THISTLE-DOWN.
Lightly soars the thistle-down,
Lightly does it float--,
Lightly seeds of care are sown,
Little do we note.
Watch life's thistles bud and blow,
Oh, 'tis pleasant folly;
But when all life's paths they strew,
Then comes melancholy.
Poetry Past and Present.
Mary Ponsonby had led a life of change and wandering that had given her
few strong local attachments. The period she had spent at Ormersfield,
when she was from five to seven years old, had been the most joyous
part of her life, and had given her a strong feeling for the place
where she had lived with her mother, and in an atmosphere of affection,
free from the shadow of that skeleton in the house, which had darkened
her childhood more than she understood.
The great weakness of Mrs. Ponsonby's life had been her over-hasty
acceptance of a man, whom she did not thoroughly know, because her
delicacy had taken alarm at foolish gossip about herself and her
cousin. It was a folly that had been severely visited. Irreligious
himself, Mr. Ponsonby disliked his wife's strictness; he resented her
affection for her own family, gave way to dissipated habits, and made
her miserable both by violence and neglect. Born late of this unhappy
marriage, little Mary was his only substantial link to his wife, and he
had never been wanting in tenderness to her: but many a storm had raged
over the poor child's head; and, though she did not know why the kind
old Countess had come to remove her and her mother, and 'papa' was
still a loved and honoured title, she was fully sensible of the calm
security at Ormersfield.
When Mr. Ponsonby had recalled his wife on his appointment at Lima,
Mary had been left in England for education, under the charge of his
sister in London. Miss Ponsonby was good and kind, but of narrow
views, thinking all titled people fashionable, and all fashionable
people reprobate, jealous of her sister-in-law's love for her own
family, and, though unable to believe her brother blameless, holding it
as an axiom that married people could not fall out without faults on
both sides, and charging a large share of their unhappiness on the
house of Fitzjocelyn. Principle had prevented her from endeavouring to
weaken the little girl's affection to her mother; but it had been her
great object to train her up in habits of sober judgment, and freedom
from all the romance, poetry, and enthusiasm which she fancied had been
injurious to Mrs. Ponsonby. The soil was of the very kind that she
would have chosen. Mary was intelligent, but with more sense than
fancy, more practical than intellectual, and preferring the homely to
the tasteful. At school, study and accomplishments were mere tasks,
her recreation was found in acts of kindness to her companions, and her
hopes were all fixed on the going out to Peru, to be useful to her
father and mother. At seventeen she went; full of active, housewifely
habits, with a clear head, sound heart, and cramped mind, her spirits
even and cheerful, but not high nor mirthful, after ten years of
evenings spent in needlework beside a dry maiden aunt.
Nor was the home she found at Lima likely to foster the joyousness of
early girlhood. Mr. Ponsonby was excessively fond of her; but his
affection to her only marked, by contrast, the gulf between him and her
mother. There was no longer any open misconduct on his part, and Mrs.
Ponsonby was almost tremblingly attentive to his wishes; but he was
chill and sarcastic in his manner towards her, and her nervous attacks
often betrayed that she had been made to suffer in private for
differences of opinion. Health and spirits were breaking down; and,
though she never uttered a word of complaint, the sight of her
sufferings was trying for a warm-hearted young girl.
Mary's refuge was hearty affection to both parents. She would not
reason nor notice where filial tact taught her that it was best to be
ignorant; she charged all tracasseries on the Peruvian republic, and
set herself simply to ameliorate each vexation as it arose, and divert
attention from it without generalizing, even to herself, on the state
of the family. The English comfort which she brought into the Limenian
household was one element of peace; and her brisk, energetic habits
produced an air of ease and pleasantness that did much to make home
agreeable to her father, and removed many cares which oppressed her
mother. To her, Mary was all the world-daughter, comforter, friend,
and nurse, unfailing in deeds of love or words of cheer, and removing
all sense of dreariness and solitude. And Mary had found her mother
all, and more than all she remembered, and admired and loved her with a
deep, quiet glow of intense affection. There was so much call for
Mary's actual exertion of various kinds, that there was little
opportunity for cultivating or enlarging her mind by books, though the
scenes and circumstances around her could not but take some effect.
Still, at twenty-one she was so much what she had been at seventeen--so
staid, sensible, and practical, that Miss Ponsonby gladly pronounced
her not in the least spoilt.
Fain would her aunt have kept both her and her mother as her guests;
but Mrs. Ponsonby had permission to choose whatever residence best
suited her, and felt that Bryanston-square and Miss Ponsonby would be
fatal to her harassed spirits. She yearned after the home and
companions of her youth, and Miss Ponsonby could only look severe, talk
of London doctors, and take Mary aside to warn her against temptations
from fashionable people.
Mary had been looking for the fashionable people ever since, and the
first sign of them she had seen, was the air and figure of her cousin
Fitzjocelyn. Probably good Aunt Melicent would distrust him; and yet
his odd startling talk, and the arch look of mischief in the corners of
his mouth and eyes, had so much likeness to the little Louis of old
times, that she could not look on him as a stranger nor as a formidable
being; but was always recurring to the almost monitorial sense of
protection, with which she formerly used to regard him, when she shared
his nursery.
Her mother had cultivated her love for Ormersfield, and she was charmed
by her visits to old haunts, well remembering everything. She gladly
recognised the little low-browed church, the dumpy tower, and
grave-yard rising so high that it seemed to intend to bury the church
itself, and permitted many a view, through the lattices, of the seats,
and the Fitzjocelyn hatchments and monuments.
She lingered after church on Sunday afternoon with Mrs. Frost to look
at Lady Fitzjocelyn's monument. It was in the chancel, a recumbent
figure in white marble, as if newly fallen asleep, and with the lovely
features chiselled from a cast taken after death had fixed and ennobled
their beauty.
'It is just like Louis's profile!' said Mrs. Frost, as they came out.
'Well,' said Louis, who was nearer than she was aware, 'I hope at least
no one will make me the occasion of a lion when I am dead.'
'It is very beautiful,' said Mary.
'May be so; but the sentiment is destroyed by its having been six
months in the Royal Academy, number 16,136, and by seeing it down among
the excursions in the Northwold Guide.'
'Louis, my dear, you should not be satirical on this,' said Mrs. Frost.
'I never meant it,' said Louis, 'but I never could love that monument.
It used to oppress me with a sense of having a white marble mother!
And, seriously, it fills up the chancel as if it were its show-room,
according to our family tradition that the church is dedicated to the
Fitzjocelyns. Living or dead, we have taken it all to ourselves.'
'It was a very fair, respectable congregation,' said his aunt.
'Exactly so. That is my complaint. Everything belonging to his
lordship is respectable--except his son.'
'Take care, Louis; here is Mary looking as if she would take you at
your word.'
'Pray, Mary, do they let no one who is not respectable go to church in
Peru?'
'I do not think you would change your congregation for the wretched
crowds of brown beggars,' said Mary.
'Would I not?' cried Louis. 'Oh! if the analogous class here in
England could but feel that the church was for them!--not driven out
and thrust aside, by our respectability.'
'Marksedge to wit!' said a good-humoured voice, as Mr. Holdsworth, the
young Vicar, appeared at his own wicket, with a hearty greeting. 'I
never hear those words without knowing where you are, Fitzjocelyn.'
'I hope to be there literally some day this week,' said Louis. 'Will
you walk with me? I want to ask old Madison how his grandson goes on.
I missed going to see after the boy last time I was at home.'
'I fear he has not been going on well, and have been sorry for it ever
since,' said the Vicar. 'His master told me that he found him very
idle and saucy.'
'People of that sort never know how to speak to a lad,' said Louis. 'It
is their own rating that they ought to blame.'
'Not Tom Madison, I know,' said Mr. Holdsworth, laughing. 'But I did
not come out to combat that point, but to inquire after the commissions
you kindly undertook.'
'I have brought you such a set of prizes! Red rubrics, red margins;
and for the apparatus, I have brought a globe with all the mountains in
high relief;--yes, and an admirable physical atlas, and a box of
instruments and models for applying mathematics to mechanics. We might
give evening lectures, and interest the young farmers.'
'Pray,' said the Vicar, with a sound of dismay, 'where may the bill be?
I thought the limits were two pounds eighteen.'
'Oh! I take all that on myself.'
'We shall see,' said Mr. Holdsworth, not gratefully. 'Was Origen sent
home in time for you to bring?'
'There!' cried Louis, starting, 'Origen is lying on the very chair
where I put him last January. I will write to Jem Frost to-morrow to
send him to the binder.'
'Is it of any use to ask for the music?'
'I assure you, Mr. Holdsworth, I am very sorry. I'll write at once to
Frost.'
'Then I am afraid the parish will not be reformed as you promised last
Christmas,' said the Vicar, turning, with a smile, to Mrs. Frost. 'We
were to be civilized by weekly concerts in the school.'
'What were you to play, Louis?' said Mrs. Frost, laughing.
'I was to imitate all the birds in the air at once,' said Louis,
beginning to chirp like a melee of sparrows, turning it into the croak
of a raven, and breaking off suddenly with, 'I beg your pardon--I
forgot it was Sunday! Indeed, Mr. Holdsworth, I can say no more than
that I was a wretch not to remember. Next time I'll write it all down
in the top of my hat, with a pathetic entreaty that if my hat be
stolen, the thief shall fulfil the commissions, and punctually send in
the bill to the Rev. W. B. Holdsworth!'
'I shall hardly run the risk,' said Mr. Holdsworth, smiling, as he
parted with them, and disappeared within his clipped yew hedges.
'Poor, ill-used Mr. Holdsworth!' cried Aunt Catharine.
'Yes, it was base to forget the binding of that book,' said Louis,
gravely. 'I wish I knew what amends to make.'
'You owe amends far more for making a present of a commission. I used
to do the like, to save myself trouble, till I came down in the world,
and then I found it had been a mere air de grand seigneur.'
'I should not dare to serve you or Jem so; but I thought the school was
impersonal, and could receive a favour.'
'It is no favour, unless you clearly define where the commission ended
and the gift began. Careless benefits oblige no one.'
Fitzjocelyn received his aunt's scoldings very prettily. His manner to
her was a becoming mixture of the chivalrous, the filial, and the
playful. Mary watched it as a new and pretty picture. All his
confidence, too, seemed to be hers; but who could help pouring out his
heart to the ever-indulgent, sympathizing Aunt Catharine? It was
evidently the greatest treat to him to have her for his guest, and his
attention to her extended even to the reading a sermon to her in the
evening, to spare her eyes; a measure so entirely after Aunt Melicent's
heart, that Mary decided that even she would not think her cousin so
hopelessly fashionable.
Goodnatured he was, without doubt; for as the three ladies were sitting
down to a sociable morning of work and reading aloud, he came in to say
he was going to see after Tom Madison, and to ask if there were any
commands for Northwold, with his checked shooting-jacket pockets so
puffed out that his aunt began patting and inquiring. 'Provisions for
the House Beautiful,' he said, as forth came on the one side a long
rough brown yam. 'I saw it at a shop in London,' he said, 'and thought
the Faithfull sisters would like to be reminded of their West Indian
feasts.' And, 'to make the balance true,' he had in the other pocket a
lambswool shawl of gorgeous dyes, with wools to make the like, and the
receipt, in what he called 'female algebra,' the long knitting-pins
under his arm like a riding-whip. He explained that he thought it
would be a winter's work for Miss Salome to imitate it, and that she
would succour half-a-dozen families with the proceeds; and Mrs.
Ponsonby was pleased to hear him speak so affectionately of the two old
maiden sisters. They were the nieces of an old gentleman to whom the
central and handsomest house of Dynevor Terrace had been let. He had
an annuity which had died with him, and they inherited very little but
the furniture with which they had lived on in the same house, in hopes
of lodgers, and paying rent to Mrs. Frost when they had any. There was
a close friendship and perfect understanding between her and them, and,
as she truly assured them, full and constant rent could hardly have
done her as much good as their neighbourhood. Miss Mercy was the
Sister of Charity of all Northwold; Miss Salome, who was confined to
her chair by a complaint in her knee, knitted and made fancy-works, the
sale of which furnished funds for her charities. She was highly
educated, and had a great knowledge of natural history. Fitzjocelyn
had given their abode the name of the House Beautiful, as being
redolent of the essence of the Pilgrim's Progress; and the title was so
fully accepted by their friends, that the very postman would soon know
it. He lingered, discoursing on this topic, while Mary repacked his
parcels, and his aunt gave him a message to Jane Beckett, to send the
carpenter to No. 5 before Mary's visit of inspection; but she
prophesied that he would forget; and, in fact, it was no good augury
that he left the knitting-pins behind him on the table, and Mary was
only just in time to catch him with them at the front door.
'Thank you, Mary--you are the universal memory,' he said. 'What rest
you must give my father's methodical spirit! I saw you pile up all
those Blackwoods of mine this morning, just as he was going to fall
upon them.'
'If you saw it, I should have expected you to do it yourself,' said
Mary, in her quaint downright manner.
'Never expect me to do what is expected,' answered he.
'Do you do that because it is not expected?' said Mary, feeling almost
as if he were beyond the pale of reason, as she saw him adjusting a
plant of groundsel in his cap.
'It is for the dicky-bird at my aunt's. There's no lack of it at the
Terrace; but it is an old habit, and there always was an illusion that
Ormersfield groundsel is a superior article.'
'I suppose that is why you grow go much.'
'Are you a gardener? Some day we will go to work, clear the place, and
separate the botanical from the intrusive!'
'I should like it, of all things!'
'I'll send the horse round to the stable, and begin at once!' exclaimed
Louis, all eagerness; but Mary demurred, as she had promised to read to
her mother and aunt some of their old favourites, Madame de Sevigne's
letters, and his attention flew off to his restless steed, which he
wanted her to admire.
'My Yeomanry charger,' he said. 'We turn out five troopers. I hope
you will be here when we go out, for going round to Northwold brought
me into a direful scrape when I went to exhibit myself to the dear old
Terrace world. My father said it was an unworthy ambition. What would
he have thought, if he had seen Jane stroking me down with the brush on
the plea of dust, but really on the principle of stroking a dog! Good
old Jane! Have you seen her yet? Has she talked to you about Master
Oliver?'
The horse became so impatient, that Mary had no time for more than a
monosyllable, before Louis was obliged to mount and ride off; and he
was seen no more till just before dinner, when, with a shade of French
malice, Mrs. Frost inquired about Jane and the carpenter: she had seen
the cap, still decorated with groundsel, lying in the hall, and had a
shrewd suspicion, but the answer went beyond her expectations--'Ah!' he
said, 'it is all the effect of the Norman mania!'
'What have you been doing? What is the matter?' she cried, alarmed.
'The matter is not with me, but with the magistrates.'
'My dear Louis, don't look so very wise and capable, or I shall think
it a very bad scrape indeed! Pray tell me what you have been about.'
'You know Sir Gilbert Brewster and Mr. Shoreland are rabid about the
little brook between their estates, of which each wishes to arrogate to
himself the exclusive fishing. Their keepers watch like the Austrian
guard on the Danube, in a life of perpetual assault and battery. Last
Saturday, March 3rd, 1847, one Benjamin Hodgekin, aged fifteen, had the
misfortune to wash his feet in the debateable water; the belligerent
powers made common cause, and haled the wretch before the Petty
Sessions. His mother met me. She lived in service here till she
married a man at Marksedge, now dead. This poor boy is an admirable
son, the main stay of the family, who must starve if he were
imprisoned, and she declared, with tears in her eyes, that she could
not bear for a child of hers to be sent to gaol, and begged me to speak
to the gentlemen.' He started up with kindling eyes and vehement
manner. 'I went to the Justice-room!'
'My dear! with the groundsel?'
'And the knitting-needles!'
On rushed the narration, unheeding trifles. 'There was the array: Mr.
Calcott in the chair, and old Freeman, and Captain Shaw, and fat Sir
Gilbert, and all the rest, met to condemn this wretched widow's son for
washing his feet in a gutter!'
'Pray what said the indictment?' asked Mrs. Ponsonby.
'Oh, that he had killed an infant trout of the value of three
farthings! Three giant keepers made oath to it, but I had his own
mother's word that he was washing his feet!'
No one could help laughing, but Fitzjocelyn was far past perceiving any
such thing. 'Urge what I would, they fined him. I talked to old
Brewster! I appealed to his generosity, if there be room for
generosity about a trout no bigger than a gudgeon! I talked to Mr.
Calcott, who, I thought, had more sense, but Justice Shallow would have
been more practicable! No one took a rational view but Ramsbotham of
the factory, a very sensible man, with excellent feeling. When it is
recorded in history, who will believe that seven moral, well-meaning
men agreed in condemning a poor lad of fifteen to a fine of five
shillings, costs three-and-sixpence--a sum he could no more pay than I
the National Debt, and with the alternative of three months'
imprisonment, branding and contaminating for life, and destroying all
self-respect? I paid the fine, so there is one act of destruction the
less on the heads of the English squirearchy.'
'Act of destruction!'
'The worst destruction is to blast a man's character because the love
of adventure is strong within him--!'
He was at this point when Lord Ormersfield entered, and after his daily
civil ceremonious inquiries of the ladies whether they had walked or
driven out, he turned to his son, saying, 'I met Mr. Calcott just now,
and heard from him that he had been sorry to convict a person in whom
you took interest, a lad from Marksedge. What did you know of him?'
'I was prompted by common justice and humanity,' said Louis. 'My
protection was claimed for the poor boy, as the son of an old servant
of ours.'
'Indeed! I think you must have been imposed on. Mr. Calcott spoke of
the family as notorious poachers.'
'Find a poor fellow on the wrong side of a hedge, and not a squire but
will swear that he is a hardened ruffian!'
'Usually with reason,' said the Earl. 'Pray when did this person's
parents allege that they had been in my service?'
'It was his mother. Her name was Blackett, and she left us on her
marriage with one of the Hodgekins.'
Lord Ormersfield rang the bell, and Frampton, the butler and
confidential servant, formed on his own model, made his appearance.
'Do you know whether a woman of the name of Blackett ever lived in
service here?'
'Not that I am aware of, my Lord. I will ascertain the fact.'
In a few moments Frampton returned. 'Yes, my Lord, a girl named
Blackett was once engaged to help in the scullery, but was discharged
for dishonesty at the end of a month.'
'Did not Frampton know that that related to me?' said Louis, sotto
voce, to his aunt. 'Did he not trust that he was reducing me from a
sea anemone to a lump of quaking jelly?'
So far from this consummation, Lord Fitzjocelyn looked as triumphant as
Don Quixote liberating Gines de Pasamonte. He and his father might
have sat for illustrations of
'Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care,'
as they occupied the two ends of the dinner-table; the Earl concealing
anxiety and vexation, under more than ordinary punctilious politeness;
the Viscount doing his share of the honours with easy, winning grace
and attention, and rattling on in an under-tone of lively conversation
with Aunt Catharine. Mary was silently amazed at her encouraging him;
but perhaps she could not help spoiling him the more, because there was
a storm impending. At least, as soon as she was in the drawing-room,
she became restless and nervous, and said that she wished his father
could see that speaking sternly to him never did any good; besides, it
was mere inconsiderateness, the excess of chivalrous compassion.
Mrs. Ponsonby said she thought young men's ardour more apt to be
against than for the poacher.
'I must confess,' said Aunt Catherine, with all the reluctance of a
high-spirited Dynevor,--'I must confess that Louis is no sportsman! He
was eager about it once, till he had become a good shot; and then it
lost all zest for him, and he prefers his own vagaries. He never takes
a gun unless James drives him out; and, oddly enough, his father is
quite vexed at his indifference, as if it were not manly. If his father
would only understand him!'
The specimen of that day had almost made Mrs. Ponsonby fear that there
was nothing to understand, and that only dear Aunt Kitty's affection
could perceive anything but amiable folly, and it was not much better
when the young gentleman reappeared, looking very debonnaire, and,
sitting down beside Mrs. Frost, said, in a voice meant for her
alone--'Henry IV; Part II., the insult to Chief Justice Gascoigne. My
father will presently enter and address you:
'O that it could be proved
That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged
In cradle-cloths our children as they lay,--
Call'd yours Fitzjocelyn--mine, Frost Dynevor!'
'For shame, Louis! I shall have to call you Fitzjocelyn! You are
behaving very ill.'
'Insulting the English constitution in the person of seven squires.'
'Don't, my dear! It was the very thing to vex your father that you
should have put yourself in such a position.'
'Bearding the Northwold bench with a groundsel plume and a
knitting-needle:
'With a needle for a sword, and a thimble for a hat,
Wilt thou fight a traverse with the Castle cat?'
The proper champion in such a cause, since 'What cat's averse to fish?''
'No, Louis dear,' said his aunt, struggling like a girl to keep her
countenance; 'this is no time for nonsense. One would think you had no
feeling for your father.'
'My dear aunt, I can't go to gaol like Prince Hal. I do assure you, I
did not assault the bench with the knitting-pins. What am I to do?'
'Not set at nought your father's displeasure.'
'I can't help it,' said he, almost sadly, though half smiling. 'What
would become of me if I tried to support the full weight? Interfering
with institutions, ruining reputation, blasting bulwarks, patronizing
poachers, vituperating venerated--'
'Quite true,' cried Aunt Catherine, with spirit. 'You know you had no
business there, lecturing a set of men old enough to be your
grandfathers, and talking them all to death, no doubt.'
'Well, Aunt Kitty, if oppression maddens the wise, what must it do to
the foolish?'
'If you only allow that it was foolish--'
'No; I had rather know whether it was wrong. I believe I was too
eager, and not respectful enough to the old squire: and, on reflection,
it might have been a matter of obedience to my father, not to interfere
with the prejudices of true-born English magistrates. Yes, I was
wrong: I would have owned it sooner, but for the shell he fired over my
head. And for the rest, I don't know how to repent of having protested
against tyranny.'
There was something redeeming in the conclusion, and it was a comfort,
for it was impossible to retain anger with one so gently,
good-humouredly polite and attentive.
A practical answer to the champion was not long in coming. He
volunteered the next day to walk to Northwold with Mrs. Frost and Mary,
who wanted to spend the morning in selecting a house in Dynevor
Terrace, and to be fetched home by-and-by, when Mrs. Ponsonby took her
airing. Two miles seemed nothing to Aunt Catharine, who accepted her
nephew's arm for love, and not for need, as he discoursed of all the
animals that might be naturalized in England, obtained from Mary an
account of the llamas of the Andes, and rode off upon a scheme of an
importation to make the fortune of Marksedge by a manufacture of Alpaca
umbrellas.
Meantime, he must show the beautiful American ducks which he hoped to
naturalize on the pond near the keeper's lodge: but, whistle and call
as he would, nothing showed itself but screaming Canada geese. He ran
round, pulled out a boat half full of water, and, with a foot on each
side, paddled across to a bushy island in the centre,--but in vain.
The keeper's wife, who had the charge over them, came out: 'Oh, my
Lord, I am so sorry! They pretty ducks!'
'Ha! the foxes?'
'I wish it was, my Lord; but it is they poachers out at Marksedge that
are so daring, they would come anywheres--and you see the ducks would
roost up in the trees, and you said I was not to shut 'em up at night.
My master was out up by Beech hollow; I heerd a gun, and looked out; I
seen a man and a boy--I'd take my oath it was young Hodgekin. They do
say Nanny Hodgekin, she as was one of the Blacketts, whose husband was
transported, took in two ducks next morning to Northwold. Warren
couldn't make nothing of it; but if ever he meets that Hodgekin again,
he says he _shall_ catch it!'
'Well, Mrs. Warren, it can't be helped--thank you for the good care you
took of the poor ducks,' said Louis, kindly; and as he walked on
through the gate, he gave a long sigh, and said, 'My dainty ducks! So
there's an end of them, and all their tameness!' But the smile could
not but return. 'It is lucky the case does not come before the bench!
but really that woman deserves a medal for coolness!'
'I suppose,' said Mary, 'she could have paid the fine with the price of
the ducks.'
'Ah! the beauties! I wish Mr. Hodgekin had fallen on the pheasants
instead! However, I am thankful he and Warren did not come to a
collision about them. I am always expecting that, having made those
Marksedge people thieves, murder will be the next consequence.'
A few seconds sufficed to bring the ludicrous back. 'How pat it comes!
Mary, did you prime Mrs. Warren, or did Frampton?'
'I believe you had rather laugh at yourself than at any one else,'
exclaimed his aunt, who felt baffled at having thrown away her
compassion.
'Of course. One knows how much can be borne. Why, Mary, has that set
you studying,--do you dissent?'
'I was thinking whether it is the best thing to be always ready to
laugh at oneself,' said Mary. 'Does it always help in mending?'
''Don't care' came to a bad end,' said Louis; 'but on the other hand,
care killed a cat--so there are two sides to the question.'
While Mary was feeling disappointed at his light tone, he changed it to
one that was almost mournful. 'The worst of it is, that 'don't care'
is my refuge. Whatever I do care about is always thwarted by Frampton
or somebody, and being for ever thrown over, I have only to fall as
softly as I can.'
'You know, my dear,' said Mrs. Frost, 'that your father has no command
of means to gratify you.'
'There are means enough for ourselves,' said Louis; 'that is the
needful duty. What merely personal indulgence did I ever ask for that
was refused me?'
'If that is all you have to complain of, I can't pity you,' said Mary.
'Listen, Mary. Let me wish for a horse, there it is! Let me wish for
a painted window, we can't afford it, though, after all, it would not
eat; but horses are an adjunct of state and propriety. So again, the
parish feasted last 18th of January, because I came of age, and it was
_proper_; while if I ask that our people may be released from work on
Good Friday or Ascension Day, it is thought outrageous.'
'If I remember right, my dear,' interposed his aunt, 'you wanted no
work to be done on any saint's-day. Was there not a scheme that Mr.
Holdsworth called the cricket cure!'
'That may yet be. No one knows the good a few free days would do the
poor. But I developed my plan too rapidly! I'll try again for their
church-going on Good Friday.'
'I think you ought to succeed there.'
'I know how it will be. My father will ring, propound the matter to
Frampton; the answer will be, 'Quite impracticable, my Lord,' and there
will be an end of it.'
'Perhaps not. At least it will have been considered,' said Mary.
'True,' said Louis; 'but you little know what it is to have a Frampton!
If he be a fair sample of prime ministers, no wonder Princes of Wales
go into the opposition!'
'I thought Frampton was a very valuable superior servant.'
'Exactly so. That is the worst of it. He is supreme authority, and
well deserves it. When la Grande Mademoiselle stood before the gates
of Orleans calling to the sentinel to open them, he never stirred a
step, but replied merely with profound bows. That is my case. I make
a request, am answered, 'Yes, my Lord;' find no results, repeat the
process, and at the fourth time am silenced with, 'Quite impracticable
my Lord.''
'Surely Frampton is respectful?'
'It is his very essence. He is a thorough aristocrat, respecting
himself, and therefore respecting all others as they deserve. He
respects a Viscount Fitzjocelyn as an appendage nearly as needful as
the wyverns on each side of the shield; but as to the individual
holding that office, he regards him much as he would one of the wyverns
with a fool's-cap on.'
And with those words, Fitzjocelyn had sprung into the hedge to gather
the earliest willow-catkins, and came down dilating on their silvery,
downy buds and golden blossoms, and on the pleasure they would give
Miss Faithfull, till Mary, who had been beginning to compassionate him,
was almost vexed to think her pity wasted on grievances of mere random
talk.
Warm and kindly was his greeting of his aunt's good old servant, Jane
Beckett, whom Mary was well pleased to meet as one of the kind friends
of her childhood. The refinement that was like an atmosphere around
Mrs. Frost, seemed to have extended even to her servants; for Jane,
though she could hardly read, and carried her accounts in her head, had
manners of a gentle warmth and propriety that had a grace of their own,
even in her racy, bad grammar; and there was no withstanding the merry
smile that twitched up one side of her mouth, while her eyes twinkled
in the varied moods prompted by an inexhaustible fund of good temper,
sympathy, and affection, but the fulness of her love was for the
distant 'Master Oliver,' whose young nursery-maid she had been. Her
eyes winked between tears and smiles when she heard that Miss Mary had
seen him but five months ago, and she inquired after him, gloried in
his prosperity, and talked of his coming home, with far less reserve
than his mother had done.
Mary was struck, also, with the pretty, modest looks of the little
underling, and remarked on them as they proceeded to the inspection of
the next house.
'Yes,' said Louis, 'Charlotte is something between a wood sorrel and a
five-plume moth. Tom Madison, as usual, shows exquisite taste. She is
a perfect Lady of Eschalott.'
'Now, Louis!' said his aunt, standing still, and really looking
annoyed, 'you know I cannot encourage any such thing. Poor little
Charlotte is an orphan, and I am all the more responsible for her.'
'There's a chivalry in poor Tom--'
'Nonsense!' said his aunt, as if resolved not to hear him out, because
afraid of herself. 'Don't say any more about it. I wish I had never
allowed of his bringing your messages.'
'Who set him down in the kitchen to drink a cup of beer?' said Louis,
mischievously.
'Ah! well! one comfort is, that girls never care for boys of the same
age,' replied Aunt Catharine, as she turned the key, and admitted them
into No. 7; when Fitzjocelyn confused Mary's judgment with his
recommendations, till Aunt Catharine pointing out the broken shutter,
and asking if he would not have been better employed in fetching the
carpenter, than in hectoring the magistrates, he promised to make up
for it, fetched a piece of wood and James's tools, and was quickly at
work, his Aunt only warning him, that if he lost Jem's tools she would
not say it was her fault.
By the time Mary's imagination had portrayed what paper, paint,
furniture, and habitation might make the house, and had discerned how
to arrange a pretty little study in case of her father's return; he had
completed the repair in a workmanlike manner, and putting two fingers
to his cap, asked, 'Any other little job for me, ma'am?'
Of course, he forgot the tools, till shamed by Mary's turning back for
them, and after a merry luncheon, served up in haste by Jane, they
betook themselves to Number 8, where the Miss Faithfulls were seated at
a dessert of hard biscuits and water, of neither of which they ever
partook: they only adhered to the hereditary institution of sitting for
twenty minutes after dinner with their red and purple doileys before
them.
Mary seemed to herself carried back fourteen years, and to understand
why her childish fancy had always believed Christiana's Mercy a living
character, when she found herself in the calm, happy little household.
The chief change was that she must now bend down, instead of reaching
up, to receive the kind embraces. Even the garments seemed unchanged,
the dark merino gowns, black silk aprons, white cap-ribbons, the soft
little Indian shawl worn by the elder sister, the ribbon bow by the
younger, distinctions that used to puzzle her infant speculation, not
aware that the coloured bow was Miss Mercy's ensign of youth, and that
its absence would have made Miss Salome feel aged indeed. The two
sisters were much alike--but the younger was the more spare, shrivelled
up into a cheery nonpareil, her bloom changed into something quite as
fresh and healthful, and her blithe tripping step always active, except
when her fingers were nimbly taking their turn. Miss Salome had become
more plump, her cheek was smoother and paler, her eye more placid, her
air that of a patient invalid, and her countenance more intellectual
than her sister's. She said less about their extreme enjoyment of the
yam, and while Mrs. Frost and Mary held counsel with Miss Mercy on
servants and furniture, there was a talk on entomology going on between
her and Fitzjocelyn.
It was very pretty to see him with the old ladies, so gently attentive,
without patronizing, and they, though evidently doting on him, laughing
at him, and treating him like a spoilt child. He insisted on Mary's
seeing their ordinary sitting room, which nature had intended for a
housekeeper's room, but which ladylike inhabitants had rendered what he
called the very 'kernel of the House Beautiful.' There were the stands
of flowers in the window; the bullfinch scolding in his cage, the rare
old shells and china on the old-fashioned cabinets that Mary so well
remembered; and the silk patchwork sofa-cover, the old piano, and Miss
Faithfull's arm chair by the fire, her little table with her beautiful
knitting, and often a flower or insect that she was copying; for she
still drew nicely; and she smiled and consented, as Louis pulled out
her portfolios, life-long collections of portraits of birds, flowers,
or insects. Her knitting found a sale at the workshop, where the object
was well known, and the proceeds were diffused by her sister, and
whether she deserved her name might be guessed by the basket of poor
people's stores beside her chair.
Miss Mercy was well known in every dusky Northwold lane or alley, where
she always found or made a welcome for herself. The kindly counsel and
ready hand were more potent than far larger means without them.
Such neighbours were in themselves a host, and Mary and her mother both
felt as if they had attained a region of unwonted tranquillity and
repose, when they had agreed to rent No. 5, Dynevor Terrace, from the
ensuing Lady-day, and to take possession when carpenters and
upholsterers should have worked their will.
Louis was half-way home when he exclaimed, 'There! I have missed Tom
Madison a second time. When shall I ever remember him at the right
time?'
Little did Louis guess the effect his neglect was taking! Charlotte
Arnold might have told, for Mrs. Martha had brought in stories of his
unsteadiness and idle habits that confirmed her in her obedience to
Jane. She never went out alone in his leisure hours; never looked for
him in returning from church--alas! that was not the place to look for
him now. And yet she could not believe him such a very bad boy as she
was told he had become.