THE TIE OF KINDRED.
In those days--the days of Judith's visit--George Selby and his wife
were always punctual in coming down to breakfast. It was their hour
for undisturbed conversation and intercourse. The guests, unaccustomed
to city gaiety and late hours, were still in their soundest sleep,
when the clang of the breakfast bell would wake them to the knowledge
that another day had begun, and they must drag themselves from between
the blankets. As for Susan, owing to neuralgia or laziness, she always
breakfasted in bed.
"Mary!" cried George eagerly, when they met one morning, about a week
after Betsey's first ball. "It is needless to ask you if you have
slept well. You look refreshed and revived as I have not seen you look
for years and years. I have noticed a change for the better going on
for these last two weeks, and this morning it almost seems as if the
Mary of long ago were coming back again. The clouds are lifting,
dearest, I do believe, and we shall know peace and quiet happiness yet
again. It is wearing on to afternoon with us both now, and ours has
been a sad, black, rainy day; but at least we have been together
through it all, and that has been more than sunshine. And now if the
rain but cease and the clouds break up, we may be blessed with a
peaceful sunset and the serene twilight of old age, with the clear,
pure brightness far off behind the hills waiting for us till we enter
the eternal day."
George was a worthy, gentle soul, with yearnings true, if not
powerful, towards the spiritual and poetic. Who, condemned to hammer
scales into stupid little girls without ear or fingers, through all
the years, could be expected to carry more of the golden but
unpractical gift into hum-drum middle life?
Mary laid her hand upon his shoulder, leant her head upon his cheek,
and her eyes grew moist. They were grey-haired people both, those two,
but people do not cease to be foolish, my dear young friends--if it
_is_ foolish, which I deny--when they cease to be young and handsome;
that is, if they have not ceased to be good. Goodness is the salt, the
preserver, the eternal spring, which can keep a heart from ever
growing old. Egotism in youth, when all is fair, may shine and glitter
like a dainty varnish, but it dulls and hardens and cracks as the
years go on, and becomes but the sorriest item in the general break-up
and decay, when that sets in. Love only is immortal, a giver of life
to the failing forces, like the olive tree in the prophet's vision,
which supplied in continuous flow the oil to furnish the perpetual
lamp.
Mary leaned up against her husband in a mute caress, and then drawing
a long breath, sat down at the table to pour out his coffee. She was
not accustomed to put her feelings into words. She had suffered far
too long and too terribly for that. Had she been a woman of emotional
utterance, she must have exhausted her sorrow or her life, whichever
of the two were the weaker, long ago; but voice was wanting. She had
held her peace, had borne and lived and suffered, till those about her
had trembled for her reason; trembled, and yet in pity, at times, had
almost hoped for her the fearful anodyne of madness; but she was
strong of body as well as mind, she agonized in silence and lived on.
She poured out her husband's coffee, and, handing it, met his eyes
still fastened on her face in earnest, happy love. "Yes," she said,
replying to his still unanswered observation, "I have had a long
delicious sleep, without a dream, or only one short sweet fancy before
I woke, as if our baby were lying in my arms, as she lay that very
last morning before we lost her. Oh, George! The delightfulness of the
sound oblivious sleep I have enjoyed of late! No one can conceive it
who has not gone through all these weary years. I had forgotten what
refreshing sleep was like. It was dreadful to me to lie down at night
and give myself up to cruel horrible dreams. You know how constantly I
have wakened with a cry--always the same bad dream, yet always with a
cruel difference in the horrors. Always the child in danger or in
pain, destruction in every fearful shape impending, and I unable to
reach, incapable of protecting her. I have always felt that she was
alive and needed my care, and how I have yearned and prayed to get to
her, God only knows. And now, George, it seems to me that God must
have heard, and taken pity on me. It is well with her now. I seem to
feel it. She is with God I do believe, and perhaps He lets her spirit
come down and comfort me. At least I am very sure now that she is
happy, and I feel resigned as a Christian woman should, in a way I
have never been able to feel before."
"The company of your sister Judith has done you good, Mary. I have
been wrong, and judged her harshly, I am afraid. She is a good woman I
believe now, for all her queerness, and I should have thought of
having her to stay with you long ere now. A fellow is so unthinkingly
selfish, and I suppose I judged of your feelings by my own. You are my
all, you see, and I fear I grudge sharing you with others. But it was
selfish in me to forget that you and she are sisters, and must have
many feelings in common. In any case I owe her a debt now, and I shall
never think a thought against her again as long as I live."
"You have no occasion to blame yourself, George. I do not imagine it
is owing to her visit that I feel so calmed; though certainly I am
happy to have her. We never had much sympathy, she and I. The
difference in our age and disposition was too great. I was always
fonder of Susan. No! It is not that. Her coming brought me no
consolation, I am sure. I do not think I ever passed more miserable
nights than those two first after her coming. But then there came a
change, a peace and consolation which I cannot describe or explain,
and I do not understand. It is just a blind unreasoned certainty that
all is well, and I want no more. The Good God has heard me at last,
and taken pity on a miserable mother. He has taken my darling to
Himself, I surely believe, and she is safe at last in the Everlasting
Arms. Oh George, I have been wicked to repine, and distress you as I
have done, with my ignorant complainings. She is safer far, I
recognize it now, than she could have been had she been left in such
care as mine. No! It is the Great Consoler who has pitied me and sent
me comfort; such distraction as poor Judith could have brought would
have been of little avail. That little girl, Betsey's cousin, seems to
bring a far more soothing influence with her than Judith or Susan, or
any one I ever met, but you. There seems a peacefulness in the air
when she is by, that rests my weary, hungry heart. It does me good to
sit and look when she comes in, and to hear her talk. She is a darling
little girl, and I could feel it in my heart to envy the people she
belongs to. She is an orphan, poor thing, they tell me. She must be
very near the age our Edith would have been if she had been spared to
us," and the poor lady wiped her eyes and sighed.
"You mean Muriel Stanley. Yes, she is a dear little girl, or at least
she was till very lately; but she is opening out into young womanhood
now, as they all do, the pretty buds that I am so fond of. I see the
dawning woman more clearly every week, and I shall soon be losing her.
She is so pretty, you see, and those wretched boys see it, too, and
tell her it. Why is there not a Herod in Montreal to kill off the
sprouting striplings? They spoil all my little maids for me, just as I
get fond of them, when they are at their freshest and sweetest; turn
their pretty heads with nonsense and make them think themselves
grown up; and then good-bye to the poor music-master. Your young
nephew--Ralph's son--has something to answer for in this case, the
rogue. I have noticed him lurking round our gate more than once, and
have kept her an extra fifteen minutes out of pure malice. There is
always some one, and they make one feel so old."
Mary smiled, as her husband meant she should, and then the door
opened, and Judith and her niece appeared together. The scenes was
changed into one of bustle and small talk, fumigated with the smoke of
coffee and hot broiled fish.
"You were late of getting home last night," said George. "I was so
blind sleepy that I could scarcely see you when I let you in. But pray
don't apologize. I am glad of it. One wants to see one's country
friends entertained when they come to town, and, what with my sprains,
I feel conscience-stricken at having been able to do nothing to amuse
you myself. I hope you spent a pleasant evening?"
"Oh, yes, Martha always does that kind of thing well. She's a good
hostess."
"And, Miss Betsey? Were you much admired?"
Betsey gave her head a little toss with a Venus Victrix glance--_à la_
Bunce, that is. The marble goddess in the Louvre looks straight out of
level eyes, too proud for petty wiles; but Betsy's glance came from
the corners. She was arch, you see, or thought so, and the certainty
of conquest was all that she had in common with her divine prototype.
"I wore a nice new dress, Mr. Selby, a present from Aunt
Martha--cousin, I suppose I should call her, seeing she is auntie's
niece; but she is too old to be a cousin to _me_. I think I shall call
her simply Martha, I am sure she will not mind. She would like it, I
do believe, only----" and Betsey began to change colour.
"Only?" said George, who had been looking her in the face, with
a laugh. "Only it would be awkward to be heard calling one's
mother-in-law by her Christian name, and it is not easy to get out of
a habit of speaking--is that it?"
Betsey grew crimson and bent over her plate.
"George! You are too bad altogether," said Mary.
"Mr. Selby, you are a dreadful quiz," said Betsey, not at all
displeased. "But about my dress. I was quite disappointed to find you
were not at hand as we went out, I wanted you to admire it.
Beautifully made. It must have cost a lot of money. Black _tulle_,
with any quantity of Marshal Niell roses, and just a morsel of scarlet
salvia here and there to light it up. The salvia was my own idea, and
an immense improvement. The dressmaker said all she could against it,
and a deal about severe simplicity; but I hate simpletons of all
kinds, and I fear my taste is not severe at all. However, it was I who
was to wear the gown, so I had my way. I would not have chosen black
myself, but M----" (with a returning flush) "Mrs. Herkimer said black,
so what could I do? I am fond of warm colouring myself, and a good
deal of it. That is why I got my geranium poplin; but one wants a
change, and the _tulle_ is that. Only it is so quiet, nobody would
guess how expensive it is."
"I would pin a card with the price on behind. People who wear
ready-made clothing have been known to appear in public so decorated,
when the shopman forgot to remove his ticket. It attracts a good deal
of attention. All for $15 say, or your choice for $20."
"It cost a great deal more than that, Mr. Selby," answered Betsey,
with just a touch of crossness in the tone, as she began to recognize
that she was being chaffed. "Shows how little _you_ know about ladies'
wear," she added, as Selby rose to go into another room and give her
music lesson to Muriel Stanley, who could be heard arriving.
The ladies gathered round the fire and proceeded to talk over the
events of the party. Betsey sat in the middle in front of the blaze,
and as opportunity offered, strove to enlighten the inexperience of
her elders in matters of "style" and good behaviour, with items drawn
chiefly from her recollections of "Godey's Magazine," which were
copious, and sometimes startling, and illustrated by reminiscences of
festivity at St. Euphrase, in which a certain Mr. Joe Webb appeared to
have borne a prominent part. She was still in full career when Selby
returned, introducing Muriel Stanley, whom for his wife's sake he had
persuaded to come and shake hands with her cousin at that early hour.
Mary was leaning back in her chair, and had armed herself with
patience to endure the torrent of Betsey's talk, which needed only an
occasional exclamation of dissent, easily overborne, from Judith, to
keep it running in the full turbulence of its muddy flow. No word of
hers was needed, and her thoughts had drifted away into their
accustomed channels. Her husband noted the flush of pleasure and the
kindling of her eye at sight of the stranger, who also seemed drawn to
the invalid, and who, in the rearranging of the party, dropped into a
low seat by her side. Unconsciously, as it seemed, Mary's hand was
laid on the girl's shoulder, and then, as recollecting itself, drew
back, to steal again involuntarily towards her, and touch her hair.
Muriel, too, unwittingly seemed to lean towards the other, and accept
contentedly the unconscious caress; and George, regarding them, could
not but wonder how the girl seemed drawn to his wife, so nearly a
stranger to her, even in the presence of the others whom she saw so
constantly in the country. It showed the tenderness of a womanly
heart, he thought, and its overflowing sympathy, thus silently to go
out to the stricken invalid, and he loved and admired his favourite
pupil more than he had ever done before.
The loquacious Betsey had other things to think of, things to speak
about, and to speak about a great deal. The subject of the party was
taken up again from the beginning, to be gone all over once more,
while Judith held her hands out to the blaze to shield her eyes, and
Mary sat mutely happy, she knew not why, gently stroking the hair
plait with her finger.
"You were not at Mrs. Herkimer's party last night, Muriel? and I did
not see your aunts."
"No, they were not there. Aunt Matilda rarely goes to a dance, except
a juvenile one, when I am invited. I am not out yet, you know."
"To be sure not, Muriel; I know it. Time enough, my dear," said this
experienced woman of the world. "Your time will come quite soon
enough, and I hope you will enjoy it. Ah!----" and she heaved an
ecstatic sigh, "It was a lovely party. So many gentlemen! And such a
floor! I put in a heavenly time, Muriel. I wish you could have seen
it. I wish you could have seen me in my new ball-dress--a present, you
know--from auntie's niece--by Mme. Jupon! no less--just too elegant
for anything. Quite subdued, you know--black _tulle_--much draped.
Too subdued, if anything, for my taste--you know I like things
cheerful--but awfully sweet. Garnitures of roses--large Marshal Niell
roses--dollars and dollars' worth of them--frightfully expensive--and
real chaste. I saw the people asking each other who that
elegantly-dressed person could be, and my card was filled up just like
winking. There was, let me see, there was Mr.---- But what of that?
You are not out yet. You could not be expected to know any of them.
But it was lovely. Oh, how some of those dear men do valse!"
"Betsey!" said Judith reprovingly, "how you do run on. It is scarcely
feminine."
Betsey looked not well pleased, and a retort was rising to her lips,
when she caught sight of Selby watching her, and the twinkle of
"impertinent" amusement, as she thought it, in his eye was too much.
It scattered her forces and snapped the thread of her discourse.
"There is a tobogganing party to-night, Betsey" said Muriel, now that
there came a lull; "that is, there is always one these moonlight
nights; but we are going to-night. Would you care to come? Aunt
Penelope will be so pleased if you and Betsey will dine with us, Mrs.
Bunce, and she can go in our party. Aunt Matilda is going. You will
meet all your St. Euphrase friends, Betsey. Mdlle. Rouget will be
there, I understand."
"I scarcely know the girl, and she don't want to know me, so that is
no inducement. However, we'll go, auntie? I think we had better go.
It's home to St. Euphrase tomorrow, you know, with lots of time for
sedateness and parish duties. Let's enjoy ourselves all we can while
we're here."
And so it was agreed.