CHAPTER I.

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ABBEYCHURCH;

OR

SELF-CONTROL AND SELF-CONCEIT,

BY

CHARLOTTE M. YONGE

THE AUTHOR OF THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE.

Second Edition

The Original Printed Text of this work is in the possession of The

Charlotte M Yonge Fellowship.

'Never think yourself safe because you do your duty in ninety-nine

points; it is the hundredth which is to be the ground of your

self-denial, which must evidence, or rather instance and realize, your

faith.'

Newman's Sermons

PREFACE.

Rechauffes are proverbially dangerous, but everyone runs into them

sooner or later, and the world has done me the kindness so often to

inquire after my first crude attempt, that after it has lain for many

years 'out of print,' I have ventured to launch it once

more--imperfections and all--though it is guilty of the error of

pointing rather to a transient phase of difficulty than to a general

principle. The wheels of this world go so quickly round, that I have

lived to see that it would have been wiser in the clergyman to have

directed rather than obstructed the so-called 'march of intellect.' I

have lived also to be somewhat ashamed of the exuberant outpouring of

historical allusions, which, however, were perfectly natural among the

set of girls from whom my experience was taken: but these defects, as

well as the more serious one of tyrannical aversion to vulgarity, are

too inherent in this tale to be removed, and the real lesson intended

to be conveyed, of obedience and sincerity, of course remains unchanged.

The later story was a rather hasty attempt to parody the modern

sensation novel, as Northanger Abbey did the Radclyffe school, but it

makes the mistake of having too real a mystery. However, such as they

are, the two stories go forth in company, trusting that they may not

prove too utterly wearisome to be brought forward this second time.

May 9th, 1872.

ABBEYCHURCH

OR

SELF-CONTROL AND SELF-CONCEIT.

CHAPTER I.

One summer afternoon, Helen Woodbourne returned from her daily walk

with her sisters, and immediately repaired to the school-room, in order

to put the finishing touches to a drawing, with which she had been

engaged during the greater part of the morning. She had not been long

established there, before her sister Katherine came in, and, taking her

favourite station, leaning against the window shutter so as to command

a good view of the street, she began, 'Helen, do you know that the

Consecration is to be on Thursday the twenty-eighth, instead of the

Tuesday after?'

'I know Lizzie wished that it could be so,' said Helen, 'because the

twenty-eighth is St. Augustine's day; but I thought that the Bishop had

appointed Tuesday.'

'But Papa wrote to him, and he has altered the day as Papa wished; I

heard Mamma and Mr. Somerville talking about it just now when I went

into the drawing-room,' answered Katherine.

'Will everything be ready in time?' said Helen.

'Dear me!' cried Katherine, 'I wonder if it will. What is to be done

if that tiresome Miss Dighten does not send home our dresses in time?

We must go and hurry her to-morrow. And I must get Mamma to go to

Baysmouth this week to get our ribbons. I looked over all Mr. Green's

on Monday, and he has not one bit of pink satin ribbon wide enough, or

fit to be seen.'

'Oh! but I meant the things in the church--the cushions and the carving

on the Font,' said Helen.

'Oh dear! yes, the Font is very nearly done, we saw to-day, you know;

and as to the cushions, Mrs. Webbe may have Sarah to help her, and then

they will certainly be finished. I wonder whether there will be any

fun!' said Katherine.

'Is a Consecration an occasion for fun?' asked Helen very gravely.

'Why, no, I do not exactly mean that,' replied Katherine, 'but there

will be a great many people, and the Mertons staying here, and Rupert

is always so full of fun.'

'Hm--m,' said Helen, 'I do not suppose he will be come back from

Scotland.'

'And Mrs. Turner says,' continued Katherine, 'that of course as the

Bishop is coming to luncheon after Church, Mamma must give an elegant

dejeuner a la fourchette to everybody. Next time I go to St. Martin's

Street, Mrs. Turner is going to give me a receipt for making

blanc-manger with some cheap stuff which looks quite as well as

isinglass. It is made on chemical principles, she says, for she heard

it all explained at the Mechanics' Institute. And Aunt Anne will be

sure to bring us some of their grand fruit from Merton Hall. What a

set-out it will be! The old Vicarage will not know itself; how

delightful it will be!'

'So you think the happiness of the Consecration day depends upon the

party and the luncheon,' said Helen.

'No, no, of course I do not,' said Katherine; 'but we must think about

that too, or we should not do what is proper.'

'Someone must,' said Helen, 'but it is happy for us that we are not

called upon to do so yet.'

'Why, we must help Mamma,' said Katherine; 'I am sure that is our duty.'

'Certainly,' said Helen; 'but we need not dwell upon such thoughts for

our own pleasure.'

'No, I do not, I am sure,' said Katherine; 'I do not care about the

grand dejeuner, I am sure I think a great deal more about the Church

and the Bishop--I wonder whether he will come by the railroad.'

At this moment, the door was thrown back hastily, and Elizabeth, the

elder sister of Katherine and Helen, darted in, looking full of

indignation, which she only wanted to pour forth, without much caring

whether it was listened to with sympathy or not.

'So have you heard,' she began, 'these Hazlebys are coming. Did you

ever hear of such a nuisance? Anything so preposterous? Mrs. Hazleby

at a Consecration--I should as soon think of asking Gillespie Grumach.'

'It is for the Major's sake, of course,' said Helen; 'he will like to

come.'

'Ay, but he is not coming, he cannot get leave,' said Elizabeth; 'if he

was, I should not mind it so much, but it is only Mrs. Hazleby and the

girls, for she has the grace to bring Lucy, on Mamma's special

invitation. But only think of Mrs. Hazleby, scolding and snapping for

ever; and Harriet, with her finery and folly and vulgarity. And that

at a time which ought to be full of peace, and glorious feelings. Oh!

they will spoil all the pleasure!'

'All?' said Helen.

'All that they can touch, all that depends upon sympathy,' said

Elizabeth.

'Well, but I do not see--' said Katherine.

'No, no,' said Elizabeth, 'we all know that you will be happy enough,

with your beloved Harriet. How frivolous and silly you will be, by the

end of the first evening she has been here!'

'I am sure I think Harriet is very silly indeed,' said Katherine; 'I

cannot bear her vulgar ways, bouncing about as she does, and such dress

I never did see. Last time she was here, she had a great large

artificial rose upon her bonnet; I wonder what Papa would say if he saw

me in such a thing!'

'Pray keep the same opinion of her all the time she is here, Kate,'

said Elizabeth; 'but I know you too well to trust you. I only know

they will keep me in a perpetual state of irritation all the time, and

I hope that will not quite spoil my mind for the Service.'

'How can you talk of Mamma's relations in that way, Lizzie?' said Helen.

'I do not care whose relations they are,' said Elizabeth; 'if people

will be disagreeable, I must say so.'

'Mrs. Staunton used to say,' replied Helen, 'that people always ought

to keep up their connexion with their relations, whether they like them

or not. There were some very stupid people, relations of Mr.

Staunton's, near Dykelands, whom Fanny and Jane could not endure, but

she used to ask them to dinner very often, and always made a point--'

'Well, if I had any disagreeable relations,' said Elizabeth, 'I would

make a point of cutting them. I do not see why relations have a right

to be disagreeable.'

'I do not see how you could,' said Helen. 'For instance, would you

prevent Mamma from ever seeing the Major, her own brother?'

'He cannot be half so well worth seeing since he chose to marry such a

horrid wife,' said Elizabeth.

'Would you never see Horace again, if he did such a thing?' said

Katherine; 'I am sure I would not give him up. Would you?'

'I could trust Horace, I think,' said Elizabeth; 'I will give him fair

warning, and I give you and Helen warning, that if you marry odious

people, I will have done with you.'

'When I was at Dykelands,' said Helen, 'everybody was talking about a

man who had married--'

'Never mind Dykelands now, Helen,' said Elizabeth, 'and do put down

your pencil. That drawing was tolerable before luncheon, but you have

been making your tree more like Mr. Dillon's Sunday periwig, every

minute since I have been here. And such a shadow! But do not stop to

mend it. You will not do any good now, and here is some better work.

Mamma wants us to help to finish the cushions. We must do something to

earn the pleasure of having St. Austin's Church consecrated on St.

Austin's day.'

'What, do you mean that I am to work on that hard velvet?' said Helen,

who was a little mortified by the unsparing criticism on her drawing.

'Yes, I undertook that we three should make up the two cushions for the

desk and eagle; Mrs. Webbe's hands are full of business already, but

she has explained it all to me, and Kate will understand it better than

I can.'

'I thought Sarah Webbe was to help,' said Helen.

'She is doing the carpet,' said Elizabeth. 'Oh! if you look so

lamentable about it, Helen, we do not want your help. Dora will sew

the seams very nicely, and enjoy the work too. I thought you might be

glad to turn your handiwork to some account.'

'Really, Lizzie,' said Helen, 'I shall be very glad to be useful, if

you want me. What shall I do?'

This was said in no gracious tone, and Elizabeth would not accept such

an offer of assistance. 'No, no; never mind,' said she, putting a

skein of crimson sewing-silk over Katherine's outstretched hands, and

standing with her back to Helen, who took up her pencil again in

silence, and made her black shadows much darker.

Elizabeth, who had not been of the walking party, and had thus heard of

all the arrangements which had been made that afternoon, went on

talking to Katherine. 'As soon as Church is over, the Bishop is coming

to luncheon here, and then to settle some business with Papa; then is

to be the school-children's feast--in the quadrangle, of course. Oh,

how delightful that will be! And Mamma and I have been settling that

we will have a little table for the smallest creatures, because the

elder sisters get no time to eat if they are attending to them, and if

the little ones are all together, everyone will come and help them.'

'The old women in the Alms-houses will,' said Katherine.

'Yes; and Dora will manage that nicely too, the table will not be too

high for her to reach, and she will be very happy to be able to wait on

her little class. And they are to have tea and cake, instead of

dinner, for we do not want to have more cooking than can be helped,

that people may not be prevented from going to church, and the children

will be thirsty after being in church all the morning.'

'But we have a dinner-party, do not we?' said Katherine.

'Yes, but our youth and innocence will save us from being much plagued

by it,' said Elizabeth.

'Oh! I thought you and Anne at least would dine with the company,'

said Katherine.

'So Mamma thought,' said Elizabeth; 'but then she recollected that if

we did, and not Harriet, Mrs. Hazleby would be mortally offended; and

when we came to reckon, it appeared that there would be thirteen

without us, and then Papa and I persuaded her, that it would be much

less uncivil to leave out all the Misses, than to take one and leave

the rest. You know Anne and I are both under seventeen yet, so that

nobody will expect to see us.'

'Only thirteen people?' said Katherine; 'I thought the Bishop was to

dine and sleep here.'

'Oh no, that was settled long ago; Papa found he had engaged to go to

Marlowe Court,' said Elizabeth, 'and so there was room for the

Hazlebys; I hoped he would have guarded us from them.'

'But will there be room?' said Katherine; 'I cannot fancy it.'

'Oh! half the rooms can be made Knight's Templar's horses and carry

double,' said Elizabeth; 'Mrs. Hazleby and both the girls may very well

be in the blue room.'

'And there is the best room for the Mertons, and Horace's for Rupert,'

said Katherine.

'Poor Horace! it is a shame that he, who laid the first stone, should

not be at the Consecration,' said Elizabeth.

'Well, but where is Anne to be?' said Katherine; 'if we take Dora into

our room, and Winifred goes to the nursery, there is their room; but

Aunt Anne's maid must have that.'

'Anne shall come to my room--if Aunt Anne will let her, that is to

say,' said Elizabeth; 'I wonder I never thought of that before, it will

counteract some of the horrors of the Hazlebys. I shall have the

comfort of talking things over with the only person who knows what to

feel. Yes, I will go and speak to Mamma, and shew her that it is the

only way of lodging the world conveniently. Oh, how happy we shall be!'

As soon as Elizabeth had finished winding her skein, she hastened to

Mrs. Woodbourne, and found no great difficulty in gaining her consent

to the plan; and she then sat down to write to Miss Merton to inform

her of the change of day, and invite her to share her room.

Elizabeth Woodbourne and Anne Merton were first cousins, and nearly of

the same age. They had spent much of their time together in their

childhood, and their early attachment to each other, strengthening as

they grew older, was now becoming something more than girlish

affection. Anne was an only daughter; and Elizabeth, though the eldest

of a large family, had not hitherto found any of her sisters able to

enter into her feelings as fully as her cousin; and perhaps there was

no one who had so just an appreciation of Elizabeth's character as

Anne; who, though hers was of a very different order, had perhaps more

influence over her mind than anyone excepting Mr. Woodbourne.

Sir Edward Merton was brother to Mr. Woodbourne's first wife, the

mother of Elizabeth, Katherine, and Helen; he had been Mr. Woodbourne's

principal assistant in the erection of the new church, and indeed had

added all the decorations which the Vicar's limited means, aided by a

subscription, could not achieve; and his wife and daughter had taken

nearly as much interest in its progress as the ardent Elizabeth

herself. Anne eagerly read Elizabeth's note to her mother, and waited

her consent to the scheme which it proposed.

'Well, Mamma,' said Anne, 'can you consent to this arrangement, or are

you afraid that Lizzie and I should chatter all night?'

'I hope you have outgrown your old habits of gossipping and idling,'

said Lady Merton; 'I believe I may trust you; and it may be

inconvenient to Mrs. Woodbourne to find room for you elsewhere.'

'I am very much obliged to you, Mamma,' said Anne, at first gravely,

then laughing, 'I mean that I shall enjoy it very much. But pray,

Mamma, do not trust too much to our age and experience, for I do not

know anything more difficult than to stop short in a delightful talk,

only just for the sake of going to sleep.'

'Yes, it requires some self-control,' said Lady Merton.

'Self-control!' repeated Anne. 'Mamma, I am sure that "Patient

cautious self-control is wisdom's root," must be your motto, for you

are sure to tell me of it on every occasion.'

'I hope you are not tired of it, Anne,' said Lady Merton, 'for most

probably I shall often tell you of it again.'

'Oh yes, I hope you will,' said Anne; 'there will be more need of it

than ever, in this visit to Abbeychurch.'

'Yes,' said Lady Merton, 'you live so quietly here, excepting when

Rupert is at home, that you must take care that all the excitement and

pleasure there does not make you wild.'

'Indeed I must,' said Anne; 'I cannot fancy enjoying anything much more

than the Consecration of a church for which Papa has done so much, and

going with Lizzie, and meeting Rupert. Really, Mamma, it is lucky

there is that one drawback, to keep it from seeming too pleasant

beforehand.'

'You mean the Hazelbys,' said her mother.

'Yes, Mamma,' replied Anne; 'I am rather surprised to hear that they

are to be there. I should not think that a vulgar-minded Scotchwoman,

such as Lizzie describes Mrs. Hazleby, would take much delight in a

Consecration; but I suppose Uncle Woodbourne could not well avoid

asking them on such an occasion, I believe she is rather touchy.'

'You must take care what you say to Lizzie about the Hazlebys,' said

Lady Merton; 'a very little might make it appear that we wished to set

her against her step-mother's relations.'

'Oh! that would never do,' said Anne, 'but I am afraid it will be very

difficult to keep from shewing what we think, if Mrs. Hazleby is all

that Lizzie says.'

'Your Papa was pleased with what he saw of Major Hazleby last year,'

said Lady Merton.

'Oh yes, Lizzie likes him very much,' said Anne; 'it is the lady of

whom she has such a horror.'

'I should fancy,' said Lady Merton, 'that Mrs. Woodbourne's horror of

her was almost equal to Lizzie's.'

'Kind gentle Aunt Mildred,' said Anne, 'do you think she ever had a

horror of anyone?'

'It is certainly rather a strong word,' said Lady Merton, 'but you will

allow me to say that she has a great dread of her; I think Mrs. Hazleby

scolds and frightens her.'

'What a fury she must be,' said Anne, laughing, 'to be able to scold

and frighten such a gentle Desdomona as Mrs. Woodbourne.'

'Do not say too much on that subject,' said Lady Merton, 'or we shall

be forced to call your beloved Lizzie a fury.'

'O Mamma!' cried Anne, 'you cannot say that she is impetuous and

violent now. She used, I allow, to be rather overbearing to Mrs.

Woodbourne; but that was before she was old enough fully to feel and

love her gentleness. Then she did take advantage of it, and argue, and

dispute, but now--'

'She has her own way without disputing,' said Lady Merton.

'O Mamma, do you think so?' said Anne, as if she thought it a terrible

accusation. 'Yes, I really think that she has, but then her way is

generally right.'

'Yes,' said Lady Merton, 'she is in some respects more fit to govern

herself than most girls of sixteen. Her good sense will keep her from

going very far wrong.'

'Very far, Mamma?' repeated Anne.

'Yes, for such an excitable impetuous creature is not likely to escape

going wrong, without steady control from herself or from someone else,'

said Lady Merton.

'But I can hardly imagine Lizzie's actually doing wrong,' said Anne;

'we were certainly both naughty children, but I think the worst we did,

was rather what makes nurses scold, than what would seriously displease

you or Papa.'

'Oh! she was always an upright, noble-spirited child,' said Lady Merton.

'And now,' continued Anne, 'when she is much interested in anything,

when her brilliant dark eyes are lighted up, and her beautiful smile is

on her lips, and her whole face is full of brightness, and she looks

slight and airy enough to be a spirit, and when she is talking about

some things--I could fancy her some higher kind of creature.'

Lady Merton smiled. 'I think I know what you mean,' said she; 'I used

to feel something of the kind with her mother.'

'What a wonderful person Aunt Katherine must have been!' cried Anne.

She paused, and presently added, 'Mamma, I do not know whether I ought

to say so, but much as I like Mrs. Woodbourne, I do rather wonder that

Uncle Woodbourne married again.'

'So did your Papa and I,' said Lady Merton; 'but you must excuse him,

when you think of his three little girls, Elizabeth especially,

requiring such anxious care of body and mind.'

'But you do not think Mrs. Woodbourne could manage Lizzie?' said Anne.

'No,' said Lady Merton, 'she could not manage her in the least, but her

mild influence has, I think, been of great service to her. Lizzie has

certainly grown more gentle of late, and I think it is from

consideration for her and the little children.'

'And I suppose,' said Anne, 'that Mrs. Woodbourne has done as much for

Kate as anyone could.'

'Not quite,' said Lady Merton; 'I think your Aunt Katherine would have

made her a little less trifling and silly.'

'But no one could ever have made her like Lizzie,' said Aune.

'No, but I think she might have been rather more than a mere

good-natured gossip,' said Lady Merton.

'It is curious to see how much difference expression makes in those two

sisters,' said Anne; 'their features are so much alike, that strangers

never know them apart; the only difference between them, that I could

mention, is that Lizzie is the most delicate looking; yet how

exceedingly unlike they are to each other!'

'Yes,' said Lady Merton; 'though Lizzie's whole countenance and air is

almost exactly her mother's, yet there is nothing about Kate but her

voice, which they have in common, that reminds me of her.'

'Helen is very unlike the others in everything,' said Anne.

'Helen will be the handsomest as far as regularity of features goes,'

said Lady Merton.

'Do you think so?' said Anne.

'Certainly,' said Lady Merton; 'her features are less prominent, and

her colour has not that fixed hectic look that both the others have,

especially Lizzie.'

'But she wants brightness and animation,' said Anne, 'and she so often

looks dismal and fretful, that I cannot fancy admiring her.'

'There has never been much sympathy between you and Helen,' said Lady

Merton, smiling.

'No,' said Anne, 'I never felt as if I knew or liked her. I believe

Rupert and I were very unkind to her in our younger days; but, oh! she

was the most tiresome whining child I ever knew.'

'I believe that, though she was too young to know it,' said Lady

Merton, 'poor little Helen suffered more from your aunt's death than

either of her sisters.'

'How so, Mamma?' said Anne, looking rather alarmed.

'She was a very delicate baby, requiring a great deal of care,' said

Lady Merton; 'indeed, we have always thought that your aunt laid the

foundation of her illness, by sitting up with her while she was cutting

her large teeth, and during your aunt's illness, it was painful to see

how the poor child missed her. And after her mother died, though Helen

had grown strong and healthy, old Margaret still made her the pet; and

uncertain nursery treatment, without her mother's firm kindness, was

not the best cure for such a temper as hers.'

'Yes,' said Anne, 'I remember she was always called Baby, and allowed

to have her own way, till she was six years old, when Horace was born.

How very ill-natured I must have been to her, and how cruel it really

was of me. But I wonder my uncle did not prevent Margaret from

spoiling her.'

'My dear, a man with a parish of fifteen hundred inhabitants, cannot

watch his own nursery very minutely,' said Lady Merton; 'he taught

Elizabeth admirably, and that was all that could be expected of him.

Besides, with all his perfections, managing little girls is not what he

is best fitted for.'

Anne laughed. 'No, he is too grave and cold; I am rather afraid of him

still, I do not think he has any toleration for nonsense; but of course

he must be different with his own children. And how do you think Mrs.

Woodbourne trained Helen?'

'I can hardly tell,' said Lady Merton; 'I used to admire her patience

and sweetness of temper, when Helen's fretfulness was most wearisome;

at the same time that I thought it might have been better for the child

to speak sharply to her, and punish her if she did not leave off

whining directly. I believe I should have done so, though I do not

know that it would have been the best way, or in accordance with what

you call my motto.'

'Well,' said Anne, 'if Dykelands has done such wonders for Helen, as

they say, I hope I shall make friends with her, if she will let me,

which I do not think I deserve after my ill-usage of her. Last time I

saw her, it was but for two days, and she was so odd, and grave, and

shy, that I could not get on with her, besides that I wanted to make

the most of my time with Lizzie.'

'I hope Rupert will not teaze her as he used to do,' said Lady Merton;

'last time she was here, his teazing and her whining were nearly

unbearable.'

'Oh! she must have outgrown whining,' said Anne.

'I am afraid you cannot promise me that he has outgrown teazing,' said

Lady Merton.

'The one depends upon the other,' said Anne; 'if she does not whine, he

will not teaze. But had I not better finish my letter to him, and tell

him he must shorten his stay on the Border?'

'Yes, do so,' said Lady Merton; 'and tell him not to lose his keys as

usual.'

'I suppose they are gone by this time,' said Anne, as Lady Merton left

the room, and she sat down to her desk to write to her brother.