Abbeychurch St. Mary's was a respectable old town, situated at the foot
of St. Austin's Hill, a large green mound of chalk, named from an
establishment of Augustine Friars, whose monastery (now converted into
alms-houses) and noble old church were the pride of the county.
Abbeychurch had been a quiet dull place, scarcely more than a large
village, until the days of railroads, when the sober inhabitants, and
especially the Vicar and his family, were startled by the news that the
line of the new Baysmouth railway was marked out so as to pass exactly
through the centre of the court round which the alms-houses were built.
Happily, however, the difficulty of gaining possession of the property
required for this course, proved too great even for the railway
company, and they changed the line, cutting their way through the
opposite side of St. Austin's Hill, and spoiling three or four
water-meadows by the river. Soon after the completion of this work,
the town was further improved, by the erection of various rows of smart
houses, which arose on the slope of the hill, once the airy and healthy
play-place of the rising generation of Abbeychurch, and the best spot
for flying kites in all the neighbourhood. London tradesmen were
tempted to retire to 'the beautiful and venerable town of Abbeychurch;'
the houses were quickly filled, one street after another was built,
till the population of the town was more than doubled. A deficiency in
church accommodation was soon felt, for the old church had before been
but just sufficient for the inhabitants. Various proposals were
made--to fill up the arches with galleries, and to choke the centre
aisle with narrow pews; but all were equally distasteful to Mr.
Woodbourne, who, placing some benches in the aisle for the temporary
accommodation of his new parishioners, made every effort to raise funds
to build and endow an additional church. He succeeded, as we have
heard; and it was the tall white spire of the now Church of St.
Austin's, which greeted Anne Merton's delighted eyes, as on the 27th of
August, she, with her father and mother, came to the top of a long
hill, about five miles from Abbeychurch. What that sight was to her,
only those who have shared in the joys of church-building can know.
She had many a time built the church in her fancy; she knew from
drawing and description nearly every window, every buttress, every
cornice; she had heard by letter of every step in the progress of the
building; but now, that narrow white point, in the greyish green of the
distance, shewed her, for the first time, what really was the work of
her father--yes, of her father, for without him that spire would never
have been there; with the best intentions, Mr. Woodbourne could not
have accomplished more than a solid well-proportioned building, with
capabilities of embellishment. It was not till they had nearly reached
the town, that her thoughts turned to the pleasure of seeing her
cousins, or even of meeting her brother, whom she expected to find at
the Vicarage, on his return from Scotland, where he had been spending
the last six weeks.
In this anticipation, however, she was disappointed; he was not among
the group who stood in the hall, eager to greet the travellers, and no
tidings had been heard of him. After talking over the chances of his
arriving in the course of the evening, Sir Edward went with Mr.
Woodbourne to see the new church, and the ladies were conducted to
their apartments; Mrs. Woodbourne making apologies to Anne for lodging
her with Elizabeth, and Anne laughingly declaring that she enjoyed
Elizabeth's company much more than solitary grandeur. The two cousins
were followed by the whole tribe of children, flaxen-haired and
blue-eyed little sprites, the younger of whom capered round Anne in
high glee, though with a little shyness, sometimes looking upon her as
a stranger, sometimes recollecting former frolics, till Elizabeth
declared that it was time to dress; and Dorothea, the eldest, a quiet
and considerate little maiden of seven years old, carried off Winifred
and Edward to their own domains in the nursery.
Elizabeth's room had been set to rights for the accommodation of the
visitor, so that it suited most people's ideas of comfort better just
then, than in its usual state. A number of books and papers had been
cleared from the table, to leave it free for Anne's toilette apparatus,
and a heap of school girls' frocks and tippets, which had originally
been piled up on two chairs, but, daily increasing in number, had grown
top-heavy, fallen down and encumbered the floor, had that morning been
given away, so that there was at least room to sit down. Elizabeth's
desk and painting box were banished to the top of her chest-of-drawers,
where her looking-glass stood in a dark corner, being by no means
interesting to her. Near the window was her book-case, tolerably well
supplied with works both English and foreign, and its lower shelf
containing a double row of brown-paper covered volumes, and
many-coloured and much soiled little books, belonging to the lending
library. The walls were hung with Elizabeth's own works, for the most
part more useful than ornamental. There were genealogical and
chronological charts of Kings and Kaisars, comparisons of historical
characters, tables of Christian names and their derivations, botanical
lists, maps, and drawings--all in such confusion, that once, when Helen
attempted to find the Pope contemporary with Edward the First, she
asked Elizabeth why she had written the Pope down as Leo Nonus
Cardinal, on which she was informed, with a sufficient quantity of
laughter, that the word in question was the name of a flower, Leonurus
Cardiaca, looking like anything but what it was intended for in
Elizabeth's writing, and that Pope Martin the Fourth was to be found on
the other side of the Kings of France and Spain, and the portrait of
Charles the First. The chimney-piece was generally used as a place of
refuge for all small things which were in danger of being thrown away
if left loose on the table; but, often forgotten in their asylum, had
accumulated and formed a strange medley, which its mistress jealously
defended from all attacks of housemaids. In the middle stood a plaster
cast of the statue of the Maid of Orleans, a present from her little
brother Horace; above it hung a small Geneva watch, which had belonged
to Elizabeth's own mother; and there were besides a few treasures of
Horace's, too tender to be trusted in the nursery in his absence at
school.
The window looked out upon the empty solitary street of the old town,
and though little was to be seen from it which could interest the two
girls, yet after the little ones were gone, they stood there talking
for some minutes; Elizabeth inquiring after half the people about
Merton Hall, a place which she knew almost as well as her own home.
'When does Mrs. Hazleby come?' said Anne, beginning to dress.
'Oh! do not ask me,' said Elizabeth, 'I do not know, and hardly care;
quite late, I hope and trust.'
'But, Lizzie,' asked Anne, 'what have these unfortunate Hazlebys done
to offend you?'
'Done!' answered Elizabeth, 'oh! a thousand things, all too small to be
described, but together they amount to a considerable sum, I can tell
you. There has been a natural antipathy, an instinctive dislike,
between Mrs. Major Hazleby and me, ever since she paid her first visit
here, and, seeing me listening to something she was saying to Mamma,
she turned round upon me with that odious proverb, "Little pitchers
have long ears."'
'Perhaps she meant it as a compliment,' said Anne; 'you know, Mary of
Scotland says, that "Sovereigns ought to have long ears."'
'I suppose her son was of the same opinion,' said Elizabeth, 'when he
built his famous lug. As to Mrs. Hazleby, she is never happy but when
she is finding fault with someone. It will make you sick to hear her
scolding and patronizing poor Mamma.'
'She has been in India, has she not?' said Anne, in order to avoid
answering.
'Yes,' replied Elizabeth, 'she married the poor Major there, and the
eldest son was born there. I often think I should like to ask old Mrs.
Hazleby how she felt on her first meeting with her fair
daughter-in-law. They were safe in Ireland when Papa married, and did
not burst upon us in full perfection till Horace's christening, when
the aforesaid little pitcher speech was made.'
'And her daughters?' said Anne, 'I never heard you mention them.'
'Lucy is a nice quiet girl, and a great ally of Helen's, unless she has
cast her off for her new friends at Dykelands,' said Elizabeth; 'she is
rather creep-mouse, but has no _other_ fault that I know of. She is
like her father's family, something like Mamma. But as for Harriet,
the eldest, and her mother's darling, you will soon be sensible of some
of her charms. I only hope she will not teaze the children into
naughtiness, as she did last year. I do not know what would be done if
Horace was at home. One day he had a regular battle with her. It
began of course in fun on both sides, but he soon grew angry, and at
last tore her frock and trod pretty hard on her foot. I could not be
sorry for her, she deserved it so completely; but then poor Horace had
to be punished. And another time, she shut Dora up in a dark room, and
really it did the poor little girl a great deal of harm; she could not
sleep quietly for three nights after. Dora is old enough to take care
of herself now; and Edward is quieter than Horace, which is a great
comfort; but, oh! I wish the Hazlebys were forty miles off!'
'Now, Lizzie,' said Anne, 'is it not a very strange thing to hear you
talk in this manner?--you, the most good-natured person in the world!'
'Thank you,' said Elizabeth; 'that is as much as to say that I am the
greatest goose in the world.'
'And you had rather be a goose than ill-natured,' said Anne.
'It does not follow that I should be a goose for want of ill-nature,'
said Elizabeth.
'But you say that to be good-natured is to be a goose,' said Anne.
'Yes; but good-nature is too poor a thing to be the reverse of
ill-nature,' said Elizabeth, 'it is only a negative quality.'
'I thought good-natured people were those who never used the negative,'
said Anne, laughing.
'Do not pun in the middle of a serious argument, Miss Anne,' said
Elizabeth, putting on a solemn face.
'Well, I will be quite as grave as the occasion requires,' said Anne.
'I believe I ought to have used the word kindness, as that is as active
in good as ill-nature in evil. But pray, Lizzie, do not let us get
into any of these abstruse metaphysical discussions, or we shall arrive
at conclusions as wise as when we reasoned ourselves into saying, nine
years ago, that it was better to be naughty than good, because good
people in books were always stupid.'
'Idle as we were,' said Elizabeth, smiling, 'I do not think that we
ever intended to act on that maxim. But really, Anne, I do believe
that if you had been a prim pattern of perfection, a real good little
girl, a true Miss Jenny Meek, who never put her foot in a puddle, never
tore her frock, never spoke above her breath, and never laughed louder
than a sucking dove, I should never have cared two straws for you.'
'I think little Dora might convince you that goodness and stupidity
need not always be united,' said Anne, after a short pause.
'Demure Dolly, as Horace calls her,' said Elizabeth, 'yes, she is a
very choice specimen; but, sweet little thing as she is, she would not
be half so good a subject for a story as our high-spirited Horace and
wild Winifred. Dora is like peaceful times in history--very pleasant
to have to do with, but not so entertaining to read about.'
'Poor Dora, I thought she looked disconsolate as well as demure,
without Horace,' said Anne.
'She has been very forlorn, poor child,' said Elizabeth; 'there was
quite a beautiful chivalrous friendship between the brother and sister,
he delighting in her gentleness, and she in his high daring spirit.
Edward and Winifred are scarcely companions to her yet, so that she is
forced to turn to us and be one of the elders.'
'You think Horace is happy at Sandleford,' said Anne; 'I should hope he
would be; Rupert always looks back to his days there with a great deal
of pleasure.'
'I hope Horace's teeth will not meet with the same disaster as
Rupert's,' said Elizabeth, 'he has not quite so much beauty to spare;
but he really is a very fine looking boy, and just the bold merry
fellow to get on well at school, so that he is quite happy now that he
has recovered the leaving home. But I am afraid my classical lore will
die of his departure, for my newly acquired knowledge of Virgil and the
Greek declensions will not be of use to Edward these three years. He
is only just conquering "Lapis, lapidis."'
'But you can go on with Latin and Greek, alone, as you did with German,
cannot you?' said Anne.
'I do sometimes construe a little Virgil,' said Elizabeth; 'but Horace
is his natural contemporary, and he is not happy without him. Besides,
when I have nothing to oblige me to learn regularly, I do not know when
to do it, so Dido has been waiting an unconscionable time upon her
funeral pile; for who could think of Jupiter and Venus in the midst of
all our preparations for the Consecration?'
'I am glad Helen came home in time for it,' said Anne.
'I began to think we should never see her more,' said Elizabeth; 'there
was no gentleman at Dykelands to escort her, and Papa was too busy to
fetch her, till at last, Captain Atherley, Mrs. Staunton's brother,
took pity upon her, or rather on us, and brought her home.'
'Captain Atherley is the only one of the family whom I have ever seen,'
said Anne; 'I have always wished to know something more of them, they
were all such friends of Papa's and Mamma's and Aunt Katherine's.'
'If you wish to hear anything of Mrs. Staunton and her daughters,' said
Elizabeth, 'you have only to ask Helen; you will open the flood-gates
of a stream, which has overwhelmed us all, ever since she came home.'
'Then I hope Helen likes them as well as they seem to like her,' said
Anne; 'Mrs. Staunton spoke very highly of her in her letter to Mamma.'
'Oh yes,' said Elizabeth, 'they seem to have done nothing but sit with
their mouths open, admiring her; and she really is very much improved,
positively grown a reflective creature, and the most graceful as well
as the prettiest of the family. She would be almost a beau ideal of a
sister, if she had but a few more home feelings, or, as you say, if she
did not like the Stauntons quite so much. I wonder what you will think
of her. Now are you ready? Let us come down.'
When the two cousins came into the drawing-room, they found the rest of
the ladies already there. Katherine and Helen Woodbourne were busy
arranging a quantity of beautiful flowers, which had been brought from
Merton Hall, to decorate the Vicarage on this occasion. Mrs. Woodbourne
was sitting at her favourite little work-table, engaged, as usual, with
her delicate Berlin embroidery. A few of the choicest of the flowers
had been instantly chosen out for her, and were placed on her table in
a slender coloured glass, which she held up to Elizabeth as she entered
the room.
'Oh, how beautiful!' cried Elizabeth, advancing to the table, which was
strewn with a profusion of flowers. 'What delightful heliotrope and
geranium! Oh, Anne! how could you tear off such a branch of Cape
jessamine? that must have been your handiwork, you ruthless one.'
'Anne has been more kind to us than to her greenhouse,' said Mrs.
Woodbourne; 'I am afraid she has displeased Mr. Jenkins; but I hope the
plants are not seriously damaged.'
'Oh no, indeed,' said Anne, 'you should see the plants before you pity
them, Aunt Mildred; we never let Mr. Jenkins scold us for helping
ourselves or our friends out of our own garden, for making a great
glorious nosegay is a pleasure which I do not know how to forego.'
'Do you call this a nosegay?' said Elizabeth, 'I call it a forest of
flowers. Really, a Consecration opens people's hearts;--I do not mean
that yours is not open enough on ordinary occasions, Aunt Anne; but
when the children took their walk in the alms-house court this morning,
they were loaded with flowers from all quarters, beginning with old Mr.
Dillon offering Winifred his best variegated dahlia, by name Dod's
Mary.'
'Mr. Dillon!' exclaimed Katherine; 'I thought he never gave away his
flowers on any account.'
'I know,' said Elizabeth; 'but I have also heard him say that he could
not refuse little Miss Winifred if she asked him for the very house
over his head.'
'Did she ask him for the dahlia?' said Mrs. Woodbourne.
'No,' said Elizabeth, 'it was a free offer on his part. Dora the
discreet tried to make her refuse it, but the dahlia had been gathered
long before Winifred could make up her mind to say no; and when the
little things came in this morning they looked like walking garlands.
Did you see the noble flower-pot in the hall?'
'You must go and look at the fruit which Lady Merton has been so kind
as to bring us, Lizzie,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'you never saw such fine
grapes and pines.'
'I hear you have undertaken that part of the arrangement, young
ladies,' said Lady Merton.
'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'but I am afraid we do not know much about the
matter.'
'I am sure I cannot tell what I should do if you did not undertake it,
my dears,' said Mrs. Woodbourne.
'Do not begin thanking us till we have done the deed, Mamma,' said
Elizabeth; 'it may turn out a great deal worse than if we had left it
to the unassisted taste of the maids.'
The four girls continued to arrange the flowers: Elizabeth, inquiring
after many of the plants at Merton Hall; Anne, telling how the myrtle
was prospering, how well the geraniums had flowered, describing a new
fuchsia, and triumphing in the prize which the salpiglossis had gained
from the Horticultural Society; Helen, comparing the flora of Merton
Hall with that of Dykelands; Mrs. Woodbourne, rejoicing in cuttings to
be saved from the branches gathered by Anne's unsparing hand; and Lady
Merton, promising to send her seeds and young plants by Rupert, when he
should return to Oxford.
When the forest of flowers had been dispersed in the epergne, and in
various bowls and glasses, to ornament the drawing-room, the three
sisters began to collect the green leaves and pieces of stalks
remaining on the table, and as they bent down to sweep them off into a
basket, their heads chanced to be almost close together.
'Why, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton, 'where are your curls? Have you made
yourself look so very different from Kate, to prevent all future
mistakes between you? and, Helen, have you really become a Pasha of two
tails?'
'Is it not very silly of Helen to wear them, Aunt Anne?' said Elizabeth.
'Indeed, dear Aunt Anne,' said Helen, 'my hair never will curl well,
and Mrs. Staunton always said it made me look like an old woman in the
way I wore it before, so what could I do but try it in the way in which
Fanny and Jane wore theirs?'
'Oh! we must all bow before Dykelands,' said Elizabeth.
'And I have been wondering what made you look so altered, Lizzie,' said
Lady Merton, 'and now I see it is your hair being straight. I like
your curls better.'
'Ah, so do I,' said Mrs. Woodbourne; 'but Lizzie docs not like the
trouble of curling it.'
'No,' said Elizabeth, 'I think it a very useless plague. It used
really to take me two hours a day, and now I am ready directly without
trouble or fuss. People I care about will not think the worse of me
for not looking quite so well.'
'Perhaps not,' said Lady Merton, 'but they would think the better of
you for a little attention to their taste.'
'They might for attention to their wishes, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth,
'but hardly to their taste. Taste is such a petty nonsensical thing.'
'I shall leave you and Anne to argue about the fine distinction between
taste and wishes,' said Lady Merton; 'it is more in your line than
mine.'
'You mean to say that I have been talking nonsense, Aunt Anne,' said
Elizabeth.
'I say nothing of the kind, Lizzie,' said her aunt; 'I only say that
you are in the habit of splitting hairs.'
Elizabeth saw that her aunt was not pleased. She went to the
chimney-piece, and employed herself in making a delicate piece of ixia
get a better view of itself in the looking-glass. Presently she turned
round, saying, 'Yes, Aunt Anne, I was very wrong; I was making a
foolish pretence at refinement, to defend myself.'
'I did not mean to begin scolding you the very moment I came near you,
Lizzie,' said Lady Merton.
'Indeed I wish you would, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth; 'pray scold me
from morning till night, there is no one who wants it more.'
'My dear child, how can you say so?' cried Mrs. Woodbourne.
'Many thanks for the agreeable employment you propose to me, Lizzie,'
said Lady Merton.
'If Rupert docs not come to-night, I mean to undertake a little of that
agreeable employment myself, when he arrives,' said Elizabeth, 'and to
make Anne help me.'
'I believe Rupert is so fond of being scolded, that it only makes him
worse,' said Lady Merton.
'Here are Papa and Uncle Edward coming back at last,' said Katherine,
who was, as usual, sitting in the window.
Mrs. Woodbourne looked greatly relieved; she had been for some time in
trouble for the dinner, not being able to console herself in the way in
which Elizabeth sometimes attempted to re-assure her in such
cases--'Never mind, Mamma, the dinner is used to waiting.'