But if Ulick came and apologized? Ah! but I forgot! Mr. +Goldsmith sent him to London this morning. Well, it may be better that +he should be out of the way of Algernon in his present mood.’ + +‘Humph!’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It is the first time I ever allowed a +stranger to be intimate in my family, and it shall be the last. I never +imagined him aware of the circumstance.’ + +‘Nor I; I am sure none of us mentioned it.’ + +‘Maurice told him, I suppose. It is well that we should be aware who +has instigated the child’s impertinence. I shall keep him as much as +possible with me; he must be cured of Irish brogue and Irish coolness +before they are confirmed.’ + +Mr. Kendal’s conscience was evidently relieved by transferring to the +Irishman the imputation of fostering Maurice’s malpractices. + +They were interrupted by Lucy’s arrival. She was come to take leave of +home, for her lord was not to be dissuaded from going to London by the +evening’s train. The greater the consternation, the sweeter his revenge. +Never able to see more than one side of a question, he could not +perceive how impossible it was for the Kendals to fulfil his condition +with regard to Ulick O’More, and he sullenly adhered to his obstinate +determination. Lucy was in an agony of grief, and perhaps the +most painful blow was the perception how little he was swayed by +consideration for her. Her maid packed, while her parents tried to +console her. It was easier when she bewailed the terrors of the voyage, +and the uncertainty of hearing of dear grandmamma and dear Gilbert, than +when she sobbed about Algernon having no feeling for her. It might be +only too true, but her wifely submission ought not to have acknowledged +it, and they would not hear when they could not comfort; and so they +were forced to launch her on the world, with a tyrant instead of a +guide, and dreading the effect of dissipation on her levity of mind, as +much as they grieved for her feeble spirit. It was a piteous parting--a +mournful departure for a bride--a heavy penalty for vanity and weakness. + +Unfortunately the result is to an action as the lens through which it +is viewed, and the turpitude of the deed seems to increase or diminish +according to the effect it produces. + +Had it been in Algernon Dusautoy’s nature to receive the joke +good-humouredly, it might have been regarded as an audacious exercise +of wit, and have been quickly forgotten, but when it had actually made +a breach between him and his wife’s family, and driven him from Bayford +when everything conspired to make his departure unfeelingly cruel, the +caricature was regarded as a serious insult and an abuse of intimacy. +Even Mr. Kendal was not superior to this view, feeling the offence with +all the sensitiveness of a hot-tempered man, a proud reserved guardian +of the sanctities of home, and of a father who had seen his daughter’s +weakest and most faulty action turned into ridicule, and he seemed to +feel himself bound to atone for not going to all the lengths to which +Algernon would have impelled him, by showing the utmost displeasure +within the bounds of common sense. + +Albinia, better appreciating the irresistibly ludicrous aspect of the +adventure, argued that the sketch harmlessly shut up in a paper-case +showed no great amount of insolence, and that considering how the +discovery had been made, it ought not to be visited. She thought the +drawing had better be restored without remarks by the same hand that had +abstracted it; but Mr. Kendal sternly declared this was impossible, and +Sophy’s countenance seconded him. + +‘Well, then,’ said Albinia, ‘put it into my hands. I’m a bad manager +in general, but I can promise that Ulick will come down so shocked and +concerned, that you will not have the heart not to forgive him.’ + +‘The question is not of forgiveness,’ said Sophy, in the most rigid +of voices, as she saw yielding in her father’s face; if any one had to +forgive, it was poor Lucy and Algernon. All we have to do, is to be on +our guard for the future.’ + +‘Sophy is right,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘intimacy must be over with one who +has so little discretion or good taste.’ + +‘Then after his saving Maurice, he is to be given up, because he quizzed +the Polysyllable?’ cried Albinia. + +‘I do not give him up,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I highly esteem his good +qualities, and should be happy to do him a service, but I cannot have my +family at the mercy of his wit, nor my child taught disrespect. We have +been unwisely familiar, and must retreat.’ + +‘And what do you mean us to do?’ exclaimed Albinia. ‘Are we to cut him +systematically?’ + +‘I do not know what course you may adopt,’ said Mr. Kendal, in a tone +whose grave precision rebuked her half petulant, half facetious inquiry. +‘I have told you that I do not mean to do anything extravagant, nor +to discontinue ordinary civilities, but I think you will find that our +former habits are not resumed.’ + +‘And Maurice must not be always with him,’ said Sophy. + +‘Certainly not; I shall keep the boy with myself.’ + +It was with the greatest effort that Albinia held her tongue. To have +Sophy not only making common cause against her, but inciting her father +to interfere about Maurice, was well-nigh intolerable, and she only +endured it by sealing her lips as with a bar of iron. + +By-and-by came the reflection that if poor Sophy had a secret cause of +bitterness, it was she herself who had given those thoughts substance +and consciousness, and she quickly forgave every one save herself and +Algernon. + +As to her little traitor son, she took him seriously in hand at bedtime, +and argued the whole transaction with him, representing the dreadful +consequences of meddling with people’s private papers under trust. Here +was poor Lucy taken away from home, and papa made very angry with Ulick, +because Maurice had been meddlesome and mischievous; and though he had +not been beaten for it, he would find it a worse punishment not to be +trusted another time, nor allowed to be with Ulick. + +Maurice turned round with mouth open at hearing of papa’s anger with +Ulick, and the accusation of having brought his friend into trouble. + +‘Why, Maurice, you remember how unhappy we were, Gilbert and all. It was +because it was sadly wrong of Gilbert and Lucy to have let Algernon in +without papa’s knowing it, and it was not right or friendly in Ulick to +laugh at what was so wrong, and grieved us all so much.’ + +‘It was such fun,’ said Maurice. + +‘Yes, Maurice; but fun is no excuse for doing what is unkind and +mischievous. Ulick would not have been amused if he had cared as much +for us as we thought he did, but, after all, his drawing the picture +would have done no harm but for a little boy, whom he trusted, never +thinking that an unkind wish to tease, would betray this foolish action, +and set his best friends against him.’ + +‘I did not know I should,’ said Maurice, winking hard. + +‘No; you did not know you were doing what, if you were older, would have +been dishonourable.’ + +That word was too much! First he hid his face from his mother, and +cried out fiercely, ‘I’ve not--I’ve not been that and clenched his fist. +‘Don’t say it, mamma.’ + +‘If you had known what you were doing, it would have been +dishonourable,’ she repeated, gravely. ‘It will be a long time before +you earn trust and confidence again.’ + +There was a great struggle with his tears. She had punished him, and +almost more than she could bear to see, but she knew the conquest must +be secured, and she tried, while she caressed him, to make him look +at the real cause of his lapse; he declared that it was ‘such fun’ to +provoke Algernon, and a little more brought out a confession of the +whole course of persecution, the child’s voice becoming quite triumphant +as he told of the success of his tricks, and his mother, though +appalled at their audacity, with great difficulty hindering herself from +manifesting her amusement. + +She did not wonder at Algernon’s having found it intolerable, and though +angry with him for having made himself such fair game, she set to work +to impress upon Maurice his own errors, and the hatefulness of practical +jokes, and she succeeded so far as to leave him crying himself to sleep, +completely subdued, while she felt as if all the tears ought to have +been shed by herself for her want of vigilance. + +Conflicting duties! how hard to strike the balance! She had readily +given up her own pleasures for the care of Mrs. Meadows, but when it +came to her son’s training, it was another question. + +She much wished to see the note with which Mr. Kendal returned the +unfortunate sketch, but one of the points on which he was sensitive, was +the sacredness of his correspondence, and all that she heard was, +that Ulick had answered ‘not at all as Mr. Kendal had expected; he was +nothing but an Irishman, after all.’ But at last she obtained a sight of +the note. + + + ‘Bayford, Nov. 20th, 1854. +‘Dear Sir, + +‘I was much astonished at the contents of your letter of this morning, +and greatly concerned that Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy should have done so +much honour to any production of mine, as to alter his arrangements on +that account. + +‘As the scrawl in question was not meant to meet the eye of any living +being, I should, for my own part, have considered it proper to take no +notice of what was betrayed by mere accident. I should have considered +it more conducive to confidence between gentlemen. I fully acquiesce in +what you say of the cessation of our former terms of acquaintance, and +with many thanks for past kindness, believe me, + + ‘Your obedient servant, + ‘U. O’MORE.’ + + +Nothing was more evidently written in a passion at the invasion of +these private papers, and Albinia, though she had always feared he might +consider himself the aggrieved party, had hardly expected so much proud +irritation and so little regret. Mr. Kendal called him ‘foolish boy,’ +and tried to put the matter aside, but he was much hurt, and Ulick put +himself decidedly in the wrong by passing in the street with a formal +bow, when Mr. Kendal, according to his purpose of ordinary civility +without an open rupture, would have shaken hands. + +Sophy looked white, stern, and cold, but said not a word; she deepened +her father’s displeasure quite sufficiently by her countenance. His +was grave disappointment in a youth whom he found less grateful than +he thought he had a right to expect; hers was the rankling of what she +deemed an insult to her sister, and the festering of a wound of which +she was ashamed. She meant to bear it well, but it made her very hard +and rigid, and even the children could hardly extract a smile from her. +She seemed to have made a determination to do all that Lucy or herself +had ever done, and more too, and listened to no entreaties to spare +herself. Commands were met with sullen resignation, entreaties were +unavailing, and both in the sickroom and the parish, she insisted on +working beyond her powers. It was a nightly battle to send her to bed, +and Albinia suspected that she did not sleep. Meantime Lucy had sailed, +and was presently heard of in a whirl of excitement that shortened her +letters, and made them joyous and self-important. + +‘Ah!’ said Sophy, ‘she will soon forget that she ever had a home.’ + +‘Poor dear! Wait till trouble comes, and she will remember it only too +sadly,’ sighed Albinia. + +‘Trouble is certain enough,’ said Sophy; ‘but I don’t think what we +deserve does us much good.’ + +Sophy could see nothing but the most ungentle and gloomy aspects. +Gilbert had not yet written, and she was convinced that he was either +very ill, or had only recovered to be killed at Inkermann, and she would +only sigh at the Gazette that announced Lieutenant Gilbert Kendal’s +promotion to be Captain, and Major the Honourable Frederick Ferrars to +be Lieutenant-Colonel. + +The day after, however, came the long expected letter from the +captain himself. It was to Mrs. Kendal, and she detected a shade of +disappointment on her husband’s face, so she would have handed it to him +at once, but he said, ‘No, the person to whom the letter is addressed, +should always be the first to read it.’ + +The letter began with Gilbert’s happiness in those from home, which he +called the greatest pleasure he had ever known. He feared he had caused +uneasiness by not writing sooner, but it had been out of his power while +Fred Ferrars was in danger. Then followed the account of the severe +illness from which Fred was scarcely beginning to rally, though that +morning, on hearing that he was to be sent home as soon as he could +move, he had talked about Canada and Emily. Gilbert said that not only +time but strength had been wanting for writing, for attendance on Fred +had been all that he could attempt, since moving produced so much pain +and loss of breath, that he had been forced to be absolutely still +whenever he was not wanted, but he was now much better. ‘Though,’ he +continued, ‘I do not now mind telling you that I had thought myself +gone. You, who have known all my feelings, and have borne with them so +kindly, will understand the effect upon me, when on the night previous +to the 25th, I distinctly heard my own name, in Edmund’s voice, at the +head of my bed, just as he used to call me when he had finished his +lessons, and wanted me to come out with him. As I started up, I heard +it again outside the tent. I ran to the door, but of course there was +nothing, nor did poor Wynne hear anything. I lay awake for some time, +but slept at last, and had forgotten all by morning. It did not even +occur to me when I saw the pleasant race they had cut out for us, nor +through the whole affair. Do not ask me to describe it, the scene haunts +me enough. When I found that I had not come off unhurt, and it seemed +as if I could not ask for one of our fellows but to hear he was dead +or dying, poor Wynne among them, then the voice seemed a summons. I was +thoroughly done up, and could not even speak when General Ferrars came +to me; I only wanted to be let alone to die in peace. I fancy I slept, +for the next thing I heard was the Major’s voice asking for some water, +too feebly to wake the fellow who had been left in charge. I got up, and +found him in a state of high fever and great pain, and from that time to +the present, I have hardly thought of the circumstance, and know not +why I have now written it to you. Did my danger actually bring Edmund +nearer, or did its presence act on my imagination? Be that as it may, +I think, after the first impression of awe and terror, the having heard +the dear old voice braced me, and gave me a sense of being near home and +less lonely. Not that my hurt has been for an instant dangerous, and I +am mending every day; if it were warmer I should get on faster, but I +cannot stir into the air without bringing on cough. Tell Ulick O’More +that we entertained his brother at tea last evening, we were obliged +to desire him to bring his own cup, and he produced the shell of a land +tortoise; it was very like the fox and the crane. Poor fellow, it was +the first good meal he had for weeks, and I was glad he came in for some +famous bread that the General had sent us in. He made us much more +merry than was convenient to either of us, not being in condition for +laughing. He is a fine lad, and liked by all.’ Then came a break, and +the letter closed with such tidings of Inkermann as had reached the +invalid’s tent. + +A few lines from General Ferrars spoke of the improvement in both +patients, adding that Fred had had a hard struggle for his life, and had +only been saved, by Gilbert’s unremitting care by day and night. + +Heroism had not transformed Gilbert, and Albinia’s old fondness glowed +with double ardour as she mused over his history of the battle-eve. +His father attributed the impression to a mind full of presage and +excitement, acted upon by strong memory; but woman-like, Albinia +preferred the belief that the one twin might have been an actual +messenger to cheer and strengthen the other for the coming trial. Sophy +only said, ‘Gilbert’s fancies as usual.’ + +‘This was not like fancy,’ said Albinia. ‘This is an unkind way of +taking it.’ + +‘It is common sense,’ she bluntly answered. ‘I don’t see why he should +think that Edmund has nothing better to do than to call him. It would be +childish.’ + +Albinia did not reply, disturbed by this display of jealousy and +harshness, as if every bud of tenderness had been dried up and withered, +and poor Sophy only wanted to run counter to any obvious sentiment. + +Albinia was grateful for the message which gave her an excuse for +seeking Ulick out, and endeavouring to conciliate him. Mr. Kendal made +no objection, and expressed a hope that he might have become reasonable. +She therefore contrived to waylay him in the November darkness, holding +out her hand so that he took it at unawares, as if not recollecting that +he was offended, but in the midst his grasp relaxed, and his head went +up. + +‘I have a message for you from Gilbert about your brother Bryan,’ she +said, and he could not defend himself from manifesting eager interest, +as she told of the tea-party; but that over, it was in stiff formal +English that he said, ‘I hope you had a good account.’ + +It struck a chill, and she answered, almost imploringly, ‘Gilbert is +much better, thank you.’ + +‘I am glad to hear it;’ and he was going to bow and pass on, when she +exclaimed, + +‘Ulick, why are we strangers?’ + +‘It was agreed on all hands that things past could not be undone,’ he +frigidly replied. + +‘Too true,’ she said; ‘but I do not think you know how sorry we are for +my poor little boy’s foolish trick.’ + +‘I owe no displeasure to Maurice. He knew no more what he was doing than +if he had been a gust of wind; but if the wind had borne a private paper +to my feet, I would never have acted on the contents.’ + +‘Unhappily,’ said Albinia, ‘some revelations, though received against +our will, cannot help being felt. We saw the drawing before we knew how +he came by it, and you cannot wonder that it gave pain to find that a +scene so distressing to us should have furnished you with amusement. It +was absurd in itself, but we had hoped it was a secret, and it wounded +us because we thought you would have been tender of our feelings.’ + +‘You don’t mean that it was fact!’ cried Ulick, stopping suddenly; and +as her silence replied, he continued, ‘I give you my word and honour +that I never imagined there was a word of truth in the farrago old Biddy +told me, and I’ll not deny that I did scrawl the scene down as the +very picture of a bit of slander. I only wonder I’d not brought it to +yourself.’ + +‘Pray let me hear what she told you.’ + +‘Oh! she said they two had been colloguing together by moonlight, and +you came home in the midst, and Miss Kendal fainted away, so he catches +up the ink and throws it over her instead of water, and you and Mr. +Kendal came in and were mad entirely; and Mr. Kendal threatened to brain +him with the poker if he did not quit it that instant, and sent Gilbert +for a soldier for opening the door to him, but you and Lucy went down on +your bare knees to get him to relent.’ + +‘Well, I own the poker does throw an air of improbability over the +whole. Minus that and the knees, I am afraid it is only too true. I +suppose it got abroad through the servants.’ + +‘It was an unlucky goose-quill that lay so handy,’ exclaimed Ulick; ‘but +you may credit me, no eye but my own ever saw the scrawl, nor would have +seen it.’ + +‘Then, Ulick, if we all own that something is to be regretted, why do we +stand aloof, and persist in quarrelling?’ + +‘I want no quarrel,’ said Ulick, stiffly. ‘Mr. Kendal intimated to me +that he did not wish for my company, and I’m not the man to force it.’ + +‘Oh, Ulick, this is not what I hoped from you!’ + +‘I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Kendal, you could talk over the Giant’s +Causeway if you had a mind,’ said Ulick, with much agitation; ‘but you +must not talk over me, for your own judgment would be against it. You +know what I am, and what I came of, and what have I in the world except +the honour of a gentleman? Mr. Kendal and yourself have been my kindest +friends, and I’ll be grateful to my dying day; but if Mr. Kendal thinks +I can submit tamely when he resents what he never ought to have noticed, +why, then, what have I to do but to show him the difference? If his +kindness was to me as a gentleman and his equal, I love and bless him +for it, but if it be a patronizing of the poor clerk, why, then, I +owe it to myself and my people to show that I can stand alone, without +cringing, and being thankful for affronts.’ + +‘Did it ever occur to you to think whether pride be a sin?’ + +‘’Tis not pride!’ cried Ulick. It is my duty to my family and my name. +You’d say yourself, as you allowed before now, that it would be mere +meanness and servility to swallow insults for one’s own profit; and if +I were to say “you’re welcome, with many thanks, to shuffle over my +private papers, and call myself to account,” I’d better have given up my +name at once, for I’d have left the gentleman behind me.’ + +‘I do believe it is solely for the O’Mores that you are making a duty of +implacability!’ + +‘It is a duty not to run from one’s word, and debase oneself for one’s +own advantage.’ + +‘One would think some wonderful advantage was held out to you.’ + +‘The pleasantest hours of my life,’ murmured he sadly, under his breath. + +‘Well, Ulick,’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘I’m not quite +dissatisfied; I think some day even an O’More will see that there is no +exception from the law of forgiveness in their special favour, and that +you will not be able to go on resenting what we have suffered from the +young of the spider-monkey.’ + +Even this allusion produced no outward effect; he only shook hands +gravely, saying, ‘I never did otherwise than forgive, and regret the +consequences: I am very thankful for all your past kindness.’ + +Worse than the Giant’s Causeway, thought Albinia as she parted from him. +Nothing is so hopeless as that sort of forgiveness, because it satisfies +the conscience. + +Mr. Kendal predicted that, the Keltic dignity having been asserted, good +sense and principle would restore things to a rational footing. What +this meant might be uncertain, but he certainly missed Prometheus, and +found Maurice a poor substitute. Indulgence itself could hardly hold out +in unmitigated intercourse with an obstreperous dunce not seven years +old, and Maurice, deprived of Gilbert, cut off from Ulick, with mamma +busy, and Sophy out of spirits, underwent more snubbing than had ever +yet fallen to his lot. Not that he was much concerned thereat; and Mr. +Kendal would resume his book after a lecture upon good manners, and then +be roused to find his library a gigantic cobweb, strings tied to every +leg of table or chair, and Maurice and the little Awk enacting spider +and fly, heedless of the unwilling flies who might suffer by their trap. +Such being the case, his magnanimity was the less amazing when he said, +‘Albinia, there is no reason that O’More should not eat his Christmas +dinner here.’ + +‘Very well. I trust he will not think it needful still to be +self-denying.’ + +‘It is not our part to press advances which are repelled,’ said Sophy. + +‘Indeed, Sophy,’ said her father, smiling, ‘I see nothing attractive in +the attitude of rocks rent asunder.’ + +The undesigned allusion must have gone deep, for she coloured to a +purple crimson, and said in a freezing tone, ‘I thought you considered +that to take him up again would be a direct insult to Lucy and her +husband.’ + +‘They do not show much consideration for us,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘How long +ago was the date of her last letter?’ + +‘Nearly three weeks,’ said Albinia. ‘Poor child, how could she write +with the catalogue raisonnee of the Louvre to learn by heart?’ + +The Dusautoys yearly gave a Christmas tea-party to the teachers in the +Sunday-school, who had of late become more numerous, as Mr. Dusautoy’s +influence had had more time to tell. Mrs. Kendal was reckoned on as +one of the chief supporters of the gaiety of the evening, but on this +occasion she was forced to send Sophia alone. + +Sophy regarded it as a duty and a penance, and submitted the more +readily because it was so distasteful. It was, however, more than she +had reckoned on to find that the party had been extended to the male +teachers, an exceedingly good and lugubrious-looking youth lately +apprenticed to Mr. Bowles, and Ulick O’More. It was the first time she +had met the latter since his offence. She avoided seeing him as long as +possible, though all his movements seemed to thrill her, and so confused +the conversation which she was trying to keep up, that she found herself +saying that Genevieve Durant had lost an arm, and that Gilbert would +spend Christmas in London. + +She felt him coming nearer; she knew he was passing the Miss Northover +in the purple silk and red neck-ribbon; she heard him exchanging a few +civil words with the sister with the hair strained off her face; +she knew he was coming; she grew more eager in her fears for Mr. +Rainsforth’s chest. + +Tea was announced. Sophy held back in the general move, Ulick made a +step nearer, their eyes met, and if ever eyes spoke, hers ordered him +to keep his distance, while he glanced affront for affront, bowed and +stepped back. + +Sophy sat by Miss Jane Northover, and endeavoured to make her talk. +Anything would have been better than the echoes of the sprightliness at +the lower end of the table, where Ulick was talking what he would have +called blarney to Miss Susan Northover and Miss Mary Anne Higgins, both +at once, till he excited them into a perpetual giggle. Mr. Dusautoy was +delighted, and evidently thought this brilliant success; Mrs. Dusautoy +was less at her ease--the mirth was less sober and more exclusive than +she had intended; and Sophy, finding nothing could be made of Miss Jane, +turned round to her other neighbour, Mr. Hope, and asked his opinion of +the Whewell and Brewster controversy on the Plurality of Worlds. + +Mr. Hope had rather a good opinion of Miss Sophia, and as she had never +molested him, could talk to her, so he straightway became engrossed in +the logical and theological aspects of the theory; and Mrs. Dusautoy +could hardly suppress her smile at this unconscious ponderous attempt +at a counter flirtation, with Saturn and Jupiter as weapons for light +skirmishing. + +Ulick received the invitation to dinner, and did not accept it. He said +he had an engagement--Albinia wondered what it could be, and had +reason afterwards to think that he had the silent young apothecary to a +Christmas dinner in his own rooms--an act of charity at least, if not +of forgiveness. Mr. Johns, the senior clerk, whose health had long been +failing, was about to retire, and this announcement was followed by +the appearance of a smart, keen-looking young man of six or +seven-and-twenty, whom Miss Goldsmith paraded as her cousin, Mr. Andrew +Goldsmith, and it was generally expected that he would be taken into +partnership, and undertake old John’s work, but in a fortnight he +disappeared, and young O’More was promoted to the vacant post with an +increase of salary. It was mortifying only to be informed through Mr. +Dusautoy, instead of by the lad himself. + +The Eastern letters were the chief comfort. First came tidings that +Gilbert, not having yet recovered his contusion, was to accompany +Colonel Ferrars to Scutari, and then after a longer interval came a +brief and joyous note--Gilbert was coming home! On his voyage from the +Crimea he had caught cold, and this had brought on severe inflammation +on the injured chest, which had laid him by for many days at Scutari. +The colonel had become the stronger of the two, in spite of a fragment +of shell lodged so deeply in the side, that the medical board advised +his going to London for its removal. Both were ordered home together +with six months’ leave, and Gilbert’s note overflowed with glad +messages to all, including Algernon, of whose departure he was still in +ignorance. + +Mr. Kendal knew not whether he was most gratified or discomfited by the +insinuating ringer who touched his hat, hoping for due notice of the +captain’s arrival in time to welcome him with a peal of bells. Indeed, +Bayford was so excited about its hero, that there were symptoms of plans +for a grand reception with speeches, cheers, and triumphal arches, which +caused Sophy to say she hoped that he would come suddenly without any +notice, so as to put a stop to all that nonsense; while Albinia could +not help nourishing a strange vague expectation that his return would be +the beginning of better days. + +At last, Sophia, with a touch of the old penny club fever, toiled over +the school clothing wilfully and unnecessarily for two hours, kept +up till evening without owning to the pain in her back, but finally +returned so faint and dizzy that she was forced to be carried helpless +to her room, and the next day could barely drag herself to the couch +in the morning-room, where she lay quite prostrated, and grieved at +increasing instead of lessening her mother’s cares. + +‘Oh, mamma, don’t stay with me. You are much too busy.’ + +‘No, I am not. The children are out, and grandmamma asleep, and I am +going to write to Lucy, but there’s no hurry. Let me cool your forehead +a little longer.’ + +‘How I hate being another bother!’ + +‘I like you much better so, than when you would not let me speak to you, +my poor child.’ + +‘I could not,’ she said, stifling her voice on the cushion, and averting +her head; but in a few moments she made a great effort, and said, ‘You +think me unforgiving, mamma. It was not entirely that. It was hating +myself for an old fancy, a mere mistake. I have got over it; and I will +not be in error again.’ + +‘Sophy dear, if you find strength in pride, it will only wound +yourself.’ + +‘I do not think I am proud,’ said Sophy, quietly. ‘I may have been +headstrong, but I despise myself too much for pride.’ + +‘Are you sure it was mere fancy? It was an idea that occurred to more +than to you.’ + +‘Hush!’ cried Sophy. ‘Had it been so, could he have ridiculed Lucy? +Could he have flown out so against papa? No; that caricature undeceived +me, and I am thankful. He treated us as cousins--no more--he would act +in the same manner by any of the Miss O’Mores of Ballymakilty, nay, by +Jane Northover herself. We did not allow for Irish manner.’ + +‘If so, he had no right to do so. I shall never wish to see him here +again.’ + +‘No, mamma, he did not know the folly he had to deal with. Next time I +meet him, I shall know how to be really indifferent. Now, this is the +last time we will mention the subject!’ + +Albinia obeyed, but still hoped. It was well that hope remained, for her +task was heavier than ever; Mrs. Meadows was feebler, but more restless +and wakeful, asking twenty times in an hour for Mrs. Kendal. The doctors +thought it impossible that she should hold out another fortnight, but +she lived on from day to day, and at times Albinia hardly could be +absent from her for ten minutes together. Sophy was so completely +knocked up that she could barely creep about the house, and was +forbidden the sick-room; but she was softened and gentle, and was +once more a companion to her father, while eagerly looking forward to +devoting herself to Gilbert. + +A letter with the Malta post-mark was eagerly opened, as the harbinger +of his speedy arrival. + + + ‘Royal Hotel, Malta, + February 10th, 1855. + +‘Dearest Mrs. Kendal, + +‘I am afraid you will all be much disappointed, though your grief cannot +equal mine at the Doctor’s cruel decree. We arrived here the day before +yesterday, but I had been so ill all the voyage with pain in the side +and cough, that there was no choice but to land, and call in Dr.----, +who tells me that my broken rib has damaged my lungs so much, that +I must keep perfectly quiet, and not think of going home till warm +weather. If I am well enough to join by that time, I shall not see you +at all unless you and my father could come out. Am I nourishing too +wild a hope in thinking it possible? Since Lucy has been so kind as to +promise never to leave grandmamma, I cannot help hoping you might be +spared. I do not think my proposal is selfish, since my poor grandmother +is so little conscious of your cares; and Ferrars insists on remaining +with me till he sees me in your hands, though they say that the splinter +must be extracted in London, and every week he remains here is so much +suffering, besides delaying his expedition to Canada. I have entreated +him to hasten on, but he will not hear of it. He is like a brother or +a father to me, and nurses me most tenderly, when he ought to be nursed +himself. We are famishing for letters. I suppose all ours have gone up +to Balaklava, and thence will be sent to England. If we were but there! +We are both much better for the quiet of these two days, and are to +move to-morrow to a lodging that a friend of Fred’s has taken for us at +Bormola, so as to be out of the Babel of these streets--we stipulated +that it should be large enough to take in you and my father. I wish +Sophy and the children would come too--it would do them all the good +in the world; and Maurice would go crazy among the big guns; I am only +afraid we should have him enlisting as a drummer. The happy pair +would be very glad to have the house to themselves, and would persuade +themselves that it was another honeymoon. + +‘Good-bye. Instead of looking for a letter, I shall come down to meet +you at the Quarantine harbour. Love to all. + + ‘Your most affectionate + ‘GILBERT KENDAL.’ + + +How differently Gilbert wrote when really ill, from his desponding style +when he only fancied himself so, thought Albinia, as, perplexed and +grieved, she handed the letter to her husband, and opened the enclosure, +written in the laboured, ill-formed characters of a left-hand not yet +accustomed to doing the offices of both. + + +‘Dear Albinia, + +‘Come, if possible. His heart is set upon it, though he does not realize +his condition, and I cannot bear to tell him. Only the utmost care can +save him. I am doing my best for him, but my nursing is as left-handed +as my writing. + + ‘Ever yours, + ‘F.F.’ + + +His wife’s look of horror was Mr. Kendal’s preparation for this emphatic +summons, perhaps a shock less sudden to him than to her, for he had not +been without misgivings ever since he had heard of the situation of the +injury. He read and spoke not, till the silence became intolerable, and +she burst out almost with a scream, ‘Oh! Edmund, I knew not what I did +when I took grandmamma into this house!’ + +‘This is very perplexing,’ he said, his feelings so intense that he +dared only speak of acting; ‘I must set out to-night.’ + +‘Order me to come with you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘That will cancel +everything else.’ + +‘Would Mrs. Drury take charge of her aunt?’ said he, with a moment’s +hesitation; and Albinia felt it implied his impression that they were +bound by her repeated promises never to quit the invalid, but she only +spoke the more vehemently-- + +‘Mrs Drury? She might--she would, under the circumstances. She could +not refuse. If you desire me to come, I should not be doing wrong; and +grandmamma might never even miss me. Surely--oh surely, a young life, +full of hope and promise, that may yet be saved, is not to be set +against what cannot be prolonged more than a few weeks.’ + +‘As to that,’ said Mr. Kendal, in the deliberate tone which denoted +dissatisfaction, ‘though of course it would be the greatest blessing to +have you with us, I think you may trust Gilbert to my care. And we must +consider poor Sophia.’ + +‘She could not bear to be considered.’ + +‘No; but it would be leaving her in a most distressing position, when +she is far from well, and with most uncongenial assistants. You see, +poor Gilbert reckons on Lucy being here, which would make it very +different. But think of poor Sophia in the event of Mrs. Meadows not +surviving till our return!’ + +‘You are right! It would half kill her! My promise was sacred; I was a +wretch to think of breaking it. But when I think of my boy--my Gilbert +pining for me, and I deserting him--’ + +‘For the sake of duty,’ said her husband. ‘Let us do right, and trust +that all will be overruled for the best. I shall go with an easier mind +if I leave you with the other children, and I can be the sooner with +him.’ + +‘I could travel as fast.’ + +‘I may soon bring him home to you. Or you might bring the others to join +us in the south of France. You will all need change.’ + +The decision was made, and her judgment acquiesced, though she could +hardly have cast the balance for herself. She urged no more, even when +relentings came over her husband at the thought of the trials to which +he was leaving her, and of those which he should meet in solitude; yet +not without a certain secret desire to make himself sufficient for the +care and contentment of his own son. He cast about for all possible +helpers for her, but could devise nothing except a note entreating her +brother to be with her as much as possible, and commending her to the +Dusautoys. It was a less decided kindness that he ordered Maurice’s pony +to be turned out to grass, so as to prevent rides in solitude, thinking +the boy too young to be trusted, and warned by the example of Gilbert’s +temptations. + +Going up to the bank to obtain a supply of gold, he found young O’More +there without his uncle. The tidings of Gilbert’s danger had spread +throughout the town, and one heart at least was softened. Ulick wrung +the hand that lately he would not touch, and Mr. Kendal forgot his wrath +as he replied to the warm-hearted inquiry for particulars. + +‘Then Mrs. Kendal cannot go with you?’ + +‘No, it is impossible. There is no one able to take charge of Mrs. +Meadows.’ + +‘Ah! and Mrs. Cavendish Dusautoy is gone! I grieve for the hour when my +pen got the better of me. Mr. Kendal, this is worse than I thought. +Your son will never forgive me when he knows I’m at the bottom of his +disappointment.’ + +‘There is something to forgive on all hands,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘That +meddlesome boy of mine has caused worse results than we could have +contemplated. I believe it has been a lesson to him.’ + +‘I know it has to some one else,’ said Ulick. ‘I wish I could do +anything! It would be the greatest comfort you could give me to tell +me of a thing I could do for Gilbert or any of you. If you’d send me to +find Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, and tell him ‘twas all my fault, and bring +them back--’ + +‘Rather too wild a project, thank you,’ said Mr. Kendal, smiling. ‘No; +the only thing you could do, would be--if that boy of mine have not +completely forfeited your kindness--’ + +‘Maurice! Ah! how I have missed the rogue.’ + +‘Poor little fellow, I am afraid he may be a burthen to himself and +every one else. It would be a great relief if you could be kind enough +now and then to give him the pleasure of a walk.’ + +Maurice did not attend greatly to papa’s permission to go out with Mr. +O’More. Either it was clogged with too many conditions of discretion, +and too many reminiscences of the past; or Maurice’s mind was too much +bent on the thought of his brother. Both children haunted the packing +up, entreating to send out impossible presents. Maurice could hardly +be persuaded out of contributing a perilous-looking boomerang, which +he argued had some sense in it; while he scoffed at the little Awk, +who stood kissing and almost crying over the china countenance of her +favourite doll, entreating that papa would take dear Miss Jenny because +Gibbie loved her the best of all, and always put her to sleep on his +knees. At last matters were compromised by Sophy, who roused herself to +do one of the few things for which she had strength, engrossing them by +cutting out in paper an interminable hunt with horses and dogs adhering +together by the noses and tails, which, when brilliantly painted +according to their united taste, they might safely imagine giving +pleasure to Gilbert, while, at any rate, it would do no harm in papa’s +pocket-book. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + + + +The day after Mr. Kendal’s departure, Mrs. Meadows had another attack, +but a fortnight still passed before the long long task was over and the +weary spirit set free. There had been no real consciousness and no one +could speak of regret; of anything but relief and thankfulness that +release had come at last, when Albinia had redeemed her pledge and knew +she should no more hear of the dreary ‘very bad night,’ nor be greeted +by the low, restless moan. The long good-night was come, and, on the +whole, there was peace and absence of self-condemnation in looking back +on the past connexion. Forbearance and unselfishness were recompensed +by the calm tenderness with which she could regard one who at the outset +had appeared likely to cause nothing but frets and misunderstandings. + +Had she and Sophy been left to themselves, there would have been nothing +to break upon this frame of mind, but early the next day arrived Mr. and +Mrs. Drury, upsetting all her arrangements, implying that it had been +presumptuous to exert any authority without relationship. It did seem +hard that the claims of kindred should be only recollected in order to +unsettle her plans, and offend her unostentatious tastes. + +Averse both to the proposals, and to the discussion, she felt +unprotected and forlorn, but her spirit revived as she heard her +brother’s voice in the hall, and she hastened to put herself in his +hands. He declined doing battle, he said it would be better to yield +than to argue, and leave a grudge for ever. ‘It will not vex Edmund,’ +he said, ‘and though you and Sophy may be pained by incongruities, they +will hurt you less than disputing.’ + +She felt that he was right, and by yielding the main points he contrived +amicably to persuade Mr. Drury out of the numerous invitations and grand +luncheon as well as to adhere to the day that she had originally fixed +for the funeral, after which he hoped to take her and the young ones +home with him and give her the thorough change and rest of which the +over-energy of her manner betrayed the need. + +Not that she consented. She could not bear not to meet her letters at +once; or suppose Edmund and Gilbert should return to an empty, unaired +house, and she thought herself selfish, when it might do so much good to +Sophy, &c., &c., &c.--till Mr. Ferrars, going home for a night, agreed +with Winifred, that domineering would be the only way to deal with her. + +On his return he found Albinia on the stairs, and boxes and trunks +carried down after her. Running to him, she exclaimed, abruptly, ‘I am +going to Malta, Maurice, to-morrow evening!’ + +‘Has Edmund sent for you?’ + +‘Not exactly--he did not know--but Gilbert is dying, and wretched at my +not coming. I never wished him good-by--he thinks I did not forgive him. +Don’t say a word--I shall go.’ + +He held her trembling hands, and said, ‘This is not the way to be able +to go. Come in here, sit down and tell me.’ + +‘It is no use to argue. It is my duty now,’ said Albinia; but she let +him lead her into the room, where Sophy was changing the bright border +of a travelling-cloak to crape, and Maurice stood watching, as if +stunned. + +‘It is settled,’ continued she, rapidly. ‘Sophy and the children go +to the vicarage. Yes, I know, you are very kind, but Maurice would be +troublesome, and Winifred is not well enough, and the Dusautoys wish +it.’ + +‘Yes, that may be the best plan, as I shall be absent.’ + +She turned round, startled. + +‘I cannot let you go alone.’ + +‘Nonsense--Winifred--Sunday--Lent--I don’t want any one. Nothing could +happen to me.’ + +Mr. Ferrars caught Sophy’s eye beaming with sudden relief and gratitude, +and repeated, ‘If you go, I must take you.’ + +‘I can’t wait for Sunday,’ she said. + +‘What have you heard?’ + +She produced the letter, and read parts of it. The whole stood thus:-- + + +‘Bormola, 11 p.m., February 28th, 1855. + +‘Dearest Albinia, + +‘I hope all has gone fairly well with you in my absence, and that Sophia +is well again. Could I have foreseen the condition of affairs here, I +doubt whether I could have resolved on leaving you at home, though you +may be spared much by not being with us. I landed at noon to-day, and +was met in the harbour by your cousin, who had come off in a boat +in hopes of finding you on board. He did his best to prepare me for +Gilbert’s appearance, but I was more shocked than I can express. There +can no longer be any doubt that it is a case of rapid decline, brought +on by exposure, and, aggravated by the injury at Balaklava. Colonel +Ferrars fancies that Gilbert’s exertions on his behalf in the early part +of his illness may have done harm, by preventing the broken bone +from uniting, and causing it to press on the lungs; but knowing the +constitutional tendency, we need not dwell on secondary causes, and +there is no one to whom we owe a deeper debt of gratitude than to your +cousin, for his most assiduous and affectionate attendance at a time +when he is very little equal to exertion. They are like brothers +together, and I am sure nothing has been wanting to Gilbert that he +could devise for his comfort. They are in a tolerably commodious airy +lodging, where I found Gilbert propped up with cushions on a large chair +by the window, flushed with eager watching. Poor fellow, to see how +his countenance fell when he found I was alone, was the most cutting +reproach I ever received in my life. He was so completely overcome, +that he could not restrain his tears, though he strove hard to command +himself in this fear of wounding my feelings; but there are moments +when the truth will have its way, and you have been more to him than his +father has ever been. May it be granted that he may yet know how I feel +towards him! His first impression was that you had never forgiven him +for his unfortunate adventure with Maurice, and could never feel towards +him as before; and though I trust I have removed this idea, perhaps such +a letter as you can write might set his heart at rest. Ferrars says that +hitherto his spirits have kept up wonderfully, though latterly he +had been evidently aware of his condition, but he has been very +much depressed this evening, probably from the reaction of excited +expectation. On learning the cause of Lucy’s desertion, he seemed to +consider that his participation in the transactions of that night had +recoiled upon himself, and deprived him of your presence. It was very +painful to see how he took it. He was eager to be told of the children, +and the only time I saw him brighten was when I gave him their messages. +I am writing while I hope he sleeps. I am glad to be here to relieve +the Colonel, who for several nights past has slept on the floor, in his +room, not thinking the Maltese servant trustworthy. He looks very ill +and suffering, but seems to have no thought but for Gilbert, and +will not hear of leaving him; and, in truth, they cling together so +affectionately, that I could not bear to urge their parting, even were +Fred more fit to travel home alone. I will close my letter to-morrow +after the doctor’s visit.’ + + +The conclusion was even more desponding; the physician had spoken of the +case as hopeless, and likely to terminate rapidly; and Gilbert, who was +always at the worst in the morning, had shown no symptom that could lead +his father to retract his first impression. + +Mr. Ferrars saw that it would be useless and cruel to endeavour to +detain his sister, and only doubted whether in her precipitation, she +might not cross and miss her husband in a still sadder journey homeward, +and this made him the more resolved to be her escort. When she dissuaded +him vehemently as though she were bent on doing something desperate, he +replied that he was anxious about Fred, and if she and her husband were +engrossed by their son, he should be of service in bringing him home; +and this somewhat reconciled her to what was so much to her benefit. +Only she gave notice that he must not prevent her from travelling day +and night, to which he made no answer, while Sophy hoarsely said +that but for knowing herself to be a mere impediment, she should have +insisted on going, and her uncle must not keep mamma back. Then Maurice +imitatively broke out, ‘Mamma, take me to Gilbert, I wont be a plague, I +promise you.’ He was scarcely silenced before Mr. Dusautoy came striding +in to urge on her that Fanny and himself should be much happier if he +were permitted to conduct Mrs. Kendal to Malta (the fact being that +Fanny was persuaded that Mr. Ferrars would obviate such necessity). +Albinia almost laughed, as she had declared that she had set all the +parsons in the country in commotion, and Mr. Dusautoy was obliged +to limit his good offices to the care of the children, and the +responsibility of the Fairmead Sunday services. + +The good hard-worked brother had hardly time to eat his luncheon, before +he started to inform his wife, and prepare for his journey. Winifred was +a very good sister on an emergency; she had not once growled since poor +Mrs. Meadows had been really ill; and though she had been feeding on +hopes of Albinia’s visit, and was far from strong, she quashed her +husband’s misgivings, and cheerily strove to convince him that he would +be wanted by no one, least of all by herself. A slight vituperation of +the polysyllabic pair was all the relief she permitted herself, and who +could blame her for that, when even Mr. Dusautoy called the one ‘that +foolish fellow,’ and the other ‘poor dear Lucy?’ + +Albinia and Sophy safe over the fire that evening, after their sorrowful +tasks unable to turn to anything else, wondering how and when they +should meet again, and their words coming slowly, and with long +intervals of silence. + +‘Dear child,’ said Albinia, ‘promise me to take care of yourself, and to +let Mrs. Dusautoy judge what you can do.’ + +‘I’m not worth taking care of,’ muttered Sophy. + +‘We think you worth our anxiety,’ said Albinia, tenderly. + +‘I will not make it worse for you,’ meekly replied Sophy. ‘I don’t think +I’m cross now, I could not be--’ + +‘No, indeed you are not, my dear. We have leant on each other, and when +we come home, you will make our welcome.’ + +‘The children will.’ + +‘Ah! I think Maurice will behave well. He is very much subdued. I told +him he was to do no lessons, and he fairly burst out crying.’ + +‘Oh, mamma!’ exclaimed Sophy, hurt, indignant, and nearly ready to +follow his example. + +‘I do not think he has mastery over himself, so as to help being unruly +and idle, when he is chained to a spelling-book. I would not for the +world set him and you to worry each other for an hour a day, and I shall +start afresh with him all the better, when he knows what absence of +lessons is, and has forgotten all the old associations.’ + +‘How could you make him cry?’ said Sophy, in reproach. + +‘I believe the tears only wanted an excuse. I _did_ put it on his +naughtiness, which usually would have elated him; but his heart was so +full as to make even a long holiday a punishment. That boy often shows +me what a thorough Kendal he is; things sink into him as they never did +into us at the same age, when my aunts used to think I had no feeling. +Oh, Sophy! how will you comfort him?’ + +‘His will be an unstained sorrow,’ said Sophy, from the depths of her +heart. ‘O, mamma, only tell Gilbert what you know I feel--no, you don’t, +no one can, but what I would not give, to change all I have felt towards +him? If I had been like Edmund, and prized his gentleness and sweetness, +and the humility that was the best worth of all, how different it would +be! But I was proud of despising where truth was wanting.’ + +‘I should have thought I should have done the same,’ said Albinia; but +there was no keeping from loving Gibbie. Besides, he was sincere, except +when he was afraid, and he was miserable when he was deceiving.’ + +‘Yes, after you came,’ said Sophy; ‘but I believe I helped him to think +truth disagreeable. I showed my scorn for his want of boldness, instead +of helping him. Think of my having fancied _he_ had no courage.’ + +‘Kindness taught him courage,’ said Albinia. ‘It might perhaps have +earlier taught him moral courage. If you and he could have leant against +each other, and been fused together, you would have made something like +what Edmund was, I suppose.’ + +‘I drove him off,’ cried Sophy. ‘I was no sister to him. Will you bring +me his forgiveness?’ + +‘Indeed I will; and you may feel sure of it already, dearest. It will +make you gentler all your life.’ + +‘No, I shall grow harder and harsher the longer I live, and the fewer I +have to love me in spite of myself.’ + +‘I think not,’ said Albinia. ‘Humility will make your severity more +gentle, and you will soften, and win love and esteem.’ + +She looked up, but cried, ‘I shall never make up to Gilbert nor to +grandmamma!’ + +Albinia felt it almost as hard to leave her as the two little ones. + +When once on her journey, and feeling each moment an advance towards the +goal, Albinia was less unhappy than she could have thought possible; she +trusted to her brother, and enjoyed the absence of responsibility, +and while he let her go on, could give her mind to what pleased and +interested him, and he, who was an excellent courier, so managed that +there were few detentions to overthrow her equanimity on the way to +Marseilles. + +But when the Vectis came in sight of the rocky isle, with its white +stony heights, the heart-sickness of apprehension grew over her, and +she saw, as in a mist, the noble crescent-shaped harbour, the stately +ramparts, mighty batteries, the lofty terraces of flat-roofed dwellings, +apparently rather hewn out of, than built on, the dazzling white stone, +between the intense blue of the sky above and of the sea below. Her eye +roamed as in a dream over the crowds of gay boats with white awnings, +and the motley crowds of English and natives, the boatmen screaming +and fighting for the luggage, and beggars plaintively whining out their +entreaties for small coins. Her brother Maurice had been at Malta as a +little boy, and remembered the habits of the place enough, as soon +as they had set foot on shore, to secure a brown-skinned loiterer, in +Phrygian cap, loose trousers, and crimson sash, to act as guide and +porter. + +Along the Strada San Giovanni, a street of stairs, shut in by high +stone walls, with doors opening on either side, they went not as fast as +Albinia’s quivering limbs would fain have moved, yet too fast when her +breath came thick with anxiety--down again by the stone stairs called +‘Nix Mangiare’ (nothing to eat), from the incessant cry of the beggars +that haunt them--then again in a boat, which carried them amid a strange +world of shipping to the bottom of the dockyard creek, where, again +landing, she was told she had but to ascend, and she would be at +Bormola. + +She could have paused, in dread; and she leant heavily on her brother’s +arm when they presently turned up a lane, no broader than a passage, +with low stone steps at irregular intervals. They were come! + +The summons at the door was answered by a dark-visaged Maltese, and +while Maurice was putting the question whether Colonel Ferrars and +Captain Kendal lived here, a figure appeared on the stairs, and +beckoned, ascending noiselessly with languid steps and slippered feet, +and leading the way into a slightly furnished room, with green balcony +and striped blind. There he turned and held out his hand; but Albinia +hardly recognised him till he said, ‘I thought I heard your voice, +Maurice;’ and then the low subdued tone, together with the gaunt wasted +form, haggard aged face, the long beard, and worn undress uniform, with +the armless sleeve, made her so realize his sufferings, that, clasping +his remaining hand in both her own, she could utter nothing but, ‘Oh! +Fred! Fred!’ + +He looked at her brother with such inquiry, perplexity, and compassion, +that almost in despair Maurice exclaimed, ‘We are not too late!’ + +‘No, thank God!’ said Frederick. ‘We did hope you might come! Sit down, +Albinia; I’ll--’ + +‘Edmund! Is he there!’ she said, scarcely alive to what was passing, and +casting another expressively sorrowful look at Maurice, Fred answered, +‘Yes, I will tell him: I will see if you can come in.’ + +‘Stay,’ said Mr. Ferrars; ‘she should compose herself, or she will only +hurt herself and Gilbert.’ + +‘I don’t know,’ murmured Fred, hastily leaving them. + +Maurice understood that Gilbert was even then summoned by one who +would brook no delays; but Albinia, too much agitated to notice slight +indications, was about to follow, when her brother took her hand, and +checked her like a child. ‘Wait a minute, my dear, he will soon come +back.’ + +‘Where’s Edmund? Why mayn’t I go to Gilbert?’ she said, still +bewildered. + +‘Fred is gone to tell them. Sit down, my dear; take off your bonnet, you +are heated, you will be better able to go to him, if you are quiet.’ + +She passively submitted to be placed on a chair, and to remove her +bonnet; and seeing some dressing apparatus through an open door, Maurice +brought her some cold water to refresh her burning face. She looked +up with a smile, herself again. ‘There thank you, Maurice: I wont be +foolish now.’ + +‘God support you, my dear!’ said her brother, for the longer the Colonel +tarried, the worse were his forebodings. + +‘Perhaps the doctor is there,’ she proceeded. ‘That will be well. +Ask him everything, Maurice. But oh! did you ever see any one so much +altered as poor Fred! He looks twenty years older! Ah! I am quite good +now! I may go now!’ she cried, as the door opened. + +But as Frederick returned, there was that written on his brow, which +lifted her out of the childishness of her agitation. + +‘My dear Albinia,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘Mr. Kendal cannot +leave him to come to you. He has been much worse since last night,’ and +as her face showed that she was gathering his meaning, he pursued in a +lower and more awe-struck tone: ‘We think he is sensible, but we cannot +tell. It could not hurt him for you to come in, and perhaps he may know +you, but are you able to bear it? Is she, Maurice?’ + +‘Yes, I am,’ she answered; and the calm firmness of her tone proved that +she was a woman again. Her hand shook less than did that of her cousin, +as silently and reverently he took it, and led her into another room on +the same floor. + +There, in the subdued light, she saw her husband, seated on the bed, +holding in his arms his son, who lay lifted up and supported upon his +breast, with head resting on his shoulder, and eyes closed. There was +no greeting, no sound save the long, heavily drawn, gasping breaths. +Mr. Kendal raised his eyes to her; she silently knelt down and took the +wasted hand that lay helplessly on the coverlet, but it moved feebly +from her as though harassed by the touch. + +‘Gilbert, dear boy,’ said his father, earnestly, ‘she is come! Speak to +him, Albinia.’ + +She hardly knew her own voice as she said, ‘Gilbert, Gibbie dear, here I +am.’ + +Those large brown eyes were shown for a few moments beneath the +heavy lids, and met hers. The mouth, hitherto only gasping for air, +endeavoured to form a word; the hand sought hers. She kissed him, and +his eyes opened wide and brightened, while he said, ‘I think it is +pardon now.’ + +‘Pardon indeed!’ said his father, with a greater look of relief than +Albinia understood, ‘you are resting in His Merits.’ + +Gilbert’s look brightened, and he said, ‘I know it now.’ + +‘Thank God,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +His eyes closed, and Fred whispered to the father, ‘Maurice is here +too.’ + +Again the light woke in the eye, with almost a smile, the look that +always welcomed the little brother; and Albinia grieved to say, ‘Not +little Maurice, though he longed to come; it is my brother.’ But the air +of eagerness did not pass away, and he seemed satisfied when Mr. Ferrars +came in. It was as a priest, speaking words not his own; and Albinia +and Fred knelt with him. At the close of each prayer or psalm, Gilbert +signed imploringly for more, even like our mighty dying queen; and +at each short pause, the distressed agonized expression would again +contract the brow, though in the sound of the holy words all was peace. +The Psalm of the Good Shepherd with the Rod and Staff in the Valley of +the Shadow of Death, recurred so strongly to Maurice, that he repeated +it like a cadence after each penitential supplication, every time +bringing a look of peace to the countenance of the sufferer. + +They must have remained long thus, Fred had grown exhausted with +kneeling and had been forced to sit on the floor, and Maurice’s voice +waxed low and hoarse; yet he durst not pause, though doubting whether +Gilbert could follow the meaning. At length the eyes were again raised. +With a start as of haste, Gilbert looked full at Albinia, and said, +‘Thank you. Tell Maurice--’ He could not finish, and there was an +agony for breath, then as his father raised him, he contrived to say, +‘Father--mother--kiss me; it is forgiven!’ + +Another look brought Fred to press his hand, and he smiled his thanks. + +There were a few more terrible minutes, from which they would fain +have led away Albinia, but suddenly his brow grew smooth, his eyes were +eagerly fixed as on something before him, and as if replying to a call, +he said, ‘Yes!’ with a start and a quiver of all his limbs, and then-- + +The first words were Mr. Kendal’s. ‘Edmund has come for him!’ + +It was to the rest as if the father had been in some manner conscious of +the presence of the one twin-brother, and, were resigning the other to +his charge, for he calmly kissed the forehead, closed the eyes, laid +down the form, he had so long held in his arms, and after a few +moments on his knees, with his face hidden, in his hands, he rose with +composure, and said to his wife, ‘I am glad you were in time.’ + +Had he given way, Albinia would have been strong, but there was no need +to support to counteract the force of disappointment and grief, acting +upon overwrought spirits, and a fatigued, exhausted frame. Were these +half-conscious looks and broken words all she had come for, all +she should ever have of Gilbert? This was the moment’s predominant +sensation; she was past thinking; and though she still controlled +herself, she cast a wild, piteous eye on her husband, and as he lifted +her up, she sank on his breast, not fainting, not sobbing, but utterly +prostrated, and needing all his support as he led her out, and laid +her on a couch in the next room, speaking softly as if hoping his voice +would restore her. ‘We had some faint hope of you; we knew you would +wish it, so you see all is ready. But you have done too much, my dear: +Maurice should not have let you travel so fast.’ + +‘No, no,’ said Albinia, catching her breath. ‘Oh! not to have come +sooner!’ and she gave way to a violent burst of tears, during which he +fondled and soothed her till she suddenly said, ‘I did not come here to +behave in this way! I came to help you! Edmund, what shall I do?’ and +she would have started up. + +‘Only lie still, and let me take care of you,’ said he. ‘Nothing could +be to me like your coming,’ and she was forced to believe his glistening +eyes and voice of tenderness. + +‘Can you keep quiet a little while,’ said Mr. Kendal, wistfully, ‘while +I go to speak to your brother? It was very good in him to come! Don’t +speak; I will come back directly.’ + +She did lie still, for she was too much spent to move, and the silence +was good for her; for if the overwhelming sensation of grief would sweep +over her, on the other hand, there was the remembrance of the look of +peace, and the perception that her husband was not as yet so struck to +the earth as she had feared. He was not long in returning, bringing +some coffee for her and for himself, and speaking with the same dreamy +serenity, though looking excessively pale. ‘Your brother told me to give +you this,’ he said. ‘I am glad the colonel is under such care, for he is +terribly distressed and not at all fit to bear it. I could not make him +go to bed all last night.’ + +‘You were up all last night, and many nights before,’ said Albinia; ‘and +all alone! Oh! why was I not here to help!’ + +‘Fred was a great comfort,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I cannot describe my +gratitude to him. And dearest--’ He paused, and added with hesitation, +‘I do not now regret the having come out alone. After the first +disappointment, I think that my boy and I learnt to know each other +better. If he had left me nothing but the recollection that I had been +too severe and unsympathizing to win his confidence, I hardly know how I +could have borne it.’ + +‘He was able to talk to you, then?’ cried Albinia. ‘That was what I +always wished! Yes, it _was_ right, so it came right. I had got between +you as I ought not to have done, and it was well you should have him to +yourself.’ + +‘Not as you ought not,’ he fondly answered. ‘You always were his better +angel, and you came at last as a messenger of peace. There was relief +and hope from the moment that he knew you.’ + +He told her what could scarcely have passed his lips save in those +earlier hours of affliction. It had been a time of grievous mental +distress. Neither natural temperament nor previous life had been such +as to arm poor Gilbert to meet the King of Terrors; and as day by day he +felt the cold grasp tightening on him, he had fluttered like a bird +in the snare of the fowler, physically affrighted at the death-pang, +shrinking from the lonely entrance into the unknown future, and +despairing of the acceptableness of his own repentance. He believed that +he had too often relapsed, and he could not take heart to grasp the hope +of mercy and rest in the great atonement. The last Communion had been +melancholy, the contrite spirit unable to lift itself up, and apparently +only sunk the lower by the weight of love and gratitude, deepening +the sense of how much had been disregarded. There had since been a few +hopeful gleams, but dimmed by bodily suffering and terror; and doubly +mournful had been the weary hours of the night and morning, while he lay +gasping away his life upon his father’s breast. Having at first taken +the absence of his stepmother as a sign that she had not forgiven him, +he had only laid aside this notion for a more morbid fancy that the +deprivation was a token of wrath from above; and there could be little +doubt that her final appearance was hailed as a seal of pardon not +merely from her. Her brother, who had raised him up after his last fall, +was likewise the person above all others to bring the message of mercy +to speed him to the Unseen, where, as his look and gesture had persuaded +his father, his brother, or some yet more blessed one, had received and +welcomed the frail and trembling spirit. + +That last farewell, that dawn of peace, so long prayed for, so ardently +desired, had given Mr. Kendal such thankfulness and relief as sustained +him, and enabled him to support his wife, who knew not how to meet her +first home grief; whereas to him sorrow had long been a household guest +more familiar than joy; and he was more at rest about his son than he +had been for many a year. He could dwell on him together with Edmund, +instead of connecting him with shame, grief, and pain; though how +little could he have borne to think that thus it would end, when in the +springtime of his manhood he had rejoiced over his beautiful twin boys. + +He knew his son better than heretofore. After the first day’s +disappointment, Gilbert had found him all-sufficient, and had rested on +his tenderness. All sternness had ceased on one side, all concealment +on the other, and the sweetness of both characters had had full scope. +Gilbert’s ardent love of home had shown itself in every word, and his +last exertion, had been to write a long letter to his little brother, +which had been completed and despatched by a private hand a few days +previously. He had desired that Maurice should have his sword, and +mentioned the books which he wished his sisters to share, talking of +Sophy as one whom he honoured much, and wished he had known better; but +much pained by hearing nothing from Lucy, and lamenting his share in +her union with Algernon. He had said something about his wish that the +almshouses should be built, but his father had turned away the subject, +knowing that in case of his dying intestate and unmarried, the property +was settled on the sisters, and seeing little chance of any such work +being carried out with the co-operation of Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy. +Latterly he had spoken of Genevieve Durant; he knew better how unworthy +of her he had been, and how harassing his pursuit must have appeared, +but he could not help entreating that her pardon might be asked in his +name, that she might hear that he had loved her to the last, and above +all, that his father would never lose sight of her; and Mr. Kendal’s +promise to regard her as the next thing to his daughters had been +requited with a look of the utmost gratitude and affection. + +This was the substance of what Mr. Kendal told his wife as they sat +together, unwitting of the lapse of time, and shrinking from any +interruption that might mar their present peace and renew the sense of +bereavement. + +Mr. Ferrars was the first to knock at the door. He had been doing his +utmost to spare both them and Fred, who needed all his care. These four +months of mutual dependence had been even more endearing than the rescue +of Fred’s life on the battlefield; and he declared that Gilbert had done +him more good than any one else. They had been so thrown together as to +make the ‘religious sentiment’ of the younger tell upon the warm though +thoughtless heart of the elder. They had been most fondly attached; and +in his present state, reduced by wounds and exhausted by watching, Fred +was more overpowered than those more closely concerned. He could hardly +speak collectedly when an officer of the garrison called to consult him +with regard to a military funeral, and it was for this that Maurice was +obliged to refer to the father. There were indeed none of his regiment +in the island, but there was a universal desire in the garrison to do +honour to the distinguished young officer, for whom great interest +had been felt and the compliment brought a glow of exultation to Mr. +Kendal’s face, as he expressed his warm thanks, but desired that the +decision might rest with Fred himself, as his son’s lieutenant-colonel. + +Maurice felt himself fully justified in his expedition when he found +that all devolved on him, even writing to Sophy, and making the most +necessary arrangements; for the colonel was incapable of exertion, +Albinia was prostrated by the shock, and Mr. Kendal appeared to be +lulled into a strange calm by the effects of the excessive bodily +weariness consequent on the exhausting attendance of the last few days. +They all depended upon Mr. Ferrars, and recognised his presence as an +infinite comfort. + +In the morning Albinia came forth like one who had been knocked down and +shattered, weary and gentle, and with the tears ever welling into her +eyes, above all when she endeavoured to write to Sophy; and she showed +her ordinary earnestness only when she entreated to see her boy once +more. Her husband took her to look on the countenance settled into the +expression of unearthly peace, but she was not satisfied; it was not her +own Gilbert, boyish, sensitive, dependent, and shrinking. The pale +brow, the marked manly features, the lower ones concealed by the brown +moustache, belonged to the hero who had dared the deadly ride and borne +his friend through the storm of shot and shell; the noble, settled, +steadfast face was the face of a stranger, and gave her a thrill of +disappointment. She gloried in the later Gilbert, but the last she had +seen of him whom she loved for his weakness, had been when she had not +heeded his farewell. + +It made the pang the less when evening came and he was carried to his +resting-place. They would have persuaded Frederick to spare himself, but +as the only officer of the same corps, as well as for the sake of many +closer ties, he would not hear of being absent, and made his cousin +Maurice do his best to restore the smart soldierly air which he for the +first time thought of regretting. + +Gilbert’s horse had perished at Balaklava, but his cap, sword, and +spurs, were laid on the coffin, and from her shaded window Albinia +watched it borne between the files of soldiers with arms reversed; +and the procession of officers whose bright array contrasted with the +colonel’s war-worn dress, ghastly cheek, and empty sleeve, tokens of the +reality of war amid its pageantry, as all moved slowly away to the deep +tones of the solemn Dead March, music well befitting the calm grandeur +of the face she had seen, and leaving her heart throbbing with the deep +exulting awe and pathos of a soldier’s funeral. She knelt alone, and +followed the burial service in the stillness of the room overlooking +the broad expanse of blue sea and sky; and by-and-by, through the window +came the sound of the volley fired over the grave, the farewell of the +army to the soldier at rest, his battles ended. + +‘There was peace, and there was glory; but she could not divest herself +of a sense of unreality. She could not feel as if it were really and +truly Gilbert, and she were mourning for him. All was like a +dream--that solemn military spectacle--the serene, grave sunshine on the +fortress-harbour stretching its mailed arms into the sea--the roofs of +the knightly old monastic city rising in steps from the bay crowded with +white sails--and even those around her were different, her husband pale +and still, as in a region above common life, and her cousin like another +man, without his characteristic joyousness and insouciance. She could +hardly induce herself, in her drowsy state, to believe that all was +indeed veritable and tangible. + +There was nothing to detain them at Malta, and Mr. Ferrars, who arranged +everything, thought the calm of a sea-voyage would be better for them +all than the bustle and fatigue of a land journey. + +‘Kendal himself does not care about getting home,’ he said to Fred, who +was afraid this was determined on his account. ‘I fear many annoyances +are in store for him. His son-in-law will not be pleasant to deal with +about the property.’ + +With an exclamation Fred started from the chairs on which he had been +resting, and dived into his sabre-tasch which hung from the wall. ‘I +never liked to begin about it,’ he said, ‘but I ought to have given them +this. It was done when he was so bad at Scutari. One night he worked +himself into a fever lest he should not live till his birthday, and said +a great deal about this Dusautoy making himself an annoyance, perhaps +insisting on a sale and turning his father out. Nothing pacified him +till, the very day he was of age, we got the vice-consul to draw up what +he wanted, and witness it, and so did I and the doctor, and here it is. +Afterwards he warned me to say nothing of it when Mr. Kendal came, for +he said if the other fellow made a row, it would be better his father +should be able to say he had known nothing of the matter.’ + +‘Does he make his father his heir?’ + +‘That’s the whole of it. He said his sisters would see it was the +only way to get things even, and I was to tell Albinia something about +building cottages or almshouses. Ay, “his father was to do what ought to +have been done.”’ + +‘Well, there’s the best deed of poor Gilbert’s life!’ + +‘Thank you,’ mumbled Fred, hall drolly, half gravely. + +‘Ay, Kendal and Albinia will do more good with that property than you +have thought of in all your life, sir.’ + +‘Their future and my past,’ laughed Fred, adding more gravely, ‘Scamp +as I am, there’s more responsibility coming on me now, and I have gone +through some preparation for it. If I can get out to Canada--’ + +‘You will not lessen your responsibilities,’ said Maurice, smiling, ‘nor +your competency to meet them.’ + +‘I _trust_ not,’ said Fred. + +Mr. Ferrars read in his countenance far more than was implied by those +words. The General, by treating him as a boy, had kept him one, and +perhaps his levity had been prolonged by the rejection of his first +love; but a really steady attachment had settled his character, and he +had been undergoing much training through his own sufferings, Gilbert’s +illness, and the sense of the new position that awaited him as +commanding officer; and for the first time Maurice, who had always been +very fond of him, felt that he was talking to a high-principled and +right-minded man instead of the family pet and laughing-stock. + +‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that you cannot have heard often from Montreal +since you have been in the East.’ + +‘No. If my letters are anywhere, it is at the Family Office. I desired +them to be forwarded thither from head-quarters, not expecting to be +detained here. But,’ cried Fred with animation, ‘what think you of the +General actually writing to Mr. Kinnaird from Balaklava?’ + +‘It would have been too bad if he had not.’ + +‘I believe he did so solely to make me sleep, but it is the first time +he has deigned to treat the affair as anything but a delusion, and he +can’t retract now. Since that, poor Gilbert has made a scrap or two of +mine presentable, and there’s all that I have been able to accomplish; +but I hope it may have set her mind at rest.’ + +‘Shall I be secretary?’ + +‘Thank you, I think not. She would only worry herself about what is +before me; and if the doctors let me off easy, I had rather report of +myself in person.’ + +His eyes danced, and Maurice thought his unselfishness deserved a +reward. + +‘My poor Gilbert’s last secret,’ said Mr. Kendal, as he laid before his +wife the brief document by which his son had designated him as his sole +heir and executor. ‘A gift to you, and a trust to me.’ + +Albinia looked up for explanation. + +‘While he intrusts his sisters to my justice, he tacitly commends to me +the works which you wished to see accomplished.’ + +‘The almshouses! The improvements! Do you mean to undertake them?’ + +‘It shall be my most sacred duty.’ + +‘Oh! that we could have planned it with him!’ + +‘Perhaps I value this the more from the certainty that it is +spontaneous,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It showed great consideration and +forethought, that he said nothing of his intention to me. Had he +mentioned it, I should have thought it right to suggest his leaving his +sisters their share; and yet, as we are situated with young Dusautoy, it +would have been awkward to have interfered. He did well and wisely to be +silent.’ + +‘You don’t expect Algernon to be discontented. Impossible, at such a +time, and so well off as he is!’ + +‘I wish it may be impossible.’ + +‘What do you mean, to do?’ + +‘As far as I can see at present, I shall do this. I fear neither the +mode of acquisition nor the management of that property was such as to +bring a blessing, and I believe my poor boy has made it over to me in +order to free his sisters from the necessity of winking at oppression +and iniquity. Had it gone to them, matters must have been let alone till +Sophia came of age, and even then, all improvements must have depended +on Algernon’s consent. The land and houses we will keep, and sufficient +ready money for the building and repairs; and to this, Sophia, at least, +will gladly agree. The rest--something under twenty thousand, if I +remember correctly--is the girls’ right. I will settle Lucy’s share on +her so as to be out of her husband’s power, and Sophia shall have hers +when she comes of age.’ + +‘I am sure that will take from Algernon all power of grumbling, though I +cannot believe that even he could complain.’ + +‘You approve, then?’ + +‘How can you ask? It is the first thing that has seemed like happiness, +if it did not make one long for him to talk it over!’ The wound was +still very recent, and her spirits very tender, and the more she felt +the blessing of the association with Gilbert in the work of love, the +more she wept, though not altogether in sorrow. + +Mortified at having come so much overworked and weakened, as to occasion +only trouble and anxiety, she yielded resignedly when forbidden to wear +out strength and spirits by a visit to the burial-ground before her +embarkation. She must content herself with Maurice’s description of +the locality, and carry away in her eye only the general picture of the +sapphire ocean and white rock fortress of the holy warriors vowed to +tenderness and heroism, as the last resting-place of her cherished +Gilbert, when ‘out of weakness he had been made strong’ in penitence and +love. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + + + +Had Sophia’s wishes been consulted, she would have preferred nursing her +sorrows at home; but no choice had been left, and at the vicarage the +fatherly kindness of Mr. Dusautoy, and the considerate let-alone system +of his wife, kept her at ease and not far from cheerful, albeit neither +the simplicity of the one nor the keenness of the other was calculated +to draw her into unreserve: comfort was in the children. + +The children clung to her as if she made their home, little Albinia +preferring her even to Uncle John, as he had insisted on being called +ever since Lucy had become his niece, and Maurice invoking caresses, the +bestowal of which was his mother’s rare privilege. The boy was dull and +listless, and though riot and mirth could be only too easily excited, +his wildest shouts and most frantic gesticulations were like efforts +to throw off a load at his heart. Time hung heavy on his hands, and he +would lie rolling and kicking drearily on the floor, watching with some +envy his little sister as she spelt her way prosperously through ‘Little +Charles,’ or daintily and distinctly repeated her hymns. ‘Nothing to +do’ was the burthen of his song, and with masculine perverseness he +disdained every occupation suggested to him. Sophy might boast of his +obedience and quiescence, but Mrs. Dusautoy pitied all parties, and +wondered when he would be disposed of at school. + +Permission to open letters had been left with Sophy, who with silent +resignation followed the details of poor Gilbert’s rapid decay. At last +came the parcel by the private hand, containing a small packet for each +of the family. Sophy received a silver Maltese Cross, and little +Albinia a perfumy rose-leaf bracelet. There was a Russian grape-shot for +Maurice, and with it a letter. + +With childish secrecy, he refused to let any one look at so much as the +envelope, and ran away with it, shouting ‘It’s mine.’ Sophy was grieved +that it should be treated like a toy, and fearing that, while playing at +importance, he would lose or destroy it, without coming to a knowledge +of the contents, she durst not betray her solicitude, lest she should +give a stimulus to his wilfulness and precipitate its fate. However, +when he had galloped about enough, he called imperatively, ‘Sophy;’ and +she found him lying on his back on the grass, the black cat an unwilling +prisoner on his chest. + +‘You may read it to Smut and me,’ he said. + +It bore date the day after his father’s arrival, but it had evidently +been continued at many different times; and as the handwriting became +more feeble, the style grew more earnest, so that, but for her hoarse, +indifferent voice, Sophy could hardly have accomplished the reading. + + +‘My dear Maurice, + +‘Many, many thanks to you and dear little Awkey for your present. I have +set it up like a picture, and much do I like to look at it, and guess +who chose the colours and who are the hunters. I am sure the fat man in +the red coat is the admiral. It makes the place seem like home to see +what tells so plainly of you and baby. + +‘Kiss my little Awk for me, and thank her for wanting to send me Miss +Jenny, dear little maid; I like to think of it. You will not let her +quite forget me. You must show her my name if it is put up in church, +like Edmund’s and all the little ones’; and you will sometimes tell her +about dear old Ned on a Sunday evening when you are both very good. + +‘I think you know that you and she will never again run out into the +hall to pull Gibbie almost down between you. Perhaps by the time you +read this, you will be the only son, with all the comfort and hope of +the house resting upon you. My poor Maurice, I know what it is to be +told so, and only to feel that one has no brother; but at least it +cannot be to you as it was with me, when it was as if half myself were +gone, and all my stronger, better, braver self. + +‘My father has been reading to me the Rich Man and Lazarus. Maurice, +when you read of him and the five brethren, think of me, and how I pray +that I may not have left seeds of temptation for you. In the time of my +loneliness, Tritton was good-natured, but I ought to have avoided him; +and that to which he introduced me has been the bane of my life. Nothing +gives me such anguish as to think I have made you acquainted with that +set. Keep out of their way! Never go near those pigeon-shootings and +donkey-races; they seem good fun, but it is disobedience to go, and the +things that happen there are like the stings of venomous creatures; the +poison was left to fester even when your mother seemed to have cured me. +Neither now nor when you are older resort to such things or such people. +Next time you meet Tritton and Shaw tell them I desired to be remembered +to them; after that have nothing to do with them; touch your hat and +pass on. They meant it in good nature, and thought no harm, but they +were my worst enemies; they led me astray, and taught me deception as a +matter of course. Oh! Maurice, never think it manly to have the smallest +reserve with your parents. I would give worlds to have sooner known that +truth would have been freedom and rest. Thank Heaven, your faults are +not my faults. If you go wrong, it will be with a high hand, but you +would wring hearts that can ill bear further grief and disappointment. +Oh! that I were more worthy to pray that you may use your strength +and spirit the right way; then you will be gladness to our father and +mother, and when you lie down to die, you will be happier than I am. + +‘I want to tell you more, but it hurts me to write long. If I could +only see you--not only in my dreams. I wake, and my heart sickens with +longing for a sight of my brave boy’s merry face, till I almost feel +as if it would make me well; but it is a blessing past hope to have my +father with me, and know him as I have never done before. Give little +Albinia these beads, with my love, and be a better brother to her than I +was to poor Lucy. + +‘Good-by, Maurice. No one can tell what you have been to me since your +mother put you into my arms, and I felt I had a brother again. God bless +you and cancel all evil you may have caught from me. Papa will give you +my sword. Perhaps you will wear it one day, and under my colonel. I have +never been so happy as in the time it was mine. When you look at it, +always say this to yourself: “Fear God, and fear nothing else.” O that I +had done so! + +‘Let your dear, dear mother be happy in you: it will be the only way to +make her forgive me in her heart. Good-by, my own dear, brave boy. + + ‘Your most affectionate brother, + ‘G. KENDAL.’ + + +‘I say, Smut,’ quoth Maurice, ‘I think you and our Tabby would make two +famous horses for Awkey’s little cart. I shall take you home and harness +you.’ + +Sophy sat breathless at his indifference. ‘You mustn’t,’ she said in +hasty anger; ‘Smut is not yours.’ + +‘Well, Jack said that our Tabby had two kittens up in the loft; I think +they’ll make better ponies. I shall go and try them!’ + +‘Don’t plague the kittens.’ + +‘I’ll not plague them; I’ll only make ponies of them. Give me the +letter.’ + +‘No, not to play with the cats. I thought you would have cared about +such a letter!’ + +‘You have no right to keep it! It is mine; give it me!’ cried Maurice, +passionately. + +‘Promise to take real care of it.’ + +He only tore it from her, and was gone. + +‘I’m a fool to expect anything from such a child,’ she thought. + +At two o’clock the Vicar hurried into the bank. ‘Good morning, Mr. +Goldsmith, I beg your pardon; I wanted to ask if Mr. O’More has seen +little Maurice Kendal.’ + +‘Not since yesterday--what’s the matter?’ + +‘The child is not come in to dinner. He is nowhere at home or at Willow +Lawn.’ + +‘Ha!’ cried Ulick. ‘Can he be gone to see his pony at Hobbs’s!’ + +‘No, it has been sent to Fairmead. Then you have no notion where the +child can be? Sophy is nearly distracted. She saw him last about ten +o’clock, bent on harnessing some kittens, but he’s not in the hay-loft!’ + +‘He may be gone to the toy-shop after the harness. Or has anyone looked +in the church-tower--he was longing to go up it, and if the door were +open--’ + +‘The very thing!’ cried the Vicar. ‘I’ll go this moment.’ + +‘Or there’s old Peter, the sailor,’ called Ulick; ‘if he wanted any +tackle fitted, he might go to him.’ + +‘You had better go yourself, More,’ said Mr. Goldsmith. ‘One would not +wish to keep poor Miss Kendal in suspense, though I dare say the boy is +safe enough.’ + +Mr. Goldsmith was thanked, and Ulick hurried out, Hyder Ali leaping up +in amazement at his master being loose at that time of day. + +Everybody had thought the child was with somebody else till dinner-time, +and the state of the vicarage was one of dire alarm and self-reproach. +Sophy was seeking and calling in every possible place, and had just +brought herself to own the message of remembrance in Gilbert’s letter, +thinking it possible Maurice might have gone to deliver it at Robbles +Leigh; and Mr. Hope had undertaken to go thither in quest of him. Ulick +and Mr. Dusautoy, equally disappointed by the tower and the sailor, went +again to Willow Lawn to interrogate the servants. The gardener’s boy had +heard Maurice scolding and the cat squalling, and the cook had heard his +step in the house. They hurried into his little room--he was not there, +but the drawers had been disturbed. + +‘He may be gone to Fairmead!’ cried the Vicar. + +‘How?’ said Ulick. ‘Ha! Hyder, sir!’ holding up a little shoe. ‘Seek! +That’s my fine doggie--they only call you a mongrel because you have +all the canine virtues united. See what you can do as sleuth hound. Ha! +We’ll nose him out for you in no time, Mr. Dusautoy!’ + +After sniffing round the drawers, the yellow tripod made an ungainly +descent of the stairs, his nose down all the way, then across the hall +and out at the gate; but when, after poking about, the animal set off on +the turnpike-road, the Vicar demurred. + +‘Stay; the poor dog only wants to get you out for a walk. He is making +for the Hadminster road.’ + +‘And why wouldn’t he, if the child is nowhere in Bayford? + +‘I can’t answer it to his mother wasting time in this way. You may do as +you like. I shall go to the training-stables, where he has once been, if +not on to Fairmead. I can’t see Sophy till he is found!’ + +‘I shall abide by my little Orangeman,’ said Ulick; and they parted. + +Hyder Ali pursued his way in the March dust, while Ulick eagerly +scanned for the traces of a child’s foot. Four miles did the dog go on, +evidently following a scent, but Ulick’s mind misgave him as Hadminster +church-tower rose before him, and the dog took the ascent to the +station. + +Ulick made his way in as a train stood panting before the platform. +He had a glimpse of a square face and curly hair at the window of a +second-class carriage. + +‘Maurice, come back!’ he cried. ‘Here, guard! this little boy must come +back!’ + +‘Go on!’ shouted Maurice. ‘I’ve got my ticket. ‘No one can stop me. +I’m going to Malta!’ and he tried to get to the other side of a stout +traveller, who defended his legs from him, and said, ‘Ha! Running away +from school, young master! Here’s your usher.’ + +‘No, I’m not running away! I’m not at school! I’m Maurice Kendal! I’m +going to my brother at Malta!’ + +‘He is the son of Mr. Kendal of Bayford,’ said Ulick to the +station-master,’ his parents are from home, and there will be dreadful +distress if he goes in this way. Maurice, your sister has troubles +enough already.’ + +‘I’ve my ticket, and can’t be stopped.’ + +But even as he spoke, the stout traveller picked him up by the collar, +and dropped him like a puppy dog into Ulick’s arms, just as the train +was getting into motion; and a head protruded from every window to see +the truant, who was pommelling Ulick in a violent fury, and roaring, +‘Let me go; I will go to Gilbert!’ + +‘Behave like a man,’ said Ulick; ‘don’t disgrace yourself in that way.’ + +The boy coloured, and choking with passion and disappointment, and +straining against Ulick’s hold of his shoulder. + +‘Indeed, sir,’ said the station-master, ‘if we had recognised the young +gentleman, we would have made more inquiries, but he asked so readily +for his ticket, not seeming at a loss, and we have so many young +travellers, that we thought of nothing amiss. Will you have a fly, sir?’ + +‘I’m not going home,’ said the boy, undaunted. + +‘You must submit, Maurice. You do not wish to make poor Sophy +miserable.’ + +‘I must go to Malta,’ the boy persisted. ‘Gilbert says it would make him +well to see me. I know my way; I saw it in the map, and I’ve a roll, and +the end of a cold tongue, and a clean shirt, and my own sovereign, and +four shillings, and a half-crown, and a half-penny in my pocket; and I’m +going!’ + +‘But, Maurice, this gentleman will tell you that your whole sovereign +would not carry you a quarter of the way to Malta.’ + +The station-master gave so formidable a description of the +impossibilities of the route, that the hardy little fellow’s look of +decision relaxed into dejection, his muscles lost their tension, and he +struggled hard with his tears. + +He followed Ulick to the carriage, and hid his face in a corner, while +orders were given to stop at the post-office in case there were fresh +letters. There was one for Miss Kendal, in Mr. Ferrars’ writing, and +with black borders. Ulick felt too surely what it must be, and hardly +could bear to address Maurice, who had shrunk from him with some remains +of passion, but hearing suppressed sobs, he put his hand on him and +said, ‘My poor little man.’ + +‘Get away,’ said Maurice, shaking him off. ‘Why did you come and +bother?’ + +‘I came because it would have almost killed your sister and mother for +you to be lost. If you had seen Sophy’s face, Maurice!’ + +‘I don’t care. Now I shall never see Gilbert again, and he did want me +so!’ Maurice hid his face, and his frame shook with sobs. + +‘Yes,’ said Ulick, ‘every one knew he wanted you; but if it had been +possible for you to go, your mamma would have taken you. If your uncle +had to take care of her how could you go alone?’ + +‘I’d have got there somehow,’ cried Maurice. ‘I’d have seen and heard +Gilbert. He’s written me a letter to say he wants to see me, and I can’t +even make that out!’ + +‘Has not your sister read it to you!’ + +‘I hate Sophy’s reading!’ cried Maurice. ‘It makes it all grumpy, like +her. Take it, Ulick--you read it.’ + +That rich, sensitive, modulated voice brought out the meaning of the +letter, though there were places where Ulick had nearly broken down; and +Maurice pressed against him with the large tears in his eyes, and was +some minutes without speaking. + +‘He does not think of your coming; he does not expect you, dear boy,’ +said Ulick. ‘It is a precious letter to have. I hope you will keep it +and read it often, and heed it too.’ + +‘I can’t read it,’ said Maurice, ruefully. ‘If I could, I shouldn’t +mind.’ + +‘You soon will. You see how he tells you you are to be a comfort; and if +you are a good boy, you’ll quickly leave the dunce behind.’ + +‘I can’t,’ said Maurice. ‘Mamma said I should not do a bit of a lesson +with Sophy, or I should tease her heart out. Would it come quite out?’ + +‘Well, I think you’ve gone hard to try to-day,’ said Ulick. + +‘Mamma said my being able to read would be a comfort, and papa says he +never saw such an ignorant boy! so what’s the use of minding Gilbert’s +letter? It wont let me.’ + +‘What wont let you?’ + +‘Fun!’ said Maurice, with a sob. + +‘He is a rogue!’ cried Ulick, vehemently; ‘but a stout heart and good +will can get him under yet. Think of what your brother says of making +your father and mother happy!’ + +‘If I could do something to please them very, very much! Oh! if I could +but learn to read all at once.’ + +‘You can read--anybody can read!’ said Ulick, pulling a book out of his +pocket. ‘There! try.’ + +There was some laughing over this; and then Maurice leant out of window, +and grew sleepy. They had descended into the wide basin of alluvial +land through which the Baye dawdled its meandering course, and were +just about to cross the first bridge about two miles from Bayford, when +Maurice shouted, ‘There’s Sophy!--how funny.’ + +It was a tall figure, in deep mourning, slowly moving along the +towing-path, intently gazing into the river; but so strange was it to +see Sophy so far from home, that Ulick paused a moment ere calling to +the driver to stop. + +As he hastily wrenched open the door, she raised up her face, and he +was shocked. She looked as if she had lived years of sorrow, and even +Maurice was struck with consternation. + +‘Sophy! Sophy!’ he cried, hanging round her. ‘I wouldn’t have gone +without telling you, if I had thought you would mind it. Speak to me, +Sophy!’ + +She could say nothing save a hoarse ‘Where?’ as with both arms she +pressed him as if she could never let him go again. + +‘In the train--intending to go to Malta,’ said Ulick. + +‘I didn’t know I could not; I didn’t mean to vex you, Sophy,’ continued +the child. ‘I’m come home now, and I wont try again.’ + +‘Oh! Maurice, what would have become of you?’ She held out her hand to +Ulick, the first time for months. + +‘And we’ve got a letter for you, proceeded Maurice. + +Ulick would fain have withheld it, but he had not the choice. She caught +at it, still holding Maurice fast, and ere he could propose her opening +it in the carriage while he walked home she had torn it open, and the +same moment she had sunk down, seated on the path, with an arm round her +brother. ‘Oh! Maurice, it is well you are here! You would not have found +them--it is over!’ + +She had found one brother to lose the other; but the relief of Maurice’s +safety had so softened the blow, that her tears gushed forth freely. + +The sense of Ulick’s presence restrained her, but raising her head, she +missed him, and felt lonely, desolate, deserted, almost fainting, and in +a strange place. + +‘Is he dead?’ said Maurice, in a solemn low voice, and she wept +helplessly, while the little fellow stood sustaining her weight like a +small pillar, perplexed and dismayed. + +‘Are you poorly, Sophy? What shall I do?’ said he, as she almost fell +back, but a stronger arm held her up. + +‘Lean on me, dear Sophy,’ said Ulick, who had returned, bringing some +water from a small house near at hand, and supported her and soothed her +like a brother. + +The mists cleared away, the sense of desertion was gone, and she rose, +but could not stand without his arm, and he almost lifted her into the +carriage, where her appealing eye and helpless gesture made him follow +her, and take Maurice on his knee. No one spoke; Maurice nestled close +to his friend; awe-struck but weighed down by weariness and excitement. +The blow had in reality been given when he was forced to relinquish the +hope of seeing his brother again, and the actual certainty of his death +fell with less comparative force. Perhaps he did not enter into the +fact enough to ask for particulars. After a short space Sophy recovered +herself enough to take out the letter, and read it over with greater +comprehension. + +‘They were come!’ she said. + +‘In time. I am glad.’ + +‘In time to bring him peace, my uncle says! He knew mamma. I could never +have borne it if I had deprived him of her!’ + +‘Nor I,’ said Ulick, from his heart. ‘Did one but know the upshot of +one’s idle follies!’ + +Sophy looked towards Maurice. + +‘Asleep!’ said Ulick. ‘No wonder. He has walked four miles! He has a +heart that might have been born in Ireland;’ and as he looked at the +fair young face softened and sweetened by sleep, ‘What an infant it is +to have even fancied such an undertaking!’ + +‘Poor child!’ sighed Sophy. ‘He will never be the same!’ + +‘Nay, grief at that age does not check the spirits for life.’ + +‘You have never known,’ said Sophy. + +‘No; our number has never yet been broken; but for this little man, I +trust that the sense of duty may be deepened, and with it his love to +you all; and surely that is not what will quench the blithe temper.’ + +‘May it be so!’ said Sophy. ‘He may have enough of his mother in him to +be happy.’ + +‘I must think that the recollection of so loving a brother, and his +pride in him for a hero, may make the stream flow more deeply, but not +more darkly.’ + +‘There never was a cloud between them,’ said Sophy. + +‘Clouds are all past and gone now between those who can with him “take +part in that thanksgiving lay,”’ answered Ulick, kindly. + +‘Yes,’ said Sophy. ‘My uncle says it was peace at last! Oh! if +humbleness and penitence could win it, one might be sure it would be +his.’ + +‘True,’ said Ulick. ‘It was a beautiful thing to find the loving +sweetness and kindness refined into self-devotion and patience, and +growing into something brighter and purer as it came near the last. It +will be a precious recollection.’ + +‘To those who have no self-reproach,’ sighed Sophy; and after a pause +she abruptly resumed, ‘You once blamed me for being hard with him. +Nothing was more true.’ + +‘Impossible--when could I have presumed?’ + +‘When? You remember. After Oxford.’ + +‘Oh! you should not have let what I said dwell with you. I was a very +raw Irishman then, and thought it barbarity to look cold on a little +indiscretion, but I have learnt to think differently,’ and he sighed. +‘The severity that leads to repentance is truer affection than is shown +by making light of foolishness.’ + +‘If it had been affection and not wounded pride.’ + +‘The dross has been refined away, if there were any,’ said Ulick. ‘You +will be able to love him better now than ever you did in life.’ + +His comprehension met her half way, and gave her more relief and +soothing than anything she had experienced for months. There was that +response and intercommunion of spirit for which her nature had yearned +the more because of the inability to express the craving; the very turn +of the dark blue eyes, and the inflexions of the voice, did not merely +convey pity, but an entering into the very core of her sorrow, namely, +that she had never loved her brother enough, nor forgiven him for not +being his fellow-twin. Whatever he said tended to reveal to her that +there had been more justice, rectitude, sisterly feeling, and wholesome +training than she had given herself credit for, and, above all, that +Gilbert had loved her all the time. She was induced to dwell on the +exalting and touching circumstances of his last redeeming year, and +her tears streamed calmly and softly, not with the harshness that had +hitherto marred her grief. Neither could have believed that there had +been so long and marked a separation in feeling, or that Ulick O’More +had not always been one with the Kendal family. It was all too soon that +the conversation ended, and Maurice wakened suddenly at the vicarage +wicket. Mrs. Dusautoy herself came to meet them as the little boy was +lifted out. She had never been seen on her own feet so far from the +house before! But no one ever knew the terror she had suffered, when +of all her three charges not one was safe but the little Albinia, whose +‘poor Maurice’ and ‘all gone’ were as trying as her alternations of +merriment. The vicar, the curate, the parish clerk, the servants of the +two establishments, and four policemen, were all gone different ways; +and poor Mrs. Dusautoy’s day had been spent in hearing the results of +their fruitless researches, or in worse presages, in which, as it now +appeared, the river had played its part. + +She kissed Maurice, and he did not rebel! She kissed Sophy, and could +have shaken off Ulick’s hand, but he only waited to hold up Hyder Ali +as the real finder, before he ran off to desire the school-bell to be +rung--the signal for announcing a discovery. It was well that Maurice +was too much stunned and fatigued to be sensible what a commotion he had +excited, or he might have thought it good fun. + +The tidings from Malta came in almost as something secondary. The case +had been too hopeless for anything else to be looked for, and when Mrs. +Dusautoy consigned her charge to a couch, with entreaties to her not to +move, there was calm tenderness in Sophy’s voice as she told what needed +to be told, and did not shrink from sympathy. She was grateful and +gentle, and lay all the rest of the day, sad and physically worn out, +but quietly mournful, and no longer dwelling on the painful side of past +transactions, her remorse had given way to resigned acquiescence, and +desolation to a sense that there was one who understood her. The sweet +tones, and, above all, those two words, ‘_dear_ Sophy,’ would come +chiming back from some involuntary echo, and the turbid depths were at +peace. + +When Mr. Dusautoy came to her side, and held out his hand, his honest +eyes brimming over, there was no repulsion in her manner of saying +affectionately, ‘You have had a great deal of trouble for my naughty +little brother.’ So different was her whole tone, that her kind friends +thought how much better for some minds was any certainty than suspense. +She bethought herself of sending to the Drurys, and showed rather +gratification than her ordinary impatience at the manifold reports of +the general sympathy, and of Bayford’s grief for its hero. The poison +was gone from her mind. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + + + +The Family Office had been asked to receive the whole party on their +return. Mr. Kendal had business in London, and could not bear to part +with the colonel till he had seen him safely lodged, and heard the +surgeon’s opinion. + +Mr. Ferrars was laying himself out to guard his brother-in-law from +being oppressed by the sympathetic welcome of the good aunts; but though +the good ladies never failed in kindness, all the excess was directed +into a different channel; Albinia herself was but secondary to the +wounded hero, for whom alone they had eyes and ears. They would hardly +let him stand erect for a moment; easy-chairs and couches were offered, +soup and wine, biscuits and coffee were suggested, and questions +were crowded on him, while he, poor fellow, wistfully gazed at the +oft-directed pile of foreign letters on the side-table, and in pure +desperation became too fatigued to go down to luncheon. + +When the others returned, he was standing on the rug, curling his +moustaches. There was a glow of colour on his hollow cheek, and his +eyes danced; he put out his hand, and catching Albinia’s with boyish +playfulness, he squeezed it triumphantly, with the words, ‘Albinia, +she’s a brick!’ + +They went their several ways, Fred to rest, Maurice to make an +appointment for him with the doctor, and Albinia to Genevieve, whom Mr. +Kendal regarded like his son’s widow, forgetting that the attachment had +been neither sanctioned nor returned. He could not rest without seeing +her, and delivering that last message, but he was glad to have the way +prepared by his wife, and proposed to call for her when his law business +should be over. + +Albinia sent in her card, and asked whether Miss Durant were at liberty. +Genevieve came hurrying to her with outstretched hands: ‘Dear Mrs. +Kendal, this is kind!’ and led her to the back drawing-room, where they +were with one impulse enfolded in each other’s tearful embrace. + +‘Oh! madame, how much you have suffered!’ + +‘You know all?’ said Albinia. + +‘O no, very little. My aunt knows little of Bayford now, and her sight +is too weak for much writing.’ + +Genevieve pushed back her hair; she looked ill and heavy-eyed, with the +extinguished air that sorrow gave her. Gilbert had distressed, perplexed +her, and driven her from home, but what could be remembered, save the +warm affection he had lavished on her, and the pain she had inflicted? +Uneasiness and sorrow, necessarily unavowed, had preyed on the poor +girl for weeks in secret; and even now she hardly presumed to give way, +relief, almost luxury, as it was to be pressed in those kind arms, and +suffered to weep freely for the champion of her younger days. When she +had heard how he had thought of her to the last, her emotion grew less +controllable; and Albinia was touched by the idea that there had all +along been a stifled preference. Embellished as Gilbert now was, she +could not but wish to believe that his affection had not been wasted; +and his constancy might well be touching in one of the heroes of the six +hundred. At least, Genevieve had a most earnest and loving appetite for +every detail, and though the afternoon was nearly gone, neither felt as +if half an hour had passed when admittance was asked for Mr. Kendal. + +It was a trying moment, but Genevieve was too simple, genuine, and +grateful to pause in selfish embarrassment. Had she toyed with Gilbert’s +affection, she could not have met his father with such maidenly modesty, +and sweet sympathy and respect in her blushing cheek and downcast, +tearful eyes. + +He took her hand, speaking in the kindest tone of his mellow voice: ‘My +dear, Mrs. Kendal has told you what brings us here, and how much we feel +for and with you.’ + +‘So kind in you,’ said Genevieve, faltering. + +‘Poor child, she has suffered grievously for want of fuller tidings,’ +said Albinia; ‘she has been keeping her sorrow pent up all this time.’ + +‘She has acted, as she has done throughout, most consistently,’ said +Mr. Kendal. ‘My dear, though it was inexpedient to show my sentiments, +I always respected my son for having placed his affections so worthily, +and though circumstances were unfortunately adverse, I cannot thank you +enough for your course of action and the influence you exercised.’ + +‘I never did,’ murmured Genevieve. + +‘Not perhaps consciously; but unswerving rectitude of conduct is one of +the strongest earthly influences. He was sensible of it. He bade me +tell you that whenever higher and better thoughts came to him, you were +connected with them; and when to his surprise, poor boy, he found that +he was thought to have distinguished himself, his first thought was that +it might be a step to your esteem. He desired me to thank you for all +that you have been to him, to entreat you to pardon the annoyance of +which he was the occasion, and to beg you to wear this for his sake, +if you could think of his presumption with forgiveness and toleration. +Those were his words; but I trust you do not retain displeasure, for +though, perhaps, foolishly and obtrusively expressed, it was sincere and +lasting affection.’ + +‘Oh, sir!’ exclaimed Genevieve, ‘do not speak thus! What can I feel save +that it will be my tenderest and deepest pride to have been so regarded. +Oh! that I could thank him! but,’ clasping her hands together, ‘I cannot +even thank you.’ + +‘The best way to gratify us,’ he said, ‘will be always to remember that +you have a home at Willow Lawn, and a daughter’s place in our hearts. +Think of me like a father, Genevieve;’ and he kissed her drooping +forehead. + +‘Oh! Mr. Kendal, this is goodness.’ + +He turned to Albinia to suggest, ‘It must be intolerable to be here at +present. Speak to Mrs. Rainsforth, let us take her home, if it be but +for a week.’ + +Leaving him to make the proposition to Genevieve, Albinia gained +admittance to the other drawing-room, which she found all over little +children, and their mother looking unequal to dispensing with their +deputy. She said she had feared Miss Durant was looking ill, and had +something weighing on her spirits, though she was always so cheerful and +helpful, but baby had not been well, and Mr. Rainsforth was not at all +strong, and her views had evidently taken no wider range. + +Albinia began to think her proposal cruel, and prefaced it by a few +words on the state of the case. The little bit of romance touched +the kind heart. Mrs. Rainsforth was shocked to think of the grief the +governess must have suffered in secret while aiding to bear her burdens, +and was resolved on letting her have this respite, going eagerly to +assure her that she could well be spared; baby was better, and papa was +better, and the children would be good. + +But Genevieve knew too well how necessary she was, and had been telling +Mr. Kendal of the poor little mother’s anxieties with her many delicate +children, and her husband’s failing health. She could not leave them +with a safe conscience; and she would not show how she longed after +quiet, the country, and her aunt. She stood firm, and Albinia could not +say that she was not right. Mrs. Rainsforth was distressed, though +much relieved, and was only pacified by the engagement that Miss Durant +should, when it was practicable, spend a long holiday with her friends. + +‘At home!’ said Mr. Kendal, and the responsive look of mournful +gratitude from beneath the black dewy eyelashes dispelled all marvel at +his son’s enduring attachment. + +He was wonderfully patient when Mrs. Rainsforth could not be content +without Mrs. Kendal’s maternal and medical opinion of the baby, on the +road to and from the nursery consulting her on all the Mediterranean +climates, and telling her what each doctor had said of Mr. Rainsforth’s +lungs, in the course of which Miss Durant and her romance were put as +entirely out of the little lady’s mind as if she had never existed. + +The next day the Kendals set their faces homewards, leaving Maurice till +the surgeon’s work should be done, and Fred, as the aunts fondly hoped, +to be their nursling. + +But, behold! Sunday and Monday Colonel Fred spent in bed, smiling +incessantly; Tuesday and Wednesday on the sofa; Thursday in going about +London; Friday he was off to Liverpool; Saturday had sailed for Canada. + +Albinia was coming nearer to the home that was pulling her by the +heart-strings. Hadminster was past, and she had heard the welcome wards, +‘All well,’ from the servant who brought the carriage; but how much more +there was to know than Sophy’s detailed letters could convey--Sophy, +whose sincerity, though one of the most trustworthy things in the +world, was never quite to be relied on as to her own health or Maurice’s +conduct. + +At the gate there was a little chestnut curled being in a short black +frock, struggling to pull the heavy gate open with her plump arms, and +standing for one moment with her back to it, screaming ‘Mamma! Papa!’ +then jumping and clapping her hands in ecstasy and oblivion that the +swing of the gate might demolish her small person between it and the +horse. But there was no time for fright. Sophy caught her and secured +the gate together; and the first glimpse assured Albinia that the hard +gloom was absent. And there was Maurice, leaning against the iron rail +of the hall steps; but he hardly moved, and his face was so strangely +white and set, that Albinia caught him in her arms, crying, ‘Are you +well, my boy? Sophy, is he well?’ + +‘Quite well,’ said Sophy; but the boy had wriggled himself loose, stood +but for an instant to receive his father’s kiss, and had hold of the +sword. The long cavalry sabre was almost as tall as himself, and he +stood with both arms clasped round it; but no sooner did he feel their +eyes upon him, than he turned about and ran upstairs. + +It was not gracious, but they excused it; they had their little Albinia +comfortably and childishly happy, as yet without those troublesome +Kendal feelings that always demonstrated themselves in some perverse +manner. + +And Sophy stood among them--that brighter, better Sophy who had so long +been obscured, happy to have them at home; talking and asking questions +eagerly about the journey, and describing the kindness of the Dusautoys +and the goodness of the children. + +‘Have you heard from Lucy?’ asked Mr. Kendal, as Albinia went in pursuit +of her little boy. + +‘Yes--poor Lucy?’ + +‘Is there no letter from him?’ + +‘Not for you, papa.’ + +‘What? Did he write to his uncle?’ + +‘No, papa--he wrote to me and to Mr. Pettilove. Cannot he be stopped, +papa? Can he do any harm? Mr. Dusautoy and Mr. Pettilove think he can.’ + +‘You mean that he wishes to question the will? You may be quite secure, +my dear. Nothing can be more safe.’ + +‘Oh, papa! I am so very glad. Not to be able to hinder him was so +dreadful, when he wanted to pit Lucy and me against you. I could never +have looked at you. I should always have felt that you had something to +forgive me.’ + +‘I could not well have confounded you with Algernon, my dear,’ said Mr. +Kendal. ‘What did Pettilove mean? Do you know?’ + +‘Not exactly; something about grandpapa’s old settlement; which +frightened the Vicar, though Mrs. Dusautoy said that it was only that he +fancied nobody could do anything right without his help. Mr. Dusautoy is +more angry with Algernon than I thought he could be with anybody.’ + +‘No one but Algernon would have ever thought of it,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘I +am sorry he has molested you, my dear. Have you any objection to let me +see his letter?’ + +‘I kept it for you, papa, and a copy of my answer. I thought though I am +not of age, perhaps my saying I would have nothing to do with it might +do some good.’ + +Algernon magniloquently condoled with his sister-in-law on the injustice +from which she and her sister had suffered, in consequence of the +adverse influence which surrounded her brother, and generously informed +her that she had a champion to defeat the machinations against their +rights. He had little doubt of the futility of the document, and had +written to the legal adviser of the late Mr. Meadows to inquire whether +the will of that gentleman did not bar any power on the part of his +grandson to dispose of the property. She might rely on him not to rest +until she should be put in possession of the estate, unless it should +prove to have been her grandfathers intention, in case of the present +melancholy occurrence, that the elder sister should be the sole +inheritrix, and he congratulated her on having such a protector, since, +under the unfortunate circumstances, the sisters would have had no one +to uphold their cause against their natural guardian. + +Sophy’s answer was-- + + +‘Dear Algernon, + +‘I prefer my _natural guardian_ to any other whatever. I shall for my +part owe you no thanks for attempting to frustrate my dear brother’s +wishes, and to raise an unbecoming dissension. I desire that no use of +my name may be made, and you may rest assured that I should find nothing +so difficult to forgive as any such interference in my behalf. + + ‘Yours truly, + ‘SOPHIA KENDAL.’ + + +‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘no family ill-will is complete unless +money matters be brought in to aggravate it.’ + +‘Do you think I did right, and spoke strongly enough, papa?’ + +‘Quite strongly enough,’ said Mr. Kendal, suppressing a smile. ‘I hope +you wrote kindly to Lucy at the same time.’ + +‘One could not help that, papa; but I did say a great deal about the +outrageous impropriety of raising the question, because I thought +Algernon might be ashamed.’ + +‘Riches kept for the owners thereof to their hurt,’ said Mr. Kendal. +‘Your grandfather’s acquisitions have brought us little but evil +hitherto, and now I fear that our dear Gilbert’s endeavour to break +the net which bound us into that system of iniquity and oppression, +may cause alienation from poor Lucy. Sophy, you must allow no apparent +coldness or neglect on her part to keep you from writing often and +affectionately.’ + +Maurice here came down with his mother, and as soon as there was a +moment’s pause, laid hold of the first book he met with, and began:-- + + +‘I do not see the justness of the analogy to which Onuphrio refers, but +there are many parts of that vision on which I should wish to hear the +explanations of Philalethes.’ + + +All broke out in amazement, ‘Why, Maurice, has Mrs. Dusautoy been making +a scholar of you?’ + +‘Oh! Maurice, was this your secret?’ cried Sophy. + +He had hidden his face in his mother’s lap, and when she raised it +struggled to keep it down, and she felt him sobbing and panting for +breath. Mr. Kendal stroked his hair, and they tried to soothe him, but +he started up abruptly. + +‘I don’t mean ever to be a plague again! So I did it. But there--when +Ulick said it would be a comfort, you are all going to cry again, papa +and all, and that’s worse!’ and stamping his foot passionately, he would +have rushed out of the room, but was held fast in his father’s arms, and +indeed tears were flowing fast from eyes that his brother’s death had +left dry. + +‘My child! my dear child!’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘it is comfort. No one can +rule you as by God’s grace you can rule yourself, and your endeavours to +do this are the greatest blessing I can ask.’ + +One more kiss from his mother, and she let him go. He did not know how +to deal with emotion in himself, and hated the sight of it in others; so +that it was better to let him burst away from them, while with one voice +they admired, rejoiced, and interrogated Sophy. + +‘I know now,’ she said, the rosy glow mantling in her cheek; ‘it must +have been Mr. O’More.’ + +‘Ah! has he been with you?’ said her father. + +‘Only once,’ said Sophy, her colour deepening; ‘but Maurice has been in +a great hurry every day to go to him, and I saw there was some secret. +One day, Susan asked me to prevent Master Maurice from teaching baby +such ugly words, that she could not sleep--not bad words, but she +thought they were Latin. So I watched, and I heard Maurice singing +out some of the legend of Hiawatha, and insisting on poor little Awkey +telling him what m-i-s-h-e-n-a-h-m-a, spelt. Poor little Awk stared, as +well she might, and obediently made the utmost efforts to say after him, +Mishenahma, king of fishes, but he was terribly discomposed at getting +nothing but Niffey-ninny, king of fithes. I went to her rescue, and +asked what they were about; but Maurice thundered down on me all the +Delawares and Mohawks, and the Choctaws and Cameches; and baby squeaked +after him as well as she could, till I fairly stopped my ears. I thought +Ulick must be reading the legend to him. Now I see he must have been +teaching him to read it.’ + +‘Can it be possible?’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘He could not read words of five +letters without spelling.’ + +‘He always could do much more when he pleased than when he did not +please,’ said Albinia. ‘I believe the impulse to use his understanding +was all that was wanting, and I am very glad the impulse came from such +a motive.’ + +Mr. Kendal ordained that Maurice’s reward should be learning Latin from +himself, a perilous trial; but it proved that Mr. Kendal was really a +good teacher for a child of spirit and courage, and Maurice had early +come to the age when boys do better with man than with woman. He liked +the honour and the awe of papa’s tutorship, and learnt so well, that his +father never believed in his past dunceship; but over studies that he +did not deem sufficiently masculine, he could be as troublesome as +ever, his attention absent, and his restlessness most wearisome. To an +ordinary eye, he was little changed; but his mother felt that the +great victory of the will had been gained, and that his _self_ was +endeavouring to get the better of the spirit of insubordination and +mischief. Night after night she found him sleeping with the Balaklava +sword by his side, and his hand clasped over it; and he always crept +out of the way of Crimean news, though that he gathered up the facts was +plain when he committed his sovereign to Ulick, with a request that +it might be devoted to the comforts preparing to be sent to the 25th +Lancers. + +Ulick wished him to consult his mother, but this he repelled. He could +not endure the sight of a tear in her eye, and she could not restrain +them when that chord was touched. It was a propensity she much disliked, +the more because she thought it looked like affectation beside Sophy, +whose feelings never took that course, but the more ill-timed the tears, +the more they would come, at the most common-place condolence or remote +allusion. It was the effect of the long strain on her powers, and +the severe shock coming suddenly after so much pressure and fatigue; +moreover, her habits had been so long disorganized that her time seemed +blank, and she could not rouse herself from a feeling of languor and +depression. Then Gilbert had been always on her mind, whether at home +or absent; and it did not seem at first as if she had enough to fill up +time or thoughts--she absolutely found herself doing nothing, because +there was nothing she cared to do. + +Mr. Kendal’s first object was the fulfilment of Gilbert’s wishes; but +Albinia soon felt how much easier it is for women and boys to make +schemes, than for men to bring them to effect, and how rash it is +hastily to condemn those who tolerate abuses. + +The whole was carefully looked over with a surveyor, and it was only +then understood how complicated were the tenures, and how varied the +covenants of the numerous small tenements which old Mr. Meadows had +amassed. It was not possible to be free of the legal difficulties under +at least a year, and plans of drainage might be impeded for want of +other people’s consent. Even if all had been smooth, the sacrifice of +income, by destroying Tibb’s Alley, and reducing the number of cottages, +would be considerable. Meantime, the inspection had brought to light +worse iniquities and greater wretchedness than Mr. Kendal had imagined, +and his eagerness to set to work was tenfold. His table was heaped with +sanitary reports, and his fits of abstraction were over the components +of bad air or builder’s estimates. + +It only depended on Ulick to have resumed his intimacy at Willow Lawn; +but the habit once broken was not resumed. He was often there, but +never without invitation; and he was not always to be had. He had less +leisure, he was senior clerk, and the junior was dull and untrained; and +he often had work to do far into the evening. He looked bright and well, +as though possessed of a sense of being valuable in his own place, more +conducive to happiness than even congeniality of employment; and Sophy, +though now and then disappointed at his non-appearance, always had a +good reason for it, and continued to justify Mr. Dusautoy’s boast that +the air of the hill had made another woman of her. + +Visiting cards had, of course, come in numbers to Willow Lawn, but +Albinia seemed to have caught her husband’s aversions, and it would be +dangerous to say how long it was before she lashed herself into setting +off for a round of calls. + +Nothing surprised her more than Miss Goldsmith’s reception. Conscious of +her neglect, she expected the stiff manner to be more formal than ever; +but the welcome was almost warm, and there was something caressing in +her fears that Miss Kendal would be tired. Mr. Goldsmith was not quite +well, there were threatenings of gout, and his sister had persuaded him +to visit the relations at Bristol next week; everything might safely be +trusted to young More, and therewith came such praise of his steadiness +and ability, that Albinia did not know which way to look when all was +ascribed to Mr. Kendal’s great kindness to him. + +It was too palpable to be altogether pleasant. Sophia Kendal was heiress +enough to be a very desirable connexion for the bank. Albinia was afraid +she should see through the lady’s graciousness, and took her leave in +haste; but Sophy only said, ‘Do you remember, mamma, when the Goldsmiths +thought we unsettled him?’ + +Before Albinia had disarmed her reply of the irony on the tip of +her tongue, the omnibus came lumbering round the corner, and a voice +proceeded from the rear, the door flew open, and there was a rapid exit. + +Face and voice, light step, and gay bearing, all were Fred--the empty +sleeve, the sole resemblance to the shattered convalescent of a few +weeks back. + +‘There, Albinia! I said you should see her first. You haven’t got any +change, have you?’ the last being addressed either to Albinia, the +omnibus conductor, or a lady, who made a tender of two shillings, while +Albinia ordered the luggage on to Willow Lawn, though something was +faintly said about the inn. + +‘And there!’ cried Fred, with an emphatic twist of his moustache, ‘isn’t +she all I ever told you?’ + +‘The last thing was a brick,’ said Albinia, laughing, as she looked +at the smiling, confiding, animated face, not the less pleasant for a +French Canadian grace that recalled Genevieve. + +‘The right article for building a hut, I hope,’ she said, merrily. + +‘But how and when could you have come?’ + +‘This morning, from Liverpool. We did not mean to storm you in this +manner; we meant to have settled ourselves at the inn, and walked down; +Emily was very particular about it.’ + +‘But you see, when he saw you, he forgot all my lectures!’ said Emily, +taking his welcome for granted. + +‘Very proper of him! But, Fred, I don’t quite believe it yet. How long +is it since we parted?’ + +‘Six weeks; just enough to go to Canada and back, with a fortnight in +the middle to spare.’ + +‘And pray how long has Mrs. Fred existed?’ + +‘Three weeks and two days;’ and turning half round to give her the +benefit of his words, ‘it was on purely philanthropic principles, +because I could not tie my own necktie.’ + +‘Now could I,’ said Emily pleadingly to Sophy--‘now could I let him go +back again alone, when he came so helpless, and looking so dreadfully +ill?’ + +‘And what are you going to do?’ asked Albinia. ‘You can’t join again.’ + +‘Join! why not? Here’s a hand for a horse, and an arm for a wife, and +the rest will be done much better for me than ever it was before.’ + +‘But with her? and at Sebastopol!’ + +‘That’s the very thing’’ cried the colonel, again turning about. +‘Nothing will serve her but to show how a backwoodsman’s daughter can +live in a hut.’ + +‘And what will the general say?’ + +‘The general,’ cried Emily, ‘will endure me better as a fact than as a +prospect; and we will teach him that a lady is not all made of nerves +and of fancies! See what he will say if we let him into our paradise!’ + +Fred brightened, though Albinia’s inquiry had for a moment taken him +a little aback. The one being whom he dreaded was General Ferrars, for +whom he cared a thousand times more than for his own elder brother, +and he was soon speculating, with his usual insouciance, as to how his +announcement might have been received by his lordship, and whether the +aunts would look at them as they went through London. + +Mr. Kendal met them at the gate, amazed at the avalanche of luggage, +but well pleased, for he had grown very fond of Fred, and had been +very anxious about him, thinking him broken and enfeebled for life, and +hardly expecting him to return from his mad expedition. He was slow to +believe his eyes and ears when he beheld a hale, handsome, vigorous man, +full of life and activity, but his welcome and congratulations were of +the warmest. He could far better stand a sudden inroad than if he had +had to meditate for a week on entertaining the bride. Not that the bride +wanted entertainment, except waiting upon her husband, who let himself +be many degrees less handy than at Malta, for the pleasure of her +attentions. + +Perhaps the person least gratified was Maurice; for the child shrank +with shy reverence from him whom his brother had saved, and would as +soon have thought of making a plaything of Gilbert’s sword as of having +fun with the survivor. The sight of such a merry man was a shock, and he +abruptly repelled all attempts at playing with him, and kept apart +with a big book on a chair before him, a Kendalism for which he amply +compensated when familiarity had diminished his awe. + +Mr. Kendal, though little disposed to exert himself to talk, liked to +watch his wife reviving into animation, and Sophy taking a full share +in the glee with which Emily enjoyed turning the laugh against the +good-natured soldier. In the midst of their flush of joy there was a +tender consideration about the young couple, such as to hinder +their tone from jarring. Indeed, it was less consideration than +fellow-feeling, for Gilbert Kendal had become enshrined in the depths of +Fred’s heart; while to Emily the visit was well-nigh a pilgrimage. All +her hero-worship was directed to the youth who had guarded her soldier’s +life, nursed him in his sickness, and, as he averred, inspired him with +serious thoughts. Poor, failing, timid, penitent Gilbert was to her a +very St. George, and every relic of him was viewed with reverence; she +composed a countenance for him from his father’s fine features, and +fitted the fragments of his history into an ideal, till Sophy, after +being surprised and gratified, began to view Gilbert through a like +halo, and to rank him with his twin brother. Friendship was a new and +agreeable phase of life to Sophy, who found a suitable companion in such +an open-hearted person, simpler in nature, and fresher than herself, +free from English commonplaces, though older and of more standing. She +expanded and brightened wonderfully, and Emily, imagining her a female +Gilbert, was devoted to her, and thought her a marvel of learning, +depth, goodness, and humility, the more striking for her tinge of grave +pensiveness. + +‘Why, Albinia,’ said the colonel, ‘didn’t I hear that it was your +handsome daughter who is married?’ + +‘Yes, poor Lucy was always called our pretty one.’ + +‘More admired than her sister? Why, she never could have had a +countenance!’ + +‘Yes,’ said Albinia, highly gratified by the opinion of such a +connoisseur. ‘I always told Winifred that Sophy was the beauty, but she +has only lately had health or animation to set her off.’ + +‘I declare, when we overtook you in the street, she looked a perfect +Spanish princess, in her black robes and great shady hat. You ought +always to keep her in black. Ha! Emily, what are you smiling at?’ + +His wife looked up into his face with mischievous shyness in her eyes, +as if she wanted him to say what would be a liberty in her. Somebody +else had overtaken the ladies nearly at the same moment, and Albinia +exulted in perceiving that the embellishment had been observed by others +besides herself. She did not look so severe but that Fred was encouraged +to repeat, ‘Only lately had health or animation? When Irish winds blow +this way, I fancy--But what will the aunts say?’ + +‘They are not Sophy’s aunts, whatever they are to you.’ + +‘What will Kendal say? which is more to the purpose.’ + +‘Oh! he saw it first; he will be delighted; but you must not say a word +to him, for it can’t come to anything just now.’ + +Albinia was thus confirmed in her anticipations, and the bridal pair, +only wishing everybody to be as happy as themselves, took the matter up +with such vivid interest and amusement, that she was rather afraid of +a manifestation such as to shock either her husband or the parties +themselves; but Fred was too much of a gentleman, and Emily too +considerate, for anything perilously marked. Only she thought Emily need +not have been so decided in making room for Ulick next to Sophy, when +they were all looking out at the young moon at the conservatory-door +that evening. + +And then Emily took her husband’s arm, and insisted on going down the +garden to be introduced to English nightingales; and though she was told +they never had come there in the memory of man, she was bent on doing as +she would be done by, and drew him alone the silvered paths, among the +black shadows of the trees; and Ulick asked Sophy if she wished to go +too. She looked as if she should like it very much; he fetched a couple +of cloaks ont of the hall, put her into one, and ran after Mrs. Ferrars +with the other. + +‘Well!’ thought Albinia, as she stood at the conservatory-door, ‘how +much more boldness and tact some people have than others! If I had lived +a hundred years, I should not have managed it so well!’ + +‘What’s become of them?’ said Mr. Kendal, as she went back to the +drawing-room. + +‘Gone to listen for nightingales!’ + +‘Nightingales! How could you let them go into the river-fog?’ + +‘Emily was bent upon it; she is too much of a bride not to have her +way.’ + +‘Umph! I wonder Sophy was so foolish.’ + +They came back in a quarter of an hour. No nightingales; and Fred was +indulging in reminiscences of bull-frogs; the two ladies were rapturous +on the effect of the moonbeams in the ripple of the waters, and the soft +furry white mist rising over the meadows. Ulick shivered, and leant +over the fire to breathe a drier air, bantering the ladies for their +admiration, and declaring that Mrs. Ferrars had taken the moan of an +imprisoned house-dog for the nightingale, which he disdainfully imitated +with buzz, zizz, and guggle, assuring her she had had no loss; but he +looked rather white and chilled. Sophy whispered something to her papa, +who rang the bell, and ordered in wine and hot water. + +‘There, Emily,’ said Albinia, when he had taken his leave; ‘what shall +we say to your nightingales, if Mr. O’More catches his ague again?’ + +‘Oh, there are moments when people don’t catch agues,’ said Fred. +‘He would be a poor fellow to catch an ague after all that, though, +by-the-bye, it is not a place to go to at night without a cigar.’ + +Albinia was on thorns, lest Sophy should be offended; but though her +cheeks lighted up, and she was certainly aware of some part of their +meaning, either she did not believe in the possibility of any one +bantering her, or else the assumption was more agreeable than the +presumption was disagreeable. She endured with droll puzzled dignity, +when Fred teased her anxiety the next day to know whether Mr. O’More had +felt any ill effects; and it really appeared as if she liked him better +for what might have been expected to be a dire affront; but then he was +a man whose manner enabled to do and say whatever he pleased. + +Emily never durst enter on the subject with her, but had more than one +confidential little gossip with Albinia, and repeatedly declared that +she hoped to be in England when ‘it’ took place. Indeed that week’s +visit made them all so intimate, that it was not easy to believe how +recent was the acquaintance. + +The aunts had been so much disappointed at Fred’s desertion, so much +discomfited at his recovery contrary to all predictions, and so much +annoyed at his marriage, that it took all their kindness, and his +Crimean fame, to make them invite him and his colonial wife to the +Family Office, to be present at the royal distribution of medals. +However, the good ladies did their duty; and Emily and Sophy parted with +promises of letters. + +The beginning of the correspondence was as full a description of the +presentation of the medals as could be given by a person who only saw +one figure wherever she went, and to whom the great incident of the day +was, that the gracious and kindhearted Queen had herself fastened the +left-handed colonel’s medal as well as Emily could have done it herself! +There was another medal, with two clasps, that came to Bayford, and +which was looked at in pensive but not unhappy silence. ‘You shall have +it some day, Maurice, but not now,’ said Mr. Kendal, and all felt that +now meant his own lifetime. It was placed where Gilbert would well have +liked to see it, beside his brother Edmund’s watch. + +Emily made Mrs. Annesley and Miss Ferrars more fond of her in three +days, than eleven years had made them of Winifred; too fond, indeed, for +they fell to preaching to Fred upon the horrors of Sebastopol, till they +persuaded him that he was a selfish wretch, and brought him to decree +that she should stay with them during his absence. But, as Emily +observed, that was not what she left home for; she demolished his +arguments with a small amount of playing at petulance, and triumphantly +departed for the East, leaving Aunt Mary crying over her as a +predestined victim. + +The last thing Fred did before sailing, was to send Albinia a letter +from his brother, that she might see ‘how very kind and cordial Belraven +was,’ besides something that concerned her more nearly. + +Lord Belraven was civil when it cost him nothing, and had lately +regarded his inconvenient younger brother with favour, as bringing him +distinction, and having gained two steps without purchase, removed, too, +by his present rank, and the pension for his wound, from being likely +to become chargeable to him; so he had written such brotherly +congratulations, that good honest Fred was quite affected. He was even +discursive enough to mention some connexions of the young man who had +been with Fred in the Crimea, a Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy, a very good +sort of fellow, who gave excellent dinners, and was a pleasant yachting +companion. His wife was said to be very pretty and pleasing, but she had +arrived at Genoa very unwell, had been since confined, and was not yet +able to see any one. It was said to be the effect of her distress for +the death of her brother, and the estrangement from her family, who had +behaved very ill about his property. Had not Albinia Ferrars married +into that family? + +Albinia knew enough of her noble relative to be aware that good dinners +and obsequiousness were the way to his esteem, and Algernon’s was the +sort of arrogance that would stoop to adore a coronet. All this was +nothing, however, to the idea of Lucy, ill in that strange place, with +no one to care for her but her hard master. Albinia sometimes thought +of going to find her out at Genoa; but this was too utterly wild +and impossible, and nothing could be done but to write letters of +affectionate inquiry, enclosing them to Lord Belraven. + +Algernon’s answer was solemn, and as brief as he could make anything. +He was astonished that the event bad escaped the notice of the circle at +Bayford, since he believed it had appeared in all the principal European +newspapers; and his time had been so fully occupied, that he had +imagined that intimation sufficient, since it was evident from the tone +of the recent correspondence, that the family of Bayford were inclined +to drop future intercourse. He was obliged for the inquiries for Lucy, +and was happy to say she was recovering favourably, though the late +unfortunate events, and the agitation caused by letters from home, had +affected her so seriously, that they had been detained at Genoa for +nearly four months to his great inconvenience, instead of pushing on +to Florence and Rome. It had been some compensation that he had become +extremely intimate with that most agreeable and superior person, Lord +Belraven, who had consented to become sponsor to his son. + +Lucy wrote to Albinia. Poor thing, the letter was the most childishly +expressed, and the least childishly felt, she had ever written; its +whole aspect was weak and wobegone; yet there was less self-pity, and +more endeavour to make the best of it, than before. She had the dearest +little baby in the world; but he was very delicate, and she wished mamma +would send out an English nurse, for she could not bear that Italian +woman--her black eyes looked so fierce, and she was sure it was not safe +to have those immense pins in her hair. Expense was nothing, but she +should never be happy till she had an Englishwoman about him, especially +now that she was getting better, and Algernon would want her to come out +again with him. Dear Algernon, he had lost the Easter at Rome for her +sake, but perhaps it was a good thing, for he was often out in Lord +Belraven’s yacht, and she could be quiet with baby. She did wish baby to +have had her dear brothers’ names, but Algernon would not consent. Next +Tuesday he was to be christened; and then followed a string of mighty +names, long enough for a Spanish princess, beginning with Belraven!!! + +Lucy Dusautoy’s dreary condition in the midst of all that wealth could +give, was a contrast to Emily Ferrars’ buoyant delight in the burrow +which was her first married home, and proved a paradise to many a stray +officer, aye, maybe, to Lieutenant-General Sir William Ferrars himself. +Her letters were charming, especially a detail of Fred meeting Bryan +O’More coming out of the trenches, grim, hungry, and tired, having +recently kicked a newly alighted shell down from the parapet, with +the cool words, ‘Be off with you, you ugly baste you;’ of his wolfish +appetite after having been long reduced to simple rations, though he +kept a curly black lamb loose about his hut, because he hadn’t the heart +to kill it; and it served him for bed if not for board, all his rugs +and blankets having flown off in the hurricane, or been given to the +wounded; he had been quite affronted at the suggestion that a Galway pig +was as well lodged as himself--it was an insult to any respectable Irish +animal! + +Albinia sent Maurice to summon Ulick to enjoy the letter in store for +him. He looked grave and embarrassed, and did not light up as usual +at Bryan’s praises. He said that his aunt, who had written to him on +business, had given a bad account of Mr. Goldsmith, but Albinia hardly +thought this accounted for his preoccupation, and was considering how +to probe it, when her brother Maurice opened the door. ‘Ulick O’More! +that’s right; the very man I was in search of!’ + +‘How’s Winifred, Maurice?’ + +‘Getting on wonderfully well. I really think she is going to make a +start, after all! and she is in such spirits herself.’ + +‘And the boy?’ + +‘Oh, a thumping great fellow! I promise you he’ll be a match for your +Maurice.’ + +‘I do believe it is to reward Winifred for sparing you in the spring +when we wanted you so much! Come, sit down, and wait for Edmund.’ + +‘No; I’ve not a moment to stay. I’m to meet Bury again at Woodside at +six o’clock, he drove me there, and I walked on, looking in at your +lodgings by the way, Ulick.’ + +‘I’m not there now. I am keeping guard at the bank.’ + +‘So they told me. Well, I hope your guard is not too strict for you to +come over to Fairmead on Sunday; we want you to do our boy the kindness +to be his godfather!’ + +Sophy blushed with approving gratitude. + +‘I don’t consider that it will be a sinecure--he squalls in such a +characteristic manner that I am convinced he will rival his cousin here +in all amiable and amenable qualities; so I consider it particularly +desirable that he should be well provided with great disciplinarians.’ + +‘You certainly could not find any one more accomplished in teaching +dunces to read,’ said Albinia. + +‘When their mammas have taught them already!’ added Ulick, laughing. +‘Thank you; but you know I can’t sleep out; Hyder Ali and I are +responsible for a big chest of sovereigns, and all the rest of it.’ + +‘Nor could I lodge you at present; so we are agreed. My proposition +is that you should drive my sister over on Sunday morning. My wife +is wearying for a sight of her; and she has not been at Fairmead on a +Sunday since she left it, eh, Albinia?’ + +‘I suppose for such a purpose it is not wrong to use the horse,’ she +said, her eyes sparkling. + +‘And you might put my friend Maurice between you, if you can’t go out +pleasuring without him.’ + +‘I scorn you, sir; Maurice is as good as gold; I shall leave him at +home, I think, to prove that I can--’ + +‘That’s the reward of merit!’ exclaimed Sophy. + +‘She expects my children to corrupt him!’ quoth Mr. Ferrars. + +‘For shame, Maurice; that’s on purpose to make me bring him. Well, we’ll +see what papa says, and if he thinks the new black horse strong enough, +or to be trusted with Mr. O’More.’ + +‘I only wish ‘twas a jaunting car!’ cried Ulick. + +‘And what’s the boy’s name to be? Not Belraven, I conclude, like my +unfortunate grandson--Maurice, I hope.’ + +‘No; the precedent of his namesake would be too dangerous. I believe he +is to be Edmund Ulick. Don’t take it as too personal, Ulick, for it was +the name of our mutual connexion.’ + +‘I take the personal part though, Maurice; and thank you, said Albinia, +and Mr. Ferrars looked more happy and joyous than any time since his +wife’s health had begun to fail. Always cheerful, and almost always +taking matters up in the most lively point of view, it was only by +comparison that want of spirits in him could be detected; and it was +chiefly by the vanishing of a certain careworn, anxious expression about +his eyes, and by the ring of his merry laugh, that Albinia knew that he +thought better of his wife’s state than for the last five or six years. + +Albinia and Ulick drove off at six o’clock on a lovely summer Sunday +morning, with Maurice between them in a royal state of felicity. That +long fresh drive, past summer hay-fields sleeping in their silver bath +of dew, and villages tardily awakening to the well-earned Sunday rest, +was not the least pleasant part of the day; and yet it was completely +happy, not even clouded by one outbreak of Master Maurice. Luckily for +him, Mary had a small class, who absorbed her superabundant love of +rule; and little Alby was a fair-haired, apple-cheeked maiden of five, +who awoke both admiration and chivalry, and managed to coquet with him +and Ulick both at once, so that Willie had no disrespect to his sisters +to resent. + +He was exemplary at church, well-behaved at dinner, and so little on his +mamma’s mind, that she had a delightful renewal of her acquaintance with +the Sunday-school, and a leisurable gossip with Mrs. Reid and the two +Miss Reids, collectively and individually; but the best of all was a +long quiet tete-a-tete with Winifred. + +After the evening service, Mr. Ferrars himself carried his +newly-christened boy back to the mother, and paused that his sister +might come with him, and they might feel like the old times, when the +three had been alone together. + +‘Yes,’ said Winifred, when he had left them, ‘it is very pretty playing +at it; but one cannot be the same.’ + +‘Nor would one exactly wish it,’ said Albinia; ‘though I think you are +going to be more the same.’ + +‘Perhaps,’ said Winifred; ‘the worst of being ill is that it does wear +one’s husband so! When he came in, and tried to make me fancy we were +gone back to Willie’s time, I could not help thinking how different you +both looked.’ + +‘Well, so much the better and more respectable,’ said Albinia. ‘You know +I always wanted to grow old; I don’t want to stop short like your sister +Anne, who looks as much the child of the house as ever. + +‘I wish you had as few cares as Anne. Look; I declare that’s a grey +hair!’ + +‘I know. I like it; now Sophy is growing young, and I’m growing old, it +is all correct.’ + +‘Old, indeed!’ ejaculated Winifred, looking at her fair fresh complexion +and bright features; ‘don’t try for that, when even Edmund is not grey.’ + +‘Yes he is,’ said Albinia, gravely; ‘Malta sowed many white threads in +his black head, and worry about those buildings has brought more.’ + +‘Worry; I’m very sorry to hear of it.’ + +‘Yes; the tenures are so troublesome, and everybody is so cantankerous. +If he wanted to set up some pernicious manufacture, it could not be +worse! The Osbornes, after having lived with Tibb’s Alley close to them +all their lives, object to the almshouses! Mr. Baron wont have the new +drains carried through his little strip of land. The Town Council think +we are going to poison the water; and Pettilove, and everybody else +who owns a wretched tenement, that we shall increase the wants of their +tenants, and lower their rents. If it be carried through, it will be +by that sheer force in going his own way that Edmund can exert when he +chooses.’ + +‘And he will?’ + +‘O, yes, no fear of that; he goes on, avoiding seeing or hearing what +he has not to act upon; but worse than all are the people themselves; +Tibb’s Alley all has notice to quit, but none of them can be got rid of +till Martinmas, and some not till Lady-day, and the beer-house people +are in such a rage! The turn-out of the public-houses come and roar +at our gate on Saturday nights; and they write up things on the wall +against him! and one day they threw over into the garden what little +Awkey called a poor dear dead pussy. I believe they tell them all sorts +of absurd things about his tyranny; poor creatures.’ + +‘Can’t you get it stopped?’ + +‘Edmund wont summon any one, because he thinks it would do more harm +than good. He says it will pass off; but it grieves him more than he +shows: he thinks he could once have made himself more popular: but I +don’t know, it is a horrid set.’ + +‘I thought you said he was in good spirits.’ + +‘And so he is: he never gets depressed and unwilling to be spoken to. +He is ready to take interest in everything; and always so busy! When +I remember how he never seemed to be obliged to attend to anything, +I laugh at the contrast; and yet he goes about it all so gravely and +slowly, that it never seems like a change.’ + +In this and other home talk nearly an hour had passed, when Mr. Ferrars +returned. ‘Are you come to tell me to go?’ said Albinia. + +‘Not particularly,’ he said, in a tone that made her laugh. + +‘No, no,’ said Winifred. ‘I want a great deal more of her. Where have +you been?’ + +‘I have been to see old Wilks; Ulick walked down with me. By-the-bye, +Albinia, what nonsense has Fred’s wife been talking to his brother?’ + +‘Emily does not talk nonsense!’ fired up Albinia, colouring, +nevertheless. + +‘The worse for her, then! However, it seems Bryan has disturbed this +poor fellow very much, by congratulating him on his prospects at Willow +Lawn.’ + +‘Oh! that is what made him so distant and cautious, is it?’ laughed +Albinia. ‘I think Mrs. Emily might as well not have betrayed it.’ + +‘Betrayed! What could have passed?’ + +‘Oh! Emily and Fred saw it as plain as I did. Why, it does not do credit +to your discernment, Maurice; papa found it out long ago, and told me.’ + +‘Kendal did?’ + +‘Yes, that he did, and did not mind the notion at all; rather liked it, +in fact.’ + +‘Well!’ said Mr. Ferrars, in a different tone, ‘it is a very queer +business! I certainly did not think the lad showed any symptoms. He said +he had heard gossip about it before, and had tried to be careful; his +aunt talked to him once, but, as he said, it would be nothing but the +rankest treason to think of such a thing, on the terms on which he is +treated.’ + +‘Ay, that’s it!’ said Albinia; ‘he acts most perfectly.’ + +‘Perfectly indeed, if that were acting,’ said Mr. Ferrars. + +‘And what made him speak to you?’ asked Winifred. + +‘He wanted to consult me. He said it was very hard on him, for all the +pleasure he had came from his intercourse with Willow Lawn; and he +could not bear to keep at a distance, because it looked as if he had not +forgotten the old folly about the caricature; but he was afraid of the +report coming to your ears or Mr. Kendal’s, because you would think it +so wrong and shameful an abuse of your kindness.’ + +‘And that’s his whole concern?’ + +‘So he told me.’ + +‘And what advice did you give him?’ + +‘I told him Bayford was bent on gossip, and no one heeded it less than +my respected brother and sister.’ + +‘That was famous of you, Maurice. I was afraid you would have put it +upon his honour and the state of his own heart.’ + +‘Sooth to say, I did not think his heart appeared very ticklish.’ + +‘Oh! Maurice, Maurice! But you’ve not been there to see the hot fits and +the cold fits! It is a very fine thermometer whether he says Sophy or +Miss Kendal.’ + +‘And you say Edmund perceived this?’ + +‘Much you would trust my unassisted ‘cuteness! I tell you he did, and +that it will make him happier than anything.’ + +‘Very well; then my advice will have done no harm. I did not think there +had been so much self-control in an Irishman.’ + +‘Had he not better say, so much blindness in the rector of Fairmead?’ +laughed Albinia. + +‘And pray what course is the affair to take?’ + +‘The present, I suppose. Some catastrophe will occur at last to prove to +him that we honour him, and don’t view it as outrageous presumption; and +then--oh! there can be no doubt that he will have a share in the bank; +and Sophy may buy toleration for his round O. After all, he has the +best of it as to ancestry, and we Kendals need not turn up our noses at +banking.’ + +‘I think he will be too proud to address her, except on equality as to +money matters.’ + +‘Pride is sometimes quelled and love free,’ said Albinia. ‘No, no; +content yourself with having given the best advice in the world, with +your eyes fast shut!’ + +And Albinia went home in high spirits. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + + + +Not long afterwards, Ulick O’More was summoned to Bristol, where his +uncle had become suddenly worse; but he had only reached Hadminster when +a telegraph met him with the news of Mr. Goldsmith’s death, and orders +to remain at his post. + +He came to the Kendals in the evening in great grief; he had really come +to love and esteem his uncle, and he was very unhappy at having lost +the chance of a reconciliation for his mother. As her chief friend and +confidant, he knew that she regarded the alienation of her own family as +the punishment of her disobedient marriage, and that his own appointment +had been valued chiefly as an opening towards fraternal feeling, and +reproached himself for not having made more direct efforts to induce his +uncle to enter into personal intercourse with her. + +‘If I had only ventured it before he went to Bristol,’ he said; ‘I was a +fool not to have done so; and there, the Goldsmiths detest the very name +of us! Why could they not have telegraphed for me? I might have heard +what would have done my mother’s heart good for the rest of her life. I +am sure my poor uncle wanted to ease his mind!’ + +‘May he not have sent some communication direct to her?’ + +‘I trust he did! I have long thought he only kept her aloof from habit, +and felt kindly towards her all the time.’ + +‘And never could persuade himself to make a move towards her until too +late,’ said Albinia. + +‘Yes. Nothing comes home to one more than the words, “Agree with thine +adversary quickly whiles thou art in the way with him.” If once one +comes to think there’s creditable pride in holding out, there’s no end +to it, or else too much end.’ + +‘Mr. Goldsmith was persevering in the example his father had set him,’ +said Mr. Kendal. + +‘Ay! my mother never blamed either, and I’m afraid, if the truth were +told, my father was hot enough too, though it would all have been +bygones with him long ago, if they would have let it. But I was thinking +just then of my own foolishness last winter, when I would not grant you +it was pride, Mrs. Kendal, for fear I should have to repent of it.’ + +‘What has brought you to see that it was?’ asked she. + +‘One comes to a better mind when the fit is off,’ he said. ‘I hope I +will not be as bad next time.’ + +‘I hope we shall never give you a next time,’ said Albinia; ‘for neither +party is comfortable, perched on a high horse.’ + +‘And you see,’ continued Ulick, ‘it is hard for us to give up our pride, +because it is the only thing we’ve got of our own, and has been meat, +drink, and clothing to us for many a year.’ + +‘So no wonder you make the most of it.’ + +‘True; I think a very high born and very rich man might be humble,’ said +Ulick, so meditatively that they laughed; but Sophy said, + +‘No, that is not a paradox; the real difficulty is not in willingly +yielding, but in taking what we cannot help.’ + +‘Well,’ said Ulick, ‘I hope it is not pride not to intend working under +Andrew Goldsmith.’ + +‘Do you consider that as your fate?’ asked Albinia. + +‘Never my fate,’ said Ulick, quickly; ‘hardly even my alternative, for +he would like to put up a notice, “No Irish need apply.” We had enough +of each other last winter.’ + +‘And do you suppose,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘that Mr. Goldsmith has left your +position exactly the same?’ + +‘I’ve no reason to think otherwise. I refused all connexion with the +bank if it was to interfere with my name. I don’t think it unlikely that +he may have left me a small compliment in the way of shares; but if +so, I shall sell them, and make them keep me at Oxford. I’m not too old +yet!’ + +‘Then the work of these four years is wasted,’ said Mr. Kendal, gravely. + +‘No, indeed,’ cried Ulick; ‘not if it takes me where I’ve always longed +to be! Or, if not, I flatter myself I’m accountant enough to be an agent +in my own country.’ + +‘Anything to get away from here,’ said Albinia, with a shade of +asperity, provoked by the spirit of enterprise in his voice. + +‘After all, it is a bit of a place,’ said Ulick; ‘and the office parlour +is not just a paradise! Then ‘tis all on such a narrow scale, too little +to absorb one, and too much to let one do anything else; I see how +larger transactions might be engrossing, but this is mere cramping and +worrying; I know I could do better for my family in the end than by what +I can screw out of my salary now; and if it is no longer to give my poor +mother a sense of expiation, as she calls it, why, then, the cage-door +is open.’ + +His eyes glittered, and Sophy exclaimed, ‘Yes; and now the training is +over, it has made you fitter to fly.’ + +‘It has,’ he said; ‘and I’m thankful for it. Without being here, I would +never have learnt application--nor some better things, I hope.’ + +They scarcely saw him again till after the funeral, when late in the day +he came into the drawing-room, and saying that his aunt was pretty +well and composed, he knelt down on the floor with the little Awk, and +silently built up a tower with her wooden bricks. His hand trembled +nervously at first, but gradually steadied as the elevation became +critical; and a smile of interest lighted his face as he became absorbed +in raising the structure to the last brick, holding back the eager +child with one hand lest she should overthrow it. Completion, triumph, a +shock, a downfall! + +‘Well,’ cried the elder Albinia, unable to submit to the suspense. + +‘Telle est la vie,’ answered Ulick, smiling sadly as he passed his hand +over his brow. + +‘It’s too bad of him,’ broke out Mrs. Kendal. + +‘I thought you were prepared,’ said Sophy, severely, disappointed to see +him so much discomposed. + +‘How should I be prepared,’ said he, petulantly, ‘for the whole concern, +house, and bank, and all the rest of it?’ + +‘Left to you?’ was the cry. + +‘Every bit of it, and an annuity apiece charged on it to my mother and +aunt for their lives! My aunt told me how it came about. It was all that +fellow Andrew’s fault.’ + +‘Or misfortune,’ murmured Albinia. + +‘My poor uncle had made a will in Andrew’s favour long before my time, +and at Bristol he wanted to make some arrangement for my mother and for +me; but it seems Mr. Andrew took exception at me--would not promise to +continue me on, nor to give me a share in the business, and at last my +uncle was so much disgusted, that he sent for a lawyer and cut Andrew +out of his will altogether. My aunt says he went on asking for me, and +it was Andrew’s fault that they wrote instead of telegraphing. You can’t +think what kind messages he sent to me;’ and Ulick’s eyes filled with +tears. ‘My poor uncle, away from home, and with that selfish fellow.’ + +‘Did he send any message to your mother?’ + +‘Yes! he told my aunt to write to her that he was sorry they had been +strangers so long, and that--I’d been like a son to him. I’m sure I wish +I had been. I dare say he would have let me if I had not flown out about +my O. I could have saved changing it without making such an intolerable +row, and then he might have died more at peace with the world.’ + +‘At peace with you at least he did.’ + +‘I trust so. But if I could only have been by his side, and felt myself +a comfort, and thanked him with all my heart. Maybe he would have +listened to me, and not have sown ill-will between Andrew and me, by +giving neither what we would like.’ + +‘Do you expect us to be sorry?’ + +‘Nay, I came to be helped out of my ingratitude and discontent at +finding the cage-door shut, and myself chained to the oar; for as things +are left, I could not get it off my hands without giving up my mother’s +interests and my aunt’s. Besides, my poor uncle left me an entreaty to +keep things up creditably like himself, and do justice by the bank. It +is as if, poor man, it was an idol that he had been high priest to, and +wanted me to be the same--ay, and sacrifice too.’ + +‘Nay, there are two ways of working, two kinds of sacrifice; and +besides, you are still working for your mother.’ + +‘So I am, but without the hope she had before. To be sure, it would be +affluence at home, or would be if she could have it in her own hands. +Little Redmond shall have the best of educations! And we must mind +there is something in advance by the time Bryan wants to purchase his +company.’ + +Albinia asked how his aunt liked the arrangement. It seemed that +Andrew had offended her nearly as much as her brother, and that she was +clinging to Ulick as her great comfort and support; he did not like to +stay long away from her, but he had rushed down to Willow Lawn to avoid +the jealous congratulations of the cousinhood. + +‘You will hardly keep from glad people,’ said Albinia. ‘You must shut +yourself up if you cannot be congratulated. How rejoiced Mr. Dusautoy +will be!’ + +‘Whatever is, is best,’ sighed Ulick. ‘I shall mind less when the first +is past! I must go and entertain all these people at dinner!’ and he +groaned. ‘Good evening. Heigh ho! I wonder if our Banshee will think me +worth keening for?’ + +‘I hope she will have no occasion yet,’ said Albinia, as he shut the +door; ‘but she will be a very foolish Banshee if she does not, for she +will hardly find such another O’More! Well, Sophy, my dear.’ + +‘We should have missed him,’ said Sophy, as grave as a judge. + +Albinia’s heart beat high with the hope that Ulick would soon perceive +sufficient consolation for remaining at Bayford, but of course he could +make no demonstration while Miss Goldsmith continued with him. She +made herself very dependent on him, and he devoted his evenings to her +solace. He had few leisure moments, for the settlement of his affairs +occupied him, and full attention was most important to establish +confidence at this critical juncture, when it might be feared that his +youth, his nation, and Andrew Goldsmith’s murmurs might tell against +him. Mr. Kendal set the example of putting all his summer rents into +his hands, and used his influence to inspire trust; and fortunately the +world had become so much accustomed to transacting affairs with him, +that the country business seemed by no means inclined to fall away. +Still there was much hard work and some perplexity, the Bristol +connexion made themselves troublesome, and the ordinary business was the +heavier from the clerks being both so young and inexperienced that he +was obliged to exercise close supervision. It was guessed, too, that he +was not happy about the effect of the influx of wealth at home, and that +he feared it would only add to the number of horses and debts. + +He soon looked terribly fagged and harassed, and owned that he envied +Mr. Hope, who had just received the promise of a district church, in +course of building under Colonel Bury’s auspices, about four miles from +Fairmead. To work his way through the University and take Holy Orders +had been Ulick’s ambition; he would gladly have endured privation for +such an object, and it did seem hard that such aspirations should be +so absolutely frustrated, and himself forced into the stream of +uncongenial, unintellectual toil, in so obscure and uninviting a sphere. +The resignation of all lingering hope of escape, and the effort to be +contented, cost him more than even his original breaking in; and Mr. +Kendal one day found him sitting in his little office parlour unable to +think or to speak under a terrible visitation of his autumnal tormentor, +brow-ague. + +This made Mr. Kendal take to serious expostulation. It was impossible to +go on in this way; why did he not send for a brother to help him? + +Ulick could not restrain a smile at the fruitlessness of thinking +of assistance of this kind from his elder brothers, and as to little +Redmond, the only younger one still to be disposed of, he hoped to do +better things for him. + +‘Then send for a sister.’ + +He hoped he might bring Rose over when his aunt was gone, but he could +not shut those two up together at any price. + +Then,’ said Mr. Kendal, rather angrily, ‘get an experienced, trustworthy +clerk, so as to be able to go from home, or give yourself some +relaxation.’ + +‘Yes, I inquired about such a person, but there’s the salary; and where +would be the chance of getting Redmond to school?’ + +‘I think your father might see to that.’ + +Ulick had no answer to make to this. The legacy to Mrs. O’More might +nearly as well have been thrown into the sea. + +‘Well,’ said Mr. Kendal, walking about the room, ‘why don’t you keep a +horse?’ + +‘As a less costly animal than brother, sister, or clerk?’ said Ulick, +laughing. + +‘Your health will prove more costly than all the rest if you do not take +care.’ + +‘Well, my aunt told me it would be respectable and promote confidence +if I lived like a gentleman and kept my horse. I’ll see about it,’ said +Ulick, in a more persuadable tone. + +The seeing about it resulted in the arrival of a genuine product of +county Galway, a long-legged, raw-boned hunter, with a wild, frightened +eye, quivering, suspicious-looking ears, and an ill-omened name +compounded of kill and of kick, which Maurice alone endeavoured to +pronounce; also an outside car, very nearly as good as new. This last +exceeded Ulick’s commission, but it had been such a bargain, that Connel +had not been able to resist it, indeed it cost more in coming over than +the original price; but Ulick nearly danced round it, promising Mrs. and +Miss Kendal that when new cushioned and new painted they would find it +beat everything. + +He was not quite so envious of Mr. Hope when he devoted the early +morning hours to Killye-kickye, as the incorrect world called his steed, +and, if the truth must be told, he first began to realize the advantages +of wealth, when he set his name down among the subscribers to the +hounds. + +Nor was this the only subscription to which he was glad to set his name; +there were others where Mr. Dusautoy wanted funds, and Mr. Kendal’s +difficulties were lessened by having another lord of the soil on his +side. Some exchanges brought land enough within their power to make +drainage feasible, and Ulick started the idea that it would be better +to locate the almshouses at the top of the hill, on the site of Madame +Belmarche’s old house, than to place them where Tibb’s Alley at present +was, close to the river, and far from church. + +Mr. Kendal’s plans were unpopular, and two or three untoward +circumstances combined to lead to his being regarded as a tyrant. He +could not do things gently, and had not a conciliating manner. Had he +been more free spoken, real oppression would have been better endured +than benefits against people’s will. He interfered to prevent some +Sunday trading; and some of the Tibb’s Alley tenants who ought to have +gone at midsummer, chose to stay on and set him at defiance till they +had to be forcibly ejected; whereupon Ulick O’More showed that he was +not thoroughly Anglicised by demanding if, under such circumstances, +it was safe to keep the window shutters unclosed at night, Mr. Kendal’s +head was such a beautiful mark under the lamp. + +If not a mark for a pistol, he was one for the disaffected blackguard +papers, which made up a pathetic case of a helpless widow with her bed +taken away from under her, ending with certain vague denunciations which +were read with roars of applause at the last beer shop which could not +be cleared till Christmas, while the closing of the rest sent herds +thither; and papers were nightly read; representing the Nabob expelling +the industrious from the beloved cottages of their ancestors, by turns, +to swell his own overgrown garden, or to found a convent, whence, as a +disguised Jesuit, he meant to convert all Bayford to popery. + +As Albinia wrote to Genevieve, they were in a state of siege, for only +in the middle of the day did Mr. Kendal allow the womankind to venture +out without an escort, the evening was disturbed by howlings at the +gate, and all sorts of petty acts of spite were committed in the garden, +such as injuring trees, stealing fruit, and carrying off the children’s +rabbits. Let that be as it might, Genevieve owned herself glad to come +to hospitable Willow Lawn, though sorry for the cause. + +Poor Mr. Rainsforth, after vainly striving to recruit his health +at Torquay during the vacation, had been sentenced to give up his +profession, and ordered to Madeira, and Genevieve was upon the world +again. + +The Kendals claimed her promise of a long visit, or rather that +she should come home, and take time and choice in making any fresh +engagement, nay, that she should not even inquire for a situation till +after Christmas. And after staying to the last moment when she could +help the Rainsforths, she proposed to spend a day or two with her aunt +at the convent, and then come to her friends at Bayford. + +Mr. Kendal drove his ladies to fetch her. He had lately indulged the +household with a large comfortable open carriage with two horses, a +rival to Mr. O’More’s notable car, where he used to drive in an easy +lounging fashion on one side, with Hyder Ali to balance him on the +other. + +This was a grand shopping day, an endless business, and as the autumn +day began to close in, even Mr. Kendal’s model patience was nearly +exhausted before they called for their little friend. There was +something very sweet and appropriate in her appearance; her dress, +without presuming to share their mourning, did not insult it by gay +colouring; it was a quiet dark violet and white checked silk, a black +mantle, and black velvet bonnet with a few green leaves to the lilac +flowers, and the face when at rest was softly pensive, but ready to +respond with cheerful smiles and grateful looks. She had become more +English, and had dropped much foreign accent and idiom, but without +losing her characteristic grace and power of disembarrassing those to +whom she spoke, and in a few moments even Sophy had lost all sense +of meeting under awkward or melancholy circumstances, and was talking +eagerly to her dear old sympathizing friend. + +There was a great exchange of tidings; Genevieve had much to tell of +her dear Rainsforths, the many vicissitudes of anxiety in which she had +shared, and of the children’s ways of taking the parting; and of the +dear little Fanny who seemed to have carried away so large a piece of +her susceptible heart, that Sophy could not help breaking out, ‘Well, +I do think it is very hard to make yourself a bit of a mother’s heart, +only to have it torn out again.’ + +Albinia smiled, and said, ‘After all, Sophy, happiness in this world is +in such loving, only we don’t find it out till the rent has been made.’ + +‘And some people can get fond of anything,’ said Sophy. + +‘I’m sure,’ said Genevieve, ‘every one is so kind to me I can’t help +it.’ + +‘I was not blaming you,’ said Sophy. ‘People are the better for it, but +I cannot like except where I esteem, and that does not often come.’ + +‘Oh! don’t you think so?’ cried Genevieve. + +‘I don’t mean moderate approval. That may extend far, and with it +good-will, but there is a deep, concentrated feeling which I don’t +believe those who like every one can ever have, and that is life.’ + +Perhaps the deepening twilight favoured the utterance of her feelings, +for, as they were descending a hill, she said, ‘Mamma, that was the +place where Maurice was brought back to me.’ + +She had before passed it in silence, but in the dark she was not afraid +of betraying the expression that the thrill of exquisite recollection +brought to her countenance; and leaning back in her corner indulged in +listening to the narration, as Albinia, unaware of the special point of +the episode, related Maurice’s desperate enterprise, going on to dilate +on the benefit of having Mr. O’More at the bank rather than Andrew +Goldsmith. + +‘Ah!’ said Genevieve, ‘it is he who wants to pull down our dear old +house. I shall quarrel with him.’ + +‘Genevieve making common cause with the obstructives of Bayford, as if +he had not enemies enough!’ + +‘What’s that light in the sky?’ exclaimed Sophy, starting up to speak to +her father on the driving seat. + +‘A bonfire,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘If we had remembered that it was the 5th +of November, we would not have stayed out so late.’ The next moment he +drew up the horses, exclaiming, ‘Mr. Hope, will you have a lift?’ + +Mr. Hope, rather to the ladies’ surprise, took the vacant place beside +Sophy, instead of climbing up to the box. He had been to see his +intended parish, and was an enviable man, for he was as proud of it as +if it had been an intended wife, and Albinia, who knew it for a slice +of dreary heath, was entertained with his raptures. Church, schools, and +parsonage, each in their way were perfection or at least promised to +be, and he had never been so much elevated or so communicative. The +speechless little curate seemed to have vanished. + +The road, as may be remembered, did not run parallel with the curve of +the river, but cutting straight across, entered Bayford over the hill, +passing a small open bit of waste land, where stood a few cottages, the +outskirts of the town. + +Suddenly coming from an overshadowed lane upon this common, a glare of +light flashed on them, showing them each other’s faces, and casting the +shadow of the carriage into full relief. The horses shied violently, and +they beheld an enormous bonfire raised on a little knoll about twenty +yards in front of them, surrounded by a dense crowd, making every +species of hideous noise. + +Mr. Kendal checked the horses’ start, and Mr. Hope sprang to their +heads. They were young and scarcely trustworthy, their restless +movements showed alarm, and it was impossible to turn them without both +disturbing the crowd and giving them a fuller view of the object of +their terror. Mr. Kendal came down, and reconnoitring for a moment, +said, ‘You had better get out while we try to lead them round, we will +go home by Squash Lane.’ + +Just then a brilliant glow of white flame, and a tremendous roar of +applause, put the horses in such an agony, that they would have been too +much for Mr. Hope, had not Mr. Kendal started to his assistance, and a +man standing by likewise caught the rein. He was a respectable carpenter +who lived on the heath, and touching his hat as he recognised them, +said, ‘Sir, if the ladies would come into my house, and you too, sir. +The people are going on in an odd sort of way, and Mrs. Kendal would be +frightened. I’ll take care of the carriage.’ + +Mr. Kendal went to the side of the carriage, and asked the ladies if +they were alarmed. + +‘O no!’ answered Albinia, ‘it is great fun;’ and as the horses fidgeted +again, ‘it feels like a review.’ + +‘You had better get out,’ he said; ‘I must try to back the horses till I +can turn them without running over any one. Will you go into the house? +You did not expect to find Bayford so riotous,’ he added with a smile, +as he assisted Genevieve out. + +‘You are not going to get up again,’ said Albinia, catching hold of him, +and in her dread of his committing himself to the mercy of the horses, +returning unmeaning thanks to the carpenter’s urgent requests that she +would take refuge in his house. + +In fact, the scene was new and entertaining, and on the farther side of +the road, sheltered by the carriage, the party were entirely apart from +the throng, which was too much absorbed to notice them, only a few heads +turning at the rattling of the harness, and the ladies were amused at +the bright flame, and the dark figures glancing in and out of the light, +the shouts of delight and the merry faces. + +‘There’s Guy Fawkes,’ cried Albinia, as a procession of scarecrows +were home on chairs amid thunders of acclamation; ‘but whom have they +besides? Here are some new characters.’ + +‘Most lugubrious looking,’ said Genevieve. ‘I cannot make out the +shouts.’ + +‘It is the Nabob,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Perhaps you do not know that is my +alias. This is my execution.’ + +The carpenter implored them to come in, and Mr. Hope added his +entreaties, but Mr. Kendal would not leave the horses, and the ladies +would not leave him; and they all stood still while his effigy was +paraded round the knoll, the mark of every squib, the object of every +invective that the rabble could roar out at the top of their voices. +Jesuits and Papists; Englishmen treated like blackamoor slaves in the +Indies; honest folk driven out of house and home; such was the burthen +of the cries that assailed the grim representative carried aloft, +while the real man stood unmoved as a statue, his tall, powerful figure +unstirred, his long driving-whip resting against his shoulder without +betraying the slightest motion, neither firm lip nor steady eye +changing. Genevieve, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, ‘Oh! this is +madness! Will no one tell them how wicked they are?’ + +‘Never mind, my dear,’ said Mr. Kendal, pressing the hand that in her +fervour she had laid on his arm, ‘they will come to their senses in +time. No, Mr. Hope, I beg you will not interfere, they are in no state +for it; they have done no harm as yet.’ + +‘I wonder what the police are about?’ cried Albinia, indignantly. + +‘They are too few to do any good,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘It may be better +that they are not incensing the mob. It will all go off quietly when +this explosion has relieved their feelings.’ + +They felt as if there were something grand in this perfectly +dispassionate reception of the outrage, and they stood awed and +silenced, Sophy leaning on him. + +‘It will soon be over now,’ he said, ‘they are poking up the name to +receive me.’ + +‘Hark! what’s that?’ + +The mob came swaying back, and a rich voice swelled above all the din, +‘Boys, boys, is it burning your friends you are? Then, for the first +time, Mr. Kendal started, and muttered, ‘foolish lad! is he here?’ + +Confused cries rose again, but the other voice gained the mastery. + +‘So you call that undertaker-looking figure there Mr. Kendal. Small +credit to your taste. You want to burn him. What for?’ + +‘For being a Nabob and a tyrant,’ was the shout. + +‘Much you know of Nabobs! No; I’ll tell you what it’s for. It is because +his son got his death fighting for his queen and his country a year ago, +and on his death-bed bade him do his best to drive the fever from your +doors, and shelter you and save you from the Union in your old age. Is +that a thing to burn him for?’ + +‘We want no Irish papists here!’ shouted a blackguard voice. + +‘Serve him with the same sauce.’ + +‘I never was a papist,’ was the indignant reply. ‘No more was he; but +I’ve said that the place shan’t disgrace itself, and--’ + +‘I’m with you,’ shouted another above all the howls of the mob. ‘Gilbert +Kendal was as kind-hearted a chap as ever lived, and I’ll see no wrong +done to his father.’ + +Tremendous uproar ensued; then the well-known tones pealed out again, +‘I’ve given my word to save his likeness. Come on, boys. Hurrah for +Kendal!’ + +The war-cry was echoed by a body of voices, there was a furious melee +and a charge towards the Nabob, who rocked and toppled down, while +stragglers came pressed backwards on all sides. + +‘Here, Hope, take care of them. Stay with them,’ said Mr. Kendal, +putting the whip into the curate’s hand, and striding towards the +nucleus of the fray, through the throng who were driven backwards. + +‘O’More,’ he called, ‘what’s all this? Give over! Are you mad?’ and then +catching up, and setting on his legs, a little fallen boy, ‘Go home; get +out of all this mischief. What are you doing? Take home that child,’ to +a gaping girl with a baby. ‘O’More, I say, I’ll commit every man of you +if you don’t give over.’ + +He was recognised, and those who had little appetite for the skirmish +gave back from him; but the more reckless and daring small fry began +shrieking, ‘The Nabob!’ and letting off crackers and squibs, through +which he advanced upon the knot of positive combatants, who were +exchanging blows over his prostrate image in front of the fire. + +One he caught by the collar, in the act of aiming a blow. The fist was +instantly levelled at him, with the cry, ‘You rascal! what do you mean +by it?’ But the fierce struggle failed to shake off the powerful grasp; +and at the command, ‘Don’t be such a fool!’ Ulick burst out, ‘Murder! +‘tis himself!’ and in the surprise was dragged some paces before +recovering his perceptions. + +The cry of police had at the same instant produced a universal +scattering, and five policemen, coming on the ground, found scarcely any +one to separate or capture. Mr. Kendal relaxed his hold, saying, ‘You +are my prisoner.’ + +‘I didn’t think you’d been so strong,’ said Ulick, shaking himself, and +looking bewildered. ‘Where’s the effigy?’ + +‘What’s that to you. Come away, like a rational being.’ + +‘Ha! what’s that?’ as a frightful, agonizing shriek rent the air, and a +pillar of flame came rushing across the now open space. It was a child, +one mass of fire, and flying, in its anguish, from all who would +have seized it. One moment of horror, and it had vanished! The next, +Genevieve’s voice was heard crying, ‘Bring me something more to press +on it.’ She had contrived to cross its path with her large carriage rug, +and was kneeling over it, forcing down the rug to smother the flames. +Mr. Hope brought her a shawl, and they all stood round in silent awe. + +‘The poor child will be stifled,’ said Albinia, kneeling down to help to +unfold its face. + +Poor little face, distorted with terror and agony! One of the policemen +recognised it as the child of the public-house in Tibb’s Alley. There +were moans, but no one dared to uncover the limbs; and the policeman and +Mr. Hope proposed carrying it at once to Mr. Bowles, and then home. Mr. +Kendal desired that it should be laid on the seat of the carriage, which +he would drive gently to the doctor’s. Genevieve got in to watch over +the poor little boy, and the others walked on by the side, passed the +battle-field, now entirely deserted, too much shocked for aught but +conjectures on his injuries, and the cause of the misfortune. Either he +must have been pushed in on the fire by the runaway rabble, or have trod +upon some of the scattered combustibles. + +Mr. Bowles desired that the child should be taken home at once, +promising to follow instantly; so at the entrance of Tibb’s Alley, +the carriage stopped, and Mr. Hope lifted out the poor little wailing +bundle. Albinia was following, but a decided prohibition from her +husband checked her. ‘I would not have either of you go to that house on +any account. Tell them to send to us for whatever they want, but that is +enough.’ + +There was no gainsaying such a command, but as they reached the door of +Willow Lawn, Mr. Kendal exclaimed, ‘Where is Miss Durant?’ + +‘She is gone with the little boy,’ said Sophy. ‘She told me she hoped +you would not be displeased. Mr. Hope will take care of her, and she +will soon come in.’ + +‘Every one is mad to-night!’ cried Mr. Kendal. ‘In such a place as that! +I will go for her directly.’ + +‘Pray don’t,’ said Albinia, ‘no one could speak a rude word to her +on such an errand. She and Mr. Hope will be much more secure from +incivility without you.’ + +‘I believe it may be so, but I wish--’ + +His wish was broken off, for his little Albinia, screaming, ‘Papa! +papa!’ clung to him in a transport of caresses, which Maurice explained +by saying, ‘Little Awkey has been crying, mamma, she thought they were +burning papa in the bonnie.’ + +‘Papa not burnt!’ cried little Awkey, patting his cheeks, and laying +her head on his shoulders alternately, as he held her to his breast. +‘Naughty people wanted to make a fire, but they sha’n’t burn papa or +poor Guy Fawkes, or any of the good men.’ + +‘And where were you, Ulick?’ cried Maurice, in an imperious, injured +way. ‘You said once, perhaps you would take me to see the fire; and I +went up to the bank, and they said you were gone, and it was glaring so +in the sky, and I did so want to go.’ + +‘I am glad you stayed away, my man,’ said Albinia. + +‘I did want to go,’ said Maurice; ‘and I ran up to the top of the +street, and there was Mr. Tritton; and he said if I liked a lark, he +would take care of me; but--’ and there he stopped short, and the colour +came into his face. + +Albinia threw her arm round him, and kissed him, saying, ‘My trusty boy! +and so you came home?’ + +‘Yes; and there was Awkey crying about their burning papa, and she would +not go up to the garret-window to see the fire, nor do anything.’ + +‘Why, what is the sword here for?’ exclaimed Sophy, finding it on the +stairs. + +‘Because then Awkey was not so afraid.’ + +For once, Maurice had been exemplary, keeping from the tempting uproar, +and devoting himself to soothing his little sister. It was worth all the +vexations of the evening; but he went on to ask if Ulick could not take +him now, if the fire was not out yet. + +‘Not exactly,’ said Mr. Kendal, drily. + +‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Kendal,’ said Ulick, who had apparently only +just resumed the use of speech; ‘don’t know what I may have done when +you collared me, but I’d no more notion of its being you than the Lord +Lieutenant.’ + +‘And pray what took you there?’ asked Mr. Kendal. ‘The surprise was +quite as great to me.’ + +‘Why,’ said Ulick, ‘one of the little lads of my Sunday class gave me a +hint the other day that those brutes meant to have a pretty go to-night, +and that Jackson was getting up a figure of the Nabob to break their +spite upon. So I told my little fellow to give a hint to a few more of +the right sort, and we’d go up together and not let the rascals have +their own way.’ + +‘Upon my word, I wonder what the Vicar will say to the use you make of +his Sunday-school. Pretty work for his model teacher.’ + +‘What better could the boys be taught than to fight for the good cause? +Why, no one is a scratch the worse for it. And do you think we could sit +by and see our best friend used worse than a dog?’ + +‘Why not give notice to the police?’ + +‘And would you have me hinder a fight?’ cried Ulick, in the most Irish +of all his voices. + +‘Oh! very well, if you like--only there will be a run on the bank +to-morrow.’ + +‘What has Ulick been doing, Sophy?’ asked Maurice. + +‘Only what you would have done had you been older, Maurice,’ she said, +in a hurt voice; ‘defending papa’s effigy, for which he does not seem to +meet with much gratitude.’ + +‘Well,’ said Mr. Kendal, who all the time had had more gratitude in his +eyes than on his tongue, ‘if the burning had had the same consequence as +melting one’s waxen effigy was thought to have, it might have been worth +while to interfere, but I should have thought it more dignified in a +respectable substantial householder to let those foolish fellows have +their swing.’ + +‘More dignified maybe,’ smiled Albinia, ‘but less like an O’More.’ + +‘No, you are not going,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I shall not release my +prisoner just yet.’ + +‘You carried off all the honour of the day,’ said Ulick. ‘I had no +notion you had such an arm. Why, you swung me round like a tom-cat, +or--’ and he exemplified the exploit upon Maurice, and was well +buffeted. + +‘That’s a little Irish blarney to propitiate me,’ laughed Mr. Kendal, +who certainly was in unusual spirits after his execution and rescue by +proxy, but you wont escape prison fare.’ + +‘There’s no doubt who was the heroine of the day,’ added Sophy. ‘How one +envies her!’ + +‘What! your little governess friend?’ said Ulick. ‘Yes; she did show +superior wit, when the rest of the world stood gaping round.’ + +‘It was admirable--just like Genevieve’s tenderness and dexterity,’ +said Albinia. ‘I dare say she is doing everything for the poor little +fellow.’ + +‘Yes, admirable,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘but you all behaved very creditably, +ladies.’ + +‘Ay,’ said Albinia; ‘not to scream is what a man thinks the climax of +excellence in a woman.’ + +‘It is generally all that is required,’ said Mr. Kendal. I don’t know +what I should have done if poor Lucy had been there.’ + +Thereupon the ladies went upstairs, Maurice following Sophy to extract a +full account of the skirmish. The imp probably had an instinct that she +would think more of what redounded to Ulick O’More’s glory than of what +would be edifying to his own infant mind. It was doubtful how long it +would be before Guy Fawkes would arrive at his proper standing in the +little Awk’s opinion, after the honour of an auto-da-fe in company with +papa. + +Mr. Hope escorted Genevieve home, and was kept to dinner. They narrated +that they had found the public-house open, and the bar full of noisy +runaways. + +The burns were dreadful, but the surgeon did not think they would be +fatal, and the child had held Genevieve’s hand throughout the dressing, +and seemed so unwilling to part with her, that she had promised to come +again the next day, and had been thanked gratefully. There seemed no +positive want of comforts, and there was every hope that all would do +well. + +Genevieve looked pale after the scene she had gone through, and could +not readily persuade herself to eat, still less rally her spirits +to talk; but she managed to avoid observation at dinner-time, and +afterwards a rest on the sofa restored her. She evidently felt, as she +said, that this was coming home, and her exquisite gift of tact making +her perceive that she was to be at ease and on an equality, she assumed +her position without giving her friends the embarrassment of installing +her, and Mr. Hope was in such a state of transparent admiration, that +Albinia could not help two or three times noiselessly clapping her hands +under the table, and secretly thanking the rioters and their tag-rag and +bob-tail for having provided a home for little Genevieve Durant. + +There was indeed a pang as she thought of Gilbert; but she believed that +Genevieve’s heart had never been really touched, and was still fresh +and open. She thought she might make Mr. Kendal and Sophy equally +magnanimous. Perhaps by that time Sophy would be too happy to have +leisure to be hurt, and she had little fear but that Mr. Kendal’s good +sense would conquer his jealousy for his son, though it might cost him +something. + +Two lovers to befriend at once! Two desirable attachments to foster! +There was glory! Not that Albinia fulfilled her mission to a great +extent; shamefacedness always restrained her, and she had not Emily’s +gift for making opportunities. Indeed, when she did her best, so +perversely bashful were the parties, that the wrong pairs resorted +together, the two who could talk being driven into conversation by the +silence of the others. + +Of Mr. Hope’s sentiments there could be no doubt. He was fairly +carried off his feet by the absorption of the passion, which was doubly +engrossing because all ladies had hitherto appeared to him as beings +with whom conversation was an impossible duty; but after all he had +heard of Miss Durant, he might as a judicious man select her for an +excellent parsoness, and as a young man fall vehemently in love. Nothing +could be more evident to the lookers-on, but Albinia could not satisfy +herself whether Genevieve had any suspicion. + +She was not very young, knew something of the world, and was acute and +observing; but on the other hand, she had made it a principle never +to admit the thought of courtship, and she might not be sufficiently +acquainted with the habits of the individual to be sensible of the +symptomatic alteration. + +She had begged the Dusautoys to make her leisure profitable, and spent +much of her time upon the schools, on her little patient in Tibb’s +Alley, and in going about among the poor; she visited her old shopkeeper +friends, and drank tea with them much oftener than gratified Mr. Kendal, +talking so openly of the pleasure of seeing them again, that Albinia +sometimes thought the blood of the O’Mores was a little chafed. + +‘There,’ said Genevieve, completing a housewife, filled with needles +ready threaded, ‘I wonder whether the omnibus is too protestant to leave +a parcel at the convent?’ + +‘I don’t think its scruples of conscience would withstand sixpence,’ +said Albinia. + +‘You might post it for less than that,’ said Sophy. + +‘Don’t you know,’ said Ulick O’More, who was playing with the little +Awk in the window, ‘that the feminine mind loves expedients? It would be +less commonplace to confide the parcel to the conductor, than merely let +him receive it as guard of the mail bag and servant of the public.’ + +‘Exactly,’ laughed Genevieve. ‘Think of the moral influence of being +selected as bearer of a token of tenderness to my aunt on her fete, +instead of being treated as a mere machine, devoid of human sympathies.’ + +‘Sophy, where were we reading of a nation which gives the simplest +transaction the air of a little romance?’ said Ulick. + +‘And I have heard of a nation which denudes every action of sentiment, +and leaves you the tree without the leaves,’ was Genevieve’s retort. + +‘That misses fire, Miss Durant; my nation does everything by the soul, +nothing by mechanism.’ + +‘When they _do_ do it.’ + +‘That’s a defiance. You must deprive the conductor of the moral +influence, whether as man or machine, and entrust the parcel to me.’ + +‘That would be like chartering a steamer to send home a Chinese puzzle.’ + +‘No, indeed; I must go to Hadminster. Bear me witness, Sophy, Miss +Goldsmith wants me to talk to the house agent.’ + +‘Mind, if you miss St. Leocadia’s day, you will miss my aunt’s fete.’ + +Mr. O’More succeeded in carrying off the little parcel. The next +morning, as the ladies were descending the hill, a hurried step came +after them, and the curate said in an abrupt rapid manner, ‘I beg your +pardon, I was going to Hadminster; could I do anything for you?’ + +‘Nothing, thank you,’ said Albinia, at whom he looked. + +‘Did I not hear--Miss Durant had some work to send her aunt to-day?’ + +‘How did you know that, Mr. Hope?’ exclaimed Genevieve. + +‘I heard something pass, when some one was admiring your work,’ he said, +not looking at her. ‘And this--I think--is St. Leocadia’s day.’ + +‘I am very much obliged to you for remembering it, but I have sent my +little parcel otherwise, so I need not trouble you.’ + +‘Ah! how stupid in me! I am very sorry. I beg your pardon,’ and he +hurried off, looking as if very sorry were not a mere matter of course. + +‘Poor man,’ thought Albinia, ‘I dare say he has reckoned on it all this +time, and hunted out St. Leocadia in Alban Butler, and then tried to +screw up his courage all yesterday. Ulick has managed to traverse a +romance, but perhaps it is just as well, for what would be the effect on +the public of Mr. Hope in _that_ coat being seen ringing at the convent +door?’ + +‘Well, Miss Durant,’ said Ulick, entering the drawing-room in the winter +twilight, ‘here is evidence for you!’ + +‘You have actually penetrated the convent, and seen my aunt? Impossible! +and yet this pencilled note is her own dear writing!’ + +‘You don’t mean that you really were let in?’ cried Sophy. + +‘I entered quite legitimately, I assure you. It was all luck. I’d just +been putting up at the Crown, when what should I see in a sort of a +trance, staring right into the inn-yard, but as jolly-looking a priest +as ever held a station. “An’ it’s long since I’ve seen the like of you,” + says he aloud to himself. “Is it the car?” says I. “Sure it is,” says +he. “I’ve not laid my eyes on so iligant a vehicle since I left County +Tyrone.”’ + +‘Mr. O’Hara!’ exclaimed Genevieve. + +‘“And I’m mistaken if you’re not the master of it,” he goes on, taking +the measure of me all over,’ continued Ulick, putting on his drollest +brogue. ‘You see he had too much manners to say that such a personable +young gentleman, speaking such correct English, could be no other than +an Irishman, so I made my bow, and said the car and I were both from +County Galway, and we were straight as good friends as if we’d hunted +together at Ballymakilty. To be sure, he was a little taken aback when +he found I was one of the Protestant branch, of the O’Mores, but a +countryman is a countryman in a barbarous land, and he asked me to call +upon him, and offered to do me any service in his power.’ + +‘I am sure he would. He is the kindest old gentleman I know,’ exclaimed +Genevieve. ‘He always used to bring me barleysugar-drops when I was a +little girl, and it was he who found out our poor old Biddy in distress +at Hadminster, and sent her to live with us.’ + +‘Indeed! Then I owe him another debt of gratitude--in fact, he told me +that one of his flock, meaning Biddy, had spoken to him honourably of +me. “Well,” said I, “the greatest service you could do me, sir, would +be to introduce me to Mademoiselle Belmarche; I have a young lady’s +commission for her.” “From my little Genevieve,” he said, “the darling +that she is. Did you leave the child well?” And so when I said it was a +present for her saint’s day, and that your heart was set on it--’ + +‘But, Mr. O’More, I never did set my heart on your seeing her.’ + +‘Well, well, you would have done it if you’d known there had been any +chance of it, besides, your heart was set on her getting the work, and +how could I make sure of that unless I gave it into her own hand? I +wouldn’t have put it into Mr. O’Hara’s snuffy pocket to hinder myself +from being bankrupt.’ + +‘Then he took you in?’ + +‘So he did, like an honest Irishman as he was. He rang at the bell and +spoke to the portress, and had me into the parlour and sent up for +the lady; and I have seldom spent a pleasanter hall-hour. Mademoiselle +Belmarche bade me tell you that she would write fuller thanks to you +another day, and that her eyes would thank you every night.’ + +‘Was her cold gone? Did she seem well, the dear aunt?’ + +Genevieve was really grateful, and had many questions to ask about her +aunt, which met with detailed answers. + +‘By-the-by,’ said Ulick,’ I met Mr. Hope in the street as I was coming +away, I offered him a lift, but he said he was not coming home till +late. I wonder what he is doing.’ + +Albinia and Sophy exchanged glances, and had almost said, ‘Poor Mr. +Hope!’ It was very hard that the good fortune and mere good nature of an +indifferent person should push him where the quiet curate so much wished +to be. Albinia would have liked to have had either a little impudence +or a little tact to enable her to give a hint to Ulick to be less +officious. + +St. Leocadia’s feast was the 9th of December. Three days after, +Genevieve received a letter which made her change countenance, and hurry +to her own room, whence she did not emerge till luncheon-time. + +In the late afternoon, there was a knock at the drawing-room door, and +Mr. Dusautoy said, ‘Can I speak with you a minute, Mrs. Kendal?’ + +Dreading ill news of Lucy, she hurried to the morning-room with him. + +‘Fanny said I had better speak to you. This poor fellow is in a dreadful +state.’ + +‘Algernon!’ + +‘No, indeed. Poor Hope! What has possessed the girl?’ + +‘Genevieve has not refused him?’ + +‘Did you not know it? I found him in his rooms as white as a sheet! +I asked what was the matter, he begged me to let him go away for one +Sunday, and find him a substitute. I saw how it was, and at the first +word he broke down and told me.’ + +‘Was this to-day?’ + +‘Yes. What can the silly little puss be thinking of to put an excellent +fellow like that to so much pain? Going about it in such an admirable +way, too, writing to old Mamselle first, and getting a letter from her +which he sends with his own, and promising to guarantee her fifty pounds +a year out of his own pocket. ‘I should like to know what that little +Jenny means by it. I gave her credit for more sense.’ + +‘Perhaps she thinks, under the circumstances of her coming here, within +the year--’ + +‘Ah! very proper, very pretty of her; I never thought of that; I suppose +I have your permission to tell Hope?’ + +‘I believe all the town knew it,’ said Albinia. + +‘Yes; he need not be downhearted, he has only to be patient, and he will +like her the better for it. After all, though he is as good a man as +breathes, he cannot be Gilbert, and it will be a great relief to him. +I’ll tell him to put all his fancies about O’More out of his head.’ + +‘Most decidedly,’ said Albinia; ‘nothing can be greater nonsense. Tell +him by no means to go away, for when she finds that our feelings are not +hurt, and has become used to the idea, I have every hope that she will +be able to form a new--’ + +‘Ay; ay; poor Gilbert would have wished it himself. It is very good of +you, Mrs. Kendal; I’ll put the poor fellow in spirits again.’ + +‘Did you hear whether she gave any reasons?’ + +‘Oh! I don’t know--something about her birth and station; but that’s +stuff--she’s a perfect lady, and much more.’ + +‘And he is only a bookseller’s son.’ + +‘True, and though it might be awkward to have the parson’s father-in-law +cutting capers if he lived in the same town, yet being dead these +fifteen or eighteen years, where’s the damage?’ + +‘Was that all?’ + +‘I fancy that she said she never meant to marry, but that’s all +nonsense; she is the very girl that ought, and I hope you will talk to +her and bring her to reason. There’s not a couple in the whole place +that I should be so glad to marry as those two.’ + +Albinia endeavoured to discuss the matter with Genevieve that night when +they went upstairs. It was not easy to do, for Genevieve seemed resolved +to wish her good-night outside her door, but she made her entrance, and +putting her arm round her little friend’s waist, said, ‘Am I very much +in your way, my dear? I thought you might want a little help, or at +least a little talk.’ + +‘Oh! Mrs. Kendal, I hoped you did not know!’ and her eyes filled with +tears. + +Mr. Dusautoy told me, my dear; poor Mr. Hope’s distress betrayed him, +and Mr. Dusautoy was anxious I should--’ + +Genevieve did not let her finish, but exclaiming, ‘I did not expect this +from you, madame,’ gave way to a shower of tears. + +‘My dear child, do we not all feel you the more one with ourselves for +this reluctance?’ said Albinia, caressing her fondly. ‘It shall not be +forced upon you any more till you can bear it.’ + +‘’Till!’ exclaimed Genevieve, alarmed. ‘Oh! do not say that! Do not hold +out false hopes! I never shall!’ + +‘I do not think you are a fair judge as yet, my dear.’ + +‘I think I am,’ said Genevieve, slowly, ‘I must not let you love me on +false pretences, dearest Mrs. Kendal. I do not think it is all for--for +his sake--but indeed, though I must esteem Mr. Hope, I do not believe I +could ever feel for him as--’ then breaking off. ‘I pray you, with all +my heart, dearest friend, never to speak to me of marriage. I am the +little governess, and while Heaven gives me strength to work for my +aunt, and you let me call this my home, I am content, I am blessed. Oh! +do not disturb and unsettle me!’ + +So imploringly did she speak, that she obliterated all thought of the +prudent arguments with which Albinia had come stored. It was no time for +them; there was no possibility of endeavouring to dethrone the memory of +her own Gilbert, and her impulse was far more to agree that no one else +could ever be loved, than to argue in favour of a new attachment. She +was proud of Gilbert for being thus recollected, and doubly pleased with +the widowed heart; nor was it till the first effect of Genevieve’s tears +had passed off that she began to reflect that the idea might become +familiar, and that romance having been abundantly satisfied by the +constancy of the Lancer, sober esteem might be the basis of very happy +married affection. + +Mr. Hope did not go away, but he shrank into himself, and grew more +timid than ever, and it was through the Dusautoys that Albinia learnt +that he was much consoled, and intended to wait patiently. He had +written to Mdlle. Belmarche, who had been extremely disappointed, and +continued to believe that so excellent and well brought up a young girl +as her niece would not resist her wishes with regard to a young pastor +so respectable. + +Sophy, when made aware of what was going on, did not smile or shed +a tear, only a strange whiteness came across her face. She made a +commonplace remark with visible effort, nor was she quite herself for +some time. It was as if the reference to her brother had stirred up +the old wound. Genevieve seemed to have been impelled to manifest her +determination of resuming her occupation, she wrote letters vigorously, +answered advertisements, and in spite of the united protest of her +friends, advertised herself as a young person of French extraction, but +a member of the Church of England, accustomed to tuition, and competent +to instruct in French, Italian, music, and all the ordinary branches of +education. Address, G. C. D., Mr. Richardson’s, bookseller, Bayford. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + + + +Miss Goldsmith went to spend Christmas with an old friend, leaving Ulick +more liberty than he had enjoyed for a long time. He used it a good deal +at Willow Lawn, and was there of course on Christmas-day. After +dinner the decoration of the church was under discussion. The Bayford +neighbourhood was unpropitious to holly, and Sophy and Genevieve had +hardly ever seen any, except that Genevieve remembered the sooty bits +sold in London. Something passed about sending for a specimen from +Fairmead, but Albinia said that would not answer, for her brother’s +children were in despair at the absence of berries, and had ransacked +Colonel Bury’s plantations in vain. + +The next day, about twilight, Albinia and Sophy were arranging some +Christmas gifts for the old women, in the morning-room; Genevieve was to +come and help them on her return from the child in Tibb’s Alley. + +‘Oh, here she comes, up the garden,’ said Sophy, who was by the window. + +Presently Albinia heard a strange sound as of tightened breath, and +looking up saw Sophy deathly pale, with her eyes fixed on the window. In +terror she flew to her side, but Sophy spoke not, she only clutched her +hand with fingers cold and tight as iron, and gazed with dilated eyes. +Albinia looked-- + +Ulick had come from the house--there was a scarlet-berried spray in +Genevieve’s hand, which she was trying to make him take again--his face +was all pleading and imploring--she turned hastily from him, and they +saw her cheek glowing with crimson--she tried to force back the holly +spray--but her hand was caught--he was kissing it. No, she had rent +it away--she had fled in through the conservatory--they heard the +doors--she had rushed up to her own room. + +Sophy’s grasp grew more rigid--she panted for breath. + +‘My child! my child!’ said Albinia, throwing her arms round her, +expecting her to faint. ‘Oh! could I have imagined such treason?’ Her +eyes flashed, and her frame quivered with indignation. ‘He shall never +come into this house again!’ + +‘Mamma! hush!’ said Sophy, releasing herself from her embrace, and +keeping her body upright, though obliged to seat herself on the nearest +chair. ‘It is not treason,’ she said slowly, as though her mouth were +parched. + +‘Contemptible fickleness!’ burst out Albinia, but Sophy implored silence +by a gesture. + +‘No,’ she said; ‘it was a dream, a degrading, humiliating dream; but it +is over.’ + +‘There is no degradation except to the base trifler I once thought +better things of.’ + +‘He has not trifled,’ said Sophy. ‘Wait! hush!’ + +There was a composure about her that awed Albinia, who stood watching +in suspense while she went to the bed-room, drank some water, cooled her +brow, pushed back her hair, and sitting down again in the same collected +manner, which gave her almost a look of majesty, she said, ‘Promise +me, mamma, that all shall go on as if this folly had never crossed our +minds.’ + +‘I can’t! I can’t, Sophy!’ said Albinia in the greatest agitation. ‘I +can’t _unknow_ that you have been shamefully used.’ + +‘Then you will lead papa to break his promise to Genevieve, and lower me +not only in my own eyes, but in those of every one.’ + +‘He little knew that he was bringing her here to destroy his daughter’s +happiness. So that was why she held off from Mr. Hope,’ cried Albinia, +burning with such indignation, that on some one she must expend it, but +a tirade against the artfulness of the little French witch was cut off +short by an authoritative-- + +‘Don’t, mamma! You are unjust! How can she help being loveable!’ + +‘He had no business to know whether she was or not.’ + +‘You are wrong, mamma. The absurdity was in thinking I ever was so.’ + +‘Very little absurd,’ said Albinia, twining her arms round Sophy. + +‘Don’t make me silly,’ hastily said Sophy, her voice trembling for a +moment; ‘I want to tell you all about it, and you will see that no one +is to blame. The perception has been growing on me for a long time, but +I was weak enough to indulge in the dream. It was very sweet!’ There +again she struggled not to break down, gained the victory, and went +on, ‘I don’t think I should have dared to imagine it myself, but I saw +others thought it, who knew more; I knew the incredible was sometimes +true, and every little kindness he did--Oh! how foolish! as if he +could help doing kindnesses! My better sense told me he did not really +distinguish me; but there was something that _would_ feed upon every +word and look. Then last year I was wakened by the caricature business. +That opened my eyes, for no one who had _that_ in him would have turned +my sister into derision. I was sullen then and proud, and when--when +humanity and compassion brought him to me in my distress--oh! why--why +could not I have been reasonable, and not have selfishly fed on what I +thought was revived?’ + +‘He had no right--’ began Albinia, fiercely. + +‘He could neither help saving Maurice, nor speaking comfort and support +when he found me exhausted and sinking. It was I who was the foolish +creature--I hate myself! Well, you know how it has been--I liked to +believe it was _the thing_--I knew he cared less for me than--but I +thought it was always so between men and women, and that I would not +have petty distrusts. But when she came, I saw what the true--true +feeling is--I saw that he felt when she came into the room--I saw how he +heard her words and missed mine--I saw--’ Sophy collected herself, and +spoke quietly and distinctly, ‘I saw his love, and that it had never +been for me.’ + +There was a pause; Albinia could not bear to look, speak, or move. +Sophy’s words carried conviction that swept away her sand castle. + +‘Now, mamma,’ said Sophy, earnestly, ‘you own that he has not been false +or fickle.’ + +‘If he has not, he has disregarded the choicest jewel that lay in his +way,’ said Albinia with some sharpness. + +‘But he has not been that,’ persisted Sophy. + +‘Well--no; I suppose not.’ + +‘And no one can be less to blame than Genevieve.’ + +‘Little flirt, I’ve no patience with her.’ + +‘She can’t help her manners,’ repeated Sophy, ‘I feel them so much more +charming than mine every moment. She will make him so happy.’ + +‘What are you talking of, Sophy? He must be mad if he is in earnest. +A man of his family pride! His father will never listen to it for a +moment.’ + +‘I don’t know what his father may do,’ said Sophy; ‘but I know what I +pray and entreat we may do, and that is, do our utmost to make this come +to good.’ + +‘Sophy, don’t ask it. I could not, I know you could not.’ + +‘There is no loss of esteem. I honour him as I always did,’ said Sophy. +‘Yes, the more since I see it was all for papa and the right, all +unselfish, on that 5th of November. Some day I shall have worn out the +selfishness.’ + +She kept her hand tightly pressed on her heart as she spoke, and Albinia +exclaimed, ‘You shall not see it; you overrate your strength; it is my +business to prevent you!’ + +‘Think, mamma,’ said Sophy, rising in her earnestness. ‘Here is a +homeless orphan, whom you have taught to love you, whom papa has +brought here as to a home, and for Gilbert’s sake. Is it fair--innocent, +exemplary as she is--to turn against her because she is engaging and I +am not, to cut her off from us, drive her away to the first situation +that offers, be it what it may, and with that thought aching and +throbbing in her heart? Oh, mamma! would that be mercy or justice?’ + +‘You are not asking to have it encouraged in the very house with you?’ + +‘I do not see how else it is to be,’ said Sophy. + +‘Let him go after her, if there’s anything in it but Irish folly and +French coquetry--’ + +‘How, mamma? Where? When she is a governess in some strange place? How +could he leave his business? How could she attend to him? Oh, mamma! you +used to be kind: how can you wish to put two people you love so much to +such misery?’ + +‘Because I can’t put one whom I love better than both, and who deserves +it, to greater misery,’ said Albinia, embracing her. + +‘Then do not put me to the misery of being ungenerous, and the shame of +having my folly suspected.’ + +Albinia would have argued still, but the children came in, Sophy went +away, and there was no possibility of a tete-a-tete. How strange it was +to have such a tumult of feeling within, and know that the same must be +tenfold multiplied in the hearts of those two girls, and yet go through +all the domestic conventionalities, each wearing a mask of commonplace +ease, as though nothing had happened! + +Genevieve had, Albinia suspected, been crying excessively; for there +was that effaced annihilated appearance that tears produced on her, but +otherwise she did her part in answering her host, who was very fond of +her, and always made her an object of attention. Albinia found herself +betraying more abstraction, she was so anxiously watching Sophy, who +acquitted herself best of all, had kept tears from her eyes, talked +more than usual, and looked brilliant, with a bright colour dyeing her +cheeks. She was evidently sustained by eagerness to obtain her generous +purpose, and did not yet realize the price. + +The spray of holly was lying as if it had been tossed in vexation upon +the marble slab in the hall. Albinia, from the stairs, saw Sophy take it +up, and waited to see what she would do with it. The Sophy she had once +known would have dashed it into the flames, and then have repented. No! +Sophy held it tenderly, and looked at the glossy leaves and coral fruit +with no angry eye; she even raised it to her lips, but it was to pierce +with one of the long prickles till her brow drew together at the smart, +and the blood started. Then she began to mount the stairs, and meeting +Albinia, said quietly, ‘I was going to take this to Genevieve’s room, it +is empty now, but perhaps you had better take care of it for her, out of +sight. It will be her greatest treasure to-morrow.’ + +Mr. Kendal read aloud as usual, but who of his audience attended? +Certainly not Albinia. She sat with her head bent over her work, +revolving the history of these last two years, and trying to collect +herself after the sudden shock, and the angry feelings of disappointment +that surged within, in much need of an object of wrath. Alas! who could +that object be but that blind, warm-hearted, impulsive Mistress Albinia +Kendal? + +She saw plain enough, now it was too late, that there had not been a +shadow of sentiment in that lively confiding Irishman, used to intimacy +with a herd of cousins, and viewing all connexions as cousins. +She remembered his conversation with her brother and her brother’s +impression; she thought of the unloverlike dread of ague in Emily’s +moonlight walk; she recalled the many occasions when she had thought him +remiss, and she could not but acquit him of any designed flirtation, any +dangerous tenderness, or what Mdlle. Belmarche would call legerete. He +could not be reserved--he was naturally free and open--and how could she +have put such a construction on his frankness, when Sophy herself had +long been gradually arriving at a conviction of the truth! It was a +comfort at least to remember that it had not been the fabrication of her +own brain, she had respectable authority for the idea, and she trusted +to its prompter to participate in her indignation, argue Ulick out of +so poor a match, and at least put a decided veto upon Sophy’s Spartan +magnanimity--Sophy’s health and feelings being the subject, she +sometimes thought, which concerned him above all. + +Ah! but the evil had not been his doing. He had but gossiped out +a pleasant conjecture to his wife as a trustworthy help-meet. What +business had she to go and telegraph that conjecture, with her +significant eyes, to the very last person who ought to have shared +it, and then to have kept up the mischief by believing it herself, and +acting, looking, and arranging, as on a certainty implied, though not +expressed? Mrs. Osborne or Mrs. Drury might have spoken more broadly, +they could not have acted worse, thought she to herself. + +The notion might never have been suggested; Sophy might have simply +enjoyed these years of intimacy, and even if her heart had been touched, +it would have been unconsciously, and the pain and shame of unrequited +affection have merely been a slight sense of neglect, a small +dreariness, lost in eagerness for the happiness of both friends. Now, +two years of love that she had been allowed to imagine returned +and sanctioned, and love with the depth and force of Sophy’s whole +nature--the shame of having loved unasked, the misery of having lived +in a delusion--how would they act upon a being of her morbid tendency, +frail constitution, and proud spirit? As Albinia thought of the passive +endurance of last year’s estrangement, her heart sank within her! +Illness--brain-fever--permanent ill-health and crushed spirits--nay, +death itself she augured--and all--all her own fault! The last and best +of Edmund’s children so cruelly and deeply wounded, and by her folly! +She longed to throw herself at his feet and ask his pardon, but it was +Sophy’s secret as well as hers, and how could womanhood betray that +unrequited love? At least she thought, for noble Sophy’s sake, she would +not raise a finger to hinder the marriage, but as to forwarding it, +or promoting the courtship under Sophy’s very eyes--that would be like +murdering her outright, and she would join Mr. Kendal with all her +might in removing their daughter from the trying spectacle. Talk of Aunt +Maria! This trouble was ten thousand times worse! + +Albinia began to watch the timepiece, longing to have the evening over, +that she might prepare Mr. Kendal. It ended at last, and Genevieve took +up her candle, bade good-night, and disappeared. Sophy lingered, till +coming forward to her father as he stood by the fire, she said, +‘Papa, did you not promise Gilbert that Genevieve should be as another +daughter?’ + +‘I wish she would be, my dear,’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘but she is too +independent, and your mamma thinks she would consider it as a mere farce +to call her little Albinia’s governess, but if you can persuade her--’ + +‘What I want you to do, papa, is to promise that she shall be married +from this house, as her home, and that you will fit her out as you did +Lucy.’ + +‘Ha! Is she beginning to relent?’ + +‘No, papa. It will be Ulick O’More.’ + +‘You don’t mean it!’ exclaimed Mr. Kendal, more taken by surprise than +perhaps he had ever been, and looking at his wife, who was standing +dismayed, yet admiring the gallant girl who had forestalled her +precautions. Obliged to speak, she said, ‘I am afraid so, Sophy and I +witnessed a scene to-day.’ + +‘Afraid?’ said Mr. Kendal; ‘I see no reason to be afraid, if Ulick likes +it. They are two of the most agreeable and best people that ever fell +in my way, and I shall be delighted if they can arrange it, for they are +perfectly suited to each other.’ + +‘But such a match!’ exclaimed Albinia. + +‘As to that, a sensible, economical wife will be worth more to him +than an expensive one, with however large a fortune. And for the family +pride, I am glad the lad has more sense than I feared; he has a full +right to please himself, having won the place he has, and he may make +his father consent. He wants a wife--nothing else will keep him from +running headlong into speculation, for want of something to do. Yes, I +see what you are thinking of, my dear, but you know we could not wish +her, as you said yourself, never to form another attachment.’ + +‘But _here_!’ sighed Albinia, the ground knocked away from under her, +yet still clinging to the last possible form of murmur. + +‘It will cost us something,’ said Mr. Kendal, ‘but no more than we will +cheerfully bear, for the sake of one who has such claims upon us; and it +will be amply repaid by having such a pair of friends settled close to +us.’ + +‘Then you will, papa?’ said Sophy. + +‘Will do what, my dear?’ + +‘Treat her as--as you did Lucy, papa.’ + +‘And with much more pleasure, and far more hope, than when we fitted out +poor Lucy,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +Sophy thanked him, and said ‘Good-night;’ and the look which accompanied +her kiss to her step-mother was a binding over to secrecy and +non-interference. + +‘Is she gone?’ said Mr. Kendal, who had been musing after his last +words. ‘Gone to tell her friend, I suppose? I wanted to ask what this +scene was.’ + +‘Oh!’ said Albinia, ‘it was in the garden--we saw it from the +window--only he brought her a bit of holly, and was trying to kiss her +hand.’ + +‘Strong premises, certainly. How did she receive the advance?’ + +‘She would not listen, but made her escape.’ + +‘Then matters are not in such a state of progress as for me to +congratulate her? I suppose that you ladies are the best judges whether +he may not meet with the same fate as poor Hope?’ + +‘Sophy seems to take it for granted that he will not.’ + +‘Irishman as he is, he must be pretty secure of his ground before coming +to such strong measures. Well! I hope we may hear no more of brow-ague. +But--’ with sudden recollection--‘I thought, Albinia, you fancied he had +some inclination for Sophy?’ + +Was it not a good wife to suppress the ‘You did’? If she could merrily +have said, ‘You told me so,’ it would have been all very well, but her +mood would admit of nothing but a grave and guarded answer--‘We did +fancy so, but I am convinced it was entirely without reason.’ + +That superior smile at her lively imagination was more than human nature +could bear, without the poor relief of an entreaty that he would not sit +meditating, and go to sleep in his chair. + +Albinia thought she had recovered equanimity during her night’s rest, +but in the midst of her morning toilette, Sophy hurried in, exclaiming, +‘She’ll go away! She is writing letters and packing!’ and she answered, +‘Well, what do you want me to do? You don’t imagine that I can rush into +her room and lay hands on her? She will not go upon a wishing-carpet. It +will be time to interfere when we know more of the matter.’ + +Sophy looked blank, and vanished, and Albinia felt excessively vexed at +having visited on the chief sufferer her universal crossness with all +mankind. She knew she had only spoken common sense, but that made it +doubly hateful; and yet she could not but wish Miss Durant anywhere out +of sight, and Mr. O’More on the top of the Hill of Howth. + +At breakfast, Sophy’s looks betrayed nothing to the uninitiated, though +Albinia detected a feverish restlessness and covert impatience, and +judged that her sleep had been little. Genevieve’s had perhaps been +less, for she was very sallow, with sunken eyes, and her face looked +half its usual size; but Albinia could not easily have compassion on the +poor little unwitting traitress, even when she began, ‘Dear Mrs. Kendal, +will you excuse me if I take a sudden leave? I find it will answer best +for me to accept Mrs. Elwood’s invitation; I can then present myself +to any lady who may wish to see me, and, as I promised my aunt another +visit, I had better go to Hadminster by the three o’clock omnibus.’ + +Albinia was thankful for the loud opposition which drowned the faint +reluctance of her own; Mr. Kendal insisting that she should not leave +them; little Awk coaxing her; and Maurice exclaiming, ‘If the ladies +want her, let them come after her! One always goes to see a horse.’ + +‘I’m not so well worth the trouble, Maurice.’ + +‘I know Ulick O’More _would_ come in to see you when all the piebalds +for the show were going by!’ + +‘Some day you will come to the same good taste,’ said his father, to +lessen the general confusion. + +‘See a lady instead of a piebald? Never!’ cried Maurice with +indignation, that made the most preoccupied laugh; under cover of +which Genevieve effected a retreat. Sophy looked imploringly at +Albinia--Albinia was moving, but not with alacrity, and Mr. Kendal was +saying, ‘I do not understand all this,’ when, scarcely pausing to knock, +Ulick opened the door, cheeks and eyes betraying scarcely repressed +eagerness. + +‘What--where,’ he stammered, as if even his words were startled away; +‘is not Miss Durant well?’ + +‘She was here just this moment,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘I will go and see for her,’ said Sophy. ‘Come, children.’ + +Whether Sophy’s powers over herself or over Genevieve would avail, +was an anxious marvel, but it did not last a moment, for Maurice came +clattering down to say that Genevieve was gone out into the town. In +such a moment! She must have snatched up her bonnet, and fled one way +while Ulick entered by the other. He made one step forward, exclaiming, +‘Where is she gone?’ then pausing, broke out, ‘Mrs. Kendal, you must +make her give me a hearing, or I shall go mad!’ + +‘A hearing?’ repeated Mrs. Kendal, with slight malice. + +‘Yes; why, don’t you know?’ + +‘So your time has come, Ulick, has it?’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘Well, and I were worse than an old ledger if it had not, when she was +before me! Make her listen to me, Mrs. Kendal, if she do not, I shall +never do any more good in this world!’ + +‘I should have thought,’ said Albinia, ‘that an Irishman would be at no +loss for making opportunities.’ + +‘You don’t know, Mrs. Kendal; she is so fenced in with scruples, +humility--I know not what--that she will not so much as hear me out. I’m +not such a blockhead as to think myself worthy of her, but I do think, +if she would only listen to me, I might stand a chance: and she runs +off, as if she thought it a sin to hear a word from my mouth!’ + +‘It is very honourable to her,’ said Mr. Kendal. + +‘Very honourable to her,’ replied Ulick, ‘but cruelly hard upon me.’ + +‘I think, too,’ continued Mr. Kendal, stimulated thereto by his lady’s +severely prudent looks, ‘that you ought--granting Miss Durant to be, +as I well know her to be, one of the most excellent persons who ever +lived--still to count the cost of opening such an affair. It is not fair +upon a woman to bring her into a situation where disappointments may +arise which neither may be able to bear.’ + +‘Do you mean my family, Mr. Kendal? Trust me for getting consent from +home. You will write my father a letter, saying what you said just now; +Mrs. Kendal will write another to my mother; and I’ll just let them see +my heart is set on it, and they’ll not hold out.’ + +‘Could you bear to see her--looked down on?’ said Albinia. + +‘Ha!’ he cried, with flashing eyes. ‘No, believe me, Mrs. Kendal, the +O’Mores have too much gentle blood to do like that, even if she were one +whom any one could scorn. Why, what is my mother herself but a Goldsmith +by birth, and I’d like to see who would cast it up to any of the family +that she was not as noble as an O’More! And Genevieve herself--isn’t +every look and every movement full of the purest gentility her fathers’ +land can show?’ + +‘I dare say, once accepted, the O’Mores would heartily receive her; but +here, in this place, there are some might think it told against you, and +might make her uncomfortable.’ + +‘What care I? I’ve lived and thriven under Bayford scorn many a day. And +for her--Oh! I defy anything so base to wound a heart so high as hers, +and with me to protect her!’ + +‘And you can afford it?’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Remember she has her aunt to +maintain.’ + +‘I can,’ said Ulick. ‘I have gone over it all again and again; and +recalling his man-of-business nature, he demonstrated that even at +present he was well able to support Mdlle. Belmarche, as well as to +begin housekeeping, and that there was every reason to believe that +his wider and more intelligent system of management would continue to +increase his income.’ + +‘Well, Ulick,’ said Mr. Kendal at last, ‘I wish you success with all +my heart, and esteem you for a choice so entirely founded upon the +qualities most certain to ensure happiness.’ + +‘You don’t mean to say that she has not the most glorious eyes, the most +enchanting figure!’ exclaimed Ulick, affronted at the compliment that +seemed to aver that Genevieve’s external charms were not equal to her +sterling merit. + +Mr. Kendal and Albinia laughed; and the former excused himself, not +quite to the lover’s satisfaction, by declaring the lady much more +attractive than many regularly handsome people; but he added, that what +he meant was, that he was sure the attachment was built upon a sound +foundation. Then he entreated that Mrs. Kendal would persuade her to +listen to him, for she had fled from him ever since his betrayal of his +sentiments till he was half crazed, and had been walking up and down his +room all night. He should do something distracted, if not relieved from +suspense before night! And Mr. Kendal got rid of him in the midst of his +transports, and turning to Albinia said, ‘We must settle this as fast as +possible, or he will lose his head, and get into a scrape.’ + +‘I do not like such wild behaviour. It is not dignified.’ + +‘It is only temperament,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Will you speak to her?’ + +‘Yes, whenever she comes in.’ + +‘I suspect she has gone out on purpose. Could you not go to find her at +the school, or wherever she is likely to be?’ + +‘I don’t know where to find her. I cannot give up the children’s +lessons. Nothing hurts Maurice so much as irregularity.’ + +He made no answer, but his look of disappointment excited her to observe +to herself that she supposed he expected her to run all over the town +without ordering dinner first, and she wondered how he would like that! + +Presently she heard him go out at the front door, and felt some +contrition. + +She had not the heart to seek Sophy to report progress, and did not see +her till about eleven o’clock, when she came in hastily with her bonnet +on, asking, ‘Well, mamma?’ + +‘Where have you been, Sophy?’ + +‘To school,’ she said. ‘Has anything happened?’ + +‘We have had it out, and I am to speak to her when she comes in,’ said +Albinia, glad as perhaps was Sophy of the enigmatical form to which +Maurice’s presence restrained the communication. + +Sophy went away, but presently returning and taking up her work, but +with eyes that betrayed how she was listening; but there was so entire +an apparent absence of personal suffering, that Albinia began to +discharge the weight from her mind, and believe that the sentiment +had been altogether imaginary even on Sophy’s side, and the whole a +marvellous figment of her own. + +At last, Mr. Kendal’s foot was heard; Sophy started up, and sat down +again. He came upstairs, and his face was all smiles. + +‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t think she will go by the three o’clock +omnibus.’ + +‘You have spoken to her?’ cried Albinia in compunction. + +‘Has Maurice finished? Then go out, my boy, for the present.’ + +‘Well?’ said Albinia, interrogatively, and Sophy laid down her work and +crossed one hand over the other on her knees, and leant back as though +to hinder visible tremor. + +‘Yes,’ he said, going on with what had been deferred till Maurice was +gone. ‘I thought it hard on him--and as I was going to speak to Edwards, +I asked if she were at the Union, where I found her, taking leave of the +old women, and giving them little packets of snuff, and small presents, +chiefly her own work, I am sure. I took her with me into the fields, +and persuaded her at last to talk it over with me. Poor little thing! I +never saw a more high-minded, conscientious spirit: she was very unhappy +about it, and said she knew it was all her unfortunate manner, she +wished to be guarded, but a little excitement and conversation always +turned her head, and she entreated me not to hinder her going back to a +school-room, out of the way of every one. I told her that she must not +blame herself for being more than usually agreeable; but she would not +listen, and I could hardly bring her to attend to what I said of young +O’More. Poor girl! I believe she was running away from her own heart.’ + +‘You have prevented her?’ cried Sophy. + +‘At least I have induced her to hear his arguments. I told her my +opinion of him, which was hardly needed, and what I thought might have +more weight--that he has earned the right to please himself, and that I +believed she would be better for him than riches. She repeated several +times “Not now,” and “Not here;” and I found that she was shocked at the +idea of the subject being brought before us. I was obliged to tell her +that nothing would gratify any of us so much, and that this was the time +to fulfil her promise of considering me as a father.’ + +‘Oh, thank you,’ murmured Sophy. + +‘So finally I convinced her that she owed Ulick a hearing, and I think +she felt that to hear was to yield. She had certainly been feeling that +flight was the only measure, and between her dread of entrapping him and +of hurting our feelings, had persuaded herself it was her duty. The last +thing she did was to catch hold of me as I was going, and ask if he knew +what her father was.’ + +‘I dare say it has been the first thing she has said to him,’ said +Albinia. ‘She is a noble little creature! But what have you done with +them now?’ + +‘I brought him to her in the parsonage garden. I believe they are +walking in the lanes,’ said Mr. Kendal, much gratified with his +morning’s work. + +‘She deserves him,’ said Sophy; and then her eyes became set, as if +looking into far distance. + +The walk in the lanes had not ended by luncheon-time, and an afternoon +loaded with callers was oppressive, but Sophy kept up well. At last, in +the twilight, the door was heard to open, and Genevieve came in alone. +They listened, and knew she must have run up to her own room. What +did it portend? Albinia must be the one to go and see, so after a due +interval, she went up and knocked. Genevieve opened the door, and threw +herself into her arms. ‘Dear Mrs. Kendal! Oh! have I done wrong? I am so +very happy, and I cannot help it!’ + +Albinia kissed her, and assured her she had done nothing to repent of. + +‘I am so glad you think so. I never dreamt such happiness could be meant +for me, and I am afraid lest I should have been selfish and wrong, and +bring trouble on him.’ + +‘We have been all saying you deserve him.’ + +‘Oh no--no--so good, so noble, so heroic as he is. How could he think of +the poor little French teacher! And he will pay my aunt’s fifty pounds! +I told him all, and he knew it before, and yet he loves me! Oh! why are +people so very good to me?’ + +‘I could easily find an answer to that question,’ said Albinia. ‘Where +is he, my dear?’ + +‘He is gone home. I would not come into the town with him. It is +nothing, you know; no one must hear of it, for he must be free unless +his parents consent--and I know they never can,’ she said, shaking her +head, sadly, ‘but even then I shall have one secret of happiness--I +shall know what has been! But oh! Mrs. Kendal, let me go away--’ + +‘Go away now?’ exclaimed Albinia. + +‘Yes--it cannot be--here, in this house! Oh! it is outraging your +kindness.’ + +‘No,’ said Albinia; ‘it is but letting us fulfil a very precious +charge.’ + +Genevieve’s tears flowed as she said, ‘Such goodness! Mr. Kendal spoke +to me in this way in the morning, when he was more kind and patient +than I can express. But tell me, dearest madame, tell me candidly, is my +remaining here the cause of any secret pain to him?’ + +With regard to him, Albinia could answer sincerely that it was a +gratification; and Genevieve owned that she should be glad to await the +letters from Ireland, which she tried to persuade herself she believed +would put an end to everything, except the precious remembrance. + +Sophy here came in with some tea. She had recollected that Genevieve had +wandered all day without any bodily sustenance. + +There was great sweetness in the quiet, grave manner in which she bent +over her friend and kissed her brow. All she said was, ‘Papa had goes to +fetch him to dinner. Genevieve, you must let me do your hair.’ + +It was in Genevieve’s eyes an astonishing fancy, and Albinia said, ‘Come +away now, my dear; she must have a thorough rest after such a day.’ + +Genevieve looked too much excited for rest, but that was the more reason +for leaving her to herself; and besides, it was so uncomfortable not to +be able to be kind enough. + +However, when people are happy, a little kindness goes a great way, +and there was a subdued lustre like a glory in her eyes when she came +downstairs, with the holly leaves and berries glistening in her hair, +the first ornament she had ever worn there. + +‘It was Sophy’s doing,’ she said. ‘Naughty girl; she tried to take me by +surprise. She would not let me look in the glass, but I guessed--and oh! +she was wounding her poor hands so sadly.’ + +I must thank her,’ said Ulick, looking ecstatic. ‘Why does she not come +down?’ + +As she did not appear, Albinia went up, doubtful if it were wise, yet +too uneasy not to go in quest of her. + +It was startling to have so faint an answer on knocking, and on entering +the room, she saw Sophy lying on her bed, upon her back, with her arms +by her sides, and with a ghastly whiteness on her features. + +Scarcely a pulse could be felt, and her hands were icy cold, her voice +sank to nothing, her eyelids scarcely raised, as if the strain of +the day had exhausted all vital warmth or energy, and her purpose +accomplished, annihilation was succeeding. Much terrified, Albinia would +have hurried in search of remedies, but she raised her hand imploringly, +and murmured, ‘Please don’t. I’m not faint--I’m not ill. If you would +only let me be still.’ + +Albinia teased her so far as to cover her with warmed shawls, and force +on her a stimulant. She shut her eyes, but presently opened them to say, +‘Please go.’ + +She was so often unable to appear at dinner, that no observation was +made; and it was to be feared that her absence was chiefly regretted by +the lovers, because it prevented them from sitting on the same side of +the table. + +Always frank and unrestrained, Ulick made his felicity so apparent, that +Albinia had no toleration for him, and not much for the amusement it +afforded Mr. Kendal. She would have approved of her husband much more if +he had put her into a great quandary by anxious inquiries what was the +matter with his daughter, instead of that careless, ‘O you are going up +to Sophy; I hope she will be able to come down to tea,’ when she left +him on guard over the children and the lovers. + +‘So it is with woman’s martyrdoms,’ said she to herself as she walked +upstairs, chewing the cud of all the commonplaces by which women have, +of late years, flattered themselves, and been flattered; ‘but at any +rate I’ll have her out of sight of all their absurdity. It is enough to +kill her!’ + +Sophy hardly stirred at her entrance, but there was less ghastliness +about her, and as Albinia sat down she did not remove her hand, and +turned slightly round, so as to lose that strange corpse-like attitude +of repose. + +‘You are not so cold, dearest,’ said Albinia. ‘Have you slept?’ + +‘I think not.’ + +‘Are you better? Have you been comfortable?’ + +‘Oh yes.’ Then, with a pause, ‘Yes--it was like being nothing!’ + +‘You were not faint, I hope?’ + +‘No--only lying still. Don’t you know the comfort of not thinking or +feeling?’ + +‘Yes; this has been far too much for you. You have done enough now, my +generous Sophy.’ + +‘Not generous; one can’t give away what one never had.’ + +‘I think it more gracious to yield without jealousy or bitterness--’ + +‘Only not quite base,’ said Sophy. Then presently, turning on her pillow +as though more willing to converse, she said, ‘I am glad it was not last +year.’ + +‘We had troubles enough then!’ + +‘Not for that--because I should have been base then, and hated myself +for it all the time.’ + +‘That you never could have been!’ cried Albinia. ‘But, my dear, you must +let me contrive for you; I would not betray you for all the world, but +the sight of these two is more than you ought to undergo. I will not +send Genevieve away, but you must go from home.’ + +‘I don’t think I shall be cross,’ said poor Sophy, simply; ‘I should be +ashamed.’ + +‘Cross! It is I who am cross, because I am to blame; but, dearest, think +if you are keeping up out of pride; that will never, never do.’ + +‘I do not believe it is pride,’ said Sophy, meekly; ‘at least, I hope +not. I feel humiliated enough, and I think it may be a sort of shame, +as well as consideration for them, that would make me wish that no +difference should be made. Do you not think we may let things go on?’ +she said, in so humble a manner, that it brought Albinia’s tears, and +a kiss was the only answer. ‘Please tell me,’ said Sophy; ‘for I don’t +want to deceive myself.’ + +‘I am sure I am no judge,’ cried Albinia, ‘after the dreadful mischief I +have done.’ + +‘The mischief was in me,’ said Sophy, ‘or you could not have done it. +I saw it all when I was lying awake last night, and how it began, or +rather it was before I can remember exactly. I always had craving after +something--a yearning for something to fix myself on--and after I grew +to read and look out into the world, I thought it must be that. And when +I knew I was ugly and disagreeable, I brooded and brooded, and only +in my better moments tried to be satisfied with you and papa and the +children.’ + +‘And the All-satisfying, Sophy dear.’ + +‘I tried--I did--but it was duty--not heart. I used to fancy what might +be, if I shot out into beauty and grace--not admiration, but to +have that one thing to lean on. You see it was all worldly, and only +submissive by fits--generally it was cross repining, yielding because +I could not help it--and so, when the fancy came the throne was ready +made, empty, swept, and garnished, for the idol. I wont talk of all that +time; but I don’t believe even Genevieve, though she knows she may, can +dwell upon the thought as I did, in just the way to bring punishment. +And so I thought, by-and-by, at the caricature time, that I was +punished. I looked into the fallacy, when I had got over the temper and +the pride, and I saw it all clear, and owned I was rightly served, for +it had been an earthly aim, and an idol worship. Well, the foolish hope +came back again, but indeed, indeed, I think I was the better for all +the chastening; I had seen grandmamma die, I was fresh from hearing of +Gilbert, and I did feel as I never had done before, that God was first. +I don’t believe that feeling had passed, though the folly came back, and +made me feel glad to love all the world. There were--gleams of religions +thought’--she spoke with difficulty, but her face had a strange +beauty--‘that taught me how, if I was more good--there could be a +fulness of joy that all the rest flowed out from. And so when misgivings +came, and I saw at times how little he could care for me--oh! it was +pain enough, but not the worst sort. And yet I don’t know--’ She turned +away and hid her face on the pillow. It was agony, though still, as +she had said, not the worst, untempered by faith or resignation. What +a history of that apparently cold, sullen, impassive spirit! what an +unlocking of pent-up mysteries! + +‘It has been blessed to you,’ said Albinia, affectionately. ‘My dear, we +always thought your character one that wanted the softening of such--an +attachment. Perhaps that made me wrongly eager for it, and ready to +imagine where I ought not; I think it did soften you; but if you had +not conquered what was earthly and exaggerated in it, how it would be +hardening and poisoning you now!’ + +‘I hope I may have,’ sighed Sophy, as if she were doubtful. + +‘Then will you not listen to me? You have done nobly so far, and I know +your feelings will be right in the main; but do you think you can bear +the perpetual irritation of being neglected, and seeing--what I _must_ +call rather a parade of his preference?’ + +‘I think it would be the best cure,’ said Sophy; ‘it would make me feel +it real, and I could be glad to see him--them--so happy--’ + +‘I don’t know how to judge! I don’t know whether it be right for you to +have him always before your mind.’ + +‘He would be so all the more while I was away with nothing to do,’ said +Sophy; ‘fancy might be worse than fact. You don’t know how I used to +forget the nonsense when he had been ten minutes in the room, because +it was just starved out. Now, when it will be a sin, I believe that +strength will be given me to root it out;’ her look grew determined, but +she gasped for breath. + +‘And your bodily strength, my dear?’ + +‘If I should be ill, then it would be natural to go away,’ said Sophy, +smiling; ‘but I don’t think I shall be. This is only the end of my +fever to see it settled. Now I am thankful, and my heart has left off +throbbing when I am still. I shall be all right to-morrow.’ + +‘I hope so; but you must spare yourself.’ + +‘Besides,’ she added, ‘one of the worst parts has been that, in the +fancy that a change was to come, I have gone about everything in an +unsettled way; and now I want to begin again at my duties, my readings +and parish matters, as my life’s work, steadily and in earnest.’ + +‘Not violently, not to drive care away.’ + +‘I have tried that once, and will not again. You shall arrange for me, +and I will do just as you tell me;’ and she raised her eyes with the +most deep and earnest gaze of confiding love that had ever greeted +Albinia from any of the three. I’ll try not to grieve you, for you are +too sorry for me;’ and she threw her arms round her neck. ‘Oh, mamma! +nothing is so bad when you help me to bear it!’ + +Tears fell fast at this precious effusion from the deep, sincere heart, +at the moment when Albinia herself was most guilty in her own eyes. +Embraces were her only answer, and how fervent! + +‘And, mamma,’ whispered Sophy, ‘if you could only let me have some small +part of teaching little Albinia.’ + +A trotting of small feet and a call of mamma was heard. The little +maiden was come with her good-nights, and in one moment Albinia had +lifted her into her sister’s arms, where she was devoured with kisses, +returning them with interest, and with many a fondling ‘Poor Sophy,’ and +‘Dear Sophy.’ + +When the last fond good-night had passed, and the little one had gone +away to her nest, Sophy said in a soft, natural, unconstrained voice, ‘I +am very sleepy. If you will be so kind as to send up my tea, I will go +to bed. Thank you; goodnight.’ + +That was the redrawing of the curtain of reserve, the resignation of +sentiment, the resumption of common life. The romance of Sophia +Kendal’s early life had ended when she wounded her fingers in wreathing +Genevieve’s hair. Her next romance might be on behalf of her beautiful +little sister. + +Albinia was cured of her fretfulness towards the new order of events, +and her admiration of Sophy carried her through all that was yet to +come. It was the easier since Sophy did not insist on unreasonable +self-martyrdoms, and in her gratitude for being allowed her purpose in +the main, was submissive in detail, and had mercy on her own powers of +endurance, not inflicting the sight of the lovers on herself more than +was needful, and not struggling with the languor that was a good reason +for remaining much upstairs. She worked and read, but without overdoing +anything, and wisely undertook a French translation, as likely to occupy +her attention without forcing her to over-exert her powers. Not that +she said so; she carefully avoided all reference to her feelings; and +Albinia could almost have deemed the whole a dream, excepting for the +occasional detection of a mournful fixed gaze, which was instantaneously +winked away as soon as Sophy herself became aware of it. + +Her trouble, though of a kind proverbially the most hardening and +exacerbating, had an entirely contrary tendency on her. The rigidity and +harsh judgment which had betokened her states of morbid depression since +she had outgrown the sulky form, had passed away, and she had been right +in predicting that she should not be cross, for she had become sweet and +gentle towards all. Her voice was pitched more softly, and though she +looked ill, and had lost the bloom which had once given her a sort of +beauty, her eyes had a meek softness that made them finer than when they +wore the stern, steady glance that used to make poor Gilbert quail. Her +strength came not from pride, but from Grace; and to her, disappointment +was more softening than even the prosperous affection that Albinia had +imagined. It was love; not earthly but heavenly. + +If her father had been less busy, her pale cheek might have alarmed +him; but he was very much taken up with builders and estimates, with +persuading some of the superfluous population to emigrate, and arranging +where they should go, and while she kept the family hours and habits, he +did not notice lesser indications of flagging spirits, or if he did, he +was wise, and thought the cause had better not be put into words. + +Albinia had brought herself to give fair sympathy to the lovers; and +when once she had begun it was easy to go on, not as ardently as if she +had never indulged in her folly, but enough to gratify two such happy +and grateful people, who wanted no one but each other, and agreed in +nothing better than in thinking her a sort of guardian angel to them +both. + +Genevieve had assuredly never given her heart to Gilbert, and it was +ready in all the freshness of maidenly bliss to meet the manly ardour of +Ulick O’More. He was almost overpoweringly demonstrative and eager, now +and then making game of himself, but yet not able to help rushing down +to Willow Lawn ten or twelve times a day, just to satisfy himself that +his treasure was there, and if he could not meet with her, catching hold +of Mr. or Mrs. Kendal to rave till they drove him back to his business. +Such glee danced in his eyes, there was such suppressed joyousness in +his countenance, and his step was so much nearer a dance than a walk, +that his very air well-nigh betrayed what was to be an absolute secret, +till there had been an answer from Ballymakilty, until which time +Genevieve would not rest in the hope of a happy future, nor give up her +fears that she had not brought pain upon him. + +In he came at last, so exulting and so grateful, that it was a shock +to discover that ‘the kindest letter and fullest consent in the world,’ +meant his father’s ‘supposing he would do as he pleased; as long as +he asked for nothing, it was no concern of his.’ It was discovered, by +Ulick’s delight, that he had expected to have a battle, and Albinia was +scandalized, but Mr. Kendal told her it somewhat depended on what manner +of father it was, whether an independent son could defer implicitly +to his judgment; and though principle might withhold Ulick from flat +disobedience, he might not scruple at extorting reluctant consent. +Besides his mother, whom he honoured far more really, had written, not +without disappointment, but with full confidence in his ability to judge +for himself. + +Mr. Kendal and Mr. Ferrars both wrote warmly in Genevieve’s praise, +and certainly her footing at Willow Lawn was the one point d’appui in +bringing round the O’More family; so that as Ulick truly said, ‘It was +Mrs. Kendal whom he had to thank for the blessing of his life.’ Had +poor Miss Goldsmith’s description of Miss Durant’s birth, parentage, and +education been the only one that had reached Ballymakilty, a prohibition +would assuredly have been issued; but he was left sufficiently free to +satisfy his own conscience, and before Genevieve had surmounted half her +scruples, the whole town was ringing with the news, though no one could +guess how it had got wind. To be sure the Dusautoys had been put into +a state of rapture, and poor Mr. Hope had had the fatal stroke +administered to him. He looked so like a ghost that Mr. Dusautoy +contrived to release him at once, whereupon he went to try the most +unwholesome curacy he could find, with serious intentions of exchanging +his living for it; but he fortunately became so severely and helplessly +ill there, that he was pretty well cured of his mental fever, and quite +content to go to his heath, and do his work there like the humble +and earnest man that he was, perhaps all the better for having been +personally taught something more than could be gained from books and +colleges. + +Miss Goldsmith was the most to be pitied. She would not hear a word from +her nephew, refused to go near Willow Lawn, packed up her goods and went +to Bath, where Ulick promised the much distressed Genevieve that she +would yet relent. Genevieve was somewhat consoled by the increasing +cordiality of the Irish letters, and was carried along by the extreme +delight and triumph of her good old aunt. By some wonderful exertion of +Irish faculties, Ulick succeeded in bringing mademoiselle to Bayford +in his jaunting car, when she laughed, wept, sobbed, and embraced, in a +bewilderment of transport; pronounced the trousseau worthy of an angel +of the ancien regime; warned Genevieve against expecting amour to +continue instead of amitie, and carried home conversation for the nuns +for the rest of their lives. + +That trousseau was Sophy’s special charge, and most jealous was she that +it should in no respect fall short of that outfit of Lucy’s for which +she had cared so little. A hard task it was to make Genevieve accept +what Lucy had exacted, but Sophy held the purse-strings, wrote the +orders, and had her own way. + +She and her little sister were the only available bridesmaids, since +Rose O’More was not allowed to come. Having made up her mind to this +from the first, when the subject came forward, her open, cheerful look +and manner were meant to show that she was not afraid, and that her wish +was real. Freely resigning him, why should she not be glad to join in +calling down the blessing? + +The wedding was fixed for Easter week, which fell early, and Albinia +cast about for some excuse for taking her away afterwards. An opportune +occasion offered. Sir William Ferrars wrote from the East to propose +the Kendals meeting him in Italy, and travelling home together, he was +longing, he said, to see something of his sister, and he should enjoy +sight-seeing ten times as much with a clever man like her husband to +tell him all about it. + +Mr. Ferrars strongly seconded the project! Clever fellow, not a word +did he say; but did not he know the secrets of that household as well or +better than the inmates themselves?’ + +Now that Tibb’s Alley was deserted, and plans fixed, architect and clerk +of the works chosen, March winds ready for building and underground work +to begin at once, what could be more prudent than for the inhabitants of +Willow Lawn to remove far from the disturbance of ancient drains and no +drains, and betake themselves to a purer atmosphere? Mr. Kendal was of +no use as a superintendent, and needed no persuasion to flee from the +chance of typhus. + +As to the children, the time had come early when Maurice’s whole nature +cried out for school. He was much improved, and there was that real +principle within him which made it not unsafe to launch him in a world +where he might meet with more useful trials than those of home. Child +as he was, his propensities were too much limited by the bounds of the +town-house and garden, and the society of his sisters, one too old and +one too young to serve as tomboys. He needed to meet his match, and work +his way; Albinia felt that school had become his element, and Mr. Kendal +only wanted to make his education the reverse of Gilbert’s; so he ran +nearly frantic between the real jacket and the promise of going to +school with Willie. He knew not, though his mother mourned over, the +coming heart-sickness and mother-sickness of the first night, the first +Sunday, the first trouble. It was sure to be very severe in one of such +strong and affectionate feeling, but it must come sooner or later, and +the better that it should be conquered while home was still a paradise. +Fairmead was not so far from his destination but that his uncle would +keep an eye on him; and Winifred held out a hope that if the tour lasted +long enough, he should bring out both boys to spend their holidays with +them. A very good Winifred! + +Albinia the Less was to become a traveller, for the good reason that +nobody could or would go without her. They were to go direct to Lucy, +who was at Naples with a second boy, and pining for home faces and home +comforts--the inducement which perhaps worked most strongly to make +Sophy like the journey, for since her delusion had been swept, away, +a doubly deep and intense feeling had sprung up towards her own only +sister, whose foibles had been forgotten in long separation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + + + +The Lake of Lucerne lay blue and dark in the shade of the mountains, on +whose summits the evening sunshine was fast mounting, peak after peak +falling into purple shadow. + +There was a small inlet where a stream rushed down between the hills, +and on the green slope stood a chalet, the rich red of the roof +contrasting with the green pasture. A little boat was moored to a +stump near the land, and in it sat Sophia Kendal, her hat by her side, +listening to and answering merrily the chatter of Maurice, who tumbled +about in the boat, often causing it severe shocks, while he inspected +the cut of the small sail which she was making for the miniature +specimen, which he often tried in the clear cold water. + +Farther off, a little up the hill-side, Willie Ferrars was holding the +hand of the chestnut-curled, black-eyed fairy, ‘little Awk,’ who was +impressing him by her fluency in two languages at once, according as she +chattered to him in English, or in French to a picturesque peasant, her +great ally, who was mowing his flowery crop of hay, glancing like an +illumination, with an under-current of brilliant blossoms among the +grass. + +Wandering with slow conversational pace up and down the beach of the +lake, were Mr. Kendal and Sir William Ferrars, conversing as usual; the +soldier, with quick alert comprehension, wide observation, and clearness +of mind, which jumped to the very points to which the scholar’s +deeply-read and long-digested arguments were bringing him more slowly. + +On a projecting point sat Albinia, her fair hair shaded under her dark +hat, beneath which her English complexion glowed fresh and youthful, as +with flat tin box by her side, and block sketch-book on her knee, she +mixed and she painted, and tried to catch those purples and those blues +with unabated ardour. Suddenly a great trailing frond of mountain fern +came over the brim of her hat from behind. ‘Oh, Maurice, don’t!’ Then, +looking up and laughing, ‘Oh, it is you, is it? I knew Maurice would do, +whichever it might be; but see, the other is quite out of mischief.’ + +‘Unless he should upset Sophy into the lake.’ + +‘He can’t do that, the rope is too short. But is not he very much +improved? He has quite lost his imperious manner towards her.’ + +‘Nothing like school for making a boy behave himself to his sisters.’ + +‘Exactly, as I learnt by experience long ago. I am glad William did not +see him till he had learnt to be agreeable. How he does admire him!’ + +‘You’ll never make anything of that sketch; the mountain is humpbacked, +and the face of that precipice is exactly like Colonel Bury;’ and he +caught up a pencil to help out the resemblance with nostril and eyebrow. + +‘For shame, to be so mischievous; such a great boy as you.’ + +‘Well, we all came out here to be great boys, didn’t we? I am sure you +look a dozen years younger than when I last saw you, Mrs. Grandmother. +By-the-by, it was a bold stroke to encumber yourself with that brat; +what’s become of him?’ + +‘Susan has taken him in asleep. You see, Maurice, I really could not +help it, the poor little thing was so sickly, and had never thriven; but +when they were a little while in bracing air, Lucy was longing to have +him in England, and his father, who never believes in anything but what +he likes, _would_ not see it, and what with those Italian servants, and +Algernon hunting Lucy about as he does, it would have been the death of +him. Susan, good creature, had taken to him of her own accord the moment +we came to Naples, and could not have borne to leave him, and you know +the Awk is almost off her hands now, and Sophy, who first proposed it, +or I am sure I should never have ventured, is delighted to do anything +for either of them, and always has her little sister in her room. As to +papa, he was very good, and the child is very little in his way, and has +been quite well ever since we have been in this delicious air.’ + +‘How did you get Lucy to consent?’ + +‘Poor dear, it was a melancholy business; but she had so often been in +alarm about him, and had suffered so much from having to leave him with +people she did not trust, that she caught at the proposal before +she fairly contemplated what the parting would be; and when she did, +Algernon was too glad to be relieved from him not to keep her up to it, +but it wont do to think of it, she has her baby, who is healthier, and +if they remain abroad, I suspect we shall keep little Ralph altogether; +he is a dear little fellow, and Sophy has so taken possession of +Albinia, that I should be quite lost if I did not set up a private +child. + +‘What do you call him? I thought his name was Belraven.’ + +‘I could not possibly call him so; and his aunts, by way of adding to +the aviary, made him Ralph the Raven, so I mean it to stick by him; I +believe papa has forgotten the other dreadful fact, for I caught him +giving his name as Ralph Cavendish Dusautoy. How the dear vicar of +Bayford will devour him! and what work I shall have to keep him from +being spoilt!’ + +‘Then you think they will remain abroad?’ + +‘Algernon hates England; and all his habits are foreign.’ + +‘Did he make himself tolerably agreeable?’ + +‘He really did. One could bear to be patronized by one’s host better +than by one’s guest, and he was in wholesome awe of William. Besides, he +is really at home in Italy, and knows his way about so well, that he +was not a bad Cicerone. I am sure Sophy could never have done either +Vesuvius or Pompeii without his arrangements; and as long as he had a +victim for his catalogue raisonnee, he was very placable and obliging. +That was all extracts, so it really was not so bad.’ + +‘So you were satisfied?’ + +‘He has a bad lot about him, that’s the worst--Polish counts, +disreputable artists and poets, any one who has a spurious sort of fame, +and knows how to flatter him. Edmund was terribly disgusted.’ + +‘Very bad for his wife.’ + +‘You see, she is a thorough-going mother, and no linguist. She really +is improved, and I like her more really than ever I could, poor dear. +I believe her head was once quite turned, and that he influenced her +entirely, and made her forget everything else; but she has a heart, +though not much of a head, and sorrow and illness and children have +brought it out, and she is what a ‘very woman’ becomes, I suppose, if +there be any good in her, an abstract wife and mother.’ + +‘Was it not dangerous to take away her child?’ + +‘There was another, you know, and it was to save his life. The duties +clashed, and were destroying all comfort.’ + +‘How does he behave to her?’ + +‘I believe she has all the love he has to spare; he is proud of her, and +dresses her up, and has endless portraits of her. Luckily she keeps +her beauty. She is more refined, and has more expression; one could +sometimes cry to watch her, and he likes to have her with him, and to +discourse to her, but without the slightest perception or consideration +of what she would prefer, and with no notion of sacrificing anything +for her or the children. I know she is afraid of him; I have seen her +tremble if there were any chance of his being annoyed; and she would +not object to any plan of his if it were to cost her life. I believe +it would be misery to her, but I think she would resist--ay, she _did_ +resist, and in vain, for the sake of her child.’ + +‘Does her affection hold out, do you think?’ + +‘Oh, yes, the spaniel and walnut-tree love, which is in us all, and +doubly in the very woman. It is very beautiful. She is so proud of him +and of her gilded slavery, and so unconsciously submissive and patient; +but it is a harder life, I guess, than we can see. I am sure it must be, +for every bit of personal vanity and levity is worn out of her; she only +goes out to satisfy him; dresses to please his eye, and talks, with her +eye seeking round for him, in dread of being rebuked for mistakes or +bad French. And for the rest, her joy is to be left in peace with little +Algernon upon her lap. Yes, I hope living in all womanly virtues may be +training and compensation, but the saddest part of the affair is that +he does not think it fashionable to be religious, and she has not moral +courage to make open resistance.’ + +‘May it come,’ fervently. + +‘It is strange, how much more real and good a creature she is now, than +when at home in the midst of all external observances. Yet it cannot be +right! she surely ought to make more stand, but it is too, too literally +being afraid to say her soul is her own, for she is unhappy. She does +the utmost she can without offending him, and feels it as she never did +before.’ + +‘There is no judging,’ said Maurice, as his sister looked at him +with eyes full of sorrowful yearning. ‘No one can tell where are the +boundaries of the two duties. Poor girl! she has put herself into a +state of temptation and trial; but she may be shielded by her exercise +of so much that is simply good, and her womanly qualities may become not +idolatry, but a training in reaching higher.’ + +‘May it be so, indeed!’ said Albinia. ‘Oh, Maurice! how I once disdained +being told I was too young, and how true it was! What visions I had +about those three, and what failures have resulted!’ + +‘Your visions may have vanished, but you did your work faithfully, and +it has not been fruitless.’ + +‘Ay, in shipwrecked lives. Mischiefs wherever I meant to do best! Why, +I let even my own Maurice grow unmanageable while I was nursing poor +grandmamma. The voluntary duty choked the natural one, and yet--’ + +‘And yet,’ interrupted her brother, ‘that was no error.’ + +‘Oh, no! I would not have done it for anything.’ + +‘Nor do I think the boy the worse for it. I may venture now on saying he +was intolerable, and it hastened school, but though your rein was loose, +you never let it fall; and maybe, the self-conquest was the best thing +for him. If you had neglected him wilfully for your own pleasure, +nothing but harm could have been expected. As you were absorbed by a +sacred act of duty, I believe it will all be made up to you in your +son.’ + +‘Oh, Maurice, if I might trust so! I believe I am doubly set on that boy +doing well, because his father must not, _must_ not have another pang!’ + +‘I think he knows that. I do not imagine that he will never be carried +astray by high spirits; but I am sure that he has the strength, honour, +and sweetness that are the elements of greatness!’ + +‘Nothing we did so changed him as the loss of his brother. Oh, Maurice! +there was my most earnest wish to do right, and my most fatal mistake!’ + +‘And greatest success. Gilbert owed everything to you.’ + +‘Had I but silenced my foolish pride, he might have been safe in India +now.’ + +‘We do not know how safe he might be. I did indeed think it a pity your +influence led the other way, but things might have been far worse; if +you made some blunders, your love and your earnestness were working on +that susceptible nature, and what better hope can we wish to have than +what rested with us at Malta? what better influence than has remained +with Maurice or with Fred?’ + +Albinia had not yet learnt to talk calmly of Gilbert’s last hours, so +she put this aside, and smiling through her tears, said, ‘Ah! when Emily +writes to Sophy, that their boy is to have his name, since they can wish +nothing better for him than to be like him.’ + +‘The past vision always a little above what is visible?’ + +‘Hardly, Emily and Fred are as proud of each other as two peacocks, and +well they may be, for--stoop down, ‘tis an intense secret; but do you +know the effect of their Sebastopol den?’ + +‘Eh?’ + +‘Lieutenant-General Sir William Ferrars is going out in quest of Emily’s +younger sister.’ + +‘You ridiculous child! That’s a trick of yours.’ + +‘No, indeed. William was surprised into a moment of confidence, walking +home in the moonlight from the Coliseum. En vrai militaire, he has begun +at the right end, and written to Mr. Kinnaird to ask leave to come and +try his luck; and cool as he looks, I believe he would rather prepare +for Inkermann.’ + +‘Well! if he be not making a fool of himself at his time of life, I am +sure I am very glad!’ + +‘Time of life! He’s but three years older than Edmund. If you are not +more respectful, we shall have to go out to Canada to countenance him.’ + +‘I shall be rejoiced to see him with a home, and finding life beyond his +profession; but I had rather he had known more of her.’ + +‘That’s what he never would do. He cannot talk to a young lady. Why he +admires Lucy a great deal more than Sophy!’ + +‘Well, judging by the recent brides, I think if it had been me, I should +have gone in search of Mrs. Ulick O’More’s younger sister.’ + +‘Ah! I wanted particularly to hear of your visit at the bank. You had +luncheon there, I think. How do they get on?’ + +‘It is the most charming menage in the world. She looks very graceful +and elegant, and keeps him in great order, and is just the wife he +wanted--a little sauciness and piquancy to spur him up at one time, and +restrain him at another, with the real ballast that both have, makes +such a perfect compound, that it is only too delightful to see anything +so happy and so good in this world. They both seem to have such vivid +enjoyment of life.’ + +‘Pray, has any one called on Genevieve? though she could dispense with +it.’ + +‘Oh, yes; Bryan O’More spent a fortnight there. And see what a moustache +will do! The Osbornes, Drurys, Wolfes, and Co., all dubbed themselves +dear Mrs. O’More’s dearest friends. I found a circle of them round her, +and when I observed that Bryan was not half such a handsome fellow as +his brother, you should see how I was scorned.’ + +‘I hope Bryan may not play his father’s game again. Do you know how she +was received in Ireland?’ + +‘The whole clan adore her! Ulick, with, his Anglo-Saxon truthfulness, +got into serious scrapes for endeavouring to disabuse them of the notion +that she was sole heiress of the ancient marquisate of Durant. I believe +Connel was ready to call Ulick out for disrespect to his own wife.’ + +‘And was she happy there!’ + +‘Very much amused, and treated like a queen; charmed with his mother, +and great friends with Rose. They have brought Redmond home to lick him +into shape, and I believe Rose is to come and be tamed.’ + +‘Always Ulick’s wish,’ said Albinia, as her eye fixed upon Sophy. + +And her brother, with perhaps too obvious a connexion of ideas, said, +‘Is _she_ quite strong?’ + +‘Very well,’ said Albinia. ‘I am glad we brought her. The sight of +beauty has been like a new existence. I saw it on her brow, in calmness +and rest, the first evening of the Bay of Naples. It has seemed to +soothe and elevate her, though all in her own silent way; but watch her +as she sits with her face to those mountains, hear her voice, and +you will feel that the presence of grandeur and beauty is repose and +happiness to her; and I think the remembrance will always be so, even in +work-a-day Bayford.’ + +‘Yes, because remembrance of such glory connects with hope of future +glory.’ + +‘And it is a rest from human frets and passions. She has taken to +botany, too, and I am glad, for I think those studies that draw one off +from men’s works and thoughts, do most good to the weary, self-occupied +brain. And the children are a delight to her!’ + +‘Sophy is your greatest work.’ + +‘Not mine!’ cried Albinia. ‘The noblest by nature, the dearest, the most +generous.’ + +‘Great qualities; but they would have been only wretched self-preying +torments, but for the softening of your affection,’ said Maurice. + +‘Dear, dear friend and sister and child in one,’ cried Albinia. And then +meeting her brother’s eyes, she said, ‘Yes, you know to the full how +noble she is, and how--’ + +‘I can guess how imprudent a young step-mother can be,’ said Maurice, +smiling. + +‘It is very strange. I don’t, know how to be thankful enough for it; but +really her spirits have been more equal, her temper more even than +ever it had been, and that just when I thought my folly had been most +ruinous.’ + +‘Yes, Albinia. After all, it is more than man can hope or expect to make +no blunders; but I do verily believe that while an earnest will saves +us, by God’s grace, from wilful sins, the effects of the inadvertences +that teach us our secret faults will not be fatal, and while we are +indeed honestly and faithfully doing our best, though we are truly +unprofitable servants, that our lapses through infirmity will be +compensated, both in the training of our own character and the results +upon others.’ + +‘If we are indeed faithfully doing our best,’ repeated Albinia. + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Young Step-Mother, by Charlotte M. 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