Produced by Hanh Vu
THE TWO SIDES OF THE SHIELD
By Charlotte M. Yonge
PREFACE
It is sometimes treated as an impertinence to revive the personages
of one story in another, even though it is after the example of
Shakespeare, who revived Falstaff, after his death, at the behest of
Queen Elizabeth. This precedent is, however, a true impertinence in
calling on the very great to justify the very small!
Yet many a letter in youthful handwriting has begged for further
information on the fate of the beings that had become favourites of the
school-room; and this has induced me to believe that the following out
of my own notions as to the careers of former heroes and heroines
might not be unwelcome; while I have tried to make the story stand
independently for new readers, unacquainted with the tale in which Lady
Merrifield and her brothers and sisters first appeared.
‘Scenes and Characters’ was, however, published so long ago, that the
young readers of this generation certainly will only know it if it has
had the good fortune to have been preserved by their mothers. It
was only my second book, and in looking back at it so as to preserve
consistency, I have been astonished at its crudeness.
It will explain a few illusions to state that it is the story of the
motherless family of Mohuns of Beechcroft, with a kindly deaf father at
the head, Mr. Mohun, whose pet name was the Baron of Beechcroft, owing
to a romantic notion of his daughters made fun of by his sons. The
eldest sister, a stiff, sensible, dry woman, had just married and gone
to India, leaving her post to the next in age, Emily, who was much too
indolent for the charge. Lilies, the third in age, with her head full
of the kind of high romance and sentiment more prevalent thirty or forty
years ago than now, imagined that whereas the household had formerly
been ruled by duty, it now might be so by love. Of course, confusion
dire was the consequence, chiefly with the younger boys, the scientific,
cross-grained Maurice, and the high-spirited, turbulent Reginald, all
the mischief being fomented by Jane’s pertness and curiosity, and only
mitigated by the honest simplicity and dutifulness of eight years old
Phyllis. The remedy was found at last in the marriage of the eldest
son William with Alethea Weston, already Lilias’s favourite friend and
model.
That in a youthful composition there should be a cavalier ancestry, a
family much given to dying of consumption, and a young marquess cousin
is, perhaps, inevitable. Lord Rotherwood was Mr. Mohun’s ward, and
having a dull home of his own, found his chief happiness as well as all
the best influences of his life, in the merry, highly-principled, though
easy-going life at his uncle’s, whom he revered like a father, while
his eager, somewhat shatter-brained nature often made him a butt to his
cousins. All this may account for the tone of camaraderie with which the
scattered members of the family meet again, especially around Lilias,
who had, with her cleverness and enthusiasm, always been the leading
member of the group.
It should, perhaps, also be mentioned that Lord Rotherwood’s greatest
friend was also Lilias’s favourite brother, Claude, who had become a
clergyman and died early. Aunt Adeline had been the spoilt child and
beauty of the family, the youngest of all.
C. M. YONGE.
March 8th, 1885.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. WHAT WILL BECOME OF ME? CHAPTER II. THE MERRIFIELDS CHAPTER
III. GOOD BYE CHAPTER IV. TURNED IN AMONG THEM CHAPTER V. THE FIRST WALK
CHAPTER VI. PERSECUTION CHAPTER VII. G.F.S. CHAPTER VIII. MY PERSECUTED
UNCLE CHAPTER IX. LETTERS CHAPTER X. THE EVENING STAR CHAPTER XI. SECRET
EXPEDITIONS CHAPTER XII. A HUNT CHAPTER XIII. AN EGYPTIAN SPHINX CHAPTER
XIV. A CYPHER AND A TY CHAPTER XV. THE BUTTERFLY’S BALL CHAPTER XVI. THE
INCONSTANCY OF CONSTANCE CHAPTER XVII. THE STONE MELTING CHAPTER XVIII.
MYSIE AND DOLORES CHAPTER XIX. A SADDER AND A WISER AUTHORESS CHAPTER
XX. CONFESSIONS OF A COUNTRY MOUSE CHAPTER XXI. IN COURT AND OUT CHAPTER
XXII. NAY
THE TWO SIDES OF THE SHIELD
CHAPTER I. -- WHAT WILL BECOME OF ME?
A London dining-room was lighted with gas, which showed a table of small
dimensions, with a vase of somewhat dirty and dilapidated grasses in the
centre, and at one end a soup tureen, from which a gentleman had helped
himself and a young girl of about thirteen, without much apparent
consciousness of what he was about, being absorbed in a pile of papers,
pamphlets, and letters, while she on her side kept a book pinned open by
a gravy spoon. The elderly maid-servant, who set the dishes before them,
handed the vegetables and changed the plates, really came as near to
feeding the pair as was possible with people above three years old.
The one was a dark, thin man, with a good deal of white in his thick
beard and scanty hair, the absence of which made the breadth of his
forehead the more remarkable. The girl would have shown an equally
remarkable brow, but that her dark hair was cut square over it, so as
to take off from its height, and give a heavy over-hanging look to the
upper part of the face, which below was tin and sallow, well-featured,
but with a want of glow and colour. The thick masses of dark hair were
plaited into a very long thick tail behind, hanging down over a black
evening frock, whose white trimmings were, like everything else about
the place, rather dingy. She was far less absorbed than her father, and
raised a quick, wistful brown eye whenever he made the least sound, or
shuffled his papers. Indeed, it seemed that she was reading in order to
distract her anxiety rather than for the sake of occupation.
It was not till after the last pieces of cheese had been offered and
refused, and the maid had retired, leaving some dull crackers and
veteran biscuits, with two decanters and a claret-jug, that he spoke.
‘Dolores!’
‘Yes, father.’
But he only cleared his throat, and looked at his letter again, while
she fixed her eager eyes upon him so earnestly that he let his fall
again, and looked once more over his letters before he spoke again.
‘Dolores,’ and the tone was dry, as if all feeling were driven from it.
‘Yes, father.’
‘You know that I have accepted this appointment?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘And that I shall be absent three years at the least?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then comes the question, how you are to be disposed of in the
meantime?’
‘Could not I go with you?’ she said, under her breath.
‘No, my dear.’ And somehow the tone had more tenderness in it, though it
was so explicit. ‘I shall have no fixed residence, no one with whom
to leave you; and the climate is not fit for you. Your Aunt Lilias has
kindly offered to take charge of you.’
‘Oh, father!’
‘Well?’
‘If you would only let me stay here with Caroline and Fraulein. I like
it so much better.’
‘That cannot be, Dolly. I have this morning promised to let the house as
it is to Mr. Smithson.’
‘And Caroline?’
‘If Caroline takes my advice, she will remain here as his housekeeper,
and I think she will. Well, what is it? You do not mean that you would
prefer going to your Aunts Jane and Ada?’
‘Oh no, no; only if I might go to school.’
‘This is nonsense, Dolores. It will be much better for you on all
accounts to be with your aunt at Silverfold. I have no fear that she and
her girls will not do their best to make you happy and good, and to give
you what you have sadly wanted, my poor child. I have always wished you
could have seen more of her.’
There could be no doubt from the tone, in the mind of any one who knew
Mr. Maurine Mohun, that the decision was final; but perhaps Dolores
would have asked more if the door-bell had not rung at the moment and
Mr. Smithson had not been announced. Fate was closing in on her. She
retired into her book, and remained as long as she possibly could, for
the sake of seeing her father and hearing his voice; but after a time
she was desired to call Caroline, and to go to bed herself, for it was a
good deal past nine o’clock.
She had been aware, she could hardly tell how, that her father had been
offered a government appointment connected with the Fiji Islands, and
then that, glad to escape from the dreariness which had settled down on
the house since his wife’s death, about eighteen months previously, he
had accepted it, and she had speculated much on her probable fate; but
had never before been officially informed of his designs for himself or
for her.
He was a barrister, who spent all his leisure time on scientific
studies, and his wife had been equally devoted to the same pursuits.
Dolores had been her constant companion; but after the mother’s death,
from an accident on a glacier, a strange barrier of throwing himself
into the ways of a girl past the charms of infancy. It was as if they
had lost their interpreter.
The German governess, chosen by Mrs. Mohun, was very German indeed,
and greatly occupied in her own studies. When she found that the
armes-liebes Madchen shrank from being wept over and caressed on the
mournful return, she decided that the English had no feeling, and
acquiesced in the routine of lessons and expeditions to classes. She was
never unkind, but she did not try to be a companion; and old Caroline
was excellent in the attention she paid to the comforts of her master
and his daughter, but had no love of children, and would not have
encouraged familiarities, even if Dolores had not been too entirely a
drawing-room child to offer them.
The morning came, and everything went on as usual; Dolores poured
out the coffee, Mr. Mohun read his Times, Fraulein ate as usual, but
afterwards he asked for a few minutes’ conversation with Fraulein. All
that Dolores heard of the result of it was ‘So,’ and then lessons went
on until twelve o’clock, when it was the custom that the girl should
have an hour’s recreation, which was, in any tolerable weather, spent
in the gardens of the far west Crescent, where she lived. There she was
nearly certain of meeting her one great friend, Maude Sefton, who was
always sent out for her airing at the same time.
They spied each other issuing from their doors, met, linked their arms,
and entered together. Maude was a tall, rosy girl, with a great yellow
bush down her back, half a year older than Dolores, and a great deal
bigger.
‘My dearest Doll!’
‘Oh yes, it is come.’
‘Then he is really going? I heard the pater and mater talking about it
yesterday, and they said it would be an excellent thing for him.’
‘Oh, Maude! Then they did not say anything about what we hoped?’
‘What, the mater’s offering for you to come and live with us, darling?
Oh no; and I’s afraid it is of no use to ask her, for she said of
herself, that she knew Mr. Mohun had sisters, and--’
‘And what? Tell me, Maude. You must!’
‘Well, then, you know you made me, and I think it is a shame. She
said she was glad she wasn’t one of them, for you were such a peculiar
child.’
‘Dear me, Maude, you needn’t mind telling me that! I’m sure I don’t want
to be like everybody else.’
‘And are you going to one of your aunts?’
‘Yes, to Aunt Lilias. Oh, Maude, he would not hear a word against it,
and I know it will be so horrid! Aunts are always nasty!’
‘Kate is very fond of her aunt,’ said Maude, who did not happen to have
any personal experiences to oppose to this sweeping assertion.
‘Oh, I don’t mean proper aunts, but aunts that have orphans left to
them.’
‘But you are not an orphan, darling.’
‘I dare say I shall be. ‘Tis a horrible climate, and there are no end
of cannibals there, so that he would not take me out for anything,--and
sharks, and volcanoes, and hurricanes.’
‘I don’t think they eat people there now.’
‘It’s bad enough if they don’t! And you know those aunts begin pretty
well, while they are in fear of the father, but then they get worse.’
‘There was Ada Morton,’ said Maude, in a tone of conviction, ‘and Anna
Ross.’
‘Oh yes, and another book, ‘Rose Turquand.’ It was a grown-up book, that
I read once--long ago,’ said Dolores, who had in her mother’s time been
allowed a pretty free range of ‘book-box.’
“And there’s ‘Under the Shield,’ but that was a boy.”
‘There are lots and lots,’ said Dolores. ‘They are ever so much worse
than the stepmothers! Not that there is any fear of that!’ she added
quickly.
‘But isn’t this Aunt Lilias nice? It’s a pretty name. Which is she? You
have one aunt a Lady Something, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, it is this one, Lady Merrifield. Her husband is a general, Sir
Jasper Merrifield, and he is gone out to command in some place in India;
but she cannot stand the climate, and is living at home at a place
called Silverfold, with a whole lot of children. I think two are gone
out with their father, but there are a great many more.’
‘Don’t you know them at all?’
‘No, and don’t want to! I think my aunts were unkind to mother!’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Maude.
‘I am sure of it. They were horrid, stuck-up, fine ladies, and looked
down on her, though she was ever so much nicer, and cleverer, and more
intellectual than they; and she looked down on them.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Maude, to whom it was as good as a story.
‘Yes, indeed. She was civil, of course, because they were father’s
sisters, but I know she couldn’t bear them. If any of them came to
London, there was a calling, but all very stupid, and a dining at
Lord Rotherwood’s; but she never would, except once, when I can hardly
remember, go to stay at their slow places in the country. I’ve heard
father try to persuade her when they didn’t think I understood. You know
we always went abroad, or to the sea or something, except last year,
when we were at Beechcroft. That wasn’t so bad, for there were lots of
books, and Uncle Reginald was there, and he is jolly.’
‘Can’t you get Mr. Mohun to send you there?’
‘No, I don’t think they would have me, for every body there is grown
up, and father seems to have a wish for me to be with this Aunt Lilias,
because she has a schoolroom.’
‘I wonder he should wish it, if she was unkind to Mrs. Mohun.’
‘Well, she was out of the way most of the time. They have lived at Malta
and Gibraltar, and Belfast, and all sorts of places, so they will
all have regular garrison frivolous manner, and think of nothing but
officers and balls. I know she was a beauty, and wants to be one still.’
‘Maude, whose father was a professor, looked quite appalled and said--
‘You will be the one to infuse better things.’ She felt quite proud of
the word.
‘Perhaps,’ returned Dolores; ‘they always do that in time, but not till
they’ve been awfully bullied. All the cousins are jealous, and the aunt
spites them because they are nicer and prettier than her own.’
‘Yes,’ said Maude, ‘but then there’s always some tremendously nice
boy-cousin, or uncle, or something, that makes up for it all. Will Sir
Jasper Merrifield’s eldest son be a Sir?’
‘Oh no; he’s not a baronet, but a G.C.B., Knight Grand Cross of the
Bath, that is. Besides, I don’t care for love, and titles, and all that
nonsense, though father is first cousin to Lord Rotherwood.’
‘And you never saw any of them?’
‘Yes, Aunt Lilias was at the Charing Cross Hotel with Uncle Jasper and
the two eldest daughters, Alethea and Phyllis, and some more of them,
just before they sailed; and father took me there on Sunday to luncheon;
but there were so many people, and such a talk, and such a bustle, that
I hardly knew which was which. Aunt Jane and Aunt Ada were a talking
that it made my head turn round; but I saw how affected Aunt Lilias is,
and I knew that whenever they looked at me they said ‘poor child,’ and
I always hate any one who does that! All I was afraid of then was that
father would let Aunt Jane and Aunt Ada come and live with us; but this
is ever so much worse.’
‘You have such a lot of aunts and uncles!’ said Maude, ‘and I have not
got anything but one old uncle.’
‘Uncles are all very well,’ said Dolores, said Maude. ‘There are the two
Miss Mohuns--’
‘Oh, that’s beginning at the wrong end. Aunt Ada is the youngest of them
all, and she thinks she is a young lady still, and wears little curls
on her forehead, and a tennis pinafore, and makes her waist just like a
wasp. She and Aunt Jane live together at Rockquay, because she has bad
health--at least she has whenever she likes; and Aunt Jane does all
sorts of charities and worries, and sets everybody to rights,’
said Dolly, in a very grown-up voice, speaking partly from her own
observation, and partly repeating what she had caught from her elders.
‘Oh yes, I know her,’ said Maude. ‘She asked me questions about all I
did, and she did bother mamma so about a maid she recommended that we
are never going to take another from her.’
‘Aunt Phyllis comes between them, I believe; but she has married a
sailor captain and gone to settle in New Zealand, and I have not seen
her since I was a very little girl. Then there’s Aunt Emily, who is a
very great swell indeed. Her husband was a canon, Lord Henry Grey;
but he is dead, and she lives at Brighton, a regular fat, comfortable
down-pillow of a woman, who isn’t bad to lunch with, only she sends one
out to the Parade with her maid, as if one was a baby. Mother used to
laugh at her. And I think there was an older one who went to India and
died long ago.’
‘I have seen your two uncles. There’s Major Mohun. Oh! he is fun!’
‘Yes, dear old Uncle Regie! I wish he was not in Ireland. He will be so
sorry to miss seeing father off, but he can’t get leave. And there was a
clergyman who is dead, and father grieved for very much. I think he did
something to make them all nicer to mother, for it was just after that
we went to stay at Beechcroft with Uncle William. You know him, and how
mother used to call him the very model of a country squire; and I like
his wife, Aunt Alethea. Only it is very pokey and slow down there, and
they are always after flannel petticoats and soup kitchens, and all the
old fads that are exploded. I should get awfully tired of it before a
year was out, only I should not be teased with strange children, and
there would be no one to be jealous of me.’
‘Can’t you get your father to change and send you there?’
‘Not a chance. You see Aunt Lilias had offered, and they haven’t, and I
must go on with my education. I hope, though I shall have no advantages,
I shall still be able to go up for the Cambridge examination, if Aunt
Lilias has not prejudices, as I dare say she has, since of course none
of her own will be able to try.’
‘You’ll come up to us for the examination, Dolly dear, and we shall do
it together, and that will be nice!’
‘If they will let me; but I don’t expect to be allowed to do anything
that I wish. Only perhaps father may be come home by that time.’
‘Is it three years?’
‘Yes. It is a terrible time, isn’t it? However, when I’m seventeen
perhaps he will talk to me, and I can really keep house.’
‘And then you’ll come back here?’
‘Do you know, Maudie--listen--I’ve another uncle, belonging to mother.’
‘Oh, Dolly! I thought she had no one!’
‘He told me he was my Uncle Alfred once when he met me in the park with
Fraulein, and gave me a note for mother. He is called Mr. Flinders.’
‘But I thought your mother was daughter to Professor Hay?’
‘But this is a half-brother; my grandmother was married before. Uncle
Alfrey has an immense light beard, and I think he is very poor. He came
once or twice to see mother, and they always sent me out of the room;
but I am sure she gave him money--not father’s housekeeping money, but
what she got for herself by writing. Once I heard father go out of the
house, saying, ‘Well, it’s your own to do as you please with.’ And then
mother went to her room, and I know she cried. It was the only time that
ever mother cried!’ And as Maude listened, much impressed--‘Once when
she had got eleven pounds, and we were going to have bought father such
a binocular for a secret as a birthday present, Mr. Flinders came, and
she gave him ten of it, and we could only buy just a few slides for
father. And she told me she was grieved, but she could not help it, and
it would be time for me to understand when I was older.’
‘I don’t think this Uncle Alfrey can be nice,’ said Maude.
‘’Tis quite disgusting if he kisses me,’ said Dolly; ‘but you see he is
poor, and all the Mohuns are stuck up, except father, and they wanted
mother to despise him, and not help him. And you see, she stuck to him.
I don’t like him much; but you see nobody ever was like her! Oh, Maude,
if she wasn’t dead!’
And poor Dolores cried as she had not done even at the time of the
accident, or in the terrible week that followed, or at the desolate home
coming.