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<h1>The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Young Step-Mother Or, a
Chronicle of Mistakes, by Charlotte M. Yonge</h1>

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Title: The Young Stepmonther Or, A Chronicle of Mistakes

Author: Charlotte M. Yonge

Release Date: June, 2004  [EBOOK #5843]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 11, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER ***
</pre>

<p><font size="2">This Project Gutenberg Etext of The Young
Stepmother by Charlotte M Yonge was prepared by Sandra Laythorpe,
laythorpe@btinternet.com. A web page for Charlotte M Yonge will
be found at http://www.menorot.com/cmyonge.htm.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<center>
<h1><font size="2">THE YOUNG STEP-MOTHER;<br>
</font></h1>

<p><font size="2">or</font></p>

<p><font size="2">A CHRONICLE OF MISTAKES.</font></p>

<h2><font size="2">by<br>
</font></h2>

<p><font size="2">CHARLOTTE M YONGE</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">Fail--yet rejoice, because no less<br>
The failure that makes thy distress<br>
May teach another full success.<br>
Nor with thy share of work be vexed<br>
Though incomplete and even perplexed<br>
It fits exactly to the next.<br>
ADELAIDE A PROCTOR</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER I.</font></h3>
</center>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes!' was the answer, which the vicar was not
slow to understand.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear Albinia! You always taunted me with
having married your sister as much as yourself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So I shall again, if you cannot give her up
with a good grace.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If I could have had my own way in disposing of
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Perhaps the hero of your own composition might
be less satisfactory to her than is Kendal.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'At least he should be minus the
children!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I fancy the children are one great attraction.
Do you know how many there are?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Three; but if Albinia knows their ages she
involves them in a discreet haze. I imagine some are in their
teens.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Impossible, Winifred, he is hardly
five-and-thirty.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is what I am afraid of.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Of what, Winifred?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No such thing. It is a case of good hearty
love. What, are you afraid of that, too?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'His melancholy is one of his charms in her
eyes.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You and she have so strong a feeling for
motherless children!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thinking of Kendal as I do, I have but one
fear for her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have many--the chief being the
grandmother.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oho! so you own there will be
trials!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does she know nothing of the Meadows'
family?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing but that old Mrs. Meadows lives in the
town with one unmarried daughter. She speaks highly of the
clergyman.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'John Dusautoy? Ay, he is admirable--not that I
have done more than see him at visitations when he was curate at
Lauriston.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is he married?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I fancy he is, but I am not sure. There is one
good friend for Albinia any way!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And now for your investigations. Did you see
Colonel Bury?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We had found out that, though he is so silent.
I should think him a most elegant scholar.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What did you hear of the first
wife?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I remember how Colonel Bury used to come and
sigh over his friend's illness and trouble.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then Albinia will have an invalid on her
hands!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And,' said Winifred, 'he no sooner recovers
than he goes and marries our Albinia!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Two years, my dear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pray explain to me, Maurice, why, when people
become widowed in any unusually lamentable way, they always are
the first to marry again.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Incorrigible. I meant to make you pity
him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They little guessed what the Colonel would be
at!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You will be better now you have the Colonel to
abuse,' said her husband.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray what do you mean to say to the
General?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Exactly what I think.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And to the aunts?' slyly asked the
wife.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think I shall leave you all that
correspondence. It will be too edifying to see you making common
cause with the aunts.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER II.</font></h3>
</center>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia held out her arms, saying, 'You are
Lucy, I am sure,' and eagerly kissed the girl's smiling, bright
face.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, I am Lucy,' was the well-pleased answer,
'I am glad you are come.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Poor child, she thought, she is feeling deeply
that I am an interloper, it will be different now her father is
coming.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How much you are grown!' he said, looking at
the children with some surprise.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, papa,' said Lucy; 'Gilbert has grown an
inch-and-a-half since October, for we measured him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you been well, Gilbert?' continued Mr.
Kendal, anxiously.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have the toothache, said Gilbert,
piteously.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Happily, nothing more serious,' thrust in
Lucy; 'Mr. Bowles told Aunt Maria that he considers Gilbert's
health much improved.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where does Mr. Salsted live?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what do you do?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We went to Miss Belmarche till the end of our
quarter, and since that we have been at home, or with grandmamma.
Do you <i>really</i> mean that we are to study with
you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should like it, my dear. I have been looking
forward very much to teaching you and Sophia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you, mamma.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy looked highly gratified, and eagerly said,
'I am sure I shall love you just like my own mamma.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No; old Nurse kept the keys, and managed till
now; but she went this morning.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy's mouth twitched.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She was so very fond--' continued
Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He lifted his head to look at her bright face,
and said, 'They are very much obliged to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must not say that, they are my
own.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am very grateful to you,' was his answer; a
sad welcome for a bride. 'And these poor children will owe
everything to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish I may do right by them,' said Albinia,
fervently.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The flower of the flock'--began Mr. Kendal,
but he broke off at once.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sorry Bayford should wear this heavy
cloud to receive you,' he said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It will soon clear,' she answered, cheerfully.
'Have you heard of poor Gilbert this morning?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not yet.' Then, after a pause, 'I have
generally gone to Mrs. Meadows after the morning service,' he
said, speaking with constraint.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You will take me?' said Albinia. 'I wish it, I
assure you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So much more cordial,' said Albinia. 'Pray let
us go!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There go Lizzie and Loo!' cried Lucy, 'and the
Admiral and Mrs. Osborn. I'll run and tell them papa is come
home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We are late,' he said. 'You will prefer the
speediest way, though it is somewhat steep.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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:</font></p>

<center><font size="2"><b>'To the memory of Lucy, the beloved
wife of Edmund Kendal.<br>
Died February 18th, 1845, aged 35 years.<br>
</b></font>
<p><font size="2"><b>Edmund Meadows Kendal, born January 20th,
1834.<br>
Died February 10th, 1845.</b></font></p>

<p><font size="2"><b>Maria Kendal, born September 5th, 1840.<br>
Died September 14th, 1840.</b></font></p>

<p><font size="2"><b>Sarah Anne Kendal, born October 3rd,
1841.<br>
Died November 20th, 1843.</b></font></p>

<p><font size="2"><b>John Augustus Kendal, born January 4th,
1842.<br>
Died July 6th, 1842.</b></font></p>

<p><font size="2"><b>Anne Maria Kendal, born June 12th, 1844.<br>
Died June 19th, 1844.'</b></font></p>
</center>

<p><font size="2">Then followed, in the original Greek, the
words, <b>'Because I live, ye shall live also.'</b></font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The name of the maid was Eweretta Dobson, at
which there was a general exclamation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You need not call her so,' was all that Mrs.
Meadows said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy exclaimed, 'Why! grandmamma's Betty is
really named Philadelphia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Perhaps,' said the old lady, 'perhaps Mrs.
Kendal might make it understood through you, my dear Maria, that
she is ready to receive visits.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose they must be!' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy looked as if she thought it not worth
while to be married for no better a bonnet than that.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Absurdity!' said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must have wished for more self-command,'
said Albinia, disturbed by Lucy's evident pleasure in having made
a scene.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>she</i> did not
see papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! Lucy,' said Albinia, fervently, 'how we
must try to make him happy after all that he has gone
through!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who thinks me so young?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't you think you can let me find that out
for myself?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought you wanted me to tell you about
everybody.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! but tell me of the good in your brother
and sister.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what of yourself?' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! I don't know,' said Lucy,
modestly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER III.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you seen the Salsette caves?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She was longing to hear about them, but his
horse was announced.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>she</i>
was going with me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I must go,' said Gilbert, as they walked home,
'I wish papa would listen to anything.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He would not wish you to hurt
yourself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'When papa says a thing--' began
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor Edmund's watch,' said Lucy. 'It was given
to him for a reward just before he was ill.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia tried to recover composure by reading
the titles of the books. Suddenly, Lucy started and exclaimed,
'Come away. There he is!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why come away?' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I would not have him find me there for all the
world.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Before luncheon--too bad!' she exclaimed, as
she hurried upstairs to wash off the dust of
unpacking.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mr. Bowles told me himself that he must run no
risk of inflammation.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You saw Mr. Bowles?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I went with Gilbert.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You? I never thought of your imposing so
unpleasant a task on yourself. I fear the boy has been
trespassing on your kindness.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Osborns and Drurys.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you want me?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I ran away on the plea of calling
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert hurried in, and was received by his
father with, 'You are very much obliged to her!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed I am,' said Gilbert, in a winning,
pleasant manner.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Anything not to have all the Drurys at
luncheon,' said Gilbert, confidentially, 'I had begun to wish
myself at Tremblam.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was that what they were waiting for?'
exclaimed Albinia. 'Poor people, I had no notion of
that.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They do have luncheon here in general,' said
Mr. Kendal, as if not knowing exactly how it came to
pass.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O yes,' said Lucy; 'Sarah Anne asked me
whether we ate wedding-cake every day.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Filled up!--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh,' said Lucy, 'we never do that, except when
we are at grandmamma's.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pray are you too old or too young for it?'
said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We did it to please grandmamma,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now you will do it to please me,' said
Albinia, 'if for no better reason. Fetch your Bibles and
Prayerbooks.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We shall never have time for our studies, I
assure you, mamma,' objected Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is not your concern,' said Albinia, her
spirit rising at the girls' opposition. 'I wish for
obedience.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never mind,' she thought, 'when the
institution is fixed, they will be more amenable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">When Albinia took her Bible upstairs, she gave
Sophy time to say what Lucy reported instantly on her
entrance.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you were at my charity school, Lucy,' said
Albinia, 'the first lesson I should give you would be against
telling tales.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy subsided.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Madame Belmarche's father and brother were
guillotined,' continued Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! then she is an emigrant?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor child! How old is she?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fifteen,' said Lucy. 'She teaches in the
school. She is not at all pretty, and such a queer little
thing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was her father French?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think it is something that somebody was
killed with,' said Sophy, in a low voice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It did not hurt you,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I told you so,' whispered Lucy,
exultingly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This is unbearable,' cried Albinia. 'I shall
give notice that I am always engaged in the morning.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>ancien
regime</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is in his study,' said the
girls.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ha!' cried Lucy, as they pursued their walk
into the kitchen garden, 'here are some asparagus coming up.
Grandmamma always has our first asparagus.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll call the boy to take it,' said
Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What, when we are going ourselves?' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! but we can't.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why? Do you think we shall break down under
the weight?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O no, but people will stare.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why--what should they stare at?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It looks <i>so</i> to carry a
basket--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia burst into one of her merriest peals of
laughing.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not carry a basket! My dear, I have looked
<i>so</i> all the days of my life. Bayford must endure the
spectacle, so it may as well begin at once.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, dear mamma--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia gave a great start, as well she
might.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll fetch it at once,' cried
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you,' he said, warmly, as they came out,
and turned to mount the hill together.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May I go and call on them again?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'People, who do not prosper in the world are
not always the worst,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>on</i> the sofa was better than any one else
<i>off</i>. '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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She would be delighted. Suppose you were to
come in at once.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish I could, but I must go on to Mrs.
Meadows'. If I were to come to-morrow?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' said Mrs. Meadows, as if yielding up
the subject, 'things may be different from what they were in my
time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should not wonder if you found me almost as
extraordinary as Mr. Dusautoy,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can't you ask your landlord to do something to
the house?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now, John, you had better have been giving
Mrs. Kendal a chair all this time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mrs. Kendal will excuse,' said Mr. Dusautoy,
as he brought her a seat.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was like him! so unlike Bayford! So bold a
venture!' continued Mrs. Dusautoy amid peals of
laughter.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nobody could have refused--' began
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh!' cried Mrs. Dusautoy. 'Little you know
Bayford.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fanny! Fanny! this is too bad. Madame
Belmarche--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Would have had nothing but <i>eau sucre</i>!
No, John, decidedly you and Simkins fell upon your legs, and you
bad better take credit for your "admirable
sagacity."'.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is in a sad state,' said Mr.
Dusautoy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know I should like to set my brother upon
that Mr. Pettilove, who they say will do nothing,' exclaimed
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And I told Mr. Dusautoy that I should give you
none.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! that is hard.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you could have heard him! He thought he
<i>had</i> 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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then I shall look to you, Mr.
Dusautoy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I believe she is quite right,' he said.
'She says you ought to undertake nothing till yon have had time
to see what leisure you have to give us.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, I have been used to think the parish my
business, home my leisure.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, 'but then you were
the womankind of the clergy, now you are a laywoman.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think you have work at home,' said the
Vicar.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Work, but not work <i>enough!</i>' cried
Albinia. 'The girls will help me; only tell me what I may
do.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Most heartily did Albinia undertake all that
Mrs. Dusautoy would let her husband assign to her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER IV.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>everywhere</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, nothing hurts me. It is poor Gilbert that
I am anxious about.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So am I. Gilbert has not a constitution fit
for exposure. I wish he were come home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Could we not send for him? Suppose we sent a
fly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must go to bed at once, Gilbert,' said his
father. 'Are you cold?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What a favourite Gilbert is!' Lucy said to
Sophia, as Albinia lighted a candle and went up to his
room.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He makes such a fuss,' said Sophy. 'What is
there in being wet through to cry about?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can stay till your father is ready for tea,'
said Albinia, coming nearer. 'Let me see whether your hands are
hot.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said he, wearily turning his reddened
cheek to the other side. 'I only took it because it is so horrid
lying here thinking.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Edmund?' she asked.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He grasped her hands in both his own. 'Aye! Ned
used to sleep there. I always look for him there.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you mean that you would rather have another
room? I would manage it directly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O no, thank you, I like it for some things.
Take the candle--look by the shutter--cut out in the
wood.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The boys' scoring of 'E. &amp; G. K.,' was
visible there.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Papa has taken all be 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sure not! But, my dear, considering what
Edmund was, surely they should be gentle, happy thoughts that the
room should give you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But you have not died of the
fever.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear Gilbert,' she said, 'we all shall
die.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, but I shall die young.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you really think it meant that I shall''
he cried, tremblingly. 'O don't! I can't die!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You wont tell papa!' cried Gilbert, raising
himself, in far more real and present terror than he had
previously shown.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How did you get it? Whose is it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert writhed himself.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You know he would not like it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then why did you take to reading
it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, but why do what you knew to be
wrong?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nobody told me not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Things didn't use to be stupid when Ned was
there!' sobbed Gilbert, bursting into a fresh flood of
tears.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! Gilbert, I grieved most of all for
<i>you</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall be good again now that I have you,'
said Gilbert, as he looked up into that sweet face.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you will begin by making a free confession
to your father, and giving up the book.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'At least you will give up the book,' she
said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you think it funny?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'To be sure I do.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very well,' said Gilbert, slowly. 'Yes, if you
will not let papa be angry with me. And, oh dear! must you
go?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think you had better dress yourself and come
down to tea. There is nothing the matter with you now, is
there?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think so indeed,' said Albinia. 'Good
morning, Miss Meadows. You see Gilbert has come home quite alive
enough for mischief.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope Mrs. Meadows had my note this
morning.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you, Gilbert?' said Albinia, becoming
tormented.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have been flannel all over all my life,'
said Gilbert, sulkily, 'one bit more or less can make no
odds.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you have not that piece? said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well!' cried Gilbert, 'I hoped Aunt Maria had
left off coming down upon us.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O, mamma!' exclaimed Lucy, 'you never sent
your love to grandmamma.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Depend upon it she was waiting for that,' said
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">I'm sure I wish I had known it,' said Albinia,
not in the most judicious manner. 'Half-past eleven!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'At any rate, it did not,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What business has Mrs. Osborn to ask whom I
called on?' exclaimed Albinia, impatiently.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very likely--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Miss Nugent is five years old. Don't let us
have any more of this nonsense.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But you wont part me from Lizzie Osborn,' said
Lucy, hanging her head pathetically on one side.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall talk to your father. He said, the
other day, he did not wish you to be so much with
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, you don't imagine me thinking of that!'
cried Albinia, laughing. 'I meant their behaving ill to Mr.
Dusautoy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah, Edmund, next time you'll see if a parson's
sister can sit quietly by to see the parson beaten!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He smiled, and moved towards his
study.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then I am to be civil?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But is it necessary to call
to-day?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gilbert, you--you are, I'm sure, very rude to
your sister.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll not stand to hear false stories of Mrs.
Kendal!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What is all this?' said Mr. Kendal, suddenly
appearing, and discovering Gilbert pirouetting with indignation
before Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy, what a story,' exclaimed Lucy, but
Gilbert was ready to corroborate his younger sister's
report.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Go home at once, Lucy,' said her father.
'Perhaps solitude may bring you to a better state of feeling.
Go!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal returned to the subject as they
walked home.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should like to wait till next time,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you mean?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Because this is too personal to
myself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, your own candour is an example to which
Lucy can hardly be insensible. Besides, it is a nuisance which
must be abated.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Great was the offence they gave by not taking
out the carriage!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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. '<i>Ah! si bonne! si bonne!
pardonnes-moi, Madame</i>!' she exclaimed, sobbing, and probably
not knowing that she was speaking French; 'but, oh, Madame, you
will tell me! Is it true--can he?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can who? What do you mean, my
dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The Admiral,' said Genevieve, looking about
frightened, and sinking her voice to a whisper. 'Miss Louisa said
so, that he could send and search--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Search for what, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Most decidedly not,' said Albinia. 'Set your
mind at rest, my poor child; whoever threatened you played you a
most base, cruel trick.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not like such gaiety,' said Albinia.
'What, they wished to make you confess your secret?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER V.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O no, surely I must have made some dreadful
mistake, to have promoted such faults.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I have long known him not to be
trustworthy. It is an evil of long standing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was it always so?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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
<i>him!</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He never will be like him,' cried Mr. Kendal.
'No! no! The difference is evident in the very countenance and
features.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was he like you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Because I live, ye shall live also,' Albinia
repeated.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear boy! Some day we shall be glad that the
full life and glory came so soon.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'People often feel more than they
show.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He groaned.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O no, no! If I only knew what would be best
for him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He turned sharply away, muttering, 'She is
coming to bother, now!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He declared that people at home knew nothing
about boys, and made an uproar about nothing.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you call falsehood nothing?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Falsehood! A mere trifle now and then, when I
am driven to it by being kept so strictly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know how to talk to you, Gilbert,'
said Albinia, rising; 'your conscience knows better than your
tongue.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is no use talking about what swells do that
hunt and shoot and go to school,' answered Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you wish you went to school?' asked
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish I was out of it all!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not help it!' cried Albinia, looking at him
with her clear indignant eyes. 'How can you be such a poor
creature, Gilbert?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He looked desponding and miserable. If she
could only have put a spirit into him!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Shall I walk and meet you sometimes before you
get to Robbie's Leigh!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">His face cleared up, but the cloud returned in
a moment.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What is it?' she asked. 'Only tell me. You
know I wish for nothing so much as to help you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fanny,' said Mr. Dusautoy, 'I really think we
ought to tell her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Mrs. Dusautoy, 'I think it would be
better. The houses belonged to old Mr. Meadows.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, if they are Mrs. Meadows's, I don't wonder
at anything.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I believe they are Gilbert
Kendal's.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you sure you do not wish it?' said Mr.
Kendal, with great kindness, but an evident weight
removed.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Most certain!' she exclaimed, with full
sincerity; 'I am not at all ready for them. What should I do with
them to entertain?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I meant to have asked a great deal,' she said,
sighing.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you, want me, I would contrive to ride
over,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You fall a hundred times a day, but are raised
up again,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maurice, tell me one thing. Is it wrong to do,
not the best, but only the best one can?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is the wrong common to us all,' said
Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There are only two ways of avoiding
that.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And they are--?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Either doing nothing, or admiring all your own
doings.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Which do you recommend?' said Albinia,
smiling, but not far from tears.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER VI.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought you were gone,' she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No. I did not like to leave you alone for a
whole evening.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And these are all locked up for ever. No one
has seen them.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Edmund, that is a severe reproach for my
impertinent speech.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'At last!' said Albinia. 'He set off only ten
minutes after you, as soon as he found that papa was not
coming.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'All I know,' said Lucy, 'is, that he did not
come till half-past nine, and said he had come from
home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And where can he be now?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gone to bed,' growled Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy said nothing, but glanced knowingly at her
sister and at Albinia, from neither of whom did she get any
response.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert started and hid his face.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you think I did not know, and was not
grieved?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' he cried, peevishly, 'I'm sure I have
the most ill-natured pair of sisters in the world.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you meant to deceive us again,
Gilbert.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You <i>do</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He gave a sort of howl, as if she were misusing
his confidence.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was not my fault,' said Albinia, earnestly;
'Mr. Kendal forbade me. I am sure I wish we had come.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert could not forbear an ashamed smile of
intense affront at this reproach to his manliness.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia tried to express for him some becoming
sorrow at having disappointed so much kindness, but she brought
Miss Meadows down on her again.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wonder who she thinks is excited?' exclaimed
Albinia, as they finally turned their backs on her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">What was Albinia's consternation! Her moment's
petulance had undone her morning's work.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gilbert,' she said, 'we are both speaking very
wrongly. I especially, who ought to have helped you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Edmund, I have such things to tell you! I
have been doing so wrong.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER VII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Of none, thank you,' said Mr. Kendal, 'unless
you would be kind enough to take home the girls.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let it be as you will,' said Mr. Kendal; 'I
only desire quiet, and that you should not inconvenience Mrs.
Ferrars.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mrs. Ferrars beheld Gilbert sitting listlessly
on the deep window-seat at the end of the passage, resting his
head on his hand.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How cold your hand is!' she exclaimed; 'you
should not sit in this cold passage.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'As I have been telling him all this morning,'
said Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How is she?' whispered the boy, rousing
himself to look imploringly in Winifred's face.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your father seems satisfied about
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought,' said Winifred to her husband,
'that you would rather have exchanged a Sunday when Albinia is
better able to enjoy you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That may yet be, but poor Kendal is so much
depressed, that I do not like to leave him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well done, Winifred!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Maurice,' said his impetuous wife, in a
curiously altered tone, 'are not you very unhappy about
Albinia?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall leave you to find that out for
me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you are not?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think Kendal thoroughly values and
appreciates her, and is very uncomfortable without
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose so. People do miss a
maid-of-all-work. I should not so much mind it, if she had been
only <i>his</i> 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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Propose that to Albinia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And I wonder what is to come of that. It seems
to me like what John Smith calls singing psalms to a dead
horse.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'John Smith! I am glad you mentioned him; I
shall desire Dusautoy to bring him here on Monday.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What! as poor Albinia would say, you can't
exist a week without John Smith.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not <i>quite</i>,' 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
<i>thought it damp</i>," 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! it will have a fine effect on you to spend
your Christmas-day <i>tete-a-tete</i> with him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maria Meadows is a very well-meaning person,'
he said afterwards; 'but I know of no worse infliction in a
sick-room.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let me have the baby,' she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mrs. Ferrars laid it beside her, and held
aloof. Gilbert's eyes were fixed intently on it.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' whispered Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Winifred,' said Albinia, 'would you be so kind
as to ask papa to come?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I could not refuse pardon thus asked,' he
said. 'Oh, Gilbert, that I could hope this were the beginning of
a new course!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia looked from Gilbert to his little
brother, and back again to Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It <i>shall</i> be,' she said, and Gilbert's
resolution was perhaps the more sincere that he spoke no
word.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor boy,' said Albinia, half to herself and
half aloud, 'I think I feel more strong to love and to help
him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear, I think you may rely on
me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia looked with her wistful piteous face at
her brother as he took in his arms her noble-looking fair
infant.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are a great fellow indeed, sir,' said his
uncle. 'Now if I were your mamma, I would be proud of you, rather
than--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am afraid!' said Albinia, in a sudden low
whisper.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He looked at her anxiously.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I tell myself so,' said Albinia, 'but there is
no helping it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She had grown piteous and incoherent, and a
glance from Winifred told him, 'this is always the
way.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But how am I to keep from thinking, Maurice?
The weaker I am, the more I think.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia looked at him as if receiving a new
idea.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Maurice, how did you know? But you are not
going? I have so much to talk over with you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!"'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Winifred must needs give her husband his share.
'Ah! you would never have had it done without
Maurice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you have gone through all this and never
spoken. No wonder your nerves and spirits were tried.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suspect Maurice and John Smith had more to
do with it,' said Winifred.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You might be more civil,' answered Albinia.
'Remember that the ringdove never made half such a fuss about her
nest as the magpie.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, I am glad you have found some likeness
in yourself to a dove,' rejoined Winifred.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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
<i>etrennes</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It has tired you, though,' said Winifred. 'Lie
quite down and sleep.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall not be gone home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, you will. I am well, and every one wants
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you not hear Willie's complimentary
message, that he is never naughty now, because Gilbert makes him
so happy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Winifred, the penny club! The people must
have their things.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They can wait, or--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear, I have the work in me of a young
giant.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And will Mr. Kendal like it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>is</i> approval, Winifred, much more than if I went and
worried him about every little petty woman's matter.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The day before the christening, Mr. Ferrars
brought back Gilbert and his own little Willie.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">It was the sympathy Albinia cared for, come
back again! 'I hope he will be a good brother to you,' she
said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>that</i> name would
bring ill-luck?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She knew the name he meant, and answered, 'No,
but your father could not have borne it. Besides, Gibbie, we
would not think him <i>instead</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Only think, Albinia, I have found out that
poor Ellen O'More is Mr. Goldsmith's sister!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Winifred, Winifred!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But I tell you, her husband is the third son
of old Mr. O'More of Ballymakilty, and was in the
army.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! the half-pay officer with the twelve
children in the cottage on the estate.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do remember,' said Albinia, taking a little
pity, 'that you used to be sorry for his good little English
wife.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, I am interested, you know I am,
Winifred. I hope you interested our respected banker, which would
be more to the purpose.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing can be more sincere and genuine,' she
cried, as if this fell a little flat.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly not, at the time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wonder what you will do with your own son,'
said Maurice, amused, 'since you take Gilbert's part so
fiercely.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray what are your daughters and baby to
do, while you are galloping after Gilbert?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice was edified by his sister's
warm-hearted weakness, but not at all inclined to let 'Edmund'
escape a 'teasing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is he to go to India? Albinia had not told me
so.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly,' said Mr. Ferrars, repressing a
smile. 'Then are you thinking of sending him to
Haileybury?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'From my heart.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then why do you doubt? Do you expect her to do
anything?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A little too much of everything.'</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER VIII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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, &amp;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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">It was a grand spectacle, when Mr. Dusautoy
looked in on Mrs. Kendal and her staff, armed with their
yard-wands.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't,' said Sophy,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't order you, but you are losing a great
deal of fun. Suppose you came to look on, at least.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hate poor people.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope you will change your mind some day, but
yon 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't want to walk.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought my blight had fallen on you,' was
all he said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is any one there?' she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Every one, I think,' he replied, looking
oppressed--'Maria, and Mrs. Osborn, and Dusautoy--but I will call
Bowles.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And indeed, ma'am,' she said, 'there is not
one of us servants who dares cross Miss Sophy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My poor child! how you have hurt
yourself!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy turned away pettishly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let me look! I am sure it must be very bad.
Have you done anything to it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, never mind. Go back to baby.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who said so?' cried Albinia,
transfixed.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does your arm hurt you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does your head ache?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Rather.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It would be time to pardon,' he said, 'when
pardon was asked.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">And Albinia could not say that it had been
asked, except by misery.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Edmund! you do not think of it!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy would be miserable. Oh! you must not!
She is the last girl in the world fit to be sent to
school.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will not have you made miserable at home.
This has been a long trial, and nothing has softened
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Suppose this was the very thing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you,' said Albinia, 'some evening
perhaps I may come, since yon are so kind, but I don't think I
can leave this poor twisted arm to itself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I believe,' said Albinia, 'that you would only
be too glad if you knew how.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy gasped.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is no use,' said Sophy, moodily; 'I was
born to be a misery to myself and every one else.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What has put such a fancy in your head, my
dear?' said Albinia, nearly smiling.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is not an end of it, indeed!' cried
Albinia. 'Why, Sophy, do you suppose I could bear to leave you
so?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm sure I don't see why not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And now I love you because you are sorry for
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm not'--Sophy had begun, but the words
turned into 'Am I?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'See if you don't, when we pull together
instead of contrary ways.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But,' cried Sophy, with a sudden start from
her, as if remembering a mortal offence, 'you drained the
pond!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I own I earnestly wished it to be drained; but
had you any reason for regretting it, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! you did not know,' said Sophy. 'He and I
used to be always there.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He--?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't believe you are spiteful,' said Sophy,
'though I sometimes think so.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The filial compliment was highly
gratifying.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will tell,' said Sophy, 'but you wont like
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I like anything better than
concealment.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But how could you do it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And has life been a blank ever
since?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy shook her head. 'I can't understand about
mercy and love, when Edmund was all I cared for.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know what you mean,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you ever think what Edmund is about
now?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Edmund was good,' said Sophy, in a tone as if
to mark the hopeless gulf between.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Put me down! The floor, please!' said Sophy,
feebly, for all her remaining faculties were absorbed in dislike
to the mode of conveyance.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Sophy, 'it was only my
back.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed! you never told me you had hurt your
back;' and Albinia began describing the fall, and declaring there
must be a sprain.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, no,' said Sophy, 'kneeling always does
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does what, my dear?' said Albinia, sitting on
the floor by her, and looking up to Mrs. Dusautoy, exceedingly
frightened.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Makes me feel sick,' said Sophy; 'I thought it
would go off, as it always does, it didn't; but it is better
now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you, <i>much</i>,' said Sophy, with an
emphasis.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you ever lie down on it when you are
tired?' asked the lady, looking anxiously at Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I always wish I might.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Sophy, Sophy,' she cried, with tears in
her eyes, 'how could you go on so? Why did you never tell
me?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I did not like,' began Sophy, 'I was used to
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But to let oneself be so driven about,' cried
Albinia. 'Oh! Sophy, you will never do so again! If I had ever
guessed--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Please hush! Never mind!' said Sophy, almost
crossly, and getting up from the floor quickly, as though
resolved to be well.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have never minded long enough,' sighed
Albinia. 'What shall I do, Mrs. Dusautoy? What do you think it
is?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, certainly, by all means.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And then to whom! I will write to my Aunt
Mary. It seems exactly like you. Do you think it is the
spine?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And of having no mother to find them out!'
cried Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what brought it to a crisis? Did they go
on neglecting you?' exclaimed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, and Mr. Dusautoy made you have
advice?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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:--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'July 10th, 9 p.m.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dearest Edmund,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Forgive yours,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A. K.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER IX.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, no; it is hunted and driven; that's the
way she always <i>will</i> make her <i>h</i>'s; besides, what
nonsense the other would be.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This poor child--' repeated Mr. Kendal, 'Going
up to London for advice. She would hardly do that with
Sophia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who ever heard of a baby of six months old
having a spine complaint?' cried Mrs. Ferrars almost
angrily.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have lost one in that way,' he
replied.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>him</i>; 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Her energies were recalled; and, squeezing his
hand, she said, 'Mind, you will not let them say it was mamma's
fault.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who is accusing her, my dear?' What is the
matter?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear, I am afraid you hardly know what you
may have to go through, but I am glad you meet it
bravely.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But you wont let them say mamma did
it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who should say so?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Aunt Maria will, and mamma <i>will</i> go and
say so herself,' cried Sophy; 'she <i>will</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gently, Sophy, that would hardly be grateful,
after the pains that she has taken with you, and the care she
meant to give.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Most certainly not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She has an infinite treasure of love,' said
Mr. Kendal, 'and we have done very little that we should be
blessed with it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am afraid you have been very much alarmed,'
were his first words.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But everybody declares that it was always
visible, and that no one could look at her without seeing that
she was crooked.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is over now,' said Mr. Kendal, 'you have
conquered her at last. Pride could not hold out against such
sweetness.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is her generosity,' said Albinia; 'I always
knew she was the best of them all, if one could but get at
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What have you done to her? I never heard her
say half so much as she voluntarily said to me just
now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She has a certain likeness to him. I knew she
was his favourite sister; but such a child as she
was--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Such a compliment was a pretty reward for her
temerity.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I read a book of the History of India, up in
the loft,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, I think I can promise you more
interesting reading about India when we go home,' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very faithful to her birth-place,' said Miss
Ferrars; 'but she must have been very young when she came
home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'About five years old, I believe,' said her
father. 'You surely can remember nothing of Talloon.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know,' said Sophy, mournfully; 'I
used--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He smiled, but said, 'Of what possible use
could it be to her?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You want me to teach her Sanscrit because you
cannot teach her Italian.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But there is hardly anything which I could let
her read in those languages.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We will see how it is,' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then,' said Sophia, slowly, as she looked full
at her aunt, 'it was the Osborns who dared to say such wicked
things.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I only want to know whether it was the Osborns
who invented these stories,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They are very wicked,' said Sophy, 'Aunt
Maria, I will know if it was Mrs. Osborn who told the
story.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy's <i>will</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy, what is this? What are you
about?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I must tell Loo never to come here with her
hypocrisy,' repeated Sophy, standing still, but not yielding an
inch.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Miss Meadows pursued them at the same moment
with broken protestations that they must forget it, she never
meant to make mischief, &amp;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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Obliging,' quietly said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now, dear Edmund--I know--for my sake--for
everything's sake, remember you are a family man, don't take any
notice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was not I who said that,' said Sophy,
blushing.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You took part with those who did. And poor
Genevieve was a much more defenceless victim than papa or
myself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I would not do so now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should like to know.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't let us make it any worse; and above all,
do not let us tell Lucy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, no!' said Sophy, emphatically.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER X.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you mean? Is the fever there again?'
exclaimed Mr. Kendal in the utmost consternation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you not know it? Lucy has been very
anxious about the child, who was in her class.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have not taken Lucy to a house with a
fever!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I thought it safer not, though she wanted
very much to go.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But you have been going yourself!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is the very place where the fever began
before!' said Mr. Kendal, almost under his breath.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia was quite subdued, alarmed at the
effect on him.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray what is to become of poor
Sophy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never going out, there may be the less risk
for her. I will take care of her myself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should be much happier if you were
gone.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal was inexorable. 'I hope you may
never see what I have seen,' he said gravely, and Albinia was
silenced.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You do not like to trust him with Susan,' said
Mr. Kendal; 'you had better come with him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Albinia, 'I ought to stay here, and
if you judge it right, Maurice must go. I'll go and speak to
Susan.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It would be a great deal more trouble if you
caught a bad cold. I meant you to sleep at Fairmead.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, they pressed me very kindly, but I could
not bear not to come home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And how did Maurice comport
himself?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Twenty-three! Have you turned out the whole
block?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I wish we had; but that would have been
seventy-five. This is only from those two tenements with one
door!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Impossible!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should have thought so; but the lawful
inhabitants make up sixteen, and there were seven
lodgers.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal gave a kind of groan, and asked what
she had done; she detailed the measures.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Twenty-three people in those two houses, and
seventy-five in the whole block of building?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It shall not go on,' said Mr. Kendal. 'I will
look over the place.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not till the fever is out of it,' hastily
interposed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia lifted up her eyes, not understanding
at whose expense it should be.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>would</i> not
see--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">One day, after a visit from her old nurse,
Sophy received Albinia with the words,--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Aunt Maria! I remember Mrs. Dusautoy once
saying she gave her the idea of happiness shattered,
but--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If she has had such troubles, it should indeed
make us try to be very forbearing with her,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Will you ask papa about it?' entreated
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, mamma, is that really like deserted
love?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If she has such a real grand reason for being
unhappy, I shall not be cross about it now, except--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy gave a sigh, and Albinia bade her good
night.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'True,' said Mr. Kendal; 'a narrow education
and limited sphere are sad evils in such cases.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well!' said Sophy, in her blunt, downright
way, 'I think it would take all the spirit out of
everything.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall never be impatient with her again,'
said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">In Easter week Mr. Ferrars brought Lucy and
Maurice home, and Gilbert came for a short holiday.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert was pleased when he was called to go
over the empty houses with his father, Mr. Ferrars, and a
mason.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then he wont consent to do
anything?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is the assumption on which settlements
are drawn up, Gilbert,' said his father.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can nothing be done, then?' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My guardian! do not call him so!' muttered
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Agitate! agitate!' murmured Mr. Ferrars, going
on with his book.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, and then--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, yes, I promise,' cried Gilbert, warming
with the subject, 'the first thing I shall do--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, don't promise,' said Albinia. 'Do it from
your heart, or not at all.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, don't promise, Gilbert,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why not, Sophy?' he said
good-humouredly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Because you are just what you feel at the
moment,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't think I should keep it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What is truth need not always be fully
uttered,' said Albinia. 'I hope you may find it
untrue.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">But Sophy's words would recur, and weigh on her
painfully.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XI.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And the other?' said Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your mother, I believe,' he said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy employed herself in filling up her paper,
and exclaimed, 'Now I do not know the date! Can you tell me that,
papa?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No--' she was looking up at her
father.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">A sudden flush of colour came over his face,
and he left the room in haste.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why, Sophy!' exclaimed Lucy, 'one would think
you had not been christened at all!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy's face had more disappointment in it than
satisfaction.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was not your fault,' said Mr. Kendal,
quietly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy drew a long sigh, and said, 'If I had
never been christened, I should have thought there was some hope
for me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That would have been too dreadful. How could
you imagine your papa capable--?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia gave it to her, and she hastily turned
the pages to the Order for Private Baptism.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'At least I have not made the promises and
vows!' she said, as if her stern conscientiousness obtained some
relief.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not formally made them,' said Albinia; 'but
you cannot have a right to the baptismal blessings, except on
those conditions.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, my poor Sophy, yon must not think of it
like a spell. Many bear the cross no better, who have had it
marked on their brows.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can it be done now?' cried Sophy,
eagerly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly; I think it ought to be done. We
will see what your father says.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Edmund!' began Albinia, aghast, 'would
that be the right thing? I hardly think Maurice would
consent.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Better not have it done at all, then,' said
Mr. Kendal. 'It is not essential. I will not have her made a
spectacle.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Will you only consult Mr.
Dusautoy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suspect,' said Albinia, 'that the example of
repairing it would speak volumes of good.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is mere absurdity to speak of it!' said Mr.
Kendal. 'The poor child is not to leave her couch yet for
weeks.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy was told in the morning that the question
was under consideration, and Lucy was strictly forbidden to
mention the subject.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">When next Mr. Kendal came to read with Sophy,
she said imploringly, 'Papa, have you thought?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Sophy; 'but you know I am to be
allowed to go about in July.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You will hardly be equal to any fatigue even
then, I fear, my dear; and you would find this publicity
extremely trying and unpleasant.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! my child, I am afraid the tempers are a
part of your physical constitution,' he returned,
mournfully.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It shall be well weighed, Sophy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The result of Mr. Kendal's meditations was an
invitation to his wife to drive with him to Fairmead.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah!' said Albinia, 'I never honoured gardening
so much.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know you would never respect it in
me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And Lucy converted you when I could
not!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Lucy is a very nice, pleasant inmate; her
ready obligingness and facility of adapting herself make her very
agreeable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you going to be very angry with
me?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Quite as handsome as the owl's children, my
dear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, we will make her a beauty when we are
about it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Take care!' repeated Albinia, affronted. 'You
don't fancy I am going beyond a vague wish, do you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And rather a premature one. How old is
Sophy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Towards fourteen, but years older in thought
and in suffering.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It will be true that you have the steadfast
purpose, my dear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How can it be steadfast when I know I
can't?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Otherwise, Sophy was kept quiet, to gave her
strength and collect her thoughts.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, don't move, my dear, I will bring it to
you; you are tired.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No--I'll go down, thank you.' It was the gruff
voice!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed you had much better not, my dear. It is
only an hour to bed-time, and you would only tire yourself for
nothing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll go.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are tired, Sophy,' said her father. 'You
had better lie down while you have your tea.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, thank you,' growled Sophy, as though hurt
by being told to lie down before company.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Because of his great success in that
line.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am not of consequence enough to spoil any
one's pleasure.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Three seconds after, Sophy reared herself up,
and with a rigid face and slow step walked out of the
room.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you said anything to her?' asked
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I could not help it,' said Winifred, narrating
what had past. 'Have I done wrong?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May I come to wish my godchild good-bye?' he
said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! you are feeling as if nothing would do you
any good,' said Mr. Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Papa says so!' she answered.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I cannot. It is not true.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mark them,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">There was some space, while she gave him the
book, and he showed her the verses. Then he rose to
go.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish I had not spoilt the visit,' she said,
wistfully, at last.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' she faintly said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Dusautoy had given notice of the day of the
Confirmation, when Mr. Kendal called his wife.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wonder,' he said, 'my dear, whether Sophia
can spare you to take a walk with me before church.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Long, long it was before Mr. Kendal broke
silence, but when at length he did speak, his words amazed her
extremely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you. I suppose you went out to India too
young.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, I can imagine you extremely
miserable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I dare say you cannot believe it was yourself,
any more than I can. What brought other thoughts!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Edmund, you always were a
Churchman.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You had never fairly seen the
Church.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What would you have done with the
children?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was not refusal on your part,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you have made up your mind?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes. I shall speak to Mr. Dusautoy at
once.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And,' she said, feeling for his sensitive
shyness, 'no one else need know it--at least--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Whom do you think I have for a candidate?'
said Mr. Dusautoy that evening.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Another now! I thought you were talking to Mr.
Kendal about the onslaught on the Pringle pew.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you think of my churchwarden
himself?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't mean that he has never been
confirmed!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">' Take care what you do. He will never endure
having it talked of.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XIII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Had Mr. Pringle, or rather his housekeeper,
made a virtue of necessity? and if so, who could it
be?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Edmund! this blind, I beg your pardon, but
if you would help--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your little boy?' asked Mrs.
Meadows.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">It was an unfortunate appeal, but Mr. Kendal
made the best of it, saying that his boy was very happy at his
tutor's.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Only Mr. Pringle's nephew?' she said,
disdainfully. 'What was the use of making a fuss? I thought it
was some one interesting!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you wish him to call? He had been thinking
of it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was cruel indeed! And you kept it from your
mother!' said Albinia, beginning to honour her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was very hard not to be made aware of his
intentions.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia said some kind words, and Maria went
on:</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is his wife living?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ha! you here?' exclaimed the loud honest
voice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We were taking a turn in the moonlight,' said
Albinia. 'A beautiful night.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maria clung to Albinia's arm. Perhaps in the
days of the last parting, she had been less careful to be with a
chaperon.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope you will yet walk into Willow Lawn,'
said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That I do--' Maria could not utter more, and
Albinia said she was afraid he would miss a great
deal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where are you bound now?' asked the
captain.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Back to the vicarage, to take up my husband
and the girls,' said Albinia, 'but good night. I am not
afraid.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>elder</i> sister.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is be your only one?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She has had a harassed life, I fear,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 !'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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:</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear Madame,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your most grateful and humble
servant,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">GENEVIEVE CELESTE DURANT.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There!' said Albinia, tossing the note to her
brother, who was the only person present excepting
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor Albinia,' he said, 'it is hard to be
disappointed in a bit of patronage.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I told her so,', exclaimed Gilbert; 'I told
her it was the only way to teach them what she was
worth.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And did she not wish to go?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Inducements, indeed!' said Mr. Ferrars. 'And
she could not be incited by any of these?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice gave a significant 'Hem!' to which his
sister replied, 'Nonsense!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very romantic consolations and
confidences.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One great use of going to school is to save
lads from that silly pastime. I advise you to look to these
moonlight escortings!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One would think you were an old dowager,
Maurice. I suppose Colonel Bury may not escort Miss
Mary.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah, Albinia, you are a very naughty child
still.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Yet Albinia was startled when one day Mr.
Kendal summoned her, saying, 'It is all over, she has refused
him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Impossible; she could only have left half her
sentence unsaid.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Too certain. She will not leave her
mother.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is that all?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why does he come to you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She might live here.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Albinia! Think a little.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, that is out of the question. I would not
impose such charge upon you on any consideration!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia's face became humble and remorseful.
'Yes,' she said, 'perhaps I am too impatient and
flighty.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No claims, Edmund,' said she, softly. 'In
whose place have you put me?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I told her that, under the circumstances, she
has no alternative but to accept Captain Pringle.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! thank you. And does she?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She has given me leave to send him to
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So it is true,' she said. 'I don't mind, since
Arthur is not a girl.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He looked as if he remembered it only too
well.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Hem!' said Mr. Kendal. 'Albinia, do you think
after all we are doing Captain Pringle any kindness?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is the best judge.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, he may think himself bound in honour and
compassion--he may be returning to an old ideal.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I cannot help respecting the unselfishness,'
said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">What? have you heard from Maurice?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No; I have been at Fairmead.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">You! To-day! How was Winifred?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Better--I believe.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How does she like the governess?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I did not hear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Worse than ever,' Albinia said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose it must end in this?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'In what!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If there is no more satisfactory arrangement,
I suppose we must receive Mrs. Meadows.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">If Albinia could but have heard what a scolding
her brother was undergoing from his vivacious wife!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'More shame for it, then!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well! I thought Mr. Kendal at least had more
sense.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ay, nothing is so provoking as to see others
more unselfish than ourselves.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'All I have to say,' concluded Mrs. Ferrars,
walking off, 'is, I wish there was a law against people going and
marrying two wives.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The dining-room? How could we spare
that?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, the study.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia remained transfixed.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what is to become of you?' she
continued.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Perhaps you will admit me here,' he said,
smiling, for he was pleased with himself. 'Turn me out when I am
in the way.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't care,' she said; 'I don't want any
difference made to please me; I think that weak.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy!' began Albinia, indignantly, but Mr.
Kendal stopped her, and made her come down, to consider of the
proposal in the study.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">That study, once an oppressive rival to the
bride, now not merely vanquished, but absolutely abandoned by its
former captive!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Just so; and that makes me
afraid--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Of me? No, Albinia, I will try not to be a
check on your spirits.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You! Oh! I meant that we should disturb
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You never disturb me, Albinia; and it is not
what it was when the children's voices were untrained and
unsubdued.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't say much for Master Maurice's
voice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yet,' ventured Albinia, 'if you think solitude
did you no good, do you think letting these fits have their swing
is good for Sophy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I <i>cannot</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' muttered Sophy, 'Lucy is ready for any
sort of nonsense.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear grandmamma going to live with us? Oh, how
nice! I can always take care of her when you are busy,
mamma.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">That accommodating spirit was absolute
refreshment, and long before Albinia reached home the task of
keeping the household contented seemed many degrees
easier.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">And Mr. Kendal the presiding
gentleman!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">It awoke her first comfortable
smile.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">There was not much the matter, she only wanted
rest, and Gilbert undertook to see her safely home.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy wished to be amiable, and refrained from
objecting.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">It was a holiday in honour of <i>cette chere
eleve</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 '<i>le futur</i>,' when the two sisters had been brought from
their convent for the marriage.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But how could she get to like him?' cried
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Sophy, 'I can't understand how
people can marry without loving. How miserable they must
be!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And was your sister happy?' asked Sophy,
abruptly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! no,' said Sophy, 'I like sad things
best.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">This conversation had made an impression on
Sophy, who took the first opportunity of expressing her
indignation at the system of <i>mariages de
convenance</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And, mamma, she said if people began with
love, it always grew cold. Now, has not papa loved you better and
better every day?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Only tell me one thing, mamma.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XIV.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They don't clash, except poor Sophy. Gilbert
and Lucy are elements of union, with more plaster of Paris than
stone in their nature.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pray, has Kendal made up his mind what to do
with Gilbert?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have heard nothing lately; I hope he is
grown too old for India.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gilbert is rather too well off for his good,'
said Mr. Ferrars; 'the benefit of a profession is not evident
enough.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Eh! is that his wish?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I could do no other when I was improving
Gilbert's house for him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That would be the real improvement! How
pretty! I will keep them for him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'His cold?' exclaimed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Mr. Kendal, reading aloud sentence
by sentence, with gravity and consideration.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal broke down, and handed the letter to
his wife, who proceeded,</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">That sentence finished Albinia's voice, and
stealing her hand into her husband's, she read on in
silence,</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your affectionate son,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'GILBERT KENDAL.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am afraid that would be inconvenient,'
observed Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I only meant inconvenient to the birthday
party,' drily said her brother.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maurice!' cried she, 'you don't know the
boy!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have no doubt that he has a
cold.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He thinks it all a scheme!' said Albinia, in a
tone of great injury.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly not,' assented Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And low spirits are more apt to accompany a
slight ailment, than such an illness as you
apprehend.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I believe you are right,' said Mr. Kendal.
'Where is the letter?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What's this?' asked Mr. Kendal, coming to the
'presentiment.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, not long after I came, he thinks it was a
call, and I have never known exactly how to deal with
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is a case for very tender handling,' said
Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">And he walked out of the room.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! it will prey upon him now,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you imagine that it dwells much upon his
mind?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not when he is well--not when it would do him
good,' said Albinia; 'it rather haunts him the instant he is
unwell.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let us see how he is before you find fault
with him,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You're as bad as if you were his mother, or
worse!' exclaimed Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope there is not much amiss?' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who has been attending him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope you can give a good account of him in
other respects?' said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! but he is too old for Haileybury,' burst
out Albinia, in her consternation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nearly old enough for John Kendal's bank, eh,
Gilbert?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh!' cried Albinia, 'pray don't let us talk of
that while poor Gilbert is so ill.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Hm!' said Mr. Kendal with interrogative
surprise, almost displeasure, and no more was said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! girls, how could you let him serve you
so?' began the horrified Albinia. 'Sophy will be laid up for a
week!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never mind,' said Sophy, dropping on a chair.
'Poor little fellow, he wished it so much!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I tried to stop her, mamma,' said Lucy, 'but
she will do as Maurice pleases.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is no real kindness,' said Mr. Kendal.
'Their good-nature ought not to go beyond reason.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Maurice, fidgeting.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mind, if ever you make a horse of Sophy, mamma
will put you into the black cupboard. You understand?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy shan't be horse,' said Maurice. 'Sophy
naughty, lazy horse. Boy has Gibbie--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'To punish which of them?' asked her
brother.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy knows,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It would be a beautiful beginning,' she said.
'I think your life would go the better for it,
Gibbie.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia went down, only afraid that his being
so very good was a dangerous symptom.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy said little, but her eyes had a softened
look.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One good thing about Sophy,' said he
afterwards to his sister, 'is, that she will never talk her
feelings to death.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That reserve is my great pain. I don't get at
the real being once in six months.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So much the better for people living
together.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'People can't be often confidential from the
innermost when they live together,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Since I have been a Kendal, such has been my
experience.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish I could; but you see what happens when
I go out pleasuring!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, you can take one element of mischief
with you--that imp, Maurice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ye--es. Papa would like it, if you
do.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should like you to come on worse
terms.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where they would not believe he was ill!' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Care would have prevented it all,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! you must have been ill,' cried his sister,
'you who never used to be miserable!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert gave a sigh. 'They were such mere
boys,' he said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'<i>Monsieur votre Precepteur?</i>' asked
Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! he was otherwise occupied!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is some mystery beneath,' said
Genevieve, turning to Sophy, who exclaimed abruptly, 'Oh! is he
in love?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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; '<i>ce pauvre
Monsieur</i> had the portrait of his sister!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Catch me carrying Sophy's face in my waistcoat
pocket, cried Gilbert, forgetting his languor.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Speak for yourself, Mr. Gilbert,' laughed
Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! the curious boys!' cried Genevieve. 'If I
could only hint to this poor tutor to let them read Miss Downton
on one!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I assure you,' cried Gilbert, 'Price has laid
a bet that she's an heiress with forty thousand pounds and red
hair.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mr. Price is an impertinent! I hope you will
inform me how he looks when he is the loser.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What, you think me so mercenary, Genevieve?'
said Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Gilbert, speaking slowly, turning
round his eyes. 'I could tell you what Mrs. G. Kendal's hair will
be--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Genevieve let this drop, and said, 'You do not
want me: good-bye, Miss Sophie.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Going! why, you came to read to me,
Genevieve,' exclaimed Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">And Genevieve read while Gilbert resumed his
reclining attitude, with half-closed eyes, listening to the sweet
intonations and pretty refined accent of the <i>ancien
regime</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>tendresse</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>blancmanger</i>-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 <i>con amore</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is this his own proposal?' asked Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No; he has never spoken of it, but your plan
has always seemed so decided that perhaps he thinks he has no
choice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is not what I wish,' said his father. 'If
his inclinations be otherwise, he has only to speak, and I will
consider.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Shall I sound him?' suggested Albinia,
dreading the timidity that always stood between the boy and his
father.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia began to disavow the desire of
actuating him.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Edmund, why will you distrust Oxford? Why
will you not believe what I know through Maurice and his
friends?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If my poor boy had either the disposition or
the discipline of your brother, I should not feel the same
doubt.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then I am to say nothing to him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will speak to him myself. He is quite old
enough to understand his prospects and decide for
himself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Edmund,' cried Albinia, with sudden
vehemence, 'you are not sacrificing Gilbert for Maurice's
sake?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XV.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>hors
de combat</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay,' said Sophy, 'it would be much better if
she were to go in my stead.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear,' said grandmamma, 'you don't know
what you are talking of. It would be taking such a
liberty.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There need be no scruples on that score,' said
Albinia; 'the Colonel would only thank me if I brought him half
Bayford.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, indeed, you must not, let me go,' said
Lucy, 'I'll just finish this cup of tea--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! don't say that, dear grandmamma,'
interposed Albinia, 'one good festival does carry one so much
better through days of toil!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can't! she must,' cried Albinia and Gilbert
together.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No doubt you went and made a great favour of
it,' said Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It can't be the school, it is holiday time,'
said Gilbert. 'I'll go and see what is the matter.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No; at Montreal, but very well,' was the
answer, with a hearty shake of the hand.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Edmund, it is Fred Ferrars,' said Albinia.
'Why, Maurice, you never told us.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He took us by surprise yesterday.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 be 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But I must go,' said Albinia; 'having found
the provisions, I must secure that Mr. Kendal and the children
are not famished.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He has not so much as told me you were
coming.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ay, ay, of course you know how he treats those
things.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh--h!' said Albinia, perfectly
understanding.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And who is <i>she</i>, Fred?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where are the rest, my dear? are they
shooting?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes; Gilbert has been teaching
Genevieve--there, she is shooting now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That has been her best shot,' said Lucy. 'I am
sure I would not shoot in public unless I knew how!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you not like shooting?' asked Captain
Ferrars; and Lucy smiled, and lost her discontented
air.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It hurts my fingers, she said; 'and I have
always so much to do in the garden.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia asked if she had had anything to
eat.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How beautiful!' said Albinia: 'it is like a
poem.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I was just thinking so,' he
answered.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'These things are well imagined,' said he. 'The
freedom and absence of formality give space for being alone and
quiet.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Albinia, saucily, 'when that is
what you go into society for.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How much you have seen, Edmund!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have been a spectator, you an actor,' he
said, smiling.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Here you are, then,' he said; 'I thought I
heard your voice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Maurice, I have hardly seen you. Let us
have a nice quiet turn in the park together.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He resisted, saying, 'I don't approve of
parents and guardians losing themselves. What have you done with
all your children?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What have you done with yours?' retorted
she.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I left Willie and Mary at the window with
their governess, I came to see that these other children of mine
were orderly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Maurice, what must you have suffered
before you imported Winifred to chaperon me!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's a stroke at my dancing with poor Fred,
but it was his only chance of speaking to me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not particularly at the dancing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, then--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You'll see, by-and-bye. It was not your fault
if those girls were not in all sorts of predicaments.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't tell; Lucy and my father were here
just now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you feeling the chill, Gilbert?' asked
Albinia, struck by something in his tone. 'You had better look
from the window.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I beg your pardon,' said Genevieve, 'but I
thought Mrs. Kendal wished to see it rise.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why do you think she is so much more beautiful
in the crescent, Mrs. Kendal?' said Genevieve, in the most
wakeful manner.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm sure I don't know,' said Albinia,
subsiding into her corner.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is it from the situation of the mountains in
the moon?' continued the pertinacious damsel.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are jealous, Lucy,' Sophy said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>her</i>, 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy looked excessively hurt and grieved, and
in private asked her step-mother what she thought of Genevieve's
behaviour.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XVI.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">'Mrs. Kendal, dear Madame, a great favour,
could you spare me a few moments?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never mind apologies, my dear; I have felt and
done the like many a time--it is the worst of enjoying
oneself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! that was not all--I could not help
it--enjoyment--no!' stammered Genevieve. 'If you would be kind
enough to come this way.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 '<i>Autel a l'Amour filial et maternel</i>,'
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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gilbert!' she cried. 'My dear, what is this?
Do you wish me to read it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, for I cannot.' Genevieve turned away, as
in his best hand, and bad it was, Albinia read the
commencement--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">"My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!"</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'<i>Oh! pour cela non</i>,' 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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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
<i>en jeune homme</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And this is his first letter?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! yes, madame.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He complains that you will not hear him? Do
you dislike to tell me if anything had passed
previously?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thursday,' was slightly whispered.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thursday! ah! now I begin to understand the
cause of your being suddenly moon-struck.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! madame, pardon me!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I see--it was the only way to avoid a
<i>tete-a-tete</i>!' said Albinia. 'Well done, Genevieve. What
had he been saying to you, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Poor Genevieve cast about for a word, and
finally faltered out, '<i>Des sottises, Madame</i>.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That I can well believe,' said Albinia. 'Well,
my dear--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And like a wise woman you waked the sleeping
dragon,' said Albinia. 'Was this all?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do your grandmother and aunt know?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia kissed the confused and blushing
maiden, and walked away, provoked, yet diverted.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He was all one blush, made an inarticulate
exclamation, and burst out, 'That abominable treacherous old
wooden doll of a mademoiselle.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, Miss Belmarche knows nothing of it. No one
ever shall if you will promise to drive this nonsense out of your
head.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nonsense! Mrs. Kendal!' with a gesture of
misery.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gilbert, you are making yourself
absurd.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not mine,' said Albinia, disconcerted at his
unexpected violence.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It would be ecstasy to raise her, and lay all
at her feet!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If she loved me--' he said
disconsolately.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is no use in saying any more,' he said,
rising in offended dignity.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I cannot let you go till you have given me
your word never to obtrude your folly on Miss Durant
again.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you anything else to ask me?' cried
Gilbert in a melodramatic tone.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Mrs. Kendal,' he said, actually weeping,
'you have always pitied me hitherto.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Fred,' thought Albinia, 'after all, it may
be lucky that you aren't going to stay here!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! I saw you were harassed to-day,' said her
brother kindly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Whenever one is happy, one does something
wrong!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I guess--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are generous not to say you warned me
months ago. Mind, it is no fault of <i>hers</i>, she is behaving
beautifully; but oh! the absurdity, and the worst of it is, I
have promised not to tell Edmund.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then don't tell me. You have a judgment quite
good enough for use.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I have not. I have only sense, and that
only serves me for what other people ought to do.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then ask Albinia what Mrs. Kendal ought to
do.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">At the end of another week, Albinia received
the following note:--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear and most kind Madame,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your most faithful and obliged
servant,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Genevieve Celeste Durant.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You promised never to persecute her
again.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There may be two opinions as to what
persecution means,' said Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I little thought of subterfuges. I trusted
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'For shame, Gilbert, you are accusing her of
acting a part.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh!' said Albinia, 'you conceited
person!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Who put that in your head?' asked Albinia.
'You are too much a gentleman for it to have come there of its
own accord.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And the sisters?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And are there no enthusiastic young
novices?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should think no one would ever be a novice
<i>there</i>,' said Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You seem to be bent on destroying all the
romance of convents, Genevieve!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what did the esquire do with the good
ladies?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are any of these sisters living
still?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what shall you do there,
Genevieve?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'With all my heart. Any books?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You now, Sophy!' cried Albinia. 'You who used
to think nothing equal to India!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish it were I,' said Sophy, 'but you
know--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' said Albinia, coldly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy was too shy to begin on that tack, and
dashed off on another.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You know papa thinks that nothing would
confirm his health so much as a few years without an English
winter.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One's own instinct--' began Sophy; then
breaking off, she added, 'Mamma, you never were for the
bank.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not hard-hearted,' said Sophy, looking down,
'only I had always thought you different from other
people.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you considered that I was worldly, and not
romantic enough. Is that it, Sophy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, my dear, perhaps I am.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mamma! 'Tis her self-command--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You can persuade papa to anything
!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy! you ought to know your father better
than to say that!' cried Albinia, as if it had been disrespect to
him.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If Gilbert went on for years,
mamma?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I did not say that, Sophy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I <i>should</i> call that constancy,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stop, Sophy, not from me--that would never do.
I don't think papa would think twenty-two such a great
age--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But he would have loved her five years!' said
Sophy. 'And you said yourself that would be
constancy!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy made a gesture of impatient disdain, and
repeated, 'Do you allow me to tell Gilbert that this is the
way?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you think her worth it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Away went Sophy in a glow that made her almost
handsome, while Albinia, as usual, wondered at her own
imprudence.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Take care, Gilbert!' said Albinia, with a
flash of her eye that he felt to his backbone.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--<i>coups de
soleil</i>--genuine dread and repugnance working him up to
positive agony.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you will not speak a word for
me!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No! Speak for yourself!' and she left the
room.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not till your cousin's letter arrived. What
did you say to him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor Genevieve! She must break up her
grandmother's home after all!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Any one's son but yours,' said Albinia,
smiling.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should be very glad if you
would.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear Miss Sophy,' cried Genevieve, 'what is
the matter? You are quite overcome.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This book--' said Sophy--it was all she could
say.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Love--yes,' said Genevieve.
'Admiration--no.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! not injustice--kindness! I shall be able
to earn more for grandmamma!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Genevieve shut the door, and kneeling down,
found Sophy's arms thrown round her, pressing her almost to
strangulation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing is too beautiful for you, Genevieve,'
said Sophy fervently.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How I should hate them!' quoth
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Genevieve, 'I am not in a position
for marriage--grandmamma has often told me so!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you would never even wish--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XVII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't help it,' said Sophy; 'I can't believe
in him now!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, you ought to believe that he is really
unhappy, and be more gentle and considerate with him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If it had been earnest, he would have
sacrificed himself instead of Genevieve.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! Sophy, some day you will learn to make
excuses for other people, and not be so intolerant.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I never make excuses.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Except for Maurice,' said Albinia. 'If you
viewed other people as you do him, your judgments would be
gentler.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear,' said Albinia, 'you must alter
this--you see this question does not grow out of the last
answer.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Sophy, 'that must have been what
puzzled them last Sunday: they want connexion.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing like logic to teach one to be simple,'
said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Suppose mistakes came into my
head.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! they would not find it out if they did! I
declare!--what's this--Persian? Are you going to teach them
Persian?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'By-the-bye, Sophy,' continued Lucy, 'how could
you let Susan Price come to church with lace sleeves--absolute
lace sleeves!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Had she?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia found Mrs. Dusautoy busied in writing
notes on mourning paper.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was she a relation of yours? Even the name
never made me think of it!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mr. Dusautoy's brother?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh!' expressively cried Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You may say so,' returned Mrs. Dusautoy. 'She
made him put away his profession, and set up for taste and
elegant idleness.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And he submitted?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you ever see them together?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How long has he been dead?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What becomes of him now?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How old is he?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I was thinking that Mr. Dusautoy hardly wanted
more cares.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Exactly what his churchwarden has preached to
him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And Gilbert!' cried Albinia. 'Oh, if you will
import a tutor for Gilbert, we shall be for ever beholden to
you!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'News for grandmamma. We must give her a
particular description of the hero.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How ugly he thought me!' said Sophy,
quaintly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear, I believe that is the first thing you
think of when you meet a stranger!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mamma,' said Sophy, 'tell me one thing. Did
you ever think yourself pretty?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stately stept he east the wa', and stately
stept he west.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! it is such fun! He does despise us so
immensely.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Despise--you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He must be intolerable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can Mr. Dusautoy bear with
pretension?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is that what people bring home from Italy
now-a-days?' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is an original production.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy do that?' cried
Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'<i>Genre</i> is his style,' was the reply.
'His mother was resolved he should be an amateur, and I give his
master great credit.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Especially for that not being a Madonna,' said
Albinia. 'I congratulate you on his having so safe an
amusement.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes; it disposes of him and of the spare room.
He cannot exist without an <i>atelier</i>.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Just then the Vicar entered.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia gratified him by owning that the
pitcher was round; and Lucy was in perfect rapture at the 'dear
little spots' in the rhododendron.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So you have brought us another picture,
Algernon,' said his uncle. 'Mrs. Kendal has just been admiring
your red jar.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you a taste for art?' demanded Mr.
Cavendish Dusautoy, turning to her with magnificent
suavity.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I used to be very fond of drawing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'<i>Genre</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A snipe,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A snipe that I killed in the Pontine
marshes.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is very good shooting about Anxur,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">"You have been at Rome?' He permitted himself a
little animation at discovering any one within the pale of
civilization.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'For one fortnight in the course of a galloping
tour with my two brothers,' said Albinia. 'All the Continent in
one long vacation!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That was much to be regretted. It is my maxim
to go through every museum thoroughly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>atelier</i>, and show you my notes on
the various <i>Musees</i>. I preserved them merely as a trifling
memorial; but many <i>connoisseurs</i> have told me that I ought
to print them as a <i>Catalogue raisonnee</i>, 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A fine lad, is he not, poor
fellow?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">With perfect sincerity, she could praise his
good looks.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He must be very amiable for his mother to have
been able to manage him all this while.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy promised with sparkling eyes, and the
Vicar strode off, saying he should depend on the
three.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert had suffered some eclipse. Once he had
been the <i>grand parti</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It would save much trouble,' said Albinia, 'if
a court circular could be put into the Bayford paper.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mrs. Dusautoy went back, fairly cried at the
thought of her husband's vexation, and the scandal to the whole
town.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The <i>atelier</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XVIII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">There was a step in the conservatory, and
before she could turn round, her brother Maurice bent over her,
and kissed her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maurice! you have come after all!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, the school inspection is put off. How are
you?' as he sat down on the grass by her side.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,--that is, to throw myself on Dusautoy's
mercy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought the three elder ones were to be
sponsors.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Her father writes grand things of
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And she is to be another Albinia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, she would not be awkward, if she were so
a-warded.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It wont spell, Maurice,' cried Albinia,
laughing as their nonsense, as usual, rose to the surface, 'but
how is Winifred?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'As well as could be hoped under the affliction
of not being able to come and keep you in order.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I was coming every day to judge for myself,
but I thought things could not be very bad, while he wrote such
flourishing accounts.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'His minding no one but you is an old story. I
hope at least the exception continues.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't mean that that child rides anything
but a stick.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I confess I should not like it,' said her
brother gravely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Proof positive!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! that came of your premature introduction
to my Albinia,'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She will be his best tutor,' said Maurice,
smiling, but breaking off--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia pointed across the meadows in anguish
at not being able to make herself understood, and hoarsely said,
'The gate!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">There was a loud cry from Lucy.--'He is caught!
caught!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">A loud shout came back, was caught up, and sent
on by both the pursuers, 'All right!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia scarcely heard; her brother however had
turned to thank the stranger for her, and exclaimed, 'I should
say you were an O'More.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm Ulick, from the Loughside Lodge,' was the
answer. 'Is cousin "Winifred here?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, this is my sister, Mrs. Kendal,
but--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia held out her hand, and grasped his; 'I
can't--Maurice, speak,' she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">In marched the boy, full of life and mischief,
though with a large red spot beneath each eye.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I did not do it again,' boldly rejoined
Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Speak the truth, sir. What do you mean by
denying what you have done?' exclaimed his father,
angrily.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I didn't ride the pony,' indignantly cried the
child, 'I rode a horse, saddled and bridled!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>robe de nuit</i>, 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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Papa said I must not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>so</i>?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This is not prudent!' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you think I could have rested till I had
seen him? and he said you had told him not to come
down.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I would have brought him to you. You are
looking very ill; you had better go to bed at once.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You shall see him as soon as you are strong
enough,' said Mr. Kendal; 'your brother and I have been with
him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One of the O'Mores,' cried Albinia. 'Oh,
Maurice, is it really one of Winifred's O'Mores?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I saw nothing of him,' said Albinia. 'Perhaps
he was looking for Gilbert.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed,' said her father; 'I was not aware
that he took interest in your fernery.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! if he could get you to listen to his
maxims, I don't wonder at anything,' exclaimed
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Edmund, he must come to the christening
dinner!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mind,' said Maurice, 'you, know he is not even
my wife's cousin; only nephew to her second cousin's
husband.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'For shame, Maurice, cousin is that cousinly
does!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very well, only don't tell the aunts that
Winifred saddled all the O'Mores upon you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not an O'More but should be welcome for his
sake!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor an Irishman,' said Mr. Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'With the greatest pleasure, if my uncle and
aunt will spare me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They must,' said Albinia, 'you must come to
meet your old friend and <i>cousin</i>,' 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, what you will, you can do; I trust to your
perseverance.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How could you scold him for his Irish?'
exclaimed Albinia, as her brother re-entered; 'it sounds so
pretty and characteristic.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I fear Mr. Goldsmith may think it too
characteristic!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sure Edmund might well call him
prepossessing. I hope Mr. Goldsmith is going to do something
handsome for him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, let us help; I am sure Edmund would be
glad.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then I suppose it is a great thing to have one
in the way of money-making.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now, Maurice, don't you know how glad I should
have been if Gilbert would have been as wise!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It really is heroism!' cried
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is he to live with that formal Miss
Goldsmith?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We must do all we can for him,' cried Albinia;
'Edmund likes him already. Can't he dine with us every
Sunday?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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"!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>him</i>.
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!'</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XIX.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>outrecuidance</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>not</i> 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, <i>mind</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Delightful, I want to see what Maurice will
say to the turkey-cock.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is it not too far for him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This way, then,' said Mr. Kendal; 'I must get
this draft changed at the bank. Come, Maurice, you will see a
friend there.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you know, Edmund,' said Albinia, as they
set forth, 'my conscience smites me as to that youth; I think we
have neglected him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I cannot see what more we could have done. If
his uncle does not bring him forward in society, we cannot
interfere.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed,' said Albinia, 'I am sorry to hear it.
Mr. Hope said he thought him not looking well.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He has complained of headache a good deal
lately,' said Mr. Goldsmith. 'Young men don't find it easy to
settle to business.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This way, then,' said Albinia, turning down a
narrow muddy street parallel with the river.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Impossible!' said Mr. Kendal; 'he can never
live at the Wharves?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Albinia; 'he told me that he lodged
with an old servant of the Goldsmiths, Pratt's wife, at the Lower
Wharf.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you subject to these
headaches?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is only home-sickness,' he said. 'I'll have
got over it soon.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will try. Let me see--if I could only
recollect any; but Mr. Hope has the only really nice ones in the
place.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Somewhere he must be, if it is in this
house.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is poor old Madame Belmarche's still
empty, with Bridget keeping it. I wish he could have rooms
there.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And the Goldsmiths?' asked Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will show him the Lower Wharf.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The next afternoon Mr. Kendal desired his wife
to go to the Bank and borrow young O'More for her walking
companion.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Really I don't know whether I have the
impudence.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<center>
<p><font size="2">'Ask me not what the lady feels,<br>
Left in that dreadful hour alone,'</font></p>
</center>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 !'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You feel for the hunter as I do for the fox,'
said Albinia. 'Is yours one of the great hunting
neighbourhoods?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And this generation is not behind the
last?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And how is it with you?' asked
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I see where you learnt the swiftness of foot
that was so useful last July,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How old is she?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Like her brother Ulick in a good bank,
eh?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why,' he cried, 'they always called me the
steady Englishman!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>he-men</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We inland people can hardly appreciate your
longing for space.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You seem no friend to cultivation.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are tired; I have brought you too
far.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I had forgotten that you had not been well,'
she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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
<i>will</i>! 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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! you saw my fire smoking. I never shall
learn to make a coal fire burn.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not only that,' said Albinia, 'but you might
easily find rooms much better furnished, and fitter for
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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, &amp;c.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It's all Bayford and town smell together,'
said Ulick; 'I never thought one part worse than another, begging
your pardon, Mrs. Kendal.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A man can't sit down to dinner by himself,'
cried Ulick, impatiently. 'Tea with a book are all that is
bearable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you never go out--never see any
one.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I dine at my uncle's every Sunday,' said
Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is that all the variety you have?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you any books? What can you find to do
all the evening?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stop, stop, Mrs. Kendal!' cried Ulick,
distressed. 'You are very kind, but it can't be.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He drew a letter from his pocket, and gave a
page to her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then it is this twenty pounds that is pinching
you now? Is that it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">When Albinia reported this dialogue to her
husband, he was much moved by this simple
self-abnegation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose, my dear,' she said, 'that you know
what Mr. Goldsmith means to do for this young man.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sure I don't,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What could you be talking about?' asked the
aggrieved Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Prometheus Vinctus,' composedly returned Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How is your head now?' asked Mr. Kendal. 'You
are late this evening.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A sure sign that you ought to have left
off.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' said Mr. Kendal, 'you know I think that
your uncle's apparent indifference may be his fashion of being
your best friend.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Perhaps,' said his friend, 'Mr. Goldsmith
would think it weakness to show preference to a relation before
it was earned.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah then,' cried Ulick, in a quaint Irish tone,
'Heaven have mercy on the little children!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, the doctrine can only be consistently
held by a solitary man.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where would we be but for inconsistency?'
exclaimed Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not like to hear you talk in that
manner,' said Sophy. 'Inconsistency is mere weakness.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! then you are the dangerous character,'
said Ulick, with a droll gesture of sheltering himself behind the
chair.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I did not call myself consistent, I wish I
were,' she said, gravely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How she must love the French!' returned Ulick,
confidentially turning to her father.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not at all, I detest them.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you are inconsistent, for they're the
very models of uncompromising consistency.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, to bad principles,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Robespierre was a prime specimen of
consistency to good principle!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy turned to her father, and with an odd
dubious look, asked him, 'Is be teasing me?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not like to see powers wasted on
paradox,' she said, even as the grave senior might roll up his
lip and snarl.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm in earnest, Sophy,' pursued Ulick,
changing his note to eagerness. '<i>La grande nation</i> 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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There he is, mamma,' said Sophy, 'pleading
that consistency is the most ruinous thing in the
world.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal turned round, looked at the
time-piece, and marched off.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But mamma!' continued Sophy, driving straight
at her point, 'what do you think of consistency?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy bit her lip, neither pleased at the
interruption, nor at the taste.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you a graduated scale of dresses for all
your friends, Lucy? asked Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Everybody has, I suppose,' said
Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must know which way her scale goes,' said
Albinia, laughing at Sophy's evident affront at the frivolous
turn the conversation had taken.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That needs no asking,' quoth Ulick,
'Unadorned, adorned the most for the nearest the
hearth.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's all conceit,' said Lucy. 'Maybe
familiarity breeds contempt.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, no, when young ladies despise, they use a
precision that says, "'Tis myself I care for, and not
you."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What an observer!' cried Lucy. 'Now then,
interpret my dress to-night!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How can you, Lucy!' muttered the scandalized
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Miss Kendal can, when she is inclined, produce
as much effect with her beams of the second order as with all her
splendours displayed.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stuff,' said Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stuff indeed,' more sincerely murmured
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Say something in earnest,' said Lucy. 'You
professed to tell what I thought of the people.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope you'll never put on such new white
gloves where I'm the party chiefly concerned.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you mean?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They are a great deal too
unexceptionable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--&amp;c.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is nothing to me, I am sure,' retorted
Lucy. 'Besides, Gilbert says no such thing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No one else at home?' he asked.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It's my new pop-gun, that Ulick made me, I'll
shoot you,' cried Maurice, retiring to a suitable
distance.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I declare the child has caught the brogue! Is
the fellow here still?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What fellow?' coldly asked Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why, this pet of my father's.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Bang!' cried Maurice, and a pellet passed
perilously close to Gilbert's eyes.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't, child. Pray is this banker's clerk one
of our fixtures, Sophy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No!' said Maurice; 'it is my dear gun that
Ulick made me, and it shan't be burnt.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's right, Maurice,' said Sophy; 'stick to
old friends that have borne wounds in your service!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He can make no excuse for downright
falsehood.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Hem!' quoth Gilbert. 'You wouldn't have him
done into drinking old Bowles's surgery champagne.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One comfort is that he wont get any dinner,'
said Albinia, vindictively. 'I hope he'll be ravenously
hungry.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Seventeen,' said Mrs. Ferrars; 'by the time
she is seventy, she may be a remarkably handsome
woman!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is because Polly Silly is there,' shouted
Master Maurice from his throne beside his mamma.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But how should you hinder Miss Kendal from
attending?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But mamma, it would gratify him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She found him stationed before the red
curtains, which were closely drawn, and her husband and the three
elder ladies sitting by as audience.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A black spider monkey,' he said, slowly.
'Allow me to ask, madam, if you are acquainted with the character
of the beast?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It doesn't scratch, does it?' said she,
quickly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is for you to answer.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I never knew it do so. It does chatter a great
deal, but it never scratched that I knew of.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor I,' said the showman, 'since it was young.
Do you think age renders it graver and steadier?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not a bit. It is always frisky and
troublesome, and I never knew it get a bit better as it grew
older.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'All animals are good mothers, of
course.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I meant, is it a good
disciplinarian?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you mean cuffing its young one for playing
exactly the same tricks as itself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Exactly; and what would be the effect of
letting it and its young one loose in a great scholar's
study?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There wouldn't be much study left.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And would it be for his good?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And now let us have Willie,' said Mrs.
Ferrars; 'it will conduce to the harmony of the next
room.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Willie, already initiated, hoped to puzzle papa
as a <i>platypus ornithoryncus</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never, I should say.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor that it is accessible?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And why is it so, ma'am?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why,' said Sophy, bewildered into forgetting
her natural history, 'it lives at the bottom of the sea; that's
one thing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where Truth lives,' said a voice
behind.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That is all, is it not?' asked the showman. 'I
may retire into private life.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh no,' cried Willie; 'you have forgotten Mr.
Dusautoy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I was afraid you had,' said Lucy, 'or you
could not have left him to the last.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am tempted to abdicate,' said Mr.
Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' Albinia said. 'He must have his share,
and no one but you can do it. Where can he be? the pause becomes
awful!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Willie is making suggestions,' said Gilbert;
'his imagination would never stretch farther than a lion. It's
what he thinks himself and no mistake.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is big enough to be the elephant,' said
little Mary.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The half-reasoning!' said Ulick, softly; 'and
I can answer for his trunk, I saw it come off the
omnibus.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Has it not another name, sir? A short or a
long one, more or less syllables!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Most assuredly,' said the showman, looking
daggers at his suffocating sister. 'May I ask you to describe the
creature?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Seventeen feet from the crown to the hoof, but
falls off behind,' said the accurate Mr. Dusautoy; 'beautiful
tawny colour.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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
<i>Jardin des Plantes</i>, 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let us hope the present specimen is equally
condescending,' said Mr. Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But too good-natured to be annoyed at folly,'
said Mr. Ferrars, perceiving that it was no sport to
him.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>en famille</i>.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never mind, it served him right.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It may have served him right, but had we the
right to serve him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I forgive your prudence for the sake of your
folly. Could not Oxford have lessened his pomposity?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It comes too late,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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, <i>Camelopardelis giraffa</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XX.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>mauvaise honte</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Take care,' he shouted, as Albinia set down
Maurice, and was running up to him; 'he may be mad.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice was caught up again, Lucy shrieked, and
Sophy, tottering against an apple-tree, faintly said, 'He has
bitten you!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, no,' cried Albinia, hurrying on, 'the dog
is all safe. It has only got a broken leg.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 be 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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..</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If things had been enforced on poor Algernon
earlier, this might never have been,' sighed his
uncle.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you think of it, Sophy?' asked the
vicar, anxiously.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't feel as if any of us could ever look
up again,' she answered very low.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think I can find you one,' said Lucy, 'if
you will wait a minute; but don't go in, Mr. Dusautoy is
there.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is anything the matter?' he
exclaimed.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor Gilbert!' burst from Sophy in irritation
at misplaced sympathy; 'I thought it would be papa and mamma you
cared for!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'With reason,' returned Ulick, 'but I was
thinking how it must break his heart to have pained such as
they.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish he would feel it thus,' exclaimed
Sophy; 'but he never will!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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
!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But all that makes it so much the worse for
him,' said Ulick, in a tone of amazement.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">When her mother at last came upstairs, she only
ventured to ask gently, 'How does papa bear it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And papa?' still asked Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, mamma, not conquer this, and live it
down!' cried Sophy; but then changing, she sighed and said, 'If
he would--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, Gilbert, not if it gives you resolution to
resist the next time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert turned round a face of extreme
amazement. 'I thought,' he said, 'I thought you--' and went no
farther.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you give me any hope?' cried Gilbert, his
face gleaming into sudden eager brightness.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! would you but have told me so
before!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was evident to your own senses,' said
Albinia; and she thought of the suggestion that Sophy had
made.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Too late! too late!' sighed
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you tell me I may love her!' repeated
Gilbert, so intoxicated with the words, that she became afraid of
them.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">That 'but' meant repentance for over-sternness
in times past.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let me send him to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will come,' said Mr. Kendal, willing to
spare his son the terror of presenting himself.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know it is,' said Gilbert,
sorrowfully.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am ready to submit to anything,' he added,
fervently. 'As long as you forgive me, I am ready to bear
anything.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Whatever you please,' said Gilbert; 'I deserve
it all.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A few,' stammered Gilbert, with a great
effort.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can you tell me to whom, and the
amount?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXI.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>would</i> 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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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
<i>retenue</i>.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor boy! I wonder what on earth is to be done
with him. I never before knew what John's love and patience
were.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you think he will remain here?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Happy fellow!' Gilbert murmured to
himself.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">When the Goldsmiths gave their annual
dinner-party, Albinia felt a sudden glow at the unexpected sight
of Ulick O'More.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What heroism have you been acting
together?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What a shame to cheat Mr. Kendal of the
committal.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah, when Gilbert is of age,' said Albinia,
'woe to Tibb's! So you are a testimonial to the
Tripod?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray what is Gilbert to ride?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! papa does not always want Captain, or Mr.
Cavendish Dusautoy would lend him Bamfylde.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you,' returned Gilbert,
satirically.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, Lucy!' exclaimed her sister, 'I did not
think even you capable of such a comparison.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It's all the same,' said Lucy tartly, blushing
a good deal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy leapt up to look at her, and Albinia
trying to be calm and judicious, demanded, 'What is the same as
what?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why, Algernon and <i>me</i>,' was the equally
precise reply.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why, to be sure--I know it was very different.
Papa was so old, and <i>there were us</i>,' faltered Lucy, 'but I
meant, you would know how it all is--how those
things--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O, but you always would make game of him!'
cried Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It's a great deal more,' said Lucy, with more
feeling and less vanity than had yet been apparent.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But she's an Italian, and a Roman Catholic,'
exclaimed Lucy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very possibly; but how would it be, if
by-and-by he told somebody that Miss Kendal would be very much
disappointed?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O, mamma,' cried Lucy, hastily detaching
herself, 'you don't know!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy stood for a few moments before the sense
reached her mind, then she dropped into a chair, and
exclaimed,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Lucy was pleased, and let Albinia take her
hand.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then I will write to decline the horse. It
would be far too marked.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But oh, mamma! you wont keep him
away!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope you made the refusal evident to his
intellect.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And Lucy is exceedingly pretty.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal glanced at the portrait over the
mantelpiece smiled sadly, and shook his head.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is it necessary?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you think it will be a serious
disappointment?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She is highly flattered by his attention, but
I don't know how deep it may have gone.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Won't you speak to her yourself?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you think I must?' he said, reluctantly;
'you know so much better how to manage her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We were not very near without you,' he said.
'If it were Sophy, I should know better what to be
about.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy would not put you in such a
fix.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There may be nothing in it,' said Mr. Kendal;
'and under present circumstances it would hardly be
desirable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, well, that is all in the clouds,' said
Mr. Kendal. 'I wish the present were equally
satisfactory.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah, I had better call poor Lucy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Come back with her, pray,' called Mr. Kendal,
nervously.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes.' Lucy looked up wistfully.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert and Sophy could not but be aware of the
cause of her distress. The former thought it a great
waste.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">'There!' cried Ulick O'More, 'I may wish you
all good-bye. There's an end of it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal stood aghast.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He's insulted my father and my family,' cried
Ulick, 'and does he think I'll write another cipher for
him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your uncle?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What has he done to you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He offered to take you into partnership,'
repeated Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Ulick--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then this was the insult?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, this must have been an unexpected
reception of such a proposal.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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. <i>You</i> don't--' cried he, turning round to
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, no, but I think you should try to
understand Mr. Goldsmith's point of view.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What can be done to the boy?' asked Albinia;
'how can he be brought to hear reason?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You would be sorry to part with him, and I
cannot help hoping this may be made up.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't bring me any message! I've said I'll
listen to nothing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Nothing more favourable could Mr. Kendal
obtain, though he thought Mr. Goldsmith uneasy, and perhaps
impressed by the independence of his nephew's
attitude.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'After all,' said Albinia, 'U. O'More is rather
personal in writing to a creditor'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, that would be base,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'd forgive him his ignorance, but my mother
herself could not wish me to forgive what he said of my
father.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And how if he thinks this explosion needs
forgiveness?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! of course <i>he</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How do you think it will end?' asked
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can hardly fancy he will not be forgiven,
and yet--it might be better.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, I do think he would get on faster in
India,' said Sophy eagerly; 'he could do just as Gilbert might
have done.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And where have you been, my dear, this long
time?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And--I say, my dear love,' said Mrs. Meadows,
earnestly and mysteriously, 'have you seen
<i>him</i>?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! some happy pair from the High
Street!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">All greeted the new-comer warmly, and Maurice
exclaimed, 'Mamma, I may have a holiday now!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not till you have learnt your spelling.' There
was some sharpness in the tone, and Maurice's shoulder-blades
looked sulky.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He moved off disconsolately, and his father
said, 'I hope you are come to arrange the journey to London. Is
Winifred coming with you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No; a hurry and confusion, and the good aunts
would be too much for her, you will be the only one for
inspection.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, take him with you, Maurice,' said
Albinia, 'he must see William.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must be the exhibitor, then,' her brother
replied.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know of one worth all the six.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's nothing to the purpose,' said Albinia;
'having undertaken it, when you all saw the necessity, I cannot
forsake it now--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know they all wish to be kind, but if
anything went wrong, I should never forgive myself!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not if you went out for pleasure alone,' said
her brother; 'but relationship has demands.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There, it is not indestructible!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What mischief have you been about?' The
question was needless, for the table was strewn with snips of
calico.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And now can you make another?' said his
uncle.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't want <i>to</i>.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor <i>one</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice did not appear on the way to penitence,
but his mother said, 'Bring me your knife.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now, then, go,' she said, 'you are too naughty
for me to attend to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But when will you, mamma?' laying a hand on
her dress.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know. Go away now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He slowly obeyed, and as the door shut, she
said, 'There!' in a tone as if her view was
established.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must send him to Fairmead,' said the
uncle.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'To "terrify" Winifred? No, no, I know better
than that; Gilbert can look after him. I don't so much care about
that.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'd better stay at home, to leave you and
Edmund to depict for his benefit a model impossible idol--the
normal woman.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice looked at her, and shook his
head.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No--it would be rather--it and its young one,
eh?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice took both her hands. 'I should not like
to tell William what I shall believe if you do not
come.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, what--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That Edmund is right, and you have been
overtasked till you are careful and troubled about many
things.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Only too much bent on generous self-devotion,'
said Mr. Kendal, eagerly; 'too unselfish to cast the balance of
duties.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She must be content sometimes to trust,' said
Mr. Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Aye, and all that will go wrong, when my back
is turned.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Indeed, in his anxiety that she should consent
to enjoy herself, he had not had time to shrink from the
introduction.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And may I have my knife, mamma?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not if you don't make up your mind beforehand
that it must be bad,' said her uncle.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Isn't he a noble fellow?' cried Albinia,
warmly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said her brother; 'I doubt whether all
the O'Mores put together have ever made such a conquest as he
has.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you knew all our secrets, Maurice, you
would think me a model of prudence and forbearance.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Won't it come any other way?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, in <i>one</i> way,' he said,
gravely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And that way is not easily found by those who
have neither humility nor patience,' she said, sadly, 'who rush
on their own will.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, Albinia, it is being sought, I do
believe; and remember the lines--</font></p>

<center>
<p><font size="2">"Thine own mild energy bestow,<br>
And deepen while thou bidst it flow,<br>
More calm our stream of love."'</font></p>
</center>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How does the Montreal affair go on?' she
asked.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What affair?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fred and Miss Kinnaird.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sorry to say he has not put it out of his
head.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Surely she is a very nice person.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pshaw! He has no right to think of a wife
these dozen years.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not even think? When he is not to have one at
any rate till he is a field officer!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And he is a fool to have one then. A mere
encumbrance to himself and the entire corps.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, I know,' said Albinia, 'she always gets
the best cabin.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What a pity William was born too late to be a
Knight of St. John!' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You mean what St. Paul says of the married and
unmarried?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I always think he and his sayings are the most
living lessons I know on the requirements of the other
army.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mrs. Annesley was talking of the little
Kendals, who she had ruled should be at Fairmead.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now, Maurice,' cried Albinia, 'you confess how
fond Mary is of setting people to rights.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well--when Maurice bullies Alby.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Aye, you talk of the mammas, and you only want
to make out poor Maurice the aggressor.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Take care I don't come on you with Mary's
lessons to Colonel Bury on the game-law.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does it not do one good to see those two
quarrelling just like old times?' exclaimed one aunt to the
other.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And William looking on as contemptuous as
ever?' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal looked pleased.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I never met a man of more profound and
universal knowledge.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very happy. She has casual troubles, and a
great deal of work, but that is what she is made for.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How does she get on with his
children?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't mean that Kendal's children are
grown up? I should think him younger than I am.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why don't they put him into the
service?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is too old.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not too old for the cavalry!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Not till all the rest had been discussed, did
she say, with dropped eyelids, and a little blush, 'Is Mr.
Gilbert Kendal quite strong?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you, he has been much better this
winter, and so useful and kind in nursing grandmamma!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, he was always kind.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He was going to beg me to remember him to you,
but he broke off, and said you would not care.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I care for all goodness towards me,' answered
Genevieve, lifting her eyes with a flash of inquiry.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'As prudent as ever, Genevieve.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My poor little exile!' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope indeed you have a home
here.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you mean that you found it a little
oppressive?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'<i>Fi donc, Madame</i>! 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 <i>de trop</i>, that I knew I
was in their way.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did not that vex you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very wise. And do you not find it
lonely?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know what you mean, Aunt
Gertrude.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't you remember that boy, that Mrs.
Dusautoy Cavendish's son, whom that poor little companion of hers
used to call <i>l'Enfant prodigue</i>. I did not know he was a
neighbour of yours, as I find from Lucy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed,' said Miss Ferrars, 'you should have
warned us if you had any objection, my dear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, but what did happen?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish you had mentioned it. When did it
happen?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must come and see the children, and know
him better.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Never mind, Maurice,' said Albinia; 'in any
other circumstances we should think three hours of each other a
great boon.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If anything could be an aggravation, it would
be to see Albinia philosophical.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You make me so on the principle of the Helots
and Spartans.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXIII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">Slowly the omnibus rumbled over the wooden
bridge, and then with a sudden impulse it thundered up to the
front door.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia jumped out, and caught Sophy in her
arms, exclaiming, 'And how are you all, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And how is grandmamma? and the children? My
Sophy, you don't look well, and where's Lucy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There's my man!' said Mr. Kendal, 'a good boy,
I know.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No!' cried the bold voice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No?' (incredulously) what have you been
doing?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I broke the conservatory with the marble dog,
and--' he looked at Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The urchin folded his arms on his bosom, and
looked like a young Bonaparte.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where's your hand? said his uncle. 'Wont you
give it to me?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall not be wiser to-morrow,' quoth the
child, marching out of the room in defiance.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Monkey! what's the matter now?' exclaimed
Albinia; 'I suppose you have all been spoiling him. But what's
become of Lucy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll come, only, Sophy dear, please order tea
and something to eat. Your uncle looks ravenous.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where can you have been? what have you been
doing?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What is all this?' asked Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not know,' mournfully answered
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy saw, and stood like a statue.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You know nothing, I am sure,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing!' repeated Sophy, with a blank look of
wretchedness.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy dear, we must leave it now,' said
Albinia. 'You must see to their tea, they have had nothing since
breakfast.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She eagerly grasped the hand of Albinia who
bent down to kiss her, and asked how she had been.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He's a famous fellow, went on capitally,' said
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, till yesterday,' hoarsely gasped Sophy,
sincerity wrenching out the protest by force.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah, what has he been doing to the
conservatory?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What, as a form of dawdling at his
lessons?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, but he has not been at all tiresome about
them except to-day and yesterday.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And he has told the exact truth,' said Mr.
Kendal, 'his gallant confession has earned the little cannon I
promised him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I value truth above all other qualities,' said
Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Only these two days,' said Sophy, 'and I don't
know that they have either. I am glad you are come!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What kind of things?' said Albinia, following
her into her room.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Didn't you tell me Lucy was at the Vicarage?'
said Albinia, suddenly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are not cross, Sophy; you are worn out,
and perplexed, and unhappy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No!' said Sophy, vehemently, 'certainly
not!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia breathed more freely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! mamma, don't talk so! We were so glad. If
only we could help being such a nuisance!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what is it, my boy?' tell me now, no one
can hinder you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He was crying with the exceeding pain and
distress of a child whose tears were rare, and Albinia rocked him
in her arms.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And where were you, Gilbert, you to whom I
trusted him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May I tell papa? and will he let me have the
cannon?' he finished.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And why could not you help it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hear, but I do not see the compulsion, only
the extraordinary weakness that leads you everywhere after those
men.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your father believed you had told him of all
your debts,' she said, in a tone of increased scorn and
disappointment.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So you preferred intriguing with this man to
applying openly to your father?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And why was this place chosen for the meeting?
You and Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy live only too near one
another.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is not at the Vicarage,' faltered
Gilbert.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fine protection,' sighed Albinia. 'And how has
it been? how does it stand?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia made a sound of contempt, and said, 'Go
on.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia slowly rose, and put her hand to her
brow, as though confused with the tissue of deceit and double
dealing.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Mrs. Kendal, will you not speak to me?' I
solemnly declare that I have told you all.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am thinking of your father.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She held out her hand, but instead of being
shaken, it was pressed to his lips, and the fingers were wet with
his tears.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The first knock announced one whom she did not
expect--Gilbert, wretchedly pale from a sleepless night, and his
voice scarcely audible.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'God bless you, Maurice, and give you grace to
go on to withstand temptation, and speak the truth from your
heart!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice was impressed for a moment, then he
recurred to his leading thought--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May I have the cannon, papa? I did kick--I
broke the bottle, but may I have the cannon?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh!' interrupted Maurice, 'must I never be a
jockey?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice gazed in inquiry, and perceiving his
brother's downcast air, ran to his mother, crying, 'Is papa
angry?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You shan't say you are naughty: I wont let
you!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Alas! it was a vain repulsion of the truth that
this is a wicked world. Gilbert only put him back,
saying,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You had better go away from me, Maurice: you
cannot understand what I have done. Pray Heaven yon may never
know what I feel!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>tete-a-tete</i>. Fearful of
falsehood, Albinia began by telling her she knew all, and how
little she had expected such a requital of trust.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I beg your pardon,' Gilbert said, passing his
hand over his brow, 'I did not hear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I was only asking you to tell my sister that I
would not disturb her, and leaving my good-byes with
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are not going?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you; I think my wife will grow
anxious.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I had hoped'--Gilbert sighed and paused--'I
had thought that perhaps--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you do not know?' said Gilbert, veiling
his face with his hand, as he leant on the
mantel-shelf.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! don't go!' cried Gilbert. Nobody must go
who can be any comfort to Mrs. Kendal.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Miserable indeed, Gilbert,' he said, 'but if
all were irretrievably offended, there still is One who can
abundantly pardon, where repentance is true.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you ever laid all this personally before
Mr. Dusautoy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Ferrars thought, and then said,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you wish it, Gilbert, I will gladly do what
I can for you. I believe that I may rightly do so.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is no reason you and your brother should
not be a blessing to each other.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Ferrars had unconsciously screwed up his
face with dismay, but he relaxed it, and spoke kindly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are right. It was a mistake to stay at
home. Perhaps your regiment may be stationed
elsewhere.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know how long it may be called out. If
it were but possible to make a fresh beginning.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you hear of my brother's
suggestion?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have not personally asked his pardon after
full confession.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'N-o--Mrs. Kendal knows all.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you ever do such a thing in your
life?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't know what my father is.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Neither do you, Gilbert. Let that be the first
token of sincerity.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Maurice, I am sorry! You always come in
for some catastrophe,' she said, trying to smile. 'You have had a
most forlorn morning.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor feather, the breath of your lips has
blown him the other way,' said Albinia, too unhappy for
consolation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He always had plenty of religious sentiment,'
said Albinia, sadly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I have asked him to come to us next week. Will
you tell Edmund so?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I must go,' he said, 'though I am sorry to
leave you in perplexity. I am afraid I can do nothing for
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not repent,' said her brother. 'The
explosion is better than the subterranean mining.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Ferrars said the kindest and most cheering
things he could devise, and drove away, not much afraid of her
being unforgiving.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Properly managed, I do think it might put an
end to the whole affair,' said Mrs. Dusautoy. 'He could not stand
being laughed at.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm afraid he never will believe that he can
be laughed at.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Why he did not tell her so himself was a
different question.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXIV.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">'Well, Albinia,' said Mr. Kendal, after seeing
Mr. Dusautoy on his return from London.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Umph,' was the most innocent sound Albinia
could persuade herself to make.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May it prove so!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If we can.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what is to become of Gilbert and Maurice,
with him always about the house?' exclaimed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose,' he said, 'that you would prefer
that I should announce my decision to her myself!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">With a shriek of irrepressible feeling, Lucy
looked from father to mother, and clasped her hands, unable to
trust her ears.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't want me to give him up!' cried Lucy.
'Oh! mamma, did not he say he had consented?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't quite see what you mean.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Every one does what can't be helped, and it is
not <i>the</i> thing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Explain yourself, Sophy,' said her father,
amused.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know it could not be helped; but Mr.
Dusautoy ought not to have asked papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Papa--I never meant--I did not think I was
saying anything wrong. I only said I did not like the
world.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am always telling Sophy she will be more
merciful as she grows older,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>her</i>
own mind might give her better counsel than the seven watchmen
aloft in a high tower.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She came down looking exceedingly pale. Mr.
Kendal regarded her anxiously, and held his hand out to her
kindly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Papa,' she said, simply, 'I can't give it up.
I do love him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought you were much too busy to come near
us?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So I am; I can't stay; so if Kendal be not
forthcoming you must give this fellow a holiday.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is gone to Hadminster, so--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where's Gilbert?' broke in little
Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He went to his room to dress to go up to
parade,' said Mr. Ferrars, and off rushed the boy without waiting
for permission.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia sighed, and said, 'It is a perfect
passion.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't mourn over it. Love is too good a thing
to be lamented over, and this may turn into a
blessing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I used to be proud of it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So you shall be still. I am very much pleased
with that poor lad.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sincerity!' said Albinia, hopelessly. 'There's
no truth in him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is curious to hear you repeating my old
excuses for him,' said Albinia, 'now that he has cast his glamour
over you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not wrongly,' said her brother. 'He is in
earnest; there is no acting about him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll allow you to hope that <i>if</i> he
should, her eyes <i>may</i> be opened,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You will do your duty, my boy,' said his
father.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice angrily enunciated, 'Men never cry,'
but not a word of the visit to the church came from
him.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">When indignant astonishment permitted Albinia
to speak, she reminded Lucy that a respectable career at Oxford
had been the condition.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know,' said Lucy, 'but dear Algernon
convinced papa of the unreasonableness of such a stipulation
under the circumstances.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If he had any feelings for you, he would not
ask it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is impossible you can think of going so far
away! Oh, Lucy! you should not have consented.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If you consented to this, I thought I could
not refuse that.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I consent! I told him it was the last thing I
could think of.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, I own I was surprised, but he told me
you had readily come into his views.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He said that it would be <i>'de bon ton'</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXV.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Any news of Gilbert?' was Lucy's
demand.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, the cavalry were not landed, so he had
nothing to do with it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I say, uncle,' said Algernon, 'shall I send up
a sovereign to those ringers?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Eh! poor fellows, they will he 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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There!' exclaimed Algernon; 'Barton must have
telegraphed from the station when we set out!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You? Did you think the bells were ringing for
<i>you</i>,' exclaimed his uncle, 'when there's a great battle
won, and Sebastopol taken?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Telegraphs are always lies!' quoth Mr.
Cavendish Dusautoy, tersely, 'I don't believe anything has
happened at all!' and he re-pocketed the sovereign.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>feux de joie</i>.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal charitably looked the other way, and
Algernon muttered some species of imprecation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You know how angry mamma would be to hear
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mamma calls him the Polysyllable herself,'
said Maurice, looking full at his victim.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What will you do to me?' asked the sturdy
varlet.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Late that evening the maid came hurriedly in
with a packet of papers. 'A telegraph, ma'am, come express from
Hadminster.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Major the Honourable F. Ferrars, severely
wounded--right arm amputated.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Lieutenant Gilbert Kendal, slightly
wounded--contusion, rib broken.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Safe, safe! Maurice dearest, safe; only
slightly wounded! Oh, Maurice, God has been very good to
us!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia laughed a little hysterically, as if
she had the like bullet.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Then followed a brief narrative of the events
of Balaklava, that fatal charge so well described as
'<i>magnifique mais pas la guerre</i>,' 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! mamma, he has struck Maurice such a blow!'
cried Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Algernon? where's Maurice? is he
hurt?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He is in the library with papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">*Aye!' said Mr. Kendal, sternly. 'What do you
think of young Dusautoy's handiwork?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What could you have done to him,
Maurice?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I painted his image.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Maurice, Maurice, how could
you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I couldn't help it, mamma! I did so want to
see what Algernon would do!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But he didn't knock <i>me</i> down,' said
Maurice. 'You told me he did not, papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's all he thinks of!' said Mr. Kendal, in
admiration.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not a cry nor a tear from first to last. I
told Sophy to let me know when Bowles came.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'For a black eye?' cried the hard-hearted
mother, laughing. 'You should have seen what Maurice and Fred
used to do to each other.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, tell me, mamma,' cried Maurice,
eagerly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am afraid Maurice provoked it; I hope my
little boy is sorry for having been so mischievous, and sees that
he deserves--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Two days after, Algernon was coming in from
riding, when a simple voice upon the stairs observed, 'Here's
such a pretty picture!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Eh! what?' said Algernon; and Maurice held it
near to him as he stood taking off his great coat.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Such a pretty picture, but you mustn't have
it! No, it is Ulick's.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maurice,' called his father, 'what does this
mean?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I only want to take home Ulick's picture. Then
I'll let him out.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What picture?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's my secret.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This is not play, Maurice,' said Albinia.
'Attend to papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Silence!' said Mr. Kendal, sternly. 'Maurice,
this must not be. Come down, and give me the key of your
room.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I promise,' said Mr. Kendal. 'Let us put an
end to this.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did Mr. O'More give you this?' asked Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't talk Irish, sir,' said his father. 'I
see where your impertinence comes from, and I will put a stop to
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No one can be more concerned than I am at what
has occurred.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very well, sir; then I require that this
intolerable child be soundly flogged, that beggarly Irishman
kicked out, and that infamous libel destroyed!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, papa,' cried Maurice, 'you promised me the
picture should be safe!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You will allow me to judge of the discipline
of my own family,' said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Papa never whips me,' interposed Maurice. 'You
must ask mamma.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If Maurice be punished, it shall not be in
revenge,' said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope Maurice will be punished,' said Sophy;
so unwonted a sentiment, that Albinia quite started, though it
was decidedly her own opinion.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That meddling with papers was very bad,' she
said, with an extenuating smile.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 ho had shown it to any
one.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor Lucy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not much dignity in being driven off the field
by a child of six years old.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor I; I am sure none of us mentioned
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal's conscience was evidently relieved
by transferring to the Irishman the imputation of fostering
Maurice's malpractices.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy is right,' said Mr. Kendal; 'intimacy
must be over with one who has so little discretion or good
taste.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then after his saving Maurice, he is to be
given up, because he quizzed the Polysyllable?' cried
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what do you mean us to do?' exclaimed
Albinia. 'Are we to cut him systematically?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And Maurice must not be always with him,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly not; I shall keep the boy with
myself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Maurice turned round with mouth open at hearing
of papa's anger with Ulick, and the accusation of having brought
his friend into trouble.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was such fun,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I did not know I should,' said Maurice,
winking hard.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No; you did not know you were doing what, if
you were older, would have been dishonourable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Bayford, Nov. 20th, 1854.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear Sir,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your obedient servant,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'U. O'MORE.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah!' said Sophy, 'she will soon forget that
she ever had a home.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor dear! Wait till trouble comes, and she
will remember it only too sadly,' sighed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Trouble is certain enough,' said Sophy; 'but I
don't think what we deserve does us much good.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This was not like fancy,' said Albinia. 'This
is an unkind way of taking it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">It struck a chill, and she answered, almost
imploringly, 'Gilbert is much better, thank you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am glad to hear it;' and he was going to bow
and pass on, when she exclaimed,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ulick, why are we strangers?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was agreed on all hands that things past
could not be undone,' he frigidly replied.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Too true,' she said; 'but I do not think you
know how sorry we are for my poor little boy's foolish
trick.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pray let me hear what she told
you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then, Ulick, if we all own that something is
to be regretted, why do we stand aloof, and persist in
quarrelling?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Ulick, this is not what I hoped from
you!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did it ever occur to you to think whether
pride be a sin?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">''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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do believe it is solely for the O'Mores that
you are making a duty of implacability!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is a duty not to run from one's word, and
debase oneself for one's own advantage.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One would think some wonderful advantage was
held out to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The pleasantest hours of my life,' murmured he
sadly, under his breath.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very well. I trust he will not think it
needful still to be self-denying.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is not our part to press advances which are
repelled,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed, Sophy,' said her father, smiling, 'I
see nothing attractive in the attitude of rocks rent
asunder.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They do not show much consideration for us,'
said Mr. Kendal. 'How long ago was the date of her last
letter?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nearly three weeks,' said Albinia. 'Poor
child, how could she write with the catalogue <i>raisonnee</i> of
the Louvre to learn by heart?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, mamma, don't stay with me. You are much
too busy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How I hate being another bother!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I like you much better so, than when you would
not let me speak to you, my poor child.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy dear, if you find strength in pride, it
will only wound yourself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not think I am proud,' said Sophy,
quietly. 'I may have been headstrong, but I despise myself too
much for pride.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you sure it was mere fancy? It was an idea
that occurred to more than to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If so, he had no right to do so. I shall never
wish to see him here again.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">A letter with the Malta post-mark was eagerly
opened, as the harbinger of his speedy arrival.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Royal Hotel, Malta,<br>
February 10th, 1855.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dearest Mrs. Kendal,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Good-bye. Instead of looking for a letter, I
shall come down to meet you at the Quarantine harbour. Love to
all.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your most affectionate</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'GILBERT KENDAL.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear Albinia,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ever yours,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'F.F.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'This is very perplexing,' he said, his
feelings so intense that he dared only speak of acting; 'I must
set out to-night.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Order me to come with you,' she said
breathlessly. 'That will cancel everything else.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She could not bear to be
considered.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I could travel as fast.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then Mrs. Kendal cannot go with
you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, it is impossible. There is no one able to
take charge of Mrs. Meadows.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maurice! Ah! how I have missed the
rogue.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXVI.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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, &amp;c.,
&amp;c., &amp;c.--till Mr. Ferrars, going home for a night,
agreed with Winifred, that domineering would be the only way to
deal with her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Has Edmund sent for you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, that may be the best plan, as I shall be
absent.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She turned round, startled.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I cannot let you go alone.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nonsense--Winifred--Sunday--Lent--I don't want
any one. Nothing could happen to me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Ferrars caught Sophy's eye beaming with
sudden relief and gratitude, and repeated, 'If you go, I must
take you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't wait for Sunday,' she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What have you heard?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She produced the letter, and read parts of it.
The whole stood thus:--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Bormola,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">11 p.m., February 28th, 1855.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dearest Albinia,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear child,' said Albinia, 'promise me to take
care of yourself, and to let Mrs. Dusautoy judge what you can
do.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm not worth taking care of,' muttered
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We think you worth our anxiety,' said Albinia,
tenderly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will not make it worse for you,' meekly
replied Sophy. 'I don't think I'm cross now, I could not
be--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, indeed you are not, my dear. We have leant
on each other, and when we come home, you will make our
welcome.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The children will.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, mamma!' exclaimed Sophy, hurt, indignant,
and nearly ready to follow his example.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How could you make him cry?' said Sophy, in
reproach.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I believe the tears only wanted an excuse. I
<i>did</i> 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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>he</i> had no courage.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I drove him off,' cried Sophy. 'I was no
sister to him. Will you bring me his forgiveness?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Indeed I will; and you may feel sure of it
already, dearest. It will make you gentler all your
life.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I shall grow harder and harsher the longer
I live, and the fewer I have to love me in spite of
myself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think not,' said Albinia. 'Humility will
make your severity more gentle, and you will soften, and win love
and esteem.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She looked up, but cried, 'I shall never make
up to Gilbert nor to grandmamma!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia felt it almost as hard to leave her as
the two little ones.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 '<i>Nix
Mangiare</i>' (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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He looked at her brother with such inquiry,
perplexity, and compassion, that almost in despair Maurice
exclaimed, 'We are not too late!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, thank God!' said Frederick. 'We did hope
you might come! Sit down, Albinia; I'll--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stay,' said Mr. Ferrars; 'she should compose
herself, or she will only hurt herself and Gilbert.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know,' murmured Fred, hastily leaving
them.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where's Edmund? Why mayn't I go to Gilbert?'
she said, still bewildered.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'God support you, my dear!' said her brother,
for the longer the Colonel tarried, the worse were his
forebodings.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">But as Frederick returned, there was that
written on his brow, which lifted her out of the childishness of
her agitation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gilbert, dear boy,' said his father,
earnestly, 'she is come! Speak to him, Albinia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She hardly knew her own voice as she said,
'Gilbert, Gibbie dear, here I am.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pardon indeed!' said his father, with a
greater look of relief than Albinia understood, 'you are resting
in His Merits.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Gilbert's look brightened, and he said, 'I know
it now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank God,' said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">His eyes closed, and Fred whispered to the
father, 'Maurice is here too.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Another look brought Fred to press his hand,
and he smiled his thanks.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The first words were Mr. Kendal's. 'Edmund has
come for him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You were up all last night, and many nights
before,' said Albinia; 'and all alone! Oh! why was I not here to
help!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He was able to talk to you, then?' cried
Albinia. 'That was what I always wished! Yes, it <i>was</i>
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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does he make his father his heir?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, there's the best deed of poor Gilbert's
life!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Thank you,' mumbled Fred, hall drolly, half
gravely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ay, Kendal and Albinia will do more good with
that property than you have thought of in all your life,
sir.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You will not lessen your responsibilities,'
said Maurice, smiling, 'nor your competency to meet
them.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I <i>trust</i> not,' said Fred.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose,' he said, 'that you cannot have
heard often from Montreal since you have been in the
East.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It would have been too bad if he had
not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Shall I be secretary?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">His eyes danced, and Maurice thought his
unselfishness deserved a reward.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia looked up for explanation.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'While he intrusts his sisters to my justice,
he tacitly commends to me the works which you wished to see
accomplished.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The almshouses! The improvements! Do you mean
to undertake them?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It shall be my most sacred duty.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! that we could have planned it with
him!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't expect Algernon to be discontented.
Impossible, at such a time, and so well off as he is!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish it may be impossible.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you mean, to do?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sure that will take from Algernon all
power of grumbling, though I cannot believe that even he could
complain.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You approve, then?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How can yon 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXVII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You may read it to Smut and me,' he
said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'My dear Maurice,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your most affectionate brother,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'G. KENDAL.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy sat breathless at his indifference. 'You
mustn't,' she said in hasty anger; 'Smut is not
yours.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't plague the kittens.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'll not plague them; I'll only make ponies of
them. Give me the letter.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, not to play with the cats. I thought you
would have cared about such a letter!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have no right to keep it! It is mine; give
it me!' cried Maurice, passionately.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Promise to take real care of it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He only tore it from her, and was
gone.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm a fool to expect anything from such a
child,' she thought.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not since yesterday--what's the
matter?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The child is not come in to dinner. He is
nowhere at home or at Willow Lawn.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ha!' cried Ulick. 'Can he be gone to see his
pony at Hobbs's!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The very thing!' cried the Vicar. 'I'll go
this moment.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Or there's old Peter, the sailor,' called
Ulick; 'if he wanted any tackle fitted, he might go to
him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Goldsmith was thanked, and Ulick hurried
out, Hyder Ali leaping up in amazement at his master being loose
at that time of day.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He may be gone to Fairmead!' cried the
Vicar.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Stay; the poor dog only wants to get you out
for a walk. He is making for the Hadminster road.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And why wouldn't he, if the child is nowhere
in Bayford?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I shall abide by my little Orangeman,' said
Ulick; and they parted.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Maurice, come back!' he cried. 'Here, guard!
this little boy must come back!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, I'm not running away! I'm not at school!
I'm Maurice Kendal! I'm going to my brother at Malta!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I've my ticket, and can't be
stopped.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Behave like a man,' said Ulick; 'don't
disgrace yourself in that way.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The boy coloured, and choking with passion and
disappointment, and straining against Ulick's hold of his
shoulder.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm not going home,' said the boy,
undaunted.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You must submit, Maurice. You do not wish to
make poor Sophy miserable.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Maurice, this gentleman will tell you
that your whole sovereign would not carry you a quarter of the
way to Malta.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Get away,' said Maurice, shaking him off. 'Why
did you come and bother?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Has not your sister read it to
you!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hate Sophy's reading!' cried Maurice. 'It
makes it all grumpy, like her. Take it, Ulick--you read
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't read it,' said Maurice, ruefully. 'If
I could, I shouldn't mind.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, I think you've gone hard to try to-day,'
said Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What wont let you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fun!' said Maurice, with a sob.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If I could do something to please them very,
very much! Oh! if I could but learn to read all at
once.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You can read--anybody can read!' said Ulick,
pulling a book out of his pocket. 'There! try.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">She could say nothing save a hoarse 'Where?' as
with both arms she pressed him as if she could never let him go
again.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'In the train--intending to go to Malta,' said
Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Maurice, what would have become of you?'
She held out her hand to Ulick, the first time for
months.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And we've got a letter for you, proceeded
Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you poorly, Sophy? What shall I do?' said
he, as she almost fell back, but a stronger arm held her
up.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They were come!' she said.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'In time. I am glad.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor I,' said Ulick, from his heart. 'Did one
but know the upshot of one's idle follies!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy looked towards Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor child!' sighed Sophy. 'He will never be
the same!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, grief at that age does not check the
spirits for life.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have never known,' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May it be so!' said Sophy. 'He may have enough
of his mother in him to be happy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There never was a cloud between them,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Clouds are all past and gone now between those
who can with him "take part in that thanksgiving lay,"' answered
Ulick, kindly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Impossible--when could I have
presumed?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'When? You remember. After Oxford.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If it had been affection and not wounded
pride.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,
'<i>dear</i> Sophy,' would come chiming back from some
involuntary echo, and the turbid depths were at peace.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXVIII.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! madame, how much you have
suffered!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You know all?' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O no, very little. My aunt knows little of
Bayford now, and her sight is too weak for much
writing.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So kind in you,' said Genevieve,
faltering.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Poor child, she has suffered grievously for
want of fuller tidings,' said Albinia; 'she has been keeping her
sorrow pent up all this time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I never did,' murmured Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Mr. Kendal, this is goodness.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Have you heard from Lucy?' asked Mr. Kendal,
as Albinia went in pursuit of her little boy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes--poor Lucy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Is there no letter from him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not for you, papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What? Did he write to his uncle?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You mean that he wishes to question the will?
You may be quite secure, my dear. Nothing can be more
safe.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I could not well have confounded you with
Algernon, my dear,' said Mr. Kendal. 'What did Pettilove mean? Do
you know?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy's answer was--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Dear Algernon,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I prefer my <i>natural guardian</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yours truly,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'SOPHIA KENDAL.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Certainly,' said Mr. Kendal, 'no family
ill-will is complete unless money matters be brought in to
aggravate it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you think I did right, and spoke strongly
enough, papa?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Quite strongly enough,' said Mr. Kendal,
suppressing a smile. 'I hope you wrote kindly to Lucy at the same
time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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:--</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2">All broke out in amazement, 'Why, Maurice, has
Mrs. Dusautoy been making a scholar of you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Maurice, was this your secret?' cried
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know now,' she said, the rosy glow mantling
in her cheek; 'it must have been Mr. O'More.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! has he been with you?' said her
father.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can it be possible?' said Mr. Kendal. 'He
could not read words of five letters without
spelling.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>self</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And there!' cried Fred, with an emphatic twist
of his moustache, 'isn't she all I ever told you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The right article for building a hut, I hope,'
she said, merrily.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But how and when could you have
come?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But you see, when he saw you, he forgot all my
lectures!' said Emily, taking his welcome for granted.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very proper of him! But, Fred, I don't quite
believe it yet. How long is it since we parted?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Six weeks; just enough to go to Canada and
back, with a fortnight in the middle to spare.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray how long has Mrs. Fred
existed?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what are you going to do?' asked Albinia.
'You can't join again.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But with her? and at Sebastopol!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what will the general say?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why, Albinia,' said the colonel, 'didn't I
hear that it was your handsome daughter who is
married?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, poor Lucy was always called our pretty
one.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'More admired than her sister? Why, she never
could have had a countenance!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'They are not Sophy's aunts, whatever they are
to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What will Kendal say? which is more to the
purpose.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What's become of them?' said Mr. Kendal, as
she went back to the drawing-room.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Gone to listen for nightingales!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nightingales! How could you let them go into
the river-fog?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Emily was bent upon it; she is too much of a
bride not to have her way.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Umph! I wonder Sophy was so
foolish.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!!!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How's Winifred, Maurice?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Getting on wonderfully well. I really think
she is going to make a start, after all! and she is in such
spirits herself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And the boy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, a thumping great fellow! I promise you
he'll be a match for your Maurice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm not there now. I am keeping guard at the
bank.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy blushed with approving
gratitude.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You certainly could not find any one more
accomplished in teaching dunces to read,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I suppose for such a purpose it is not wrong
to use the horse,' she said, her eyes sparkling.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you might put my friend Maurice between
you, if you can't go out pleasuring without him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I scorn you, sir; Maurice is as good as gold;
I shall leave him at home, I think, to prove that I
can--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's the reward of merit!' exclaimed
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She expects my children to corrupt him!' quoth
Mr. Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I only wish 'twas a jaunting car!' cried
Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what's the boy's name to be? Not Belraven,
I conclude, like my unfortunate grandson--Maurice, I
hope.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes,' said Winifred, when he had left them,
'it is very pretty playing at it; but one cannot be the
same.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nor would one exactly wish it,' said Albinia;
'though I think you are going to be more the same.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wish you had as few cares as Anne. Look; I
declare that's a grey hair!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know. I like it; now Sophy is growing young,
and I'm growing old, it is all correct.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Old, indeed!' ejaculated Winifred, looking at
her fair fresh complexion and bright features; 'don't try for
that, when even Edmund is not grey.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes he is,' said Albinia, gravely; 'Malta
sowed many white threads in his black head, and worry about those
buildings has brought more.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Worry; I'm very sorry to hear of
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And he will?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Can't you get it stopped?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought you said he was in good
spirits.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not particularly,' he said, in a tone that
made her laugh.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, no,' said Winifred. 'I want a great deal
more of her. Where have you been?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Emily does not talk nonsense!' fired up
Albinia, colouring, nevertheless.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Betrayed! What could have passed?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Kendal did?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, that he did, and did not mind the notion
at all; rather liked it, in fact.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ay, that's it!' said Albinia; 'he acts most
perfectly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Perfectly indeed, if that were acting,' said
Mr. Ferrars.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what made him speak to you?' asked
Winifred.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 bad 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And that's his whole concern?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So he told me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And what advice did you give him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I told him Bayford was bent on gossip, and no
one heeded it less than my respected brother and
sister.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That was famous of you, Maurice. I was afraid
you would have put it upon his honour and the state of his own
heart.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sooth to say, I did not think his heart
appeared very ticklish.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you say Edmund perceived this?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Much you would trust my unassisted 'cuteness!
I tell you he did, and that it will make him happier than
anything.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very well; then my advice will have done no
harm. I did not think there had been so much self-control in an
Irishman.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Had he not better say, so much blindness in
the rector of Fairmead?' laughed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray what course is the affair to
take?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think he will be too proud to address her,
except on equality as to money matters.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">And Albinia went home in high
spirits.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXIX.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May he not have sent some communication direct
to her?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I trust he did! I have long thought he only
kept her aloof from habit, and felt kindly towards her all the
time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And never could persuade himself to make a
move towards her until too late,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mr. Goldsmith was persevering in the example
his father had set him,' said Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What has brought you to see that it was?'
asked she.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'One comes to a better mind when the fit is
off,' he said. 'I hope I will not be as bad next
time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope we shall never give you a next time,'
said Albinia; 'for neither party is comfortable, perched on a
high horse.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So no wonder you make the most of
it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'True; I think a very high born and very rich
man might be humble,' said Ulick, so meditatively that they
laughed; but Sophy said,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, that is not a paradox; the real difficulty
is not in willingly yielding, but in taking what we cannot
help.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' said Ulick, 'I hope it is not pride not
to intend working under Andrew Goldsmith.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you consider that as your fate?' asked
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And do you suppose,' said Mr. Kendal, 'that
Mr. Goldsmith has left your position exactly the
same?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then the work of these four years is wasted,'
said Mr. Kendal, gravely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Anything to get away from here,' said Albinia,
with a shade of asperity, provoked by the spirit of enterprise in
his voice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">His eyes glittered, and Sophy exclaimed, 'Yes;
and now the training is over, it has made you fitter to
fly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' cried the elder Albinia, unable to
submit to the suspense.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'<i>Telle est la vie</i>,' answered Ulick,
smiling sadly as he passed his hand over his brow.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It's too bad of him,' broke out Mrs.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I thought you were prepared,' said Sophy,
severely, disappointed to see him so much discomposed.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How should I be prepared,' said he,
petulantly, 'for the whole concern, house, and bank, and all the
rest of it?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Left to you?' was the cry.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Or misfortune,' murmured Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 be 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did he send any message to your
mother?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'At peace with you at least he did.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Do you expect us to be sorry?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nay, there are two ways of working, two kinds
of sacrifice; and besides, you are still working for your
mother.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We should have missed him,' said Sophy, as
grave as a judge.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then send for a sister.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">He hoped he might bring Rose over when his aunt
was gone, but he could not shut those two up together at any
price.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, I inquired about such a person, but
there's the salary; and where would be the chance of getting
Redmond to school?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think your father might see to
that.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Ulick had no answer to make to this. The legacy
to Mrs. O'More might nearly as well have been thrown into the
sea.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' said Mr. Kendal, walking about the
room, 'why don't you keep a horse?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'As a less costly animal than brother, sister,
or clerk?' said Ulick, laughing.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your health will prove more costly than all
the rest if you do not take care.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And some people can get fond of anything,'
said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm sure,' said Genevieve, 'every one is so
kind to me I can't help it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! don't you think so?' cried
Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah!' said Genevieve, 'it is he who wants to
pull down our dear old house. I shall quarrel with
him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Genevieve making common cause with the
obstructives of Bayford, as if he had not enemies
enough!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What's that light in the sky?' exclaimed
Sophy, starting up to speak to her father on the driving
seat.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal went to the side of the carriage,
and asked the ladies if they were alarmed.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'O no!' answered Albinia, 'it is great fun;'
and as the horses fidgeted again, 'it feels like a
review.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Most lugubrious looking,' said Genevieve. 'I
cannot make out the shouts.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is the Nabob,' said Mr. Kendal. 'Perhaps
you do not know that is my alias. This is my
execution.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I wonder what the police are about?' cried
Albinia, indignantly.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It will soon be over now,' he said, 'they are
poking up the name to receive me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Hark! what's that?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Confused cries rose again, but the other voice
gained the mastery.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So you call that undertaker-looking figure
there Mr. Kendal. Small credit to your taste. You want to burn
him. What for?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'For being a Nabob and a tyrant,' was the
shout.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We want no Irish papists here!' shouted a
blackguard voice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Serve him with the same sauce.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">The war-cry was echoed by a body of voices,
there was a furious <i>melee</i> and a charge towards the Nabob,
who rocked and toppled down, while stragglers came pressed
backwards on all sides.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I didn't think you'd been so strong,' said
Ulick, shaking himself, and looking bewildered. 'Where's the
effigy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What's that to you. Come away, like a rational
being.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The poor child will be stifled,' said Albinia,
kneeling down to help to unfold its face.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">There was no gainsaying such a command, but as
they reached the door of Willow Lawn, Mr. Kendal exclaimed,
'Where is Miss Durant?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Every one is mad to-night!' cried Mr. Kendal.
'In such a place as that! I will go for her directly.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I believe it may be so, but I
wish--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am glad you stayed away, my man,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia threw her arm round him, and kissed
him, saying, 'My trusty boy! and so you came home?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why, what is the sword here for?' exclaimed
Sophy, finding it on the stairs.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Because then Awkey was not so
afraid.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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,</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not exactly,' said Mr. Kendal,
drily.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And pray what took you there?' asked Mr.
Kendal. 'The surprise was quite as great to me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Why not give notice to the police?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And would you have me hinder a fight?' cried
Ulick, in the most Irish of all his voices.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! very well, if you like--only there will be
a run on the bank to-morrow.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What has Ulick been doing, Sophy?' asked
Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'More dignified maybe,' smiled Albinia, 'but
less like an O'More.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, you are not going,' said Mr. Kendal; 'I
shall not release my prisoner just yet.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There's no doubt who was the heroine of the
day,' added Sophy. 'How one envies her!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What! your little governess friend?' said
Ulick. 'Yes; she did show superior wit, when the rest of the
world stood gaping round.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It was admirable--just like Genevieve's
tenderness and dexterity,' said Albinia. 'I dare say she is doing
everything for the poor little fellow.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, admirable,' said Mr. Kendal; 'but you all
behaved very creditably, ladies.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ay,' said Albinia; 'not to scream is what a
man thinks the climax of excellence in a woman.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>auto-da-fe</i> in
company with papa.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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
<i>parsoness</i>, 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't think its scruples of conscience would
withstand sixpence,' said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You might post it for less than that,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy, where were we reading of a nation which
gives the simplest transaction the air of a little romance?' said
Ulick.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That misses fire, Miss Durant; my nation does
everything by the soul, nothing by mechanism.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'When they <i>do</i> do it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's a defiance. You must deprive the
conductor of the moral influence, whether as man or machine, and
entrust the parcel to me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That would be like chartering a steamer to
send home a Chinese puzzle.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, indeed; I must go to Hadminster. Bear me
witness, Sophy, Miss Goldsmith wants me to talk to the house
agent.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mind, if you miss St. Leocadia's day, you will
miss my aunt's fete.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing, thank you,' said Albinia, at whom he
looked.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did I not hear--Miss Durant had some work to
send her aunt to-day?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How did you know that, Mr. Hope?' exclaimed
Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am very much obliged to you for remembering
it, but I have sent my little parcel otherwise, so I need not
trouble you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>that</i> coat being seen ringing at the convent
door?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well, Miss Durant,' said Ulick, entering the
drawing-room in the winter twilight, 'here is evidence for
you!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have actually penetrated the convent, and
seen my aunt? Impossible! and yet this pencilled note is her own
dear writing!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You don't mean that you really were let in?'
cried Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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."'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Mr. O'Hara!' exclaimed Genevieve.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'"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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But, Mr. O'More, I never did set my heart on
your seeing her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then he took you in?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was her cold gone? Did she seem well, the dear
aunt?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Genevieve was really grateful, and had many
questions to ask about her aunt, which met with detailed
answers.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Dreading ill news of Lucy, she hurried to the
morning-room with him.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Fanny said I had better speak to you. This
poor fellow is in a dreadful state.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Algernon!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, indeed. Poor Hope! What has possessed the
girl?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Genevieve has not refused him?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was this to-day?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Perhaps she thinks, under the circumstances of
her coming here, within the year--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! very proper, very pretty of her; I never
thought of that; I suppose I have your permission to tell
Hope?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I believe all the town knew it,' said
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did you hear whether she gave any
reasons?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! I don't know--something about her birth
and station; but that's stuff--she's a perfect lady, and much
more.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And he is only a bookseller's son.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was that all?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh! Mrs. Kendal, I hoped you did not know!'
and her eyes filled with tears.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Dusautoy told me, my dear; poor Mr. Hope's
distress betrayed him, and Mr. Dusautoy was anxious I
should--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Genevieve did not let her finish, but
exclaiming, 'I did not expect this from you, madame,' gave way to
a shower of tears.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Till!' exclaimed Genevieve, alarmed. 'Oh! do
not say that! Do not hold out false hopes! I never
shall!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not think you are a fair judge as yet, my
dear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXX.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, here she comes, up the garden,' said
Sophy, who was by the window.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy's grasp grew more rigid--she panted for
breath.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Contemptible fickleness!' burst out Albinia,
but Sophy implored silence by a gesture.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' she said; 'it was a dream, a degrading,
humiliating dream; but it is over.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There is no degradation except to the base
trifler I once thought better things of.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He has not trifled,' said Sophy. 'Wait!
hush!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can't! I can't, Sophy!' said Albinia in the
greatest agitation. 'I can't <i>unknow</i> that you have been
shamefully used.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Don't, mamma! You are unjust! How can she help
being loveable!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He had no business to know whether she was or
not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are wrong, mamma. The absurdity was in
thinking I ever was so.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very little absurd,' said Albinia, twining her
arms round Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>would</i> 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
<i>that</i> 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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'He had no right--' began Albinia,
fiercely.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>the
thing</i>--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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">There was a pause; Albinia could not bear to
look, speak, or move. Sophy's words carried conviction that swept
away her sand castle.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Now, mamma,' said Sophy, earnestly, 'you own
that he has not been false or fickle.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If he has not, he has disregarded the choicest
jewel that lay in his way,' said Albinia with some
sharpness.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But he has not been that,' persisted
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well--no; I suppose not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And no one can be less to blame than
Genevieve.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Little flirt, I've no patience with
her.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy, don't ask it. I could not, I know you
could not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are not asking to have it encouraged in
the very house with you?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not see how else it is to be,' said
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Let him go after her, if there's anything in
it but Irish folly and French coquetry--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Because I can't put one whom I love better
than both, and who deserves it, to greater misery,' said Albinia,
embracing her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then do not put me to the misery of being
ungenerous, and the shame of having my folly
suspected.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>legerete</i>.
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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ha! Is she beginning to relent?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, papa. It will be Ulick O'More.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But such a match!' exclaimed
Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'But <i>here</i>!' sighed Albinia, the ground
knocked away from under her, yet still clinging to the last
possible form of murmur.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you will, papa?' said Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Will do what, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Treat her as--as you did Lucy,
papa.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And with much more pleasure, and far more
hope, than when we fitted out poor Lucy,' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Strong premises, certainly. How did she
receive the advance?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She would not listen, but made her
escape.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy seems to take it for granted that he
will not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I'm not so well worth the trouble,
Maurice.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I know Ulick O'More <i>would</i> come in to
see you when all the piebalds for the show were going
by!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Some day you will come to the same good
taste,' said his father, to lessen the general
confusion.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What--where,' he stammered, as if even his
words were startled away; 'is not Miss Durant well?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She was here just this moment,' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I will go and see for her,' said Sophy. 'Come,
children.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'A hearing?' repeated Mrs. Kendal, with slight
malice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes; why, don't you know?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So your time has come, Ulick, has it?' said
Mr. Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I should have thought,' said Albinia, 'that an
Irishman would be at no loss for making
opportunities.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is very honourable to her,' said Mr.
Kendal.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very honourable to her,' replied Ulick, 'but
cruelly hard upon me.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Could you bear to see her--looked down on?'
said Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And you can afford it?' said Mr. Kendal.
'Remember she has her aunt to maintain.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I do not like such wild behaviour. It is not
dignified.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'It is only temperament,' said Mr. Kendal.
'Will you speak to her?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, whenever she comes in.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know where to find her. I cannot give
up the children's lessons. Nothing hurts Maurice so much as
irregularity.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Presently she heard him go out at the front
door, and felt some contrition.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Where have you been, Sophy?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'To school,' she said. 'Has anything
happened?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">At last, Mr. Kendal's foot was heard; Sophy
started up, and sat down again. He came upstairs, and his face
was all smiles.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well,' he said, 'I don't think she will go by
the three o'clock omnibus.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have spoken to her?' cried Albinia in
compunction.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Has Maurice finished? Then go out, my boy, for
the present.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You have prevented her?' cried
Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, thank you,' murmured Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'She deserves him,' said Sophy; and then her
eyes became set, as if looking into far distance.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Albinia kissed her, and assured her she had
done nothing to repent of.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We have been all saying you deserve
him.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I could easily find an answer to that
question,' said Albinia. 'Where is he, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Go away now?' exclaimed Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes--it cannot be--here, in this house! Oh! it
is outraging your kindness.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No,' said Albinia; 'it is but letting us
fulfil a very precious charge.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Sophy here came in with some tea. She had
recollected that Genevieve had wandered all day without any
bodily sustenance.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">I must thank her,' said Ulick, looking
ecstatic. 'Why does she not come down?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">As she did not appear, Albinia went up,
doubtful if it were wise, yet too uneasy not to go in quest of
her.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You are not so cold, dearest,' said Albinia.
'Have you slept?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think not.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Are you better? Have you been
comfortable?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh yes.' Then, with a pause, 'Yes--it was like
being nothing!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You were not faint, I hope?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No--only lying still. Don't you know the
comfort of not thinking or feeling?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes; this has been far too much for you. You
have done enough now, my generous Sophy.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not generous; one can't give away what one
never had.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I think it more gracious to yield without
jealousy or bitterness--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'We had troubles enough then!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not for that--because I should have been base
then, and hated myself for it all the time.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't think I shall be cross,' said poor
Sophy, simply; 'I should be ashamed.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I am sure I am no judge,' cried Albinia,
'after the dreadful mischief I have done.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And the All-satisfying, Sophy
dear.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope I may have,' sighed Sophy, as if she
were doubtful.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>must</i> call rather a parade of
his preference?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I don't know how to judge! I don't know
whether it be right for you to have him always before your
mind.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And your bodily strength, my dear?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope so; but you must spare
yourself.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not violently, not to drive care
away.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And, mamma,' whispered Sophy, 'if you could
only let me have some small part of teaching little
Albinia.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">Mr. Kendal and Mr. Ferrars both wrote warmly in
Genevieve's praise, and certainly her footing at Willow Lawn was
the one <i>point d'appui</i> 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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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 <i>ancien regime</i>; warned
Genevieve against expecting <i>amour</i> to continue instead of
<i>amitie</i>, and carried home conversation for the nuns for the
rest of their lives.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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!</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">CHAPTER XXXI.</font></h3>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Unless he should upset Sophy into the
lake.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Nothing like school for making a boy behave
himself to his sisters.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'For shame, to be so <i>mischievieous</i>; such
a great boy as you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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,
<i>would</i> 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How did you get Lucy to consent?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'What do you call him? I thought his name was
Belraven.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Then you think they will remain
abroad?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Algernon hates England; and all his habits are
foreign.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Did he make himself tolerably
agreeable?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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
<i>catalogue raisonnee</i>, he was very placable and obliging.
That was all extracts, so it really was not so bad.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'So you were satisfied?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Very bad for his wife.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Was it not dangerous to take away her
child?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'There was another, you know, and it was to
save his life. The duties clashed, and were destroying all
comfort.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'How does he behave to her?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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 <i>did</i> resist, and in vain, for the sake of
her child.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Does her affection hold out, do you
think?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'May it come,' fervently.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Your visions may have vanished, but you did
your work faithfully, and it has not been fruitless.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And yet,' interrupted her brother, 'that was
no error.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, no! I would not have done it for
anything.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Oh, Maurice, if I might trust so! I believe I
am doubly set on that boy doing well, because his father must
not, <i>must</i> not have another pang!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And greatest success. Gilbert owed everything
to you.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Had I but silenced my foolish pride, he might
have been safe in India now.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'The past vision always a little above what is
visible?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Eh?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Lieutenant-General Sir William Ferrars is
going out in quest of Emily's younger sister.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'You ridiculous child! That's a trick of
yours.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'No, indeed. William was surprised into a
moment of confidence, walking home in the moonlight from the
Coliseum. <i>En vrai militaire</i>, 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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Well! if he be not making a fool of himself at
his time of life, I am sure I am very glad!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'That's what he never would do. He cannot talk
to a young lady. Why he admires Lucy a great deal more than
Sophy!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Ah! I wanted particularly to hear of your
visit at the bank. You had luncheon there, I think. How do they
get on?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Pray, has any one called on Genevieve? though
she could dispense with it.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I hope Bryan may not play his father's game
again. Do you know how she was received in Ireland?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'And was she happy there!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Always Ulick's wish,' said Albinia, as her eye
fixed upon Sophy.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">And her brother, with perhaps too obvious a
connexion of ideas, said, 'Is <i>she</i> quite
strong?'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Yes, because remembrance of such glory
connects with hope of future glory.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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!'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Sophy is your greatest work.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Not mine!' cried Albinia. 'The noblest by
nature, the dearest, the most generous.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'Great qualities; but they would have been only
wretched self-preying torments, but for the softening of your
affection,' said Maurice.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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--'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'I can guess how imprudent a young step-mother
can be,' said Maurice, smiling.</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'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.'</font></p>

<p><font size="2">'If we are indeed faithfully doing our best,'
repeated Albinia.</font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<p><font size="2"> </font></p>

<center>
<h3><font size="2">THE END.</font></h3>

<pre>
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